From the Beginning

There might have been things I missed, but don't be unkind
It don't mean I'm blind
Perhaps there's a thing or two I think of lying in bed
I shouldn't have said

But, there it is

You see, it's all clear
You were meant to be here from the beginning

Maybe I might have changed and not been so cruel
Not been such a fool
Whatever was done is done - I just can't recall
It doesn't matter at all

You see, it's all clear
You were meant to be here from the beginning

Emerson, Lake, & Palmer

Restless as hell today, unaccountably so. Been down for a day and half, in pain. Still down, to all extents and purposes, but I felt it inappropriate to stay home anymore. The compromise was to come in late today. I could have used another day on the couch, doing nothing, but responsibility is far more important to me. Accountability.

The Captain has a chance at a new, better job on campus, and the suspense is killing us. He needs and deserves this job; I need him to get this job. Things will be better for us, in so many ways, if he gets this job. Of course, there are no guarantees that he'll get the job, despite being the ideal candidate. But if he gets the job, we'll be that much closer to the life we've wanted for so long. Perhaps that's the source of the restlessness: the suspense, the desire to run away, just in case things don't play out how we want them to.

I seem to dream more, now that I use the sleep protocol I'm currently using to promote sleep, versus pills. I don't know how I feel about this dreaming more. The dreams seem more full of people I know or am related to than dreams in years past, and I certainly don't know how I feel about that, other than lonely - it makes me miss those people.

I've gotten rusty in the language of pain. I've gotten rusty in the language of the Road. I feel so far from Home. I feel like there is no secular salvation for me.

But this will all pass, it always does, in the face of an annihilating mania that burns off the bullshit and leaves behind the best things, the good things - even those things which others might not consider good. I've still a lot to learn...

Understand: these fires never stop...

I will hear: the promise of my Orpheus sing...

I begin to wonder...

I begin to wonder if I ever really knew myself. I always thought I did, and was proud of the degree of self-awareness I achieved before adulthood. I was and am still grateful that I'd awakened to wisdom before becoming an adult and that I was able to avoid mistakes and come to realizations that I have since become aware that most folks do not arrive at until they are middle-aged.

But in the last few years, I've come to doubt my self-awareness. I've come to doubt my self-knowledge. I have never doubted my wisdom; perhaps that is prideful, but lacking in common sense as I do, wisdom is my main recourse in most things, and has seldom led me wrong.

The husband and I had a terrible fight last night, terrible indeed. It's perhaps the worst we've ever had, in fact. And lately - in the last six months - we've fought A LOT. I wanted to attribute it to the on-going stress he was under while in school and his dissatisfaction with his current job, and then on top of that, Lu's death. But last night I realized it wasn't any of that at all, and I confronted him on so many things I'd just let go. I wish I'd realized sooner, and I wish it hadn't gone down like it did. But there's no sense in regret, and I have hope that things will improve. Things can only get better from here. We both realize that there are things we both need to work on about ourselves.

So the question is, since I've been out of practice so long (since I assumed I'd achieved remarkable self-awareness and wouldn't have to work on it for a while): how does one go about learning (re-learning?) about one's self? How does one reacquaint the self with the Self?

I know it won't be easy, and it shouldn't be. But right now, I'm at a loss as to how to start.

the stars are bright tonight

...there's a strange new music in the street...

Dreaming of Home under a winter sky; dreaming of the world under a fall sky. These are my consolations on this bitterly humid and hot day, almost four weeks out from Lu's death. Most of the time I don't expect to see her little fuzzy butt swaggering into the bathroom in the morning, though every once in a while I do. Or I think I catch her out of the corner of my eye, sitting in the front window. It still hurts, to think of her, but not as much as it did. I don't know that time heals all wounds, but I know that the more time I have to make peace with her death, and the more I remember the good times, the better things get, the easier the grief gets to live with.

Have been experimenting with stimulus control therapy to deal with my insomnia. Thus far results have been satisfactory. The protocol includes viewing pleasant pictures prior to bedtime, then utilizing an app on my iTouch called "Sleepmaker Storm" to create thunderstorm sounds all night long. Bedtime, until last night, was 11pm. I've been sleeping better than I have in years, and it's surprising. With a little attitude adjustment and a simple but relaxing protocol, sleep has come more naturally and deeply and quickly than ever with pills. Last night I changed bedtime to 11:30pm and have regretted that, but now I know the ideal window for bedtime is 9-11pm. Tonight I shall try 10-10:30pm for bedtime and see how that works.

Wrangling the demon Insomnia is encouraging, and it's inspired me to try non-pharmaceutical alternatives for my pain problems. I have a muscle in my left shoulder that stays tight, no matter what, left over from a sprain in college. It was very, very painful yesterday, but did not respond to Alleve (which I prefer now to my painkillers) or prescription muscle relaxers. But when I put on a long-sleeve shirt over my t-shirt, effectively creating more warmth for my shoulder, the pain eased off. My sister has always believed in heatwraps and pads; I may well become a believer as well.

If only all one's demons could be so easily treated and dealt with! But we learn, and we grow, and at least I'm 31 and learning all these things now, rather than later. That has been one of my consolations over the years: wisdom has meant that I have learned things sooner and faster than I ought, and that has helped me cope.

...just to keep the flame from going out...

The Power of Orange Knickers | Tori Amos featuring Damien Rice

The power of orange knickers
The power of orange knickers
The power of orange knickers
Under my petticoat
The power of listening to what
You don't want me to know

Can somebody tell me now who is this terrorist
Those girls that smile kindly then rip your life to pieces?
Can somebody tell me now am I alone with this?
This little pill in my hand and with this secret kiss
Am I alone in this...

A matter of complication
When you become a twist
For their latest drink
As they're transitioning

Can somebody tell me now who is this terrorist
This little pill in my hand that keeps the pain living
Can somebody tell me now a way out of this -
That sacred pipe of red stone could blow me out of this kiss
Am I alone in this...

Shame shame time to leave me now
Shame shame you've had your fun
Shame shame for letting me think that I would be the one

Can somebody tell me now who is this terrorist
This little pill in my hand or this secret kiss
Am I alone in this kiss
Am I alone in this kiss

...a quiet broken by talking...

...and coughing. One of my silliest pet peeves is that I can't stand the sounds of coughing or sneezing. It's ridiculous, I know, but there it is. Most of the time I just tune those sounds out, but this morning one of my co-workers - working at the other desk - is coughing her fool head off, and it's driving me so crazy, I don't know what to do. It's making me angry, which is so stupid; it's just coughing, but it's making me angry. She always seems to have a cold or a respiratory infection, and it makes me wonder. As far as I know, she doesn't smoke...it's weird.

I'm anxious, on edge. The prospect of interacting with people today seems almost unbearable. The prospect of interacting with my co-workers makes me feel tired. I have to teach this morning, and I am not looking forward to it, which is telling, as I always look forward to teaching. The rest of the day after that will be spent at my desk, and that's just fine; I can put on my headphones and tune out the world.

I'm just feeling crazy. How much of that is the aftermath of Lu's death and grieving for Lu, and how much of that is natural mania, and how much of that is something else, I don't know. And what that something else might be, I don't know. I've never been comfortable with the unknown, and right now that seems exacerbated. I would like nothing more in the world than to hide away in the convent in Assisi, and spend my days in meditation and rumination and solitude.

I've often said that if Eric ever died, I'd likely go into a convent. That sensibility passed away one day, several years ago, though I'm not sure why. This morning it has been resurrected, though whether that was some deliberate action on my part, or simply the longing of a heart and the aching of a mind that are simply shot from living, I don't know. I don't seem to know myself or understand my motivations anymore, and I find that troubling.

It will not happen today or tomorrow, but I look forward to getting back to the gym and getting on the treadmill and checking out for a while. To perhaps picking up the weights again and letting my mind go while I work out. I think the time has come for limited social engagements; not that I don't love my family and friends and enjoy their company - I still very much love them and their company - but the solitude I was able to have over the weekend had a very good effect on me, and I think I need to cultivate that goodness and find more of it. I need to lay the world down for a while, and do something else.

My good girl is gone...

...we've buried her already, in the country, where we can visit her, and we know where she is, and she is safe and not suffering. She will always be our good girl, and we miss her so much, and we love her greatly. She is our feather in the wind, though the tides have caused the flame to dim...

"All of My Love" - Led Zeppelin

Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light
To chase a feather in the wind
Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight
There moves a thread that has no end.

For many hours and days that pass ever soon
The tides have caused the flame to dim
At last the arm is straight, the hand to the loom
Is this to end or just begin?

* Chorus: All of my love, all of my love, all of my love to you, now. (repeat)

The cup is raised, the toast is made yet again
One voice is clear above the din
Proud Arianne, one word, my will to sustain
For me, the cloth once more to spin

Chorus

Yours is the cloth, mine is the hand that sews time
His is the force that lies within
Ours is the fire, all the warmth we can find
He is a feather in the wind

Robert Plant wrote this song after the death of his son Karac in 1977.

back into the fray...

...we thought Lu had been granted a reprieve; vet said it was likely an upper respiratory virus. He was waiting until he got her bloodwork back today to confirm the diagnosis. We thought she was out of the woods. But...

...it's not a virus. They think it's something in Lulu's brain, a parasite, but they don't have the facilities to deal with her situation. They will have to tap her cerebral/spinal fluid and run tests, which our vet can't do. He's referring us to the vet school down at LSU.

I'm looking at pet insurance policies.

I'm numb, but I'm getting close to the edge. It's not far away.

can't get you off my mind, it's only you I think about

I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know what's happening to her. Helplessness is a terrible place, a terrible thing. I hope she's not in pain, hope she's not suffering.

She's my good girl. Always and forever.

it's only you I think about

I have no biological children, only fur babies - four cats: twins Stewart and Lulu, Fran, and Hesh. We've had the twins for seven years, since they were kittens; Fran and Hesh were rescued from the same woman, about a year apart. Fran was nearly dead when we rescued her, and we didn't think she'd make it through the night. We were up with her all night, medicating, feeding, bathing, watching. We were rewarded with her survival. Hesh was rescued before the woman could do the damage to him that she'd done to Fran. The twins were adopted from our landlady, a woman who took good care of the them until they were old enough to be weaned.

These are our children. We are not likely to have children, and we've accepted that. We dote on the cats; they are our children. We spoil them, we love them, we pet them, we punish them, we nurse them, we clean up after them. They are the only children we are likely to ever have, and that's certainly okay with us.

__________________________________________

We know several people who have lost children. My parents lost their first child, a son named Greg, to SIDS. My aunt miscarried two babies. My husband's parents lost their first child, a son named Michael; he was stillborn. My best friend's sister was killed in a car wreck when she was 15. We have friends who lost their first son, a boy named Collin, to SIDS. I had a school friend lose her son, Montgomery, recently. My cousin H's brother and his wife lost their first child (which has made H understandably paranoid about her own child, born earlier this month). These people lost so much with the death of one child, and I can't imagine their grief...

...but I'm afraid I'm about to experience it. My cats are my children, and one of them, Lulu, is so very sick, perhaps in renal failure. She's gotten so sick so fast, gone down so fast, it's hard to understand. It's hard to understand why she got so sick, how she got so sick. We've wiped out our bank account and maxed out a credit card taking her to the vet and to an emergency animal clinic. And we took her back to the vet this morning; she's there now, having tests run. We are hoping for the best, but I'm a realist, and I'm afraid I'm expecting the worst.

It's true that cats can survive renal failure and live for many years afterward. It requires a special diet and managed care. I'd be willing to do that, just to have her well again. Just to have her a little while longer. She's my good girl. She is, to all extents and purposes, my daughter.

Losing any one of my cats will be like losing child. No: losing any one of my cats WILL BE losing a child. Some folks might scoff at that, but it's how I feel, and I won't apologize for it.

If the worst comes, my folks have said we can bury Lulu at the country house. I won't have her cremated and her ashes scattered. I want to know where she is, so I can visit her. She's my good girl, now and always.

...I will wait for you right here...

...circle in the sand...

...and you complete the heart of me...

Two things complete the circuit that keeps me running: the Captain and the City. Yes, I often question this unprovoked and unreasonable attachment to the City Beneath the Sea, this unaccountable love affair...but even recognizing, intellectually, that I cannot account for it does not diminish its power. And I hear the Voice of the City in most things, so she is ever with me...

It seems like all I ever talk about on here is my preoccupation with the City, or my reliance on the Captain, or my restlessness. I want that to change...

...but not today. Today I'm going to feel every misfired nerve, every inch of muscle and joint that aches and burns, every slowly drawn breath (slow, to avoid hurting the ribs), every stabbing sensation that pierces my ears, every pulse that radiates from my sinuses and rocks through my jaws and teeth, every step taken that resounds through the bones and joints like an alarm, every letter and word typed that feels like it's shattering my left hand, every lightning bolt that thunders down my spine...

...and I'm going to be grateful for every one, because I am alive and could still get out of bed this morning, despite the hurricane of pain slamming into this body; I am alive, and my life is pretty good - there is money, there is shelter, food, kitties, friends, family, love - and though it's hotter than hell, somehow fitting for the Summer Solstice, it's still a gorgeous day. This flare-up will pass, just like the other ones, and this virus or flu or whatever it is haunting me will go away, and I'll have weeks and weeks of feeling nominally normal, like I did before last week. This flare-up is not the end of the world, no matter how much pain I'm in, and it will pass.

Today I will not accomplish much, that's okay. I won't feel guilt about it. I'll accept that it's a fact of the disorder. Tonight I will have dinner with friends, perhaps hang out for a little while, then go home, do some reasonable house cleaning, and rest. I will maintain my house, and my soul.

...i might have known what you would find...

....under the milky way tonight....

i went Home this weekend. i didn't know i'd be going Home, and i was only there briefly, but it was sweeter than i can say. it had been some time since i'd been there, and it is always the way i remember it, but somehow better. i never seem to idealize the Holy City, never seem to remember her better than she is; she is always better than i remember.

before the Holy City, all things fall away. within the Holy City, all is right, all is clear, everything in its place. all the bullshit, the anger, the longing, the guilt, the confusion, the emptiness: they pass away in the face in the Holy City. they disappear: perhaps in absolution, perhaps in euphoria. it doesn't really matter where or why - it means peace. and i have little known peace, so that i know it when i find it, where i find it. i remember the places that offer this, and remember them vividly and always with deep, undiminishing love and longing.

we did the touristy things, but somehow those are the things i find most purifying: parking near the River, catching a bite at Cafe du Monde, then wandering the Market, just wandering the City. we drove around after that, and we saw places none of us could recall ever seeing - suburban parts of the City, unknown neighborhoods in the shadow of the City, between the interstate and Lake Pontchartrain (which is holy, but not my holy lake: Maurepas).

we followed the old highway, through the swamps, before rejoining I-55, and that, too, was purifying, consecrated. i love the swamps outside the City as much as the City and recognize that it is from the swamps that the City rose, and that one day the swamps will take the City back. this does not make me sad; it is a matter of course. it rose; it blooms; it will whither; it will die. and the swamps and the lakes and the rivers have made this all possible; they deserve their due.

words leave me, when i try to describe what my City means to me, when i try to convey the holiness of the City, the spirit that infuses my own when i am Home. it bypasses mania, it bypasses melancholia, it bypasses everything, goes to the heart of me...all that is good and right and focused and efficient and compassionate and beneficent is accessed and brought to the fore; all those things which are not good and wrong and unfocused and destructive and angry and selfish dissipate.

it calls me even now, to come back, to stay. would that i could, would that i could...

...hello, I've waited here for you...

....everlong...
...out of her head she sang...

It's been a long time since the soul/mind complex was thrust into the furnace of mania, made malleable, unpredictable, in fierce currents and unimaginable heat. Yet it's another day in the blue: the melancholia persists, unabated. It has been weeks and weeks, it seems, since it came, and it has not departed. I embrace them both, mania and melancholia, though it gives me little pleasure; self-awareness become a two-way mirror in a dark room.

The technical term for this profound emotionally charged state is dysphoric mania. And it is its own kind of heaven/hell dichotomous complex - seemingly limitless mental power; uneven physical stamina; unpredictable emotional and psychological reserves; the sense that I can accomplish whatever I put my mind to; the sense that I will fail at whatever I attempt. Hopelessness; restlessness; euphoria; despair; hope; agitation; anger. Can't seem to ride an even sea; it's all storms and tidal waves.

...down with me....

I have dreams, which I enjoy, but I wish did not affect me. I wish I could enjoy them like art, like a story: an encapsulated experience that has little or no potential. Like looking at "The Last Supper" - it is what it is. It will not change. One may look at it and enjoy it, and that's that. It cannot hurt one, nor physically take any action. A dream, on the other hand, can motivate, can encourage desire and longing, can make one reckless and productive, can promote hard work and unmitigated disappointment.

I don't know how to slow the complex down, and I feel helpless to mitigate the effects of this mood.

I might try my secrets to reveal

....if I didn't feel like burning them all, like so many letters from a boyfriend long gone and disappeared into a traditional marriage and three kids, subsumed in the embarrassment that the American dream can be...

Will is simply not enough to make things happen the way I need or want them to happen. Oh, and I have a will that, when applied, is rarely defeated. But alas - I cannot bend the world to *my* will. It's probably a good thing that I cannot, but there are times when I wish I could, through sheer force of will, make things happen the way that I envision. Then perhaps I could affect the happiness, the overall quality of life, for those that I love.

...for you are a magnet, and I am steel...

What is this soul good for, besides burning and longing, restlessness and sleeplessness and a pathless passion that does not understand God or the universe, much less fulfillment? I don't know what to do with this vision, with this spirit: these fires never stop. I do not ask why I am on earth; I ask - what purpose might I serve?

....I am a woman who's lost in her song...

...you are a woman who's lost in your song....

one of these mornings...

....i'm gonna rise up singing...

this morning, we were awakened by the sound of the phone. if our phone rings early in the morning or late at night, we assume something is wrong, since most family and friends know that i am a late sleeper, and most folks won't call late at night, unless something is wrong.

but this morning, at 8am, the phone rang. at first, i thought it was my mother-in-law calling to say that our sister-in-law had gone into labor (she's suffering from preeclampsia, and the doctor is afraid that the baby will have to come prematurely; our niece is not due until June 2). the husband got up and answered the phone, then came into the bedroom and said, "it's your sister, something's wrong." i bolted up, grabbed the phone. "what's wrong?"

my sister could hardly answer me, she was crying so hard. she had to repeat herself several times before i could understand her. apparently - due to a misunderstanding, as i later found out - my mother had blown up and flown into one of her famous rages, and it was apparently bad enough that it really and truly scared my sister. my sister is 26 years old; she said she was so scared, she was hiding under the bed, afraid to come out.

there is nothing one can do when my mother is in one of her rages. if there is anything about my childhood that i would change - and there's not much i *would* change, truly - i would wish that my mother did not have the temper she has. she's always been bad about bottling things up then flying off the handle, unable to listen to reason or explanations. in most cases she will apologize later...several days later, when she finally calms down. she'll stay in these rages for days. she won't talk to anyone at home, she won't interact with anyone at home. she still functions, just not in the family setting. she'll slam doors, scream obscenities and profanities, throw things (just in general, and at us), and lock herself in her bedroom.

my father and i took the brunt of most of these rages, when i was growing up. we both seemed able to anger her enough to set her off. it's never deliberate, mind you. my father is a smart man, but he's still human, and sometimes she can't forgive him for his humanity. she and i are a lot alike, and we butted heads frequently, particularly when i was in my late teens.

and when these rages coincided with her monthly cycle, she was a force of nature, downright terrifying. luckily that's no longer an issue, as she's gone through menopause, but she's still something to be reckoned with when she's like this.

in the last few years, my sister and my mother have gotten to where they butt heads a lot. unfortunately it's because my sister is starting to be more like my mother and less like my father. this morning's blow-up is partially my sister making some bad decisions with regard to interacting with my mother, and partially my mother being who she is - it's as though she willfully misunderstands things sometimes, like she chooses to be angry.

i have my mother's temper - i believe i am the only one of her three children to have inherited it. i am quite capable myself of flying into rages, too. sometimes small things add up, and i reach my limit. when i was younger, i would indulge those rages, though i never threw things or slammed doors, but i certainly would scream at my siblings. i certainly would refuse to interact with the family and would lock myself in my room. as i grew up, i realized that i didn't want to have my mother's temper; it was not something to be proud of, it was not a behavior that benefited anybody. i could not get rid of the temper, but i could certainly control it. consequently, i do not get truly angry very often; anger is tiring, impotent, useless. and i truly try not to reach the tantrum level, though my mother will go all the way there, obviously.

that's what she did this morning: full-on tantrum mode. but you know what's sad and funny at the same time? i called mom this morning at her church library, since i knew she'd be working. she answered the phone cordially, sounded tired but happy to hear from me, and in general behaved as though nothing were the matter...though i knew differently.

home will be hell for the next few days, for my sister and father. my sister texted me, told me mom was "crazy mad" and doing all the tantrum things she does when she's like this. my sister feels like shit because it's mother's day, and here's our mother ranting and raving because of a simple misunderstanding - a small, inconsequential misunderstanding that could have been easily rectified if my sister had made some better decisions and my mother had not assumed, or had been calm enough to listen to reason.

this all seems really sad when you consider that it's mother's day. it's sad because i thought the days of her rages were behind us. it's sad because my sister is terrified and guilty and sad, and all i can do is assure her that it's okay, that mom will calm down soon, and that all will be well shortly. tell her that i love her and she can come stay with us, if she wants. tell her to stay out of mom's way.

i can do nothing for my father, innocent bystander though he is. he will have to endure mom's wrath, though he's done nothing. it is the price he pays, for love.

mom will be 61 this year, though she neither looks, acts, nor seems like she's in her 60s. she seems like a woman in her 40s. the point is, though, that she is not likely to change now, and though she's intelligent and more self-aware than your average person, she's not self-aware enough to realize the damage she does when she's like this. and even though most times she apologizes for her behavior later - makes amends - it does not change the damage she's wrought.

during one of these rages she told me she didn't love me and didn't give a damn what happened to me, and to get the hell out of her house (her words, not mine). she had a right to be angry at me - I'd missed curfew and hadn't called - but when i tried to defend myself against her anger, she'd lost it, and spat those words at me. needless to say, i left the house. when i came home later that night, my sister greeted me at the door and begged me to forgive mom, that she knew mom was sorry for what she'd said and that she hadn't meant it. i went to my room and got in bed. soon my mother came into my room and apologized for what she'd said, though she said she wasn't sorry she'd gotten mad, that she had a right to be mad. and i told her she was right: she had a right to be mad but no right to say what she'd said. we made up that night, and things were okay afterward (it was probably one of her shortest rages), and i know she loves me and does care about what happens to me...but i've never been able to get that night out of my head. did it leave emotional scars? no. i'm tougher than that, have endured worse psychological torment. but i certainly have not ever been able to forget that night. i don't know what it means that i cannot forget it, even though i have forgiven her, but it's certainly an unforgettable moment.

i wish i could call mom and clarify the situation, calm her down. but i can't; that would only make things worse. i wish i could make her see how awful she is when she's like that, but i can't; it would only make things worse.

i'm pretty sure my mother suffers from bi-polar - more specifically cyclothymia. it's a mood disorder on the bi-polar spectrum. actually, i'm pretty sure my mother, both of her sisters, two of my cousins, my sister, and i all suffer from either bi-polar or cyclothymia. only once in her life has my mother even conceded this possibility, and that was some 6-7 years ago, when my sister went through a really bad depression and exhibited signs of dysphoric mania. mom called me and said, "i think your sister is bi-polar, and i don't know what to do!" i told her then: therapy and anti-depressants. it's sad and funny, though; my mother has a master's degree in counseling and therapy, but she's never been good at understanding her own children, and she doesn't like the idea of using medication to treat mental illness (which is a mistake, but that's another entry). but she got my sister into counseling, and they tried anti-depressants.

i've said to her since then, on several occasions, that i believe that bi-polar runs in our family, and that her middle sister suffered from full-blown manic-depression, and it's likely that's why her grandfather - my great-grandfather - committed suicide, but she doesn't really want to hear it.

my sister and i recently had a conversation about bi-polar. she used to not respond when i would say that bi-polar ran in the family and that it was part of the reason mom is the way she is. but on this occasion, she nodded her head in agreement. when i told her that i thought that she and i were both also bi-polar, which she usually did not respond to, she nodded her head again. she asked me if i'd ever taken anything for it, to which i said no, i'd always employed cognitive behavior therapy in order to manage my mood swings, and i felt like she - my sister - had probably done that, too, though not as deliberately or methodically as i had, since she was not familiar with CBT. i told her how i managed and that i would continue to manage in that way because i had no intention of ending up on medication. my one foray into medicating mental illness did not go well nor end well, and i'm not anxious to repeat it.

admittedly, though, on the one hand, it is difficult to be this way - even i can't always predict my mood swings. i hate the depression, i hate the mania (though i actually suffer from hypomania, since true mania involves psychotic features), i hate the mixed states. but on the other hand, the depression, the mood swings, the mania - they've all contributed to the person i am and the creativity i possess, which is characteristic of individuals who suffer from cyclothymia (and other disorders on the spectrum): they often go undiagnosed and untreated because they don't realize they have a mood disorder - they attribute how the feel and behave to the forces of creativity. i can understand and appreciate that; that's why i wouldn't want to be on a med for it, i would want to run the risk of dampening or interfering with my creative force.

i think my mom is the same way. but again, she's not likely to change at this point in her life, or employ CBT, or try medication. i wouldn't really want her to medicate, but i certainly would appreciate the use of CBT. i know this unlikely, though, and we must endure.

all that being said, though? i love my mother dearly, and i am blessed to have her.

...has it come to this?...

...it's not as heavy as it seems...

spent most of the weekend, when i was driving around (especially when i was alone), with the windows down, the music loud, singing at the top of my lungs, and it made me feel better than i have in a long time. i know something's missing, but i'm not sure what. i know something's wrong, but i don't know what. it's on the tip of my tongue, on the cusp of realization.

it would be easy, easy, easy to fall into the trap of regret, of remorse, for breaking or losing or misplacing whatever element is that's left me feeling empty. it would be easy, easy, easy to put it down to age, to put it down to disappointment with where my life is now...but, with the exception of not living in New Orleans, my life is pretty awesome. i've never been a long-range thinker when it comes to my own life; my desires, my goals are simple. there was no need to plan long-range. and i still see no need to plan long-range; i've got mechanisms in place for retirement, etc.

when i was younger, i didn't think i'd live to this age: figured i'd eventually kill myself. either i'd find the courage or the right motivation and follow through. obviously that didn't happen, and it's not likely to happen, despite periodic moods of self-destruction. not to sound cliche, but i have so much to live for, and i do enjoy living. but believing that one would be dead, and planning was unnecessary, means that the habit didn't take, and i don't see long-range, other than practically - seldom emotionally, or psychologically, or whatever.

maybe i'm too moody for long-range planning. one way or the other, my path will take me Home; i am sure of this. maybe my husband's pagan fatalism is growing on me. maybe my existential leanings are growing again....

...turn mistakes into gold...

i don't really know what i want in life, beyond living in New Orleans, and traveling....gonna rise up, find my direction magnetically....i have the husband, the love; my family; wonderful friends; a steady job with just enough money. i don't know what else i need or want in life. my enduring worship of self-denial perhaps has compromised my ability to identify pleasures and desires, or, when i can recognize them, to admit them, ask for them, pursue them, or otherwise obtain them.

but this is life, yes? exploration, discovery, determination: to learn, about the world, about the self. to reach beyond despair into understanding, and through it, contentment.

Another day that whispers...

....leave it all behind, start over, get away, throw away keys and kindness....

But I would never. It's madness, plain and simple, and I recognize that voice anywhere. It's saved in the databases of my brain, recorded, preserved, archival and accessible. It's evidence and comparison, witness and perpetrator.

Mostly: I'm tired of people again. Tired of this body. Tired of fighting this flesh. Tired of not knowing how I feel, and when I do know how I feel, I can't express it meaningfully. I feel like my times, they are a-changin', and I'm not sure why. I'm grateful for it and am ready and willing for change. I think it's time. Don't know how things will change, in what way, but it is time for things to change. Time for a new phase.

There are days, like today, when the world weights heavily. Not that the weight of the world is on my shoulders - it's not, and I don't feel that way: it's that everything seems so much denser and more complicated than usual. I feel like despair is close at hand, and depression creeps in. I haven't been able to conjure a manic fit, real or faux, for some time now. I need them, periodically, for balance, and for accomplishment. I hope one hides behind the horizon, and that it comes to me soon.

Birthday: twelve days away. Mom wanted to know if I wanted a party, like last year. I said no; just family, at the country house. Badminton, boardgames, and a bonfire. Homemade Mexican food. I want it to be a small, cozy, quiet affair. Older I get, the more quiet I want, I need.

I wonder, sometimes, if that need for quiet isn't my introversion asserting itself more aggressively and rebelliously, since my job demands extroversion, and because I've given my heart to my loved ones in the guise of the jester, the Self saying Be calm, they will love you anyway, even if you aren't talkative and laughing and ready for anything; they will love you even should you be high priestess instead of fool, temperance instead of empress. It's a strange feeling, trying to trust that one is worthy, to accept the truth that one's loved ones offer every time they open their arms and hearts: that one is worthy, that one is loved, regardless, that one's love is always echoed, reflected, returned.

Comes on, like gangbusters...

...the desire to hide away, to sequester, to lock the doors - literal and metaphorical - and leave the world behind. Even better: on a train, non-stop, to everywhere: private sleeping car, big windows, warm blankets, hot coffee - full of chicory, caramel, and milk - when I want it, Captain rubbing my feet, helping the circulation. Want my days full of books and papers, music and videogames, sleep and seclusion. I love the Road, but these bones need warmth and soft, still and easy. This mind needs quiet and peace, solitude and slow.

It comes: the mania, the depression, the inevitable emptiness as the year dies. I'm never sad to see a year go; hope persists because change can happen, and change comes with time, with movement. The year must die for the next one, frost melting for the soil. The year must pass away to make room for the next. Hope needs room.

I need hope. I need quiet. I need...so much.

...ever learn to keep your big mouth shut?...

...because when it comes to Home, I can't be silent, ever. Going this weekend, admittedly for some sad business, but my bond with Her is so great, even my sadness is overcome.

My sister is returning to NY for the holidays, to spend them with her husband. He's in his residency at a hospital up there and can't take off for the holidays, so she's going to him, which any couple in love can appreciate. But it means we won't have her for the holidays, and that makes me sad. But: one more huzzah before she goes - the immediate family is all going down to NOLA to see her off at the train station. The parents are driving her, and my brother and his wife are riding with the Captain and me. We're staying in a hotel down near the Quarter, near the train station, off Canal.

The caravan of cars (all two of them) will leave Friday afternoon. We'll check in to the hotel, unload, go grab some dinner, and then head to Christmas in the Oaks. Saturday we'll see the sister off, have breakfast at Cafe Du Monde, wander around, see my aunt in LaPlace, then head home. It'll be a brief visit to the City Beneath the Sea, but any visit is worth it, any time I can spend there is precious, heirloom of the ages, anchor of the manic spirit.

...let me see the lines on your hand...

It's supposed to rain at Home this weekend, but I don't care. It doesn't matter; just being there will be enough, and being there in the winter, in the cold and the wet - never is She more beautiful than then, except at Mardi Gras, when She loses all abandon.

But never am I more happy than being in the City Park Botanical Gardens during "Christmas in the Oaks," when the Gardens are draped in Christmas lights, and it's cold, and the sky is amethyst. If I have the Captain with me, it's fantastically better, but being alone there, too, is also wonderful.

This week will be difficult - all I can think about is going Home this weekend. I doubt I'll get much work done...

...but I'm going Home, if only for a little while, and that makes everything okay.

...thought I couldn't tell how to fall out...

...And I'll be anything you ask and more...

Those that know me and love me best know that I am an introvert, that extroversion is a mask I assume for my job, to function in society. Solitude is one of the greatest balms for what ails me, and most of my friends understand and respect that.

Then, I ask, why are some of them - including the Captain - disturbed by my silences? Silence for me is energy conservation, thinking time, and sometimes just a natural downtime, like for anybody else. Then why does it seem to bother others so? I think, just like everybody else, that I'm entitled to some downtime, to some wordless time, to some silence.

I want to tell people, when I'm wrapped in silence, that it's okay, nothing's wrong, I'm not mad, not upset - just in a natural state. Yes, silence is natural for me. I need it, like any other natural introvert.

...I'll be anything you ask and more...

....and no, I wouldn't let you think so...

Why is my silence so terrifying to others? My job means I wear a mask of extroversion, but those that know me best know I'm a natural introvert. Those that love me respect that introversion.

But even those that know me best, that love me, that respect my introversion, seem sometimes thrown by my silences, anxious to fill them, anxious to cover them? I wish they would just accept them for what they are - energy conservation, thinking time (of which I need much), and a little natural downtime.

...escuela...of the flesh...the bones...

...they thwart me. I thwart me. So very good at it. Here am I, in the midst of my favorite month and the beginning of my favorite season; I am guaranteed restlessness; respite from the heat; a short but gentle forgiveness of my joints; insight, enlightenment, clarity...

...or so I hope. The older I get, the farther away from certainty I get. The one thing I am sure of is that I hate living a surface life, and I hate having to shut away so much of the real Self. I get tired of carrying the Captain's happiness and mine at the same time. I get tired of human courtesy, human contact. I have faith in the healing properties of solitude and autumn. I have little faith in the capacity of people to comfort me at this point on the compass.

I dream of quiet evenings spent in productivity and efficiency. I dream of solitary travel, as painful as it would be. I dream of being healthy. I dream of moss-grown brick courtyards full of the sounds of water and the street, being Home, knowing that I was in the arms of Home. But even that hope dies as the years pass. It's not so much hopelessness, really, as it is practicality - the knowledge that a lifetime in the practice of learning to overcome most desires - since desire breeds pain - would somehow lead to a karmic outcome: the unfulfillment of one of the most potent desires of my being. It was as though it were enough that I should find my marital soulmate; that I should find my friend soulmates. That I should be able to keep my mother and father and siblings, and see my siblings happily married. More than that? I should not expect.

And perhaps I am wrong to expect more. After all, an apprenticeship to will, to discipline has its price. I should take my treasures and be content. I have accepted that peace is beyond my reach. I have accepted that restless is woven into the fabric of my being and follows the same paths and roads that my blood and breath follow. I accept that. I...just haven't learned to live with that yet. And some days it's harder than others.