Oh, That Thing

Well, I figured out my downswing and complete fatigue yesterday, when I developed the bumps and sensitive spots in and around my mouth that signal fever blisters and canker sores, all at the same time. Now, it's not very pleasant to discuss, but I am determined to be frank with you. And if I am helping anyone with this blog, I want to be factual. Even if it's a bit uncalled for at this hour of the morning.
It explains the chills, the fatigue, the stomach twists, and the emotional upheaval. I woke up with the thought, "Oh, it's that thing!"

Now for the important news. I am considering fostering kittens sometime in the near future. I may end up not going through with it, of course, but it is Spring, and that means tons of unwanted kittens and puppies at the local pound and shelters. If I feel that I just can't foster, then I will substitute my time with donations of litter and scoops, and towels and blankets, and paper towels, etc...all the things that small bunches of very tiny kittens need, to be comfortable.

I don't deny that I am a cat person, who had a dog donated to her, long ago. He was trained as a service animal. That was the love of my life, Eddie. But still, I remain a cat person. Besides the fact that they are as cute as 'all get out' I love the way they take to a litter box from the very beginning. Dogs must be housebroken, or trained to 'go' outside, but cats? No, no. It's just natural. How adorable is that?

The fact that they can squeeze into the space between the ceiling tiles and the floorboards of the next story to the point where they can't be gotten out, is purely apocryphal in nature...they can squeeze into many spaces that are smaller than their volume, and hold a special fascination for physicists that way, or so I am told. And how cute that, when they discover they cannot get out, they meow helplessly, for hours, ever increasing in volume the closer one's hand gets.

They show their finest at that hour. No amount of food and water can tempt them. They are suddenly on a diet. It is an exercise in futility, and the result is skinned and bloodied hands, and a blood pressure reading that would land one in the hospital. The resultant relief of 'getting them out,' is tempered by their climbing the tallest tree in the neighborhood the next time they are let out. Usually that day. Nay, even that hour they are freed. And there they sit, once more on a diet.

Having a kitten, or multiples thereof, in the house is much the same, only they can squeeze into even tighter spaces. Any cat aficionado knows that their cries are louder in proportion, the smaller they get. Their teeth are also infinitely sharper, needle-like, in fact. I admire also, that kittens have no fear of anything on the earth, except being plainly in the open, where I can see them, and an overwhelming curiosity to boot. That is, the smaller the kitten, the more they turn into what I like to call, "Danger Dan."
And I purely love the impulse that makes their day start at 2 am, and end at never, o'clock. Until that time it is, to go to bed, which is only when you are not there. They are small springs, covered with fur and entirely run by air-power.

I am hoping the day is spring like enough for me to want to wander out. I have to go out this morning, and all that's lacking is the will to do so. There is that.

Until tomorrow.

Share and Enjoy*

It's hard to wake and have to call my therapist in the morning. Some stress relief, in the form of tears and bad dreams hit me last night, and I am still trying to figure it all out. After all, it was a very happy day, being what would have been Douglas Adams 61st birthday, and recognized by Google and various pages on Facebook and whatnot.

It's almost, but not quite, like it's not Spring. Usually I save my crying jags for the middle of winter, or for the consumption of too much caffeine (every day), or lack of sleep (doesn't happen). But this has set in out of nowhere, and right as I plan to change my winter clothes out for my cheerful summer clothes...

But I have not, as they say, been med compliant, and so should expect something like this. All that means is I haven't been taking the anti-Evil pill as I should, and some mood yo-yo is what I get for not following my psychiatrist's directions. On the other hand, in the spirit of Douglas Adams, why my doctors think I am going to lay down and take everything they give me, exactly as prescribed, is beyond me. Share and Enjoy.*

I bet they wouldn't.

But instead of "I should" on myself today, I am just going to let myself feel what I will feel, and let it go at that. Everyone has down days and a very wise man told me one time: "Everyone has nights where they lie awake at night and think over their regrets..."  My therapist is going to tell me the same thing...feel what I will, and do something to cheer myself along.

At the moment, it's writing to you, and the scent of the lilac candle on my bedside table, and Ratty and Max relaxing on the bed...I'm facing the hurdles of bathing and pill-taking at 8 am, but won't think of them now that I am here with you.

The skies are darker in the mornings now that the time has changed, and that suits me just as well. It might rain today and that is acceptable, too. It will be a Spring rain, with not too much cold in it. It's softening the flower and vegetable beds up for planting, and I can dream some more about flowers.

*Douglas Adams

Diet Adult Content

Good morning and welcome to this small corner of the world: important news first. The unicorn meat eating cats are excited about the warming temperatures and the daffodils are up. My fingers itch to plant something, but I know it won't be until next month...the ground needs to warm a bit. But I can see the colors and the green mist that floats above the trees.

I had a dream the other night about how Jean Luc Picard helped Harry Potter overcome Lord Voldemort. We all celebrated with shots in an airport. If you are new here, I am in recovery. What is bothersome about a drinking dream...almost all alcoholics in recovery have them, is this: it is just like drinking. I have gotten drunk in some of my dreams. I have chosen and not chosen to drink in the dreams. Sometimes I 'wake up', in the dream itself, to find a beer in my hand, having just taken a sip. At other times, I decide to take a shot, neat.

Now, they used to be so real that I woke and looked around to see if I really had been drinking. Were there cans or a bottle on my bedside table? I would search the house, convinced I had drank. Now, when I have drinking dreams, I know when I wake that I have not been drinking. In my dream, I know that I dream.

I don't know what that portends, to know I dream, and choose to drink, anyway. I have been viewing it as a dire warning, meriting discussion with my therapist and my sponsor. I don't know of anyone else who drinks subconsciously, but maybe you know. Any ideas?

Drinking dreams seem to be standard fare for all alcoholics in recovery. It has nothing to do with my psychiatric diagnoses, I don't think. Speaking of, that seems to have leveled out a bit. I am happily enjoying the effects of less paranoia, and less happily, the ensuing weight gain. Be happy, and easier to live with, and be fat, and have problems with my sex life? And by "easier to live with", I mean to have friends. There is nothing like a blast of paranoia radiating out of my apartment to scare friends and foes alike. It is agony, and I have begged, almost on my knees, for my psychiatrist to end the ordeal.

With this new-to-me medication, it controls the symptoms, but doesn't eliminate them. I have much smaller attacks of paranoia, and less of an idea that the world is out to get me. I suffered one recently, and it is listed on my posts as "Storm on the North Sea." That is a small attack, calling the police and checking reality with a friend...that is all beside the racing thoughts, and the desperation; to not even know I am insane, having insane ideas...it all seems routine.

Then there is this relief, this pill that stops some of it, but adds some serious problems. It doesn't stop my sex drive, but stops me from relieving it...and the horrible and instant weight gain.

Now I will be frank: I have been having problems with eating since last November. I will actually wake myself eating...how is that for a dream state? And I have been trying to surrender to the power of food. There is one Overeater's Anonymous in this small corner of the world, and I may have to search them out. Add that to the sprained ankle in October, and I have a recipe for disaster.

But, today is new. Actually it's newer than I would like; it's an outrageous hour to wake up, and the dog objects mightily. There is no more sweets to eat in the apartment, I took care of that last night, and I am not planning to get any more. Like everything else, I will have to take it one small step at a time. Hand over my love of sweets to my Higher Power, and concentrate on being the best me I can, today.

I will close with an update. Ratty has gone insane with Spring fever and just finished serenading me, very loudly, with his desires to go outside. Usually I ignore him at this hour, but just couldn't handle his song anymore and let him out. Georgia has her paw on the keyboard, and I am trying to keep her from writing for me. And Minkin has settled into his pet bed. The dog is waiting for me to turn out the light again, which will be later on this morning, as I settle back into this bad sleeping pattern. "9+-*" That's a quote directly from Georgia to let you know how she feels. And I agree wholeheartedly.

Change

Not only is there enough change in our world, but we must change something artificially, too. Of course, I am speaking of the time changing last night/this morning. Only on this day of the year, is my gift for waking in the wee hours welcome. Really, at 3 a.m. or 4 a.m., who the hell cares if the clock moves back or forward? If it happened during nap time, in the middle of the day, it would be a whole different story...

Only the promise of more daylight in the evening gets most folks to change their clocks. Although if you live in Arizona, it is not enough of an incentive. They do not change their time, but sit and wait for the rest of the U.S. to change back. How fun is that?

As I have stated before, February is really Spring for me, and I plan my small garden. Although I fall back on old favorites every year, daisies, lavender, impatiens, I like to play around with growing something a bit more exotic, if only in my mind. I love viney, climbey things: roses, bougainvillaea, wisteria, even ivy. And it's a good thing I love ivy, and moss, and impatiens, as I have a garden spot, just outside my door, that is perfect for all these shade lovers.

Of course, I miss the garden at the Old House, which was so established I didn't have to do anything to it...but now I have a chance to change around every year. I think I would like to change more, as I grow older, so it works for me.

I believe I have had enough coffee for this morning, and wonder when my friends on Facebook are planning to wake. Will they let themselves sleep in, or try to switch to the new time today? It's a toss up, really.

Path in the Forest

First, news of the real world. Maxwell, the smallish, happy mutt mix of my home, had a seizure yesterday. They aren't too bad, although I am speaking from this side of the fence. But they frighten him. He does manage to make it to the floor, and I hold him, as he trembles and licks his lips, and drools. In a small while, he acts as happy as he always does. He sleeps now, beside me.

At least I was able to be there for him, having just returned home. The unicorn meat eating cats are well, as always, although impatient, very, for the temperatures to rise, and the winds to subside. They know in their bones that spring is here. The very earth speaks to them, as does the geese flying over, headed north. That the weather frustrates them, is just something in their small cat lives, that they must live with.

The only light in Washington D.C. is the signing into law of the Violence Against Women Act. The expanded version, mind you.

*******
The floor of the grove is a long oval, set with the green grass of spring. It is spring. The sunlight is marvelously new, and clear and soft, almost white. Trees lean in overhead, I am enclosed in a green globe. The sun is coming up behind me, and shafts of light illuminate the Tree. It's a very old oak, and the bark is grey, at least in my remembrance. I tilt my head back to see the leaves far above me. But I am surrounded by leaves, of younger trees, vines, small bushes in the underbrush.

I look behind me, and see a small tunnel of vines, covered in greenery, and the hint of white blossoms. It is as if the grove has created a wedding bower, all on it's own. I was to find out later that the vines were tall enough to ride under them on a horse, and it was a delight to do so, many times.

I look toward the Oak again, and there is a small creek, at my left hand. Stunned by the quality of greens and gold,  I cannot move. Eventually, I walk over to a very large grapevine, which hangs suspended from the nearest trees. It is large enough, and bent, so that I can sit on it. A few steps more, and I am at the creek, which makes a placid sound. It is the voice of the creek I hear and it is a very small murmur. Moss coats the bank, and I look onto the sand and water-shaped rocks below. The scent of the forest rises from the creek, a loamy, leaf-ridden smell that reminds me of the scent of rain and snow.

I walk back to the vine, and carefully sink to the ground. I smile and pull in the clean air. Thoughts fade  as joy takes their place. I can stay here forever, in this green wildness. There is no path through it. The path passes by, up the hill, to the top of the mountain, preserving this spot. Could it be really true that, long ago, the whole world was like this?

But that the forest and the rocky path pass other places of beauty, there is none like this place. There is nothing like this whirl of spring color, with no flowers in sight. I see green, and gray, and gold sand. The wet leaves under the brush, gleam an earth brown, and the tunnel of vines holds only a promise of the hundreds of white and pink blossoms that will bloom later, when the blackberry blooms.

The blue sky is irrelevant here. There is only this green, and the morning light. Here, in this small corner of the world, are green places that you cannot be separated from. Take refuge, and listen to the sounds of birds carried by the wind.

This Wood in Light

I am at the end of a very long day. Lean in, so I can feel your breath on my cheek. I want to whisper in your ear...

It's not been a day for drink, or drugs. It's not been a day for fun, either. It's just been a long, long day. I know when the time changes the day will go quickly, and that is soon enough. It's just that no time change, or spring or end of winter, can alter today.

I know some pills that would make this mood more bearable, but it's not even an option. The next best thing is some coffee ice cream at the local store. It's a mile away through a dark, cold night. I would like a text from my therapist, but will have to do without. It's been a very long day for him too, evidently.

The Next Morning:

I did get my ice cream. It wasn't all that cold...32F. By Sunday it's supposed to be 66F in this small corner of the world. And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is Spring.

After the emergency yesterday, I am left feeling ok; I am just waiting for my body to explode. The attendant symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) kept twinging on me. There are physical symptoms with PTSD. A multitude of them too many to list here. Some of mine include: shooting pains in my hands and head, pain at the nerve junctions in my mouth, chest pain. It feels as if a small but powerful electrode is searching here and there for weak spots from head to toe. In the ensuing days, I will develop: mouth sores, (inside and out), gastroenteritis, and more chest pains; maybe bronchitis. I might have another head spin; another attack of paranoia, racing thoughts and a flare up of my diagnoses.

So I am come here to lay all this on you. I search for words to tell you how I feel, and find myself frustrated. So I retreat to metaphors: storms, forests and fields. Because that is the best that I can do.

I had lived in darkness for several years, hiding in a room, when a woman took me in hand. She convinced me to walk across a field and over a hill. When we dropped down into the other side, we stood in a forest. I woke up as I walked onto a small, green space, which was bordered by a small creek, and protected by the hill. In front of us, was the largest tree I have ever met, in person. It would have taken five people, holding hands, to span it's trunk.

There will never be enough, or the right kind of words, to describe those moments in time, or how beautiful that place was. I stood stunned and astonished. I felt awe. I felt light as a bird, and my whole body opened, after years of being enclosed. I felt delight, as I feel it now, thinking of it. I have never been so overwhelmed by joy. It astonished me, this joy, and I knew I would be able to keep that memory, and emotion in my mind forever. I knew I would never have to leave.

I carry that memory into my work, when I write, for you, about the forest, and the fields behind my house. My delight is revealed in my description of the "unicorn meat eating" cats, and their adventures. I sit in this small corner of the world, and try to find the words to describe that moment. There is nothing I will not write about to bring to you the memory of that darkness, and the memory of the light in that woodland.

I bring you all of the words I heard as a child. So much of it is standard Romantic fare, high-flown and desperately in need of trimming. I bring you all of the movies and music and fantasy that I live in, silly as they may seem. I bring you my body, and my diagnoses, my therapists, and my shrink. Sometimes I drag the outside world, the headlines, in. Popular stories of the day, to try to stay relevant and earthbound.

To my delight, I still stand in that grove, where the darkness recedes. I pour the words on the page, and hope you find joy; I hope you find yourself; I hope you find help for a friend; I hope you find each other.

Mostly, I find myself, the most private of persons, and I stand vulnerable and open to your view. Every instinct and cultural more I have wants to hide everything. It is very difficult to stand open to investigation every day, hoping you will find something that you like, and take it home with you.

Because I am that grove, and that hill, and that tree. It was hidden then, and lives now only in me, a place of almost unendurable beauty, revealed for a small space of time on this world. Many groves and people like that exist, seemingly lost in the vastness and busyness of our lives, and of this world, so big and so full of people. Seemingly lost in time, as well. Because there are many lives that have remained unwritten, and will remain unwritten in the past, present and future.

I am here, I sit in this wood, and I try to open a window in time, to a day, and a place that exists, that is not present in the material world.

So, what I have come here and now to whisper to you is this. If I fail, then it is not for lack of trying. I cannot open myself more to the eye than I have, and remain an integrated soul. No more than the grove would survive by having ten thousand people walk through to admire it's beauty.

And if I succeed, which is every artist's desire, then in a small way, I have started your morning out well. I will receive validation...that the darkness did exist for a reason. And the pouring out of every particular of my life is worth it, if someone who is mentally 'ill', or a rape survivor, or alcoholic, drug addict, can take something away with them from this blog. If anyone at all can take something from my words, then the darkness is gone, and only the wood, and that morning in the sunlight, exists.

Imprint in the Forest

The unicorn meat eating cats are jockeying for position on my bed...I can tell that it snowed last night. They will sleep in a bit, when I stop moving them.

I have come out of my head spin. I loathe them, and can't escape. If life was like that everyday, I wouldn't survive...to go crazy and know it. To feel the edge of reason slip away, and know I now have no control over what and how I think...to see the storm coming, with no forest in sight.

I do have friends, who can accept insanity. They can watch me run for the edge of the forest. We discuss my gait and the wattage of the moonlight as it shines on the path. It is a difficult thing to do; it must be. I have lost friends over my madness. I imagine that they think that I can wrestle my thoughts from the whirlwind, or take a pill, or worse: to be shut up until it is over.

When I drink, the storms come in and out regularly, like tides. I was in one maelstrom for several years. It's like a handful of dried leaves to say that; the colors are lost, but the memory is golden, and burnt orange and red. Years. Years. Just like that.



I can read description after description of the effect of psychotropic medication, and they all say the same thing. It makes me want to laugh, "It is not known how (name of your favorite pharmaceutical) works." Suffice it to say that they work to some degree, as my therapist reminded me several days ago, but will not eliminate all the symptoms. I cannot, with all my art, tell you what, in his own voice kept me from letting the storm surge drag me down. The pull and delight of the wind is very strong, sometimes. I have to accept that. There is a point where I wish it weren't true. But, right now, sitting calm and rational in front of the computer, I can accept it, as evidence of the mystery.

What, you might be asking, are the aftereffects? Some that I love, hold me closer and dearer. I cling to them with all I have. Some who love me, move quietly away. I hope that I haven't lost the friend I obsessed over. But I truly don't know. I suppose that I will glean some clues from our future conversations. I don't really like to ask her how my insanity struck her.

Today, I will pour the anti-Evil pills, and think about not taking them before I swallow them. The gleaming teeth of the broken trees shine in the dark. There are small rustlings near the lady-slippers, and an imprint on the pine needles under the fern.