When It’s Good

Sometimes reading my blog is startling. I am happy now. At this moment, all is well, as Byron Katie so beautifully says. I honestly cannot remember the deep sadness I felt over the last couple months, or the despair felt by the one in me who wrote the previous entries.

She is many animals at once.

Pills. Desperation. Fear. It’s all such a blur, as if I’m trying to recall a movie I watched ages ago. I can remember the basic plot, but none of the details.

I read my blog, and recall, though my recollection is hazy. Ooo. Yes, that did happen. Eesh. I did feel that way. Oh, that poor girl who is me. Was me? Is me.

I remember, and shudder. Right now, I focus on the positive, on the present, and do my best to practice mindfulness when anxiety creeps in.

I relish the goodness of now, and try not to let my fear of future darkness creep in. I want to enjoy this time, to nestle deep into its simplicity and peace.

Two amazing things have happened recently. We took a family vacation to Virginia Beach, and I attended a Byron Katie workshop. VA was divine. Warm, humid, GREEN!! The beach was sublime, and our lovely motel was just across the street from the sea. DREAMY. Refreshing. I was afraid to return to Wyoming, so scared that depression would overtake me when I got home.

Our flight home, however, was horrendous. Delays, reroutes, missed flights, NEWARK. Total disaster. I had a meltdown, but managed not to swear at anyone, which is seriously (and sadly) an incredible step forward. My husband was the calm to my storm, and my rock solid hero. The miserable return trip made me SO glad to be home. Blessing in disguise, that.

A weekend later, I had the gift of sitting in the audience at a Byron Katie event. I teared up when she came out on the stage, and just loved watching and hearing her “do The Work” with hurting people. It felt amazing to sit with a group of 600 good people who NEEDED that workshop as much as I did. I felt so very among friends.

So, it’s been a good, good few weeks. I feel loved. Loving. And all is well, all is well, and all manner of things shall be well.

Don’t forget.

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Until We Are Fine

Last week, I was taking too many pills. Not purposefully, but also not by accident.
This week, I’m more solid, starting somewhat anew. Still tired and afraid, but possessing a bit of momentum. Not quite hope, but an expectancy.

I’m trying to move ahead, and have several supportive friends and family members who have helped me unburden. There are moments I feel adrift, propelled by the winds of pointlessness. Then I remember others, and decide to finish buttering the bread, get the dish from the sink to the dishwasher. I decide to answer a ringing telephone. Pretend. 

It will get better, at some point. It already has. But I’m still tired and can’t sleep, still sweaty but freezing. This isn’t going where I meant it to go. 

We have to ask for help. If we don’t ask, no one knows. They just think we’re mean or shy or FINE. But we are not fine, are we?

We are not fine. 

But…

Eat the bread. Drink the tea. Hug the child. Pet the dog. Write the poem. 

Until we are fine, or a facet thereof.

Drown My Sorrow

I could die in this closet tonight and no one would know until tomorrow around noon. Look right through me.

I won’t do it. It’s too mundane and makes too much sense right now. And I know that what makes sense now is crazy. So I won’t follow the crazy. But I am staying in my closet for now.

I’m in the hangers. I have too much. Stuff. Shame. Fear. Anger. Grief. Resentment. Fraudulence. I am never who I pretend to be.

But I do not know who I am, so the pretending is easy. Pens and poems and sadness do not a human make.

Right? Or am I wrong?

Simply Flawed

I don’t enjoy feeling like someone is angry at me, and not knowing what I did. No one enjoys it, I’m sure. It does seem like some people deal with it a bit better than others, though. Water off a duck’s back and such. Wish I could be that way. But instead, I’m a dweller. An over-analyzer. And possibly somewhat paranoid.

Character flaw. Just adding it to the list now. Some days I feel there are just far too many flaws than time to fix them.

I’m tired today, and so grateful it’s Friday. My job is a heavy backpack that I like to sling onto the floor with a clunk once Friday at five rolls around. Then comes the disappointment over those all too high Friday night expectations. I’m not 25 any more. Hell, I don’t know if I was ever 25. I’ve been a mom since 18. On once you’re a mom, there seems to be no age but your child’s.

I’m out of energy, out of motivation, and running out of hope in this dead end high desert disaster. The barrenness sometimes seeps right into me, gets me to the core, and I have to do what I can with books and home facials and online shopping to get to another day.

My life is measured by the delivery of Amazon boxes.

At least it’s something.

An Intro to Melancholia

My life on the high desert. It’s been nearly three years, and I’ve not yet fully acclimated. I’d consider the ocean to be my natural habitat, but this high desert home is dry and acidic. It has its own strange beauty (the deer and the antelope know), and at times it sweeps me away with its vast emptiness and grand, violet-blue sky. But the openness of it is discomforting, disquieting.

There is a book I read in college, Giants in the Earth, about an immigrant woman from Norway, who is led by her husband to the prairies of South Dakota. The vastness overcomes her, and she climbs into her steamer trunk to escape the desolation, to hide from the emptiness, to cocoon.

Sometimes think I’ll climb into my closet, curl up in a back corner in my smallest kitty-cat self, and try to relearn how to breathe.

Instead, though, I play with mineral pigments and soaps, a buy sparkly costume jewelry. I reorganize my writing desk and bookshelves. I watch documentaries and ridiculously embarrassing historical dramas. Anything with jewelry and extravagant fashion.

I like pretty things.

I have blogged for a number of years. So many evolutions have occurred, so many life changes. Reading back makes me tired. I love blogging. There is something so satisfying about writing out the heart, knowing that someone unknown may read it, and possibly relate. And there is something about public writing that holds one accountable, even if the writing is anonymously written, and anonymously read.

This blog is more a journal than anything. I am not here to teach, to advise or inspire. I am not in any position to guide anyone else, although there can be lessons learned from the mistakes I’ve so often made.

Primarily, I am writing here in order to keep my sense of self solid, to hear bones rattling in an empty  house. The high desert sometimes suffocates, and this might be a place I come to breathe.

 

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Going Back

It’s the depths of winter here in rural Wyoming. It’s draining. It’s disheartening. And it seems never-ending. It’s a strange, isolated place. And oftentimes, I feel like a strange, isolated interloper who has gotten a bit lost and just planted myself here, perhaps because there’s nowhere else to go.

I miss being able to see the ground.

I’ve been writing on a different blog for the last while, because I felt like I needed to do something different, go off in a new direction, even if the movement only took place online. It didn’t help at all. I still feel a little bit stuck, still wonder what I’ll be when I grow up, and still am not sure what series of events has led me to being who and what I am at this point in my middle-age.

I’m not miserable. Just somewhat bored, restless, a little stir-crazy. But, truly, everything is fine, with maybe just a tinge of blah.

There’s a really creepy little place a few miles out of town, called Teddy Bear Corner. No one knows its history, but for decades, people have taken old teddy bears and stuffed animals out to Teddy Bear Corner, and strapped them to a post.

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People think it’s funny. Endearing, even. I find it to be hideously bizarre, bordering on macabre. The way those stuffies just hang there, bleaching in the sun, gives me the absolute heebie-jeebies. This is a strange, strange place. That photo is a summertime photo. I didn’t take it. It’s from the news. Teddy Bear Corner is a regional curiosity-slash-atrocity. At this very moment, Teddy Bear Corner is probably, literally, buried in six feet of snow. Literally. I wouldn’t kid about a thing like that.

So, I’ve addressed the facts that it’s snowy and it’s strange. It’s also cold. It’s so cold, that many weekends, when the roads aren’t closed due to drifting snow, we escape to Salt Lake City for some warmth. And Salt Lake City in winter isn’t exactly a tropical paradise. But it’s usually about 20 degrees warmer than my front yard, so I’ll take it. And it also has about three feet less snow…

So by mid-June, all of our snow should probably be melted, and I might be able to plant a few flowers, which the deer will promptly eat. This will annoy me, but it will be fun to see the deer, so I’ll just replant with deer resistant salvia. I know I should just plant the salvia to start with, but I love planting flowers of all colors and varieties, so I’ll plant my deer food anyway, and take pictures, so that I have record that my yard was pretty once, for about five minutes in June.

Wyoming has the coldest summers in the continental United States. This is something I actually like, because extreme heat makes me faint. I don’t know of a single home in town that has central cooling. It just doesn’t get warm enough to justify the expense. I have a little portable air conditioner on wheels. I used it three afternoons last summer, not consecutively. Summers are sublime, but Seriously-So-Short. Tomatoes have to be shipped in from Utah. We can’t grow tomatoes here. We have to grow things from Siberia like turnips. Turnips under little mesh tents, so that the deer don’t eat the greens.

I’m bound and determined to grow a tomato plant in a five gallon bucket this year. I’m going to lug that thing outside for some July sunshine, and pull it back inside at night. If I’m successful, and get a tomato or two, I just might cry. I’m actually certain I’ll cry. I cried when I saw the first tip of a tulip leaf last year. I actually said out loud, “Holy Mother of God.” And then I promptly took a picture, and later that day…yep…deer.

Now, I do count it as a “blessing” (Oh, how I HATE that word…but anyway…) that I live in a place where deer frequent my yard…frequently…  But dammit, I’d like to be able to eat my own lettuce, see a Columbine bloom, and have my LED-lit fairy cottage and its matching furniture and pink flamingos not be trodden on by so many little feet.

It’s probably time to stop whining now, and just finish my herbal tea. Oh, but before I go, I must just quickly say that I have no TV channels (we don’t get them here), and my little Hyundai has been parked in the garage since late October, because it can’t navigate all of the snow. It has to hibernate all winter, and I have to drive a way-too-big pick-up truck.

But at least we have Internet. And Teddy Bear Corner. Wanna come visit? 😉