Monday, September 20, 2010
Stronger
It's been awhile since I have written anything here.
I've been taking Wellbutrin for three months and visiting a therapist for a little less than that. It helps.
My 30th birthday came and went. I had a great time celebrating and my husband completely spoiled me with gifts. Good thing I have another six months to come up with ideas for his, ha.
We are moving to San Francisco soon. That is the plan. That thought is coloring every day, and all the small things we are doing on our way to getting there.
I'm applying to grad school. It's what I want to do, but that doesn't make it any less terrifying. Don't know if terrifying's the right word, except that's all I have. Change, good or bad, can be stressful.
I'm making a list of all the music I want but can't afford. I might do something with it. For one thing, I'm keeping it in my iPOD so that next time I get to a record store I'm not scratching my head going, "What is it I've been wanting for a long time again?" Or finding the band but not knowing which album has the one song I really, really like, even though all their stuff is good.
I'm counting down the days to our next trip. It's not all for fun; there is business at hand. I'm taking two exams: the CSET: Multiple Subject, and the CSET: Writing. Now the latter will be cake. I've already looked at some sample questions and answers and it will be fine. The former, is going to take some work. The test is broken up into three subtests that are further subdivided into sections, and that cover multiple disciplines, the largest umbrellas being Reading, Language, and Literature; History and Social Science; Math and Science; and Physical Education, Human Development, and Visual and Performing Arts. This test is no joke. I'm taking it November 6.
My mom is cancer free again. My grandmother has bladder cancer, and just finished treatment. She didn't have to do chemo; they did a different kind of treatment that wasn't as harsh, I guess. She lost a kidney, but she is doing OK. My grandpa had his follow-up for the lymphoma. He is still cancer-free, and they are going to wait six months between checkups this time. They said he's already been cancer-free for two years. I can't believe it. My best friend's mom was battling anal cancer too, and just had another good checkup, so they are going to Hawaii for two weeks - her mom's first vacation in five years. Another friend of mine, her father had a rare form of cancer, and he had to undergo chemo and radiation, but he is in remission now, too.
That was just an update, and I wanted to share the good news, but man, that's a lot of cancer, isn't it? Get the feeling as time goes on we are going to encounter more and more of it.
I am very strong, and I am just getting stronger.
It's been awhile since I have written anything here.
I've been taking Wellbutrin for three months and visiting a therapist for a little less than that. It helps.
My 30th birthday came and went. I had a great time celebrating and my husband completely spoiled me with gifts. Good thing I have another six months to come up with ideas for his, ha.
We are moving to San Francisco soon. That is the plan. That thought is coloring every day, and all the small things we are doing on our way to getting there.
I'm applying to grad school. It's what I want to do, but that doesn't make it any less terrifying. Don't know if terrifying's the right word, except that's all I have. Change, good or bad, can be stressful.
I'm making a list of all the music I want but can't afford. I might do something with it. For one thing, I'm keeping it in my iPOD so that next time I get to a record store I'm not scratching my head going, "What is it I've been wanting for a long time again?" Or finding the band but not knowing which album has the one song I really, really like, even though all their stuff is good.
I'm counting down the days to our next trip. It's not all for fun; there is business at hand. I'm taking two exams: the CSET: Multiple Subject, and the CSET: Writing. Now the latter will be cake. I've already looked at some sample questions and answers and it will be fine. The former, is going to take some work. The test is broken up into three subtests that are further subdivided into sections, and that cover multiple disciplines, the largest umbrellas being Reading, Language, and Literature; History and Social Science; Math and Science; and Physical Education, Human Development, and Visual and Performing Arts. This test is no joke. I'm taking it November 6.
My mom is cancer free again. My grandmother has bladder cancer, and just finished treatment. She didn't have to do chemo; they did a different kind of treatment that wasn't as harsh, I guess. She lost a kidney, but she is doing OK. My grandpa had his follow-up for the lymphoma. He is still cancer-free, and they are going to wait six months between checkups this time. They said he's already been cancer-free for two years. I can't believe it. My best friend's mom was battling anal cancer too, and just had another good checkup, so they are going to Hawaii for two weeks - her mom's first vacation in five years. Another friend of mine, her father had a rare form of cancer, and he had to undergo chemo and radiation, but he is in remission now, too.
That was just an update, and I wanted to share the good news, but man, that's a lot of cancer, isn't it? Get the feeling as time goes on we are going to encounter more and more of it.
I am very strong, and I am just getting stronger.
Labels: Cancer, Goals, Moving, Therapy, wellbutrin
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Reds and the Blues
I feel as though I have been under a cloud for the last month or two. I work very hard to keep things in perspective, to keep on trucking. Still, sometimes things happen, and when they do, you have every right to be upset, you know?
It's just that I don't want to indulge in that right too much, because I suppose I am always afraid of stepping over the edge into depression. I wouldn't call what I'm feeling depression, simply because many times I have felt so much worse than this, but I am making a conscious effort to pay attention and keep my head above water.
I'm going back to therapy. I thought with everything that would help. Actually, it was before a lot of things happened that I asked my doctor to recommend someone. I went to see her about a month-and-a-half ago to follow up for my PMDD. Right before the wedding, we decided to raise the estrogen dose in my pills, because on the minimum I was having complications and was still in pain. Emotionally, though, the minimal dose proved to be very helpful. I'd never felt so balanced, so myself. The higher dose improved the physical symptoms but seriously made me feel crazy.
My doctor and I came up with two solutions. The first was that I begin taking Wellbutrin, and that maybe it would balance out the crazies caused by the Seasonique. She also went ahead and prescribed me a different brand birth control pill, to see if my body would do better on a monthly cycle rather than a three-month cycle. She said if I wanted I could take the Wellbutrin and see if it balanced the Seasonique, and if not, I can change to the other pills. I filled both prescriptions, and decided to take the Wellbutrin with the Seasonique first like she suggested.
I felt a difference for the better within a couple days, and then within two weeks for sure, when the medicine was supposed to begin taking full effect. I thought everything was going pretty well. The problem is that over the last month or so I've been experiencing depression and anxiety, but there are so many things going on in my life I honestly can't tell if it is external events or the effects, or lack of effects, of my medicines that is contributing to it.
When my father died and since, I have been feeling and thinking about a lot of things, so many that I couldn't really begin. I don't know if you'd call it the typical stages of grief, but I certainly have felt denial, anger, and sadness. I have felt and relived things I have been shutting out for a long time.
I have also been thinking about my Mom a lot. I looked back on my life and looked at things through another lens -- through what actually happened, what I remember, why certain things happened. When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, from that moment, she became a saint in my mind. Really, she already was before that. When I would think about the years she spent working nights at the Chicago Tribune. When I would think about how courageous it was of her to finally leave my father. She really thought she would die if she didn't. When I thought about her taking typing classes and stuff just to get some secretarial skills so she could get a halfway decent job, and that somehow that led to her progressing and eventually editing proposals for NASA. When I would think about her not having any credit, and somehow providing for us with clothes, and everything we could want for Christmas and birthdays. When I would think about moving from welfare and foodstamps to one day owning a house in the suburbs. How I went from sharing a tiny room with both my sisters in Chicago, to eventually having my own.
But there are other things, things that everything else doesn't always cancel out, even when I want them to. Some memories still make me very angry, even some things my Mom has continued to apologize for well into adulthood.
I have memories that haunt me nearly every single day. Sometimes things don't go through my head for awhile, and then they hit me all at once, and I can't sleep for days. Generally, when that happens the most though, is during spikes in PMDD symptoms. I need to let go of a lot of things. But at times lately I am feeling angry and having realizations about things in ways I had not thought about them before. It is frustrating because I just want things to make sense. I just want to feel one way I guess.
In spite of the old things that I suppose have become especially raw in light of my father's death for some reason, there are still pleasant things in my life. I try not to sweat the small stuff. I love Toby and I love my dog, and our life together. I love my family, and my sister is in town, and my nephews -- seeing them has been wonderful.
I know that on days when my anxiety is high, I sometimes overreact. My husband could certainly attest to that. But there are other things that are in the back of my mind nearly every day: my mother's treatment and progress (they have extended her chemo treatments again, and she is very weak and is losing a lot of weight); my grandmother's health (she had her first treatment for the cancer yesterday, and says she has recovered nicely from the surgery she had); nervousness and anxiety over my plans for the next year (my graduate school application and the move we are going to make); dealing with my father's death ....
I think with all this stuff, it would be best to talk to a professional at this point. My number one confidante is my husband, but I can't put everything on him just like I can't put everything on my friends.
The thing about my life, and my friendships, and even writing these things for the few of you who read them, is that I don't know how much is too much or how little. I have held so many things in for so long that I'm afraid of saying too much.
This stuff's heavy, and everybody has their stuff. I'll be the first person to understand that. It is hard, though, when you have so many superficial surface level-friendships, and you have heavy things on your mind. For example, Joe's death. It's not like I'm going to go around telling people my father died. Most people don't even know the situation or history to begin with? How would anyone possibly understand if they don't know? And even if they did know, how would they understand because they did not live it?
I really don't want to come across as a pity party. That's not what I am feeling right now. Just evaluating. Trying to handle things. Trying to figure out whom to share them with, or even if it's worth it.
But like I said, is it this stuff or it it the PMDD or is it the changes in medication, or side effects in medication or all of it? Is it caffeine? I gave up caffeine again, but I'm tired all the time. I want a cup of coffee, but not if it's going to make me crazy and anxious and irritable. Am I working out enough? I'm trying to. I have realized that exercising is key to my mental health, so even if I'm physically not wanting to, I'm trying to get my exercise in at least a few times a week. Am I eating healthy enough? Probably should do a little better. I've gotten to be a little more relaxed about my eating habits lately.
When my doctor gave me the Wellbutrin, I said that these were things I noticed that I needed to do. I was feeling the crazies but I also hadn't been taking care of myself as well as I could. I really think I'm doing better at that, and not feeling nearly the level of craziness I was more than six weeks ago. The Wellbutrin really is helping. But with all these changes coming up and the few things that have been upsetting me, I hope and think seeing a therapist again will help. My first session is tomorrow. Thanks for listening.
I feel as though I have been under a cloud for the last month or two. I work very hard to keep things in perspective, to keep on trucking. Still, sometimes things happen, and when they do, you have every right to be upset, you know?
It's just that I don't want to indulge in that right too much, because I suppose I am always afraid of stepping over the edge into depression. I wouldn't call what I'm feeling depression, simply because many times I have felt so much worse than this, but I am making a conscious effort to pay attention and keep my head above water.
I'm going back to therapy. I thought with everything that would help. Actually, it was before a lot of things happened that I asked my doctor to recommend someone. I went to see her about a month-and-a-half ago to follow up for my PMDD. Right before the wedding, we decided to raise the estrogen dose in my pills, because on the minimum I was having complications and was still in pain. Emotionally, though, the minimal dose proved to be very helpful. I'd never felt so balanced, so myself. The higher dose improved the physical symptoms but seriously made me feel crazy.
My doctor and I came up with two solutions. The first was that I begin taking Wellbutrin, and that maybe it would balance out the crazies caused by the Seasonique. She also went ahead and prescribed me a different brand birth control pill, to see if my body would do better on a monthly cycle rather than a three-month cycle. She said if I wanted I could take the Wellbutrin and see if it balanced the Seasonique, and if not, I can change to the other pills. I filled both prescriptions, and decided to take the Wellbutrin with the Seasonique first like she suggested.
I felt a difference for the better within a couple days, and then within two weeks for sure, when the medicine was supposed to begin taking full effect. I thought everything was going pretty well. The problem is that over the last month or so I've been experiencing depression and anxiety, but there are so many things going on in my life I honestly can't tell if it is external events or the effects, or lack of effects, of my medicines that is contributing to it.
When my father died and since, I have been feeling and thinking about a lot of things, so many that I couldn't really begin. I don't know if you'd call it the typical stages of grief, but I certainly have felt denial, anger, and sadness. I have felt and relived things I have been shutting out for a long time.
I have also been thinking about my Mom a lot. I looked back on my life and looked at things through another lens -- through what actually happened, what I remember, why certain things happened. When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, from that moment, she became a saint in my mind. Really, she already was before that. When I would think about the years she spent working nights at the Chicago Tribune. When I would think about how courageous it was of her to finally leave my father. She really thought she would die if she didn't. When I thought about her taking typing classes and stuff just to get some secretarial skills so she could get a halfway decent job, and that somehow that led to her progressing and eventually editing proposals for NASA. When I would think about her not having any credit, and somehow providing for us with clothes, and everything we could want for Christmas and birthdays. When I would think about moving from welfare and foodstamps to one day owning a house in the suburbs. How I went from sharing a tiny room with both my sisters in Chicago, to eventually having my own.
But there are other things, things that everything else doesn't always cancel out, even when I want them to. Some memories still make me very angry, even some things my Mom has continued to apologize for well into adulthood.
I have memories that haunt me nearly every single day. Sometimes things don't go through my head for awhile, and then they hit me all at once, and I can't sleep for days. Generally, when that happens the most though, is during spikes in PMDD symptoms. I need to let go of a lot of things. But at times lately I am feeling angry and having realizations about things in ways I had not thought about them before. It is frustrating because I just want things to make sense. I just want to feel one way I guess.
In spite of the old things that I suppose have become especially raw in light of my father's death for some reason, there are still pleasant things in my life. I try not to sweat the small stuff. I love Toby and I love my dog, and our life together. I love my family, and my sister is in town, and my nephews -- seeing them has been wonderful.
I know that on days when my anxiety is high, I sometimes overreact. My husband could certainly attest to that. But there are other things that are in the back of my mind nearly every day: my mother's treatment and progress (they have extended her chemo treatments again, and she is very weak and is losing a lot of weight); my grandmother's health (she had her first treatment for the cancer yesterday, and says she has recovered nicely from the surgery she had); nervousness and anxiety over my plans for the next year (my graduate school application and the move we are going to make); dealing with my father's death ....
I think with all this stuff, it would be best to talk to a professional at this point. My number one confidante is my husband, but I can't put everything on him just like I can't put everything on my friends.
The thing about my life, and my friendships, and even writing these things for the few of you who read them, is that I don't know how much is too much or how little. I have held so many things in for so long that I'm afraid of saying too much.
This stuff's heavy, and everybody has their stuff. I'll be the first person to understand that. It is hard, though, when you have so many superficial surface level-friendships, and you have heavy things on your mind. For example, Joe's death. It's not like I'm going to go around telling people my father died. Most people don't even know the situation or history to begin with? How would anyone possibly understand if they don't know? And even if they did know, how would they understand because they did not live it?
I really don't want to come across as a pity party. That's not what I am feeling right now. Just evaluating. Trying to handle things. Trying to figure out whom to share them with, or even if it's worth it.
But like I said, is it this stuff or it it the PMDD or is it the changes in medication, or side effects in medication or all of it? Is it caffeine? I gave up caffeine again, but I'm tired all the time. I want a cup of coffee, but not if it's going to make me crazy and anxious and irritable. Am I working out enough? I'm trying to. I have realized that exercising is key to my mental health, so even if I'm physically not wanting to, I'm trying to get my exercise in at least a few times a week. Am I eating healthy enough? Probably should do a little better. I've gotten to be a little more relaxed about my eating habits lately.
When my doctor gave me the Wellbutrin, I said that these were things I noticed that I needed to do. I was feeling the crazies but I also hadn't been taking care of myself as well as I could. I really think I'm doing better at that, and not feeling nearly the level of craziness I was more than six weeks ago. The Wellbutrin really is helping. But with all these changes coming up and the few things that have been upsetting me, I hope and think seeing a therapist again will help. My first session is tomorrow. Thanks for listening.
Labels: Abuse, Anxiety, Cancer, Change, Depression, Moving, PMDD, Seasonique, Therapy, wellbutrin
Monday, November 17, 2008
Call Me Crazy
That's the title of a book I read not two years ago. It really made me think of some things.
We are all crazy in our own way. Some are more crazy than others. They say the real crazy people don't know they're crazy. If you are aware how crazy you are, you must be sane.
Still, I wonder.
Take divorce. Divorce on its own is enough to fuck a child up, and when you think about how 50 percent of marriages don't work out, and how many of them involve children ...
Then there are so many other issues. Someone I once knew named a single event that traumatized him for life. He used to say that he had this caretaker he was incredibly close to, and something happened, and she stopped watching him when he hit about three years old. Then his mother took care of him, but she wasn't as affectionate, and they didn't have the bond, and the kid just went solo after that. This one caretaker's presence removed seemed to signify to him that anyone could be removed, and so for protection he isolated himself and failed to connect with people on into his adult life. He is ultimately still dealing with that fear of neglect, that loss of closeness, so much so that even though he has the impulse, he fights himself to maintain the status quo of loneliness just as quickly as he reaches out to people for real human relationships. Intimacy. Sharing. He cuts it off just as quickly as he opens it up.
I saw an episode of Intervention one time where this guy was a homeless crack addict. He panhandled every day just to get a few bucks so that every couple of hours he could smoke a rock. That was what he lived for; it became his main reason for existence. He met his parents up for lunch and was incredibly belligerent. He refused to accept their love and kindness, and all but spat in their faces before heading off on his bike to go win some more money and smoke even more. At the end of a day of crack-smoking and panhandling, he would nestle up in between two chain-link fences, in a bed he had made for himself on an abandoned mattress, and fall asleep. His mother in an interview said he had been a good kid and done well in school until his folks split up when he was 13, and spent the next 15 years or so on a crooked downward spiral, with only sparse spikes of joy in between.
So, what does this mean?
On the other hand, I remember working one of my first office jobs and the ladies who would sit at the little smoking table in the kitchen for their 15-minute breaks, and they would talk about how their 12-year-old lost his cell phone again; or, I remember another one who said her daughter, who was now in her late teens, resented her mother and asked why she never pushed her to keep dancing, because now she was older she felt she didn't have any talent or hobbies, or anything like that to reflect back upon, and her mother replied, "But you hated the dance lessons. You didn't even want to go," and then concluded along with the ladies at the table that no matter how you try to raise your children, with patience, and love, or no matter what you give them, they will hate you in the end, or at least, for their teenage years if not later.
And I'm reminded of a song, a song that rips at my heartstrings just as much as it heals: a song that in unexpected moments comes into my mind; a song that in certain moments too late I recall the words that have become my solace. The song belongs to me and to no one. It is an "our song" without an "our." I once dedicated it to Andy, and he never even listened to it. But it wasn't a song for Andy. It wasn't a song for us, and that's the point. If there is an us that it belongs to, they are both me: the me that I love and the me that I hate; the me that I am and the me that I want so desperately to be; the me that wants so much to be loved and the me that wants to deserve it; the me that would never hurt a fly, and the me that hurts the ones I love the most with my sharp tongue and burning red thoughts that I can't always see, much less explain.
I guess what I'm saying is about this and it's about the book: it's about the point where you realize you are crazy, but want so badly to fix it. It's about the me who was hurt and the me who didn't deserve it, and the me who wants a good life, but only for the me who is worthy of it.
It's about the me I want to be, buried underneath everything. It's about the innocent little girl who was nice to everyone; it's about the strong woman who wants in the face of the evil world to seek goodness, honesty, and truth.
It's about the failure of so many to be honest with themselves, or at least, my own. It's about the fear of failure as much as it is about being sick of failure, and the mindset of failure, and it's stench.
It's about loving for love itself and wanting to just allow it to flow through you without touching the bruises; or at least, being able to separate the smoky past from the brightest future, so one can see clearly and make honest, good choices, and treat those who treat one's self with love the same in return.
I've not always been good at this. I never even knew when I wasn't, so I guess the realization is the first step. But it is a horrible cycle to feel indescribable pain and fire it outward, only to have it boomerang back right through your heart.
This catalyst is a good one. It's part of the constant theme, the story of getting somewhere only to realize how much farther you have to go.
After reading about zen and happiness and talking about things as candidly and reflective as my mind would like, I have decided once again to go back to therapy.
I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow. It will be my first appointment in more than a year. I will probably cry. It will probably make me weird for the rest of the day, which is why I have scheduled it for late afternoon so I won't have to go back to work.
Sometimes you just need another person to help you look inside yourself; I have done all the work and questions I could possibly do on my own. It is time to start again.
In the meantime, here it is:
That's the title of a book I read not two years ago. It really made me think of some things.
We are all crazy in our own way. Some are more crazy than others. They say the real crazy people don't know they're crazy. If you are aware how crazy you are, you must be sane.
Still, I wonder.
Take divorce. Divorce on its own is enough to fuck a child up, and when you think about how 50 percent of marriages don't work out, and how many of them involve children ...
Then there are so many other issues. Someone I once knew named a single event that traumatized him for life. He used to say that he had this caretaker he was incredibly close to, and something happened, and she stopped watching him when he hit about three years old. Then his mother took care of him, but she wasn't as affectionate, and they didn't have the bond, and the kid just went solo after that. This one caretaker's presence removed seemed to signify to him that anyone could be removed, and so for protection he isolated himself and failed to connect with people on into his adult life. He is ultimately still dealing with that fear of neglect, that loss of closeness, so much so that even though he has the impulse, he fights himself to maintain the status quo of loneliness just as quickly as he reaches out to people for real human relationships. Intimacy. Sharing. He cuts it off just as quickly as he opens it up.
I saw an episode of Intervention one time where this guy was a homeless crack addict. He panhandled every day just to get a few bucks so that every couple of hours he could smoke a rock. That was what he lived for; it became his main reason for existence. He met his parents up for lunch and was incredibly belligerent. He refused to accept their love and kindness, and all but spat in their faces before heading off on his bike to go win some more money and smoke even more. At the end of a day of crack-smoking and panhandling, he would nestle up in between two chain-link fences, in a bed he had made for himself on an abandoned mattress, and fall asleep. His mother in an interview said he had been a good kid and done well in school until his folks split up when he was 13, and spent the next 15 years or so on a crooked downward spiral, with only sparse spikes of joy in between.
So, what does this mean?
On the other hand, I remember working one of my first office jobs and the ladies who would sit at the little smoking table in the kitchen for their 15-minute breaks, and they would talk about how their 12-year-old lost his cell phone again; or, I remember another one who said her daughter, who was now in her late teens, resented her mother and asked why she never pushed her to keep dancing, because now she was older she felt she didn't have any talent or hobbies, or anything like that to reflect back upon, and her mother replied, "But you hated the dance lessons. You didn't even want to go," and then concluded along with the ladies at the table that no matter how you try to raise your children, with patience, and love, or no matter what you give them, they will hate you in the end, or at least, for their teenage years if not later.
And I'm reminded of a song, a song that rips at my heartstrings just as much as it heals: a song that in unexpected moments comes into my mind; a song that in certain moments too late I recall the words that have become my solace. The song belongs to me and to no one. It is an "our song" without an "our." I once dedicated it to Andy, and he never even listened to it. But it wasn't a song for Andy. It wasn't a song for us, and that's the point. If there is an us that it belongs to, they are both me: the me that I love and the me that I hate; the me that I am and the me that I want so desperately to be; the me that wants so much to be loved and the me that wants to deserve it; the me that would never hurt a fly, and the me that hurts the ones I love the most with my sharp tongue and burning red thoughts that I can't always see, much less explain.
I guess what I'm saying is about this and it's about the book: it's about the point where you realize you are crazy, but want so badly to fix it. It's about the me who was hurt and the me who didn't deserve it, and the me who wants a good life, but only for the me who is worthy of it.
It's about the me I want to be, buried underneath everything. It's about the innocent little girl who was nice to everyone; it's about the strong woman who wants in the face of the evil world to seek goodness, honesty, and truth.
It's about the failure of so many to be honest with themselves, or at least, my own. It's about the fear of failure as much as it is about being sick of failure, and the mindset of failure, and it's stench.
It's about loving for love itself and wanting to just allow it to flow through you without touching the bruises; or at least, being able to separate the smoky past from the brightest future, so one can see clearly and make honest, good choices, and treat those who treat one's self with love the same in return.
I've not always been good at this. I never even knew when I wasn't, so I guess the realization is the first step. But it is a horrible cycle to feel indescribable pain and fire it outward, only to have it boomerang back right through your heart.
This catalyst is a good one. It's part of the constant theme, the story of getting somewhere only to realize how much farther you have to go.
After reading about zen and happiness and talking about things as candidly and reflective as my mind would like, I have decided once again to go back to therapy.
I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow. It will be my first appointment in more than a year. I will probably cry. It will probably make me weird for the rest of the day, which is why I have scheduled it for late afternoon so I won't have to go back to work.
Sometimes you just need another person to help you look inside yourself; I have done all the work and questions I could possibly do on my own. It is time to start again.
In the meantime, here it is:
Labels: Books, Incubus, Therapy
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Recycled Air
I'm at the teashouse and it's cold, and the caffeine's giving me the shakes and there are a million things I want to read and write, or maybe I could just sit here and do a sudoku puzzle. I dunno ...
I do want to tell you something i learned this summer. One of the so many things, and that is to never be afraid of your own success. When I grow up, I want to be a writer, a teacher, a photographer, a philosopher, an athlete, and a musician ... but when I grow up is false. It implies some far away time. Like when you're a kid. Like the kids at camp. Like how the kids come on Sunday and cry sometimes because they can't imagine the weeklong lifetime they are about to experience without sometimes the dearest ones present -- their parents, or grandparents, or big brother, or dog, or the teddy bear they forgot at home even.
A week goes by, with all the time in between spent learning, doing new things, doing favorite things, making things, meeting people, or dancing when they never have before, or getting to play with food or shaving cream without getting in trouble, or being able to pick up an adult and dunk them underwater, or climbing a ladder to go down a slide that lasts forever ... until you reach the pool and want to get out and do it again.
And this says something about time. Something we've said before about time, but in a different way ... the part where the future is not far off from the present. That is exactly right. But it is something that, given the right perspective, can become a point of celebration.
I love you, ____. I still think you are beautiful, and intelligent, and articulate, and talented, and amazing. Please do not be afraid of your own success.
Sometimes i think in idealistic cliches, but then I wonder where they come from. I wonder where all these movies, like Dream for an Insomniac or Akeelah and the Bee come from. Are they based on fictional, irrational, theories for dreamers? Or are they based on the possibilities that lie inside every living thing in their potential for greatness as being of god, as beings formed by energy that moves with a will that is part of a greater, universal will.
I'm sorry to get cerebral here. I'm just as emotional. I've found it doesn't have to be hard to go between the two anymore. I have found that emotion and logic do indeed work together. I have found that as I suspected science and romance are the same thing (listen to Rilo Kiley's "Science vs. Romance" if you get a chance. That song is fucking amazing.)
It wasn't just Camp. It wasn't just new friends. It wasn't just therapy. I wish I could explain it better, but when words fall short, or become too much, I am reminded to simplify. And just as in meditation, sometimes the best thing to do is to clear your mind completely, blocking out memory, music, and the metaphorical weather of whatever is going on in the world, and feel deep down to your soul, spirit, will, inner child, whatever you want to call it because these words are only symbols, which is the point ... and listen to your intention, because rationalism does not always explain things the way they can be assumed. And in this case, my intention is to acknowledge something that was beautiful, and fun, and that had moments of inspiration, but something that has reached ... I don't know what ... I suddenly have this image in my mind of a ferry reaching the seattle skyline ... I guess in other words, and for lack of an original thought necessarily ... We've gotten where we needed to go.
And if you can conclude all of these things, and sincerely mean them, then I pray you will hold onto them dearly, in the face of whatever negativity you are digesting, and encountering, because the lessons, the feelings you are resurrecting from the depths of your mind and heart are the most important things that could ever come out of this entire experience, and having these things to hold, whether with me, near me, remembering me, talking to me, or just reading a book or mixing or not thinking at all ...
I've said it before, I'll say it again,
I believe in you. I love you. And I hope you, in time, will continue to remember the good parts, and that you will also be aware that no apologies are necessary ... that all this had a purpose, as this present moment does.
I will be here for you if you need me, always. At the moment this is hard, but it will get easier, because one of the things I have learned is that I am stronger than I have ever known. That any number of things, as you observed, could have broken me long ago. And so in being strong, as this does hurt even if I appear cold, I am comforted by my faith in myself and in you and the universe. And I wish you the best in finding out what that strength is for you -- because you have it too. Everyone does.
Believe me, because just as you can find proof for the theories that cause you to sink, or want to give up, or to shut down under the pressure ... you can, with the same eyes, the right pair of eyes (Hunter s. Thompson said) find proof to support a theory of something better and beautiful and comforting ...
I have to go.
But for what it's worth i know exactly what you have meant in everything you've said, and I want you to know that it is not too late to experience this or learn these things so long as you remember them and act on them.
It's like the part on Waking Life when the four guys are walking down the street, and they are talking about theory vs. action.
It's like addiction, whether to chocolate, or advil, or a way of thinking as habit. There's this model my shrink gave me. I don't know if I told you about it, but it had the steps of how to overcome ... whatever ... I honestly think it applies to everything ... but there's this part, this line, this stage I sat in for what seems like forever. It was the contemplation stage. The next stage was action.
I was so afraid of failing that I couldn't act. I've always felt like that. It's because of how I grew up. Not an excuse, just an unhealthy way of existing. So anyway, after the action phase, and a couple other steps, the last step was relapse, otherwise known as failure in my eyes ... but my shrink said, if you get to that one, you're not done for ... you just start at the beginning again.
And that's what life is about anyway. Robert fulghum said that long ago, and I read it in one of his books before i left for Seattle ... order to disorder to order again ...
Regardless, acknowledging this cycle gives me the perspective I need to keep things in line so I can handle less than perfect times ...
But the steps ... btw, it's not 12 steps. It's some theory in psychology ... but anyway, if you get to the end, and you look at how much and little, depending on your perspective, it took to get from the theory part to the action part, you start to believe in yourself, and the process, and you decide that it is amazing, and worthwhile, but not necessarily something you want to do again just to start at the beginning.
Now i suddenly wonder if you will understand. I see a slight contradiction in what I'm saying, but I don't. I guess it is all true ... Contradictions don't always disprove truths, but nevertheless, I will say that with these contemplations and actions and relapses, whatever the case, there are so many choices in between.
I feel i have made a very large tangent, but on the other hand, I have said exactly what is necessary, because thinking of things in these terms is just one facet of the jewel the Sandman gave to Daniel, and i know, though, because I believe in you, that seeing this one side may be enough to show you them all.
Okay, i have to go now, but thank you very much for everything. I do appreciate it. I really do. You taught me some things early on. Remember that when you think you need someone to tell you the things you already know.
Have a good day, sweetheart,
Love,
I'm at the teashouse and it's cold, and the caffeine's giving me the shakes and there are a million things I want to read and write, or maybe I could just sit here and do a sudoku puzzle. I dunno ...
I do want to tell you something i learned this summer. One of the so many things, and that is to never be afraid of your own success. When I grow up, I want to be a writer, a teacher, a photographer, a philosopher, an athlete, and a musician ... but when I grow up is false. It implies some far away time. Like when you're a kid. Like the kids at camp. Like how the kids come on Sunday and cry sometimes because they can't imagine the weeklong lifetime they are about to experience without sometimes the dearest ones present -- their parents, or grandparents, or big brother, or dog, or the teddy bear they forgot at home even.
A week goes by, with all the time in between spent learning, doing new things, doing favorite things, making things, meeting people, or dancing when they never have before, or getting to play with food or shaving cream without getting in trouble, or being able to pick up an adult and dunk them underwater, or climbing a ladder to go down a slide that lasts forever ... until you reach the pool and want to get out and do it again.
And this says something about time. Something we've said before about time, but in a different way ... the part where the future is not far off from the present. That is exactly right. But it is something that, given the right perspective, can become a point of celebration.
I love you, ____. I still think you are beautiful, and intelligent, and articulate, and talented, and amazing. Please do not be afraid of your own success.
Sometimes i think in idealistic cliches, but then I wonder where they come from. I wonder where all these movies, like Dream for an Insomniac or Akeelah and the Bee come from. Are they based on fictional, irrational, theories for dreamers? Or are they based on the possibilities that lie inside every living thing in their potential for greatness as being of god, as beings formed by energy that moves with a will that is part of a greater, universal will.
I'm sorry to get cerebral here. I'm just as emotional. I've found it doesn't have to be hard to go between the two anymore. I have found that emotion and logic do indeed work together. I have found that as I suspected science and romance are the same thing (listen to Rilo Kiley's "Science vs. Romance" if you get a chance. That song is fucking amazing.)
It wasn't just Camp. It wasn't just new friends. It wasn't just therapy. I wish I could explain it better, but when words fall short, or become too much, I am reminded to simplify. And just as in meditation, sometimes the best thing to do is to clear your mind completely, blocking out memory, music, and the metaphorical weather of whatever is going on in the world, and feel deep down to your soul, spirit, will, inner child, whatever you want to call it because these words are only symbols, which is the point ... and listen to your intention, because rationalism does not always explain things the way they can be assumed. And in this case, my intention is to acknowledge something that was beautiful, and fun, and that had moments of inspiration, but something that has reached ... I don't know what ... I suddenly have this image in my mind of a ferry reaching the seattle skyline ... I guess in other words, and for lack of an original thought necessarily ... We've gotten where we needed to go.
And if you can conclude all of these things, and sincerely mean them, then I pray you will hold onto them dearly, in the face of whatever negativity you are digesting, and encountering, because the lessons, the feelings you are resurrecting from the depths of your mind and heart are the most important things that could ever come out of this entire experience, and having these things to hold, whether with me, near me, remembering me, talking to me, or just reading a book or mixing or not thinking at all ...
I've said it before, I'll say it again,
I believe in you. I love you. And I hope you, in time, will continue to remember the good parts, and that you will also be aware that no apologies are necessary ... that all this had a purpose, as this present moment does.
I will be here for you if you need me, always. At the moment this is hard, but it will get easier, because one of the things I have learned is that I am stronger than I have ever known. That any number of things, as you observed, could have broken me long ago. And so in being strong, as this does hurt even if I appear cold, I am comforted by my faith in myself and in you and the universe. And I wish you the best in finding out what that strength is for you -- because you have it too. Everyone does.
Believe me, because just as you can find proof for the theories that cause you to sink, or want to give up, or to shut down under the pressure ... you can, with the same eyes, the right pair of eyes (Hunter s. Thompson said) find proof to support a theory of something better and beautiful and comforting ...
I have to go.
But for what it's worth i know exactly what you have meant in everything you've said, and I want you to know that it is not too late to experience this or learn these things so long as you remember them and act on them.
It's like the part on Waking Life when the four guys are walking down the street, and they are talking about theory vs. action.
It's like addiction, whether to chocolate, or advil, or a way of thinking as habit. There's this model my shrink gave me. I don't know if I told you about it, but it had the steps of how to overcome ... whatever ... I honestly think it applies to everything ... but there's this part, this line, this stage I sat in for what seems like forever. It was the contemplation stage. The next stage was action.
I was so afraid of failing that I couldn't act. I've always felt like that. It's because of how I grew up. Not an excuse, just an unhealthy way of existing. So anyway, after the action phase, and a couple other steps, the last step was relapse, otherwise known as failure in my eyes ... but my shrink said, if you get to that one, you're not done for ... you just start at the beginning again.
And that's what life is about anyway. Robert fulghum said that long ago, and I read it in one of his books before i left for Seattle ... order to disorder to order again ...
Regardless, acknowledging this cycle gives me the perspective I need to keep things in line so I can handle less than perfect times ...
But the steps ... btw, it's not 12 steps. It's some theory in psychology ... but anyway, if you get to the end, and you look at how much and little, depending on your perspective, it took to get from the theory part to the action part, you start to believe in yourself, and the process, and you decide that it is amazing, and worthwhile, but not necessarily something you want to do again just to start at the beginning.
Now i suddenly wonder if you will understand. I see a slight contradiction in what I'm saying, but I don't. I guess it is all true ... Contradictions don't always disprove truths, but nevertheless, I will say that with these contemplations and actions and relapses, whatever the case, there are so many choices in between.
I feel i have made a very large tangent, but on the other hand, I have said exactly what is necessary, because thinking of things in these terms is just one facet of the jewel the Sandman gave to Daniel, and i know, though, because I believe in you, that seeing this one side may be enough to show you them all.
Okay, i have to go now, but thank you very much for everything. I do appreciate it. I really do. You taught me some things early on. Remember that when you think you need someone to tell you the things you already know.
Have a good day, sweetheart,
Love,
Labels: Addiction, Camp, Career, Goals, Movies, Rilo Kiley, Seattle, Spirituality, Therapy, Work
Friday, June 15, 2007
Hi. Long time no talk.
I've been having a panic attack for what seems like the last two hours, so this may not be the best time to write. But what else can I do with all this anxious energy?
I haven't written on this thing in so long. I haven't written anything for myself, even, in what seems just as long.
I have not written a complete song in two years.
But I've been busy. The busy part has been spent making mistakes, and then picking up the pieces of past mes, and trying to break patterns in both thought and action.
Sometimes all this is easier than others.
I thought I learned several years ago that things never get easier, that they never stop changing, that bad things can continue to happen, that people constantly come and go ... I thought I knew a lot. I even thought I was an idealist.
But what I have learned since is that "knowing" things doesn't get you very far between where you are and where you want to be.
So here I am, starting over like so many other times, while knowing this will not be the last, and pushing the envelope, trying to develop a new sense of self, a positive one, trying to not only dream, but to act, and trying to make decisions.
I am finding out how many decisions there really are.
I guess maybe I should start over, and let you know what is new, to catch you up, for whatever reason:
I have been to jail.
I've totaled two vehicles in my life.
I've made countless mistakes, and learned from some.
I've been in a fight.
I've been a camp counselor for now six out of the last seven years.
I've been the editor-in-chief of a daily newspaper.
I've been in love.
I've been in lust.
I've said things I didn't mean.
I've meant things I shouldn't have said.
I've hated myself. And a lot of other people. And the world, sometimes, and acted accordingly.
I've had dreams I wished were real.
I've had realities come at me and feel as if they were nightmares while they were happening.
But I've found that situations repeat themselves and can be presented as tests for your so-called new and improved self.
I have found that wisdom neither comes from experience nor age.
I have found that I prefer to believe that the body's natural state is one of calm, and a form of happiness, when not interjected with nonsensically emotional thoughts manifested from personal systems shaped by separate realities.
I have come to a place where I can set goals and surprise myself at accomplishing even the smaller ones.
I have come to appreciate, when I remember, that the differences between individuals are often as vast as those between nations.
I have come to recognize the past while consciously shooting for a present that I can own, and when I say I, I mean me, and the me I mean is the purest form of me, the one I like to believe is strong and good.
I read today in Les Mis, which is wonderful -- and I agree with Victor Hugo, or at least the narrator on this, completely -- that within every human being is an animal, and not just one animal but all animals ... because the last few years have shown me that within me is a turtle, a lamb, a rabbit, a wolf, a lion, a sheep, a black widow spider, a bluebird, and many more I have yet to discover.
This thought is distressing sometimes. Because these animals within humans all comprise an orchestra of virtues and faults; and all virtues have faults, and all faults have virtues. It bothers me as much in one vein as it motivates me in another. It gives me hope in still another. And at times this realization, whether in a moment of release or even in contemplation, is enough to chill my bones and palpitate my heart.
And doing "what is right" is such a broad yet narrow way of thinking, isn't it?
I've made mistakes that others would be proud to make, and have told me so.
And some of the good things I've done, the ones I am acknowledged for, amount to almost nothing in my own eyes when scrutinized underneath my microscopic system of values.
So I guess that's everything, without saying much, all the issues I've been thinking about while not really. All that a few good books, good deeds, mistakes, and a little therapy have taught me so far.
But I will say that all in all, I'm working my way toward a form of happiness I've never quite felt before -- the kind that you can get to no matter what your circumstances ... a kind of comfort I would love to feel for any length of time in my own skin, hopefully, forever ... the kind that allows you to love and give and receive, and be good to others no matter what is going on at the moment ... the kind that would just feel peaceful.
That's what I want very, very much. And that's all I'd like for the present and future. So that's all I feel like writing. I'm gonna get back to finding something to laugh at, or somethin' .... cause that's all I need. That's all anybody needs.
I've been having a panic attack for what seems like the last two hours, so this may not be the best time to write. But what else can I do with all this anxious energy?
I haven't written on this thing in so long. I haven't written anything for myself, even, in what seems just as long.
I have not written a complete song in two years.
But I've been busy. The busy part has been spent making mistakes, and then picking up the pieces of past mes, and trying to break patterns in both thought and action.
Sometimes all this is easier than others.
I thought I learned several years ago that things never get easier, that they never stop changing, that bad things can continue to happen, that people constantly come and go ... I thought I knew a lot. I even thought I was an idealist.
But what I have learned since is that "knowing" things doesn't get you very far between where you are and where you want to be.
So here I am, starting over like so many other times, while knowing this will not be the last, and pushing the envelope, trying to develop a new sense of self, a positive one, trying to not only dream, but to act, and trying to make decisions.
I am finding out how many decisions there really are.
I guess maybe I should start over, and let you know what is new, to catch you up, for whatever reason:
I have been to jail.
I've totaled two vehicles in my life.
I've made countless mistakes, and learned from some.
I've been in a fight.
I've been a camp counselor for now six out of the last seven years.
I've been the editor-in-chief of a daily newspaper.
I've been in love.
I've been in lust.
I've said things I didn't mean.
I've meant things I shouldn't have said.
I've hated myself. And a lot of other people. And the world, sometimes, and acted accordingly.
I've had dreams I wished were real.
I've had realities come at me and feel as if they were nightmares while they were happening.
But I've found that situations repeat themselves and can be presented as tests for your so-called new and improved self.
I have found that wisdom neither comes from experience nor age.
I have found that I prefer to believe that the body's natural state is one of calm, and a form of happiness, when not interjected with nonsensically emotional thoughts manifested from personal systems shaped by separate realities.
I have come to a place where I can set goals and surprise myself at accomplishing even the smaller ones.
I have come to appreciate, when I remember, that the differences between individuals are often as vast as those between nations.
I have come to recognize the past while consciously shooting for a present that I can own, and when I say I, I mean me, and the me I mean is the purest form of me, the one I like to believe is strong and good.
I read today in Les Mis, which is wonderful -- and I agree with Victor Hugo, or at least the narrator on this, completely -- that within every human being is an animal, and not just one animal but all animals ... because the last few years have shown me that within me is a turtle, a lamb, a rabbit, a wolf, a lion, a sheep, a black widow spider, a bluebird, and many more I have yet to discover.
This thought is distressing sometimes. Because these animals within humans all comprise an orchestra of virtues and faults; and all virtues have faults, and all faults have virtues. It bothers me as much in one vein as it motivates me in another. It gives me hope in still another. And at times this realization, whether in a moment of release or even in contemplation, is enough to chill my bones and palpitate my heart.
And doing "what is right" is such a broad yet narrow way of thinking, isn't it?
I've made mistakes that others would be proud to make, and have told me so.
And some of the good things I've done, the ones I am acknowledged for, amount to almost nothing in my own eyes when scrutinized underneath my microscopic system of values.
So I guess that's everything, without saying much, all the issues I've been thinking about while not really. All that a few good books, good deeds, mistakes, and a little therapy have taught me so far.
But I will say that all in all, I'm working my way toward a form of happiness I've never quite felt before -- the kind that you can get to no matter what your circumstances ... a kind of comfort I would love to feel for any length of time in my own skin, hopefully, forever ... the kind that allows you to love and give and receive, and be good to others no matter what is going on at the moment ... the kind that would just feel peaceful.
That's what I want very, very much. And that's all I'd like for the present and future. So that's all I feel like writing. I'm gonna get back to finding something to laugh at, or somethin' .... cause that's all I need. That's all anybody needs.
Labels: Books, Camp, Jail, Les Miserables, Mistakes, Music, Regret, Therapy
