Saturday, July 27, 2013

Hey Subconscious, WTF?

Last night I had a dream.  Sure, we all dream every night, so this alone is not a significant fact or even an interesting blog, except when looking at the content.  Last night's dream is mostly hazy, except for this crystal clear bit.

I was shopping in a mall, when I came across a toy.  She was the latest from the "Pretty Little Princess" line.  About the size of a Care Bear, with a face reminiscent of a Fraggle (and if you don't know what either of those is, fuck off... you are clearly too young to be reading this blog.)   She was a beautiful blend of lavender and teal. 

Her name was "Princess Battle Sword" and she came with a purple plastic long sword strapped in a sheath on her back.   You could put back her arm (oddly enough, she was a lefty) over her head and her built-to-grip soft plastic hand would click into place around the hilt of the sword.  Then with a press of a button, her arm would thrust forward, unsheathing the sword and holding it aloft as her little song played. 
"You must die
Die on your sword.
Glory in the battle
is the highest reward
You can kill
for what you believe.
Honor, Might &  Power
are what you must achieve."

(it's a catchy little tune.  I awoke singing it.  Am singing it still, disturbing as it is.)

I also remember noting on the box, that she was "For Children, 3 - 6yrs."

WFT, night brain?  No, seriously.... What.The.Fuck?

Monday, July 08, 2013

Relocating Me

The ever changing patterns of life, like a summer storm, blow all directions.  So when everything bottoms out in life, it is not uncommon to find yourself shifted to someplace new.  Sometimes this is metaphorical, but in my circumstance, it is quite literal.  After 17 years of life in Los Angeles, of supporting myself as best I could, of living alone or living with a love, I now find myself living in the basement guest room of my parents' home in North Carolina. 

There is rich comedy gold in the imagining of that road trip.  Me, My Mom, a 16-ft rental truck, my CRV and 9 cats riding shotgun (between the two vehicles.) More comedy in the imagining than in the experience itself.  However, we all survived, and I'm here to say that Motel 6's, in addition to being pet friendly, are usually pretty pleasant.

The "high country" (as they call it) is breath-takingly beautiful.  Dramatic mountainscapes drenched in a lush and living green that I had nearly forgotten existed in nature.  Clouds hang thick and low amongst the trees, like a lover nestling in your hair to whisper in your ears.   It has rained every day since I got here, and as a girl raised in hurricane country, who lived the last 2 decades in a desert, I couldn't be more pleased.  The locals keep apologizing for the "monsoon summer" but I revel in the hardy splat on my skin of each gargantuan drop.  And the nights... oh, there is something so familiar about the way a southern summer night presses against my skin, a wet heavy blanket of cloying sensual comfort.

But aside from the scenery and weather, I am basically in hell.

Gone is my sense of achievement, or independence.  Vanished is any confidence or shred of self-dignity that I might have had after the break-up.  My animal career is non-existent out here. My heart is hollow, brittle and angry.  I despair and am god-awful to be around.  I burst into tears hourly, have trouble making eye-contact with anyone, loathe myself and what I have become...  and because I tend to view time like a dog (1 moment = FOR.EV.ER!!!), I have no confidence or faith that "This too shall pass"  (no matter how many times my Dad quotes that.) I have completely lost the essence of who I was, and I mourn the passing of that vibrant fighter of a girl who lived in Los Angeles once upon a time.

I am "supposed" to be putting together a daily practice, a ritual of affirmations, grounding and journal writing.  But inner resistance is a mother-fucker when it grabs a good hold, and that depressing bitch has sunk her claws deeply into me.  My affirmations sound weak, false and hollow.  My journalling is erratic. It is very hard to find a quiet, good place to sit and write. My little room has a fold-out bed, a cat tree, a giant litter box and an armoire.  No chair.  Also, no natural light, as I'm in the basement. I had not truly realized till now how dependant I am on the light, for energy, hope and renewal.  If it weren't for my parents walking into the room to retrieve me, I would not get out of bed.

On my good days, I do some searching for where ever it is that I've gone.  On my bad days, I take pain pills and drink beer, checking classifieds for a place that will rent to a girl with 9 cats and bad credit, all between bouts of sobbing into a pillow.  I've cut off most communication with friends, because honestly, I'm embarrassed for them to see what I've become, and I'd rather they remember me the way I once was.

I am lost.  Have you seen me?