On the passing of Robin Williams

As someone long diagnosed with depression, as someone who has spent time in a hospital after a suicide attempt, this tragedy just hits a little too close to the heart for me to process right now. I will just say Rest well Oh Captain. You made me laugh and cry. You transported me with your performances. You changed the world. I’m sorry that in those last dark moments you lost sight of that. You are irreplaceable. You will be missed.

Lesser than...

My competitive spirit can at times be a blessing.  It pushes me past that first wall of "I can't" and tells me that many others can, so why don't I sack up and become one of those.  It makes me want to excel at work and be the best in my job that I can.  It makes me want to be the best daughter I can, so that I will continue to be the favorite, over the dog and cats (who have much easier jobs, lower expectations of performance and cost a lot less to feed than I do...  And yes, I am so neurotic that I do have sibling rivalry with the parents' pets.)

But sometimes, that urge to compete just leaves me with the overwhelming feeling of having the wind knocked out of my sails.  Sometimes, no matter what I do, I can't help feeling like I can never tow the line being set by those around me.  Every "not good enough" button gets hit and I collapse, defeated.

That's where I am these days. Mired in "not enough".

I understand that "not enough" is the bane of most human existence, that we all battle those demons regularly. I comprehend that there are many "tools" to help fight those feelings.  Writing, talk therapy, meditation have all been suggested as healing (although the last one is a mine-field for me.  I suck so badly at meditation, stilling the monkey mind chatter.  When I try to meditate, I fail so miserably that it only exacerbates the "not enough".  I begin to focus on how completely inept I am at meditating, and it becomes an exercise in self-flagellation. )  So here I am, writing, in hopes of performing some exorcism and coming out the other side with a sense of self again.

Of course, I fear that these words will be used against me.  That my ex will read these pages and use them as some bolster to his delusional "holier than thou" attitude of pity he has towards the fact that I'm still angry at him (and thus in his mind, a lesser person, incapable of healing and moving on.) I worry that people whose opinions I do care about will read this and thing "Jeez, that Teece is a pretty fucked-up little cookie.  I had no idea she was so broken or neurotic. Seriously?  Sibling rivalry with pets?"  I am concerned that my mother will read this and try to put band-aids on gangrenous soul wounds by sending a sappy and well-meant text message about how much she and my father love me.  (Seriously Mom, don't.  I love you, thanks for the thought, but don't.  Ok?  Thanks)

So why am I writing here?  In the blogosphere where everyone can read this?  Who am I writing for?  Me.  Then why not just journal?  I did... didn't help.  Why put it out here?  Because, I cannot hide.  Writing words where only I can see them is tantamount to covering my feelings in a veil of shame, and it leaves me ... hollow.   I am who I am and while I may not always love it, I sure as shit don't want to get in the habit of hiding it.  Because demons, like mushrooms, grow big and bold when left covered in shit and hidden in the dark.  And I am a fan of neither demons, nor mushrooms.

This is part seasonal-depression.  I know that, on some cerebral level.  It happens every February and has for decades now.  Hell, all of January - May can be a fairly toxic time for me, but I've been working on it for years, and I've usually got it shortened down to just February, maybe March.   It also doesn't help that work is becoming wretched and that I feel stalled out, if not completely thwarted, in pursuing my career.  Add to that the fact that the extreme cold and precipitation have kept me from exercising outside as much as I would, and I'm now dealing with more (and nastier) migraines as well as an uncomfortable layer of wintery body fat.  This is a perfect storm of feeling crappy and lesser than, and since I have the ability to see that, I should (in theory) be able to say "Fuck you emotional black hole, I will not fall into you."  But that's not how black holes work, people... they have an intense amount of gravity sucking action and avoiding them is damn near impossible (unless you are on the USS Enterprise and Scotty is in the engine room, in which case, you have just the last minute burst of speed to be safe.  Darn you Sci-Fi for building my unrealistic hopes of redemption.)

So what do I do to combat the "lesser than" of my everyday life?  Well, when I finish writing this, I will take my ass outside where it is lovely and sunny and the hiking is incredible.  I will try to fill my quiet moments with nourishing food and loving thoughts, or at least interesting books.  I will look for new jobs and try not to be overwhelmed with the reasons why I probably can't have them. And I will just keep showing up, I guess.  At the journal, at this blog, at the daily occurrences of my life. It is a damn slow and boring way to move forward, that has no magic, no instant gratification, no "great transformation."  It leaves me feeling ordinary and unimpressively human, but it is the only tool I have right now, the only way forward I can see.

I don't know when I got so boring, so mundane.  Somewhere over the last 7 years the powerhouse giggling magic girl disappeared, and I miss her so fucking much. If she were here, I think she would know what to do.  So I guess, I'm just going to go outside looking for her.  Wish me luck.

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?

Why I love the Internet

There is so much drama, so much strife perceived in every day life. Each day an economic struggle. Every argument an insurmountable disagreement after which nothing will ever be the same. And like a whirlpool, all this flows over my head with overwhelming force, and I struggle and drown and get sucked down into the very heart of the maelstrom.

Winston Churchill spoke of his depression as a large black dog that haunted him, growling and stalking and keeping those he loved at bay. If Mr. Churchill was right, and my maelstrom image fits too, then it might be best to say that for the last week or so, I find myself at the bottom of a roaring ocean, flailing and drowning, with only a large black dog to hold on to... and he bites.

Then a Sunday afternoon comes along which has some spare time and a bright sun peeping past the clouds. The blue sky seems unreal in its electric vivacious coloring, and it glistens behind the Griffith Observatory in a shot any cinematographer would glory to claim for his own. I see all this, but only in passing, temporarily blinded by all the ocean water and dog hair in my eyes. I return to my apartment and do some homework, and access the web, to check accounts, and perhaps peek at a few blogs (a pastime I rarely get to indulge anymore.) And a without realizing it, a life preserver falls neatly draped around my shoulders as I read the words of my tribe.

It doesn't take much to find people who mourn their losses, who sink into despairs. You can find someone bitching in front of you in line at the grocery store.... but until the vast Internet and blogs became a part of my life, I often believed myself alone in trying to persevere. But you... wonderful people you... so many of you speak of hope and joy and invigoration. You have weathered hardships, and have tremendous moments of great doubt, but you keep stepping forward, and I really do love you for it.

It is so easy and so popular to become resigned. Those that try to move past it are often called blind, ignorant, naive. They are mocked by those who secretly covet their indomitable spirit. And that mockery, if well-timed, can suck the wind out of renewed sails and drown barely afloat hopes. (good lord my metaphors are all over the place today... and I'm rambling.) My point is that I have a hard time keeping going. I get lost. I get overwhelmed. Sometimes I tell myself to go on. Sometimes I hope for more, then feel foolish for doing so. But the Internet has shown me that I'm not alone in these courageous charges of perseverance. If anything, I have seen that not only are there many out there who trudge ever forward... but MANY who seem to do it better than I. Who have ideas I haven't tried and wells of energy I haven't tapped into. They comfort me and inspire me and after 30 minutes or so of reading, I find myself possessed by the need to be outside, smelling the air, fascinated by blue sky and overjoyed at the feel of the breeze. I see the beauty in dandelions that grow between cracks in the sidewalk, and I'm blown away by the sound of bird wings as a flock of pigeons take flight.

Thank you Internet. Thank you heart-filled bloggers who express hopes and fears so honestly. Thank you, my dear tribe, for hopeful words, beautiful pictures and communities full of courageous passions. You open me to inspiration.

Revelations at 15,000 feet

Tag had a business trip this week (it is his busy season). However, time and location being in line with the stars, I was able to go along for a small vacation. Our jaunt took us up to Seattle, a city I had longed to visit. Raised in Florida, but living in a desert, I find myself chronically desiring a good rain. Seattle seems a likely candidate for providing such pleasures.

However, I find that the trip allotted me so much more than just precipitation. The flights themselves were fairly uneventful, often hovering over or barrelling through fluffy worlds of grey and white. Below me the land stretched out, a luscious green, rising and falling in large crinkly waves; emerald velvet discarded by some frivolous seamstress. Deep pools of black decorated the fabric of the landscape. Tract housing, with its circular patterns and identical roofs, reminded me of ringworm signs in flesh, and the irony of that was not lost on me. Urban sprawl is a parasite, leaching its way through virgin wildlife. Forehead pressed to the tiny window, I was simultaneously awed, inspired, saddened and disgusted. The more I study and work with conservation and rescue, the more I rage at the majority of American culture, with its need for instant gratification and its "Me First" attitude. And yet there I was, riding on a plane, for a recreational trip to another city, for no other reason than "Oooh, that would be cool."

Tag says that I worry too much. He's not the first to say something along those lines to me. But I can't stop my mind from spinning into a frenzy. I can't stop it long enough to sit still these days. My actual mental health scares me sometimes, as I feel that my long time depression is slowly transforming into something more bi-polar. I don't want to be sick, but the signs seem so inevitably obvious. Yet I don't want it to be true. I don't want to be on medication, not now... and certainly not forever.

I've read on various blogs the argument that if I had diabetes, I wouldn't hesitate to take insulin. Or if I had cancer, I wouldn't hesitate to treat it with radiation or chemo. But the simple fact is that I wouldn't want to. I would resist traditional therapies and would like to pursue other methods of healing. I don't care what the disease, I don't want to be on medication for the rest of my life. However, I fear that I am inherently lazy, and would not do all that needs to be done to treat the illness holistically. It is overwhelming to look down the barrel of that gun and feel so disempowered.

So runs the gamut of emotions that I experienced over the last three days. Awe at beauty, but fury at its demise. Impassioned about living, but despondent over where life is headed. Lucky, but unlucky. I am urged to take life by its proverbial horns and change the world, but discouraged by the feeling of being perpetually behind the 8-ball. Like the tiny ice crystals that form on plane windows, there are moments of small, unparalleled beauty, but they melt before your feet touch down.

Thinking never stops in my brain. I wake from dreams still pondering the questions that were asked of me during their neuron-dancing frenzy. And yet still, I wake without answers. Hanging in mid-air, the ground below is magical and enticing to the touch. I just need to find a way to bring that essence down, pluck it out of the wind like a butterfly or stray balloon, and let the floating freedom transform me. Because if I don't figure out how to manifest that transformation soon, I fear that I will remain this neurotic pill-popping people hater. And that is just one step closer to becoming part of the problem.

There is so much that needs transformation and healing. But tonight, I am overwhelmed and jet lagged, lost in thought that handicaps my desire for action. It is not the most comfortable seat on the plane.

The Dark Times

November 1st. All Saints’ Day. Dios de los Muertos. A beautiful celebration of the life that we find, even in death. A time to remember those who have passed. To celebrate and honor those who came before.

Recognized as the Pagan New Year, Hallows (or Samhain) is the entrance into the Dark Time. “Caldron Time," I've heard some call it. When days grow shorter and nights grow longer, we are supposed to use that quiet night to drop deeper into ourselves, slow things down, and reflect. We are the seed under the snow, waiting for the return of the light to give us strength and energy to grow.

However, for me, it can also be a dark time in other ways. My cyclical depression raises its ugly head, and makes daily life challenging. I was diagnosed way back in the day (when I was 15), before it was a commonplace diagnosis. Chucked into therapy and eventually put on Prozac (which only made things MUCH worse), depression became the albatross around my neck.

For many years, I have fought it and worked with it. I have used yoga, meditation, herbs, spirituality and just plain stubbornness to win my life back from the condition. Most of the time, I do ok. But every few years, the situation goes beyond my ability to deal with, and I have to seek medical help. I don’t like the chemicals and the side effects, but the other option is just as unpleasant. The moods are starting to negatively affect the quality of my life. It’s getting past the point where I can function normally.

This most recent bout of numbness has also been fraught with anxiety. Panic attacks wake me in the middle of the night. Unreasonable fears assault me when I’m out in the open. The other night, I was celebrating the holiday with friends, when suddenly I thought I was going to throw up, right there in the park. My head was spinning. My heart was pounding. All I wanted to do was rage and scream and run home and hide. I continued to breathe, and slowly it passed… but the time it took to do so was oddly distorted, like watching a movie slightly out of focus, in which I am starring, but have no control over the action. It was terrifying.

Needless to say, living with someone like this is a laugh a minute riot, and poor Tag is struggling. This is a man who picks up on my PMS and gets moody with me. Therefore, you can only imagine how his sensitivity is reacting to the screaming banshee that is currently inhabiting his girlfriend. My decision to go back on meds is as much for him as it is for me. I’d like to better the quality of both our lives, bring a little peace and happiness back to our home.

It is scary to be lost like this, to feel the growing fear gnawing on me each day. It is how I would imagine it feels to be eaten slowly by a giant invisible monster. I shall take with me many tools into the belly of that beast, and hope it doesn’t all turn to crap on the other side.

And so the wheel turns.

On Rats and Women

They say that loose lips sink ships, and that rats will leave a sinking vessel. Therefore, I am wondering if a loose-lipped rodent isn't really causing its own problems? Sort of a self-fulfilling prophesy of doom.

To which I'm sure you promptly replied, "huh?"

That's where my mind is today. Confused and dark. Reaching for sense of it all and coming up with some sort of scrambled goo, black and icky.
***************************************************************************
I recently received some information. In the sick world of telephone games, it is once removed from the origin. However, it is from an eyewitness and a credible source.

Someone I once trusted has (as of late) had some serious personality changes. (I've seen a few of them myself.) I fear that she too is traveling to a dark and scary place. However, instead of seeking help, she plays the victim and lashes out nastily at others.

Where once I had a case of 'hero worship', I now find myself facing the human. I don't want to let the fact that I idolized her be the source of my disappointment. Nor do I really want to look at the fact that she may not be a very nice person after all.

I want to come at the situation from a place of love. I don't want to be reactionary. However, I cannot help but feel foolish that I ever felt safe with her. I cannot escape the feelings of abuse and betrayal that I am now experiencing. I cannot (and will not) deny that I am both hurt and angry. This is my stuff... I get that. But "getting it" doesn't make processing it any more pleasant.

Some people say that I should wait. Stick it out. Hang in there. They long to believe that this is just a temporary phase, and soon, the situation will magically remedy itself.

However, history has a habit of repeating itself, and I've seen the pattern of behavior before. Both in her past and in mine. I want to believe that this will pass without incident. But my life experiences seem only to point otherwise.

Do I stand by and believe? Do I wait it out? And when the hit comes, and I am curled in a ball by the wall, crying with the ugly truth of it all... can I blame anyone but myself for still being within arms' reach?

When does it stop being "hope", and just become "denial"?

I tell my students to nurture others, but not at the cost of nurturing yourself. For what good can you provide if you are too weak, too sick, too wounded to do so? Yet here I stand, unhappy, trying to believe in better. Contemplating staying around to provide nurturing for her (and others), at the cost of my own health and happiness. I despise playing the martyr. I want to "walk my talk", but in this case, that seems to mean walking away. That prospect is equally unpleasant.

Rats leave a sinking ship... sometimes I wonder if I have that same survival instinct.

Sunday Scribblings: Hi, My Name Is...

I stare in to the mirror and draw a blank. Before me, a woman drowing. I run so fast, I don't know where I am when standing still. Wear so many hats, I've lost touch of who is here hatless. Reality can't hit a moving target and denial makes a fantastic running partner.

Hi, my name is... Perpetual Motion.

The first day I sat in the office of my very first (and still my favorite) therapist, she said, "Tell me about yourself." Without thought or hestiation, I launched into a diatribe of attributes (physical and personality), giving the root foundation for each. "Mother's eyes, Father's nose.... Father's angry mumble and Mother's prediliction for clutter."

Years later, that shrink confided "I had never met anyone with so little sense of self." But they do affect us, don't they? The Nature and the Nurture. They all have their say. From gods to parents, from peers to societal norms- every level has a few more rules and guidelines. Everyone says "Don't." Everyone says "Shouldn't." Everyone defines "Appropriate" for you, until you come to this place: Jane Doe, living in AnyCity, USA... and those few simple definitions give you a whole rule book of "supposed to."

Hi, My Name is..... Boxed In

We each have fantasies and hopes. Dreams that we struggle to keep feeding, trapped in the shoebox, hidden in the closet. We sneak it bread crumbs and the brocolli we hid in our napkin. And for what? The having of a hope makes the keen edge of not realizing it even more painful to endure. Then again, what is the other option?

Hi, My Name is.... Despair?

Like a 13 year old, I sit glowering "if only you knew..."
- what I really want to do
- what I really CAN do- if only you'd let me. If only I'd let myself

Hoodies with skirts and knee-high fuzzy boots and BigDog comments "One of the many perks of having Teece in the office that you never know what you'll get with.... (*pause* searching for the word)

A co worker suggest, "her avant-guard style??"

BigDog continues, "... her adventurous take on fashion."

I smile. I shrug. I giggle. I search and hold tight to the compliment, trying to purge from my mind Mitzi, who defined my junior year with the wicked words, "You don't have money and you dress weird. Now go away, we don't need your opinon."

My other boss, she recently looked at my hair, now shades of lavender and said, "I like this one. It's.... (*pause* searching for the word) subtle." Something I have never been by nature. Again I smile. I thank her. I try not read the sneer on her lips.

Hi, My Name is... Unappreciated? Misunderstood? Weird.

Today, I have classes to teach. How can I tell those women to love their bodies, to embrace themselves just as they are if I can't leave these demons on the page? They say "We teach best what we most need to learn," but I haven't figured out how.

Bewildered
Frustrated
Angry, deep within.

I am a volcano ready to erupt
I am a villager, living the in fearful shadow of the volcano
I am the village dog, chained and unaware

Hi, My Name is... (*pause* searching for the word)

Confession

There are tons of photos from our time in Palm Springs, and I hope to post them soon. However, i just haven't really been able to sit down and write a good happy vacation post. My mind is rumbling with doubts and issues and frustrations, and I've avoided the written word becuase I'm in no mood to face the grouchies.

I should know better.

A grouchy mind left unexpressed leaks out in dreams and mood swings and after crying the car last night, I had a sleep full of angsty imaginings and disturbing visions. So I'm tossing aside some image of the eternally perky pink-haired girl and just hashing some shit out.

I'm not very happy with me right now.

When I was young, I dreamed of being something more. I loved theatre, and like many young girls, wanted to be that beautiful startlet splashed across movie screens. I loved the fierce and feisty heroines who battled the odds and fought the status quo. Dark and edgy, or just sarcastic and bitter, I laughed at their witty barbs and idolized their passionate fights. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would often say "Important."

I spent a few years trying to fit in and be "pretty", and when I realized that I didn't work well in that mold, I tried to create my own. I listened to dark, angry music and found release in the fury of dance floors. I felt alive when I was moving and lost when I had to "play along" with every day life. I chatted frequently with imaginary friends and invisible movie cameras that I felt documented my every move. I was always performing for an audience, and tried to make interesting choices.

I fought depression, and frequently lost. I sought out teachers and guides, and fell prey to manipulative and abusive imposters. I had tumultous and destructive love affairs, and although they hurt, I reminded myself that there was no gain without pain, and plunged somewhat melodramtically into the despair of the moment.

I'm sure I was quite tedious at times, but at least I felt original.

As time passed, I realized that life was not always a two-hour, well written saga that ended well as the credits ran. It's cliche, but "there's no one to save you except yourself," and once I embraced that (through years of therapy) I began to make better choices.... or at least I tried to.

I've done a lot of "inner work", and I believe that I am a much better person for it. However, as of late, I've begun to fear that "better" is not necessarily intersting. As of late, I find myself looking in the mirror, completely unimpressed with the person I've become. I wanted to be the femme-fatale, fierce and fiery. Instead, I see a chubby middle-aged woman, with an adequate job and an unremarkable life.

I find myself utterly ordinary... and that's really bothering me.

Pouncing Anxiety

For more than half my life, my winters (specifically January and February) have been plagued with a diagnosed bout of depression. It hangs on, unwelcome, like the cloying scent of decay, and is terribly annoying to boot. My physical body aches and spasms, my sleep & eating patterns go out the window. I become irritable and moody.

Knowing that this is a biological cycle, I do what I can to fight it. Try to watch what I eat and drink, keep an eye on whether or not my response to any stimulator is ‘overly dramatic’ or otherwise unwarranted. I don’t like to think of myself as a depression “sufferer” but more one who trudges through the slime and muck and arrives eventually on the other side.

However, in the last few years, my winter visitor has come hand in hand with a new friend, Paranoia. I find myself questioning motivation for each comment addressed to me, as well as constantly checking myself in the mirror for what may have gone horribly wrong since last look. (and yes, I'm speaking of something more than just fresh zits or spinach in my teeth.) Each car behind me is either ‘undercover police’ or ‘intentionally harassing me’. Hang ups on the phone are stalkers trying to find me. Each ache and pain is sign and symptom of some incurable malady. My emails are being monitored; my bank account is being secretly hacked. It’s hell on my nerves, and even more of a drain on the folks around me.

*sigh*

BUT… even in the darkness, there are moments of light and joy. Just last weekend, Tag and I decided to celebrate his birthday with a visit to our local zoo. It was rainy and cold, and thus there were few folks meandering about. We headed to the snow leopard cage, hoping that the darkened winter weather would have aroused them from their usual mid-day slumber. Sure enough, they were not only alert and out in the open, they were in the mood to play. Upon hearing us approach, one of the young males climbed to a vantage point in his habitat and readied a pounce. Seeing him, I dove behind a bush and rustled the dry leaves on the ground. Intrigued, we watched each other for a moment before I sprang out and ran down the path. Inside his enclosure, he ran the corresponding length of his cage. I doubled back and so did he, and when we reached our starting point, I flopped slightly sideways in submission, and he did similarly, with a big cat “chuff”, clearly proud of himself.

The moment lightened my spirit and reminded me that this life I’m currently living…. 9 – 5 at a desk 5 days a week, is not one that I’m truly meant for. I need outside time and interaction with animals. I want to attend school again, and move forward in a way that feels so fitting. I want to talk with the animals, walk with the animals… play hard and live big. Perhaps when I finally fully inhabit the life I’m intended for, these winter doldrums will ease their hold on me.

Living is achieved in the same way that depression is conquered- one day at a time. Moving ever forward, not sitting and waiting it out. Fighting and winning small battles each day. Getting up and getting dressed, when you really just want to pull the covers over your head. *sigh* WOW… this little pep talk is nauseating even me.

What can I say? It’s January, almost February… and I’ve never really liked that time of year. I’m grouchy and nasty-tempered, in pain and in a lousy mood. However, I remain ever thankful for a love that stands beside me, and pouncy moments at the zoo.

Peace out my lovlies.... go do something fun with your day!

Sunday Scribblings: In the last hour

In the last hour of the night, before sleep overtook her active mind and dragged her beneath, she made a list of all the things yet undone. She wrote from her heart, pouring out beliefs and goals, evacuating the small crevices where hope still festered in a largely bitter existence. She dredged up the very crispy bits at the bottom of the cauldron of her being, and she penned each half-burned dream onto cream paper, in a flowery round script aided by the easy flow of her purple gel uni-ball with the chewed up cap.

The last one stood out most harshly, mocking her with its incompleteness: "Fall in love"

In that last hour of dark dim lighting and deep heart stirrings, she mourned her many abortive attempts to lose herself in connection with another. To allow her walls to sink completely and leave herself, not defenseless...but open, to the experience of sharing. Instead of a history full of Hallmarkian tenderness, she looked back on a catalogue of grossly co-dependant relationships, thick with abuse and irony. The 'been there, done that" list of her heart's attacks read like a baby name book, only one where "David" didn't mean "beloved", but more "raving jackass" and "Tony*" was less "priceless" and more "psycho."*

A throaty humorless laugh escaped as she admitted defeat in all games important to her. Her family, broken as it was had left her behind long ago, and her friends had disappeared into a sea of unfortunate excuses. The only element of her life with harmony and humor had passed one week ago today, at an unforgettably sad moment in the vet's office, and now she sat in a lifeless room, in the silence of a falling night, wishing to blot out any memory of her existence at all.

She took the pages where she'd written all her failures and carried them to the bathroom, setting fire to them with a thin yellow plastic lighter someone had left on her desk at work. The low flames blacked the edges of the paper as they consumed their way across the written words, leaving ash and embers in their place. She discarded the remnants into the open toilet and chuckled once again as she realized how quickly and easily it could all be flushed away.

Turning to the counter, she saw collected there a bevy of medicinal remedies for a hundred imagined ailments, and like mixed jellybellys, popped any variety of color and shape into her mouth. Lowering her head to the spout of the rusty faucet, she drank only as much water as she needed to swallow the caplets and tablets that held escape in their grainy pharmaceutical hands. And then she returned to her room, and her bed.

In the last hour of her life, she rested her head on her pillow and wept until the pain faded away.

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* it's a work of fiction. No offense meant to any Davids or Tonys. Well, ok, no offense meant to any Davids, and to 99.9% of Tonys. That .1% knows who he is.