So I've become mildly obsessed of late over DIY & HGTV offerings. I am not sure what it is about renovations, but I guess given the circumstances of my own life lately, I've become consumed with the concept of restoration.
Instead of Netflix, I've been binging on Love or List It, Flip or Flop, and of course Property Brothers, Ah...the Scott twins... Such pulchritude, such manly excellence...such height. I freely admit I'm a sucker for a tall dude. I'm probably more like Drew in personality, but ah...Jonathan. There is just something about Jonathan. Even his name is cool, Jonathan "Silver" Scott. I vowed right then and there, if ever I got the chance to wed Mr. Scott, I would affect a similar name change. Why be Jill A Last Name (ha...fat chance I'm going to give you my surname) when I could be Jill Topaz Scott, or maybe and this is a stretch...Jill London Blue Topaz Scott! Jill Sapphire Scott? How cool a name is that?
It was around this time of pursuing alternate identities, I realized I was entering the scary world of complete fan obsession absorption. It culminated in my subconscious late one night. I dreamt that Jonathan and I were restoring a home together and engaging in knock-down drag-out screaming match over the merits of subway tile which Jonathan favored and the retro 50's style black and white mosaic tiles I wanted for our dream bathroom.
I realized I had a problem. Then X'ers, it deepened when I realized that like most things in my life, once again I find myself out of step with current modernity. Everything today is all about modern, open floor plans, ambient lighting, glass tiles, squared off sofas, lots of color, modern, modern, modern...
I'm not. You may revile me after reading the following, snap shut your laptop or tablet in protest and vow never to read anything I write again, but I'm...ahem, (cough)...traditional. Ugh, I said it. I really like pale pastel yellow walls, wing back armchairs, chintzes, walnut secretaries and cherry sleigh beds. It gets worse... I like blue and white Chinese vases, Waverly prints, grandfather clocks, antique sewing cabinets, hurricane lamps and worst of all I don't even mind striped wallpaper.
Then we come to the thing that every self-respecting Millennial hipster must have, the open floor plan. I...like...well...I like walls. In the 1980's, my best friend's family moved to a new home. I remember visiting, alternately swooning over and envying the fact that they had a separate formal dining room, replete with ponderous cherry wood Chippendale-esque dining table and matching china cabinet hutch. In my home, we had an open plan, where the kitchen flowed into a nook that we ate in. The luxury of a walled-off room just for eating has never quite lost its magic for me.
In my teens, I devoured gothic romance novels by the hundreds and there are no open floor plans in any of the old abbeys, stately manors, or chalets that these stories played out in. Where would the heroine hide from the lecherous Squire, libelous housekeeper, or murderous but seemingly kind nanny in an open floor plan? Where would Mr. Rochester have stashed his insane first wife and wifeys' seemingly malevolent but actually heart of gold companion/keeper in an open floor plan? You need corner turrets, secret passages, priest holes, libraries, and conservatories for such actions.
In short, you need walls....
If Frost is right and "Good fences make good neighbours, I would paraphrase that and say the "Good walls make better friends and families".
So there you have it, the unvarnished, un-staged truth. I'm not a modern...and as such Jonathan and I probably have no future together. But we'll always have Seasons 1-7...
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Friday, May 1, 2015
The 1st of May- A Homecoming
Sometimes there is a sense that some of these posts seem to come from a manic depressive.
It's really just me and there are good days and bad...
I guess I thought that I could bluff my way through life so much more easily. When I was in High School, I thought, "okay, first graduate, somehow get through college, you'll meet someone probably around your 3rd year, date, get engaged in your twenties while making headway at the perfect job, get married and then have children in your mid to late twenties."
It all seemed so do-able and normal. I had no doubts....
Then life really began to happen...it never goes the way that you plan. If you are reading this and really love your children, you'll tell them that. Take their face in your hands, look them in the eye and make sure that they 'get it'.
I had a really watershed day today. It was such a beautiful and perfect day. The ones where the azure sky seems to go on forever in limitless splendor. It was warm with cool breezes and zero humidity, which means a lot in a place like Florida.
I couldn't have stayed inside if my life depended on it. So I grabbed a sandwich and a drink and I made my way to my special spot at a nearby lake. I lunched with egret and heron, mallard and Muscovy ducks for companions. I watched in wonder as an osprey flew low over the tree island in the center of the pond, laughed at the quacking mallards all swimming in formation behind one that appeared to be the line leader, shuddered a bit at the Muscovy who don't quack but hiss instead to announce their presence. One seemed particularly put out that I didn't share my sandwich and stalked away hissing epithets that probably didn't put me in all that good a light. Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the swamp as I edged closer trying to see if I could spot the crabby old alligator who inhabits this small pond. It always amuses me that the HOA in their wisdom have erected a red painted sign that reads 'WARNING- ALLIGATOR IN POND'. I think they do it for the Northerners that move here and then wonder why their dogs that they let off the leashes suddenly disappear. Any Floridian knows that if you have a body of water, be it a swimming pool, retention pond, or full-fledged spring fed lake, at some time or other an alligator is probably going to take up residence as its God-given right.
Grasping the nettle still further, I moved out onto a concrete slab that juts out onto the edge of land that leads to the marshy beach in front of the lake. It's set in just such a way that you can sit on one part that's higher up and then spread your legs out comfortably over the end. Picture a pool side lounge made of concrete and you'd just about have it.
You see, this really is my favorite place in the world; I cannot even recount all of the times that I have gone to this lakeside retreat to plan, celebrate, ruminate, mourn, cry and marvel. There have been times when I wandered down in the early hours of morning to watch the sunrise and times when I have gone there to try and catch the sight of shooting stars, moonlight eclipses...it's the wonder and romance of the place that captures me.
I've shared this spot with only one other person and seven years ago he and I sat on that concrete slab and planned the rest of our lives together. We sat curled up, one leaning against the other, arms entwined, desperate for the touch, the scent, the feel of the other. I remember being so happy that my heart ached. I was so certain that this was the way it would always be.
After the break-up, when my dreams were shattered, I would occasionally go back to the lake but never in the same way. I shunned the concrete slab, choosing to sit on a bench or a picnic table.
Then today, the allure of the lake called, the perfection of the day...I realized that I didn't want to hide in the shade on the bench, I wanted to be out on that slab, basking in the sun, reveling in the wildness of the wind. So I took tentative steps, then faster and faster and I reached it stretching out in the sun. For the first time in so many years. I felt whole again, restored, renewed.
Even the clothes I wore seemed part of it, not dressing to please anyone but myself, my favorite faded blue jeans, blue and white striped tee, black leather sandals, my Seiko watch with the blue dial that my father gave me for Christmas, the aquamarine and silver ring my mother and I found in a junk shop, restored and gleaming on my finger, all of this, all of it will live in my memory as the day that I came back home.
I sit here now with a slightly sunburned nose and face, but I can still feel the warmth on my skin and the wind in my hair as I rejoiced in my homecoming on the most perfect of days.
It's really just me and there are good days and bad...
I guess I thought that I could bluff my way through life so much more easily. When I was in High School, I thought, "okay, first graduate, somehow get through college, you'll meet someone probably around your 3rd year, date, get engaged in your twenties while making headway at the perfect job, get married and then have children in your mid to late twenties."
It all seemed so do-able and normal. I had no doubts....
Then life really began to happen...it never goes the way that you plan. If you are reading this and really love your children, you'll tell them that. Take their face in your hands, look them in the eye and make sure that they 'get it'.
I had a really watershed day today. It was such a beautiful and perfect day. The ones where the azure sky seems to go on forever in limitless splendor. It was warm with cool breezes and zero humidity, which means a lot in a place like Florida.
I couldn't have stayed inside if my life depended on it. So I grabbed a sandwich and a drink and I made my way to my special spot at a nearby lake. I lunched with egret and heron, mallard and Muscovy ducks for companions. I watched in wonder as an osprey flew low over the tree island in the center of the pond, laughed at the quacking mallards all swimming in formation behind one that appeared to be the line leader, shuddered a bit at the Muscovy who don't quack but hiss instead to announce their presence. One seemed particularly put out that I didn't share my sandwich and stalked away hissing epithets that probably didn't put me in all that good a light. Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the swamp as I edged closer trying to see if I could spot the crabby old alligator who inhabits this small pond. It always amuses me that the HOA in their wisdom have erected a red painted sign that reads 'WARNING- ALLIGATOR IN POND'. I think they do it for the Northerners that move here and then wonder why their dogs that they let off the leashes suddenly disappear. Any Floridian knows that if you have a body of water, be it a swimming pool, retention pond, or full-fledged spring fed lake, at some time or other an alligator is probably going to take up residence as its God-given right.
Grasping the nettle still further, I moved out onto a concrete slab that juts out onto the edge of land that leads to the marshy beach in front of the lake. It's set in just such a way that you can sit on one part that's higher up and then spread your legs out comfortably over the end. Picture a pool side lounge made of concrete and you'd just about have it.
You see, this really is my favorite place in the world; I cannot even recount all of the times that I have gone to this lakeside retreat to plan, celebrate, ruminate, mourn, cry and marvel. There have been times when I wandered down in the early hours of morning to watch the sunrise and times when I have gone there to try and catch the sight of shooting stars, moonlight eclipses...it's the wonder and romance of the place that captures me.
I've shared this spot with only one other person and seven years ago he and I sat on that concrete slab and planned the rest of our lives together. We sat curled up, one leaning against the other, arms entwined, desperate for the touch, the scent, the feel of the other. I remember being so happy that my heart ached. I was so certain that this was the way it would always be.
After the break-up, when my dreams were shattered, I would occasionally go back to the lake but never in the same way. I shunned the concrete slab, choosing to sit on a bench or a picnic table.
Then today, the allure of the lake called, the perfection of the day...I realized that I didn't want to hide in the shade on the bench, I wanted to be out on that slab, basking in the sun, reveling in the wildness of the wind. So I took tentative steps, then faster and faster and I reached it stretching out in the sun. For the first time in so many years. I felt whole again, restored, renewed.
Even the clothes I wore seemed part of it, not dressing to please anyone but myself, my favorite faded blue jeans, blue and white striped tee, black leather sandals, my Seiko watch with the blue dial that my father gave me for Christmas, the aquamarine and silver ring my mother and I found in a junk shop, restored and gleaming on my finger, all of this, all of it will live in my memory as the day that I came back home.
I sit here now with a slightly sunburned nose and face, but I can still feel the warmth on my skin and the wind in my hair as I rejoiced in my homecoming on the most perfect of days.
Friday, March 13, 2015
On Unemployment, Bathrobes and the Genius of Mr. Mom
Took a shower today...
Okay I know that for most of you, this is hardly earth-shaking, something that most of you perform once or in some cases, multiple times daily.
I used to be that way, until unemployment...
Lately, I've been rationalizing that 1.why do I need the bother of a shower when I'm not going anywhere 2. on the really bad days whether or not a bum such as myself deserves the consolation of hot water and fragrant soap.
Then today I got a 'whiff of myself. Heretofore, I believed that my natural scent was an amalgam of daisies, freesias, chamomile, and bergamot with a slight undertone of chocolate almond. It makes sense, being that these are all my favorite flavors and 'tastes'.
It's not.
It's, well...let's just say, it's not...good.
After finally ditching my paint spattered 'lounging trousers' decrepit t-shirt and my ever-faithful Liz Claiborne, 'Spa' Robe, I had that moment when you are pulling your shirt over your head and are trapped for seconds in your own personal, shall we say...air...
And all of the sudden, it occurred to me why the cats weren't killing themselves to come over and jump in my lap anymore...where the bad scent I assumed was coming from some grapefruit that had passed their sell by date some weeks ago originated.
It's hard being unemployed...you can try to put whatever positive spin you want on it, it's hard...
It all starts out novel and new and you tell yourself this is just temporary. Then the reality sinks in and it's like the moment in Mr. Mom when Michael Keaton's character Jack Butler has grown corpulent, stopped shaving and is addicted to the Young and the Restless. In my case, it's the bathrobe, scummy t-shirt and binge watching 'Melissa and Joey' on Netflix.
I hit an all-time low the other day, reading that the ABC Family Channel had cancelled the show, I teared up and fired off an angry email to the network.
I've read all of the support literature, countless '9 Tips for Surviving Unemployment'. I know that I'm supposed to be staying positive, not taking all the rejection personally, finding something or someone to invest in. I've read the how-to books, I've revised my resume about 19 times.
I've deleted my Facebook presence so I won't obsess about others' being happy and getting promotions, etc. I've thrown everything into my LinkedIn profile and now obsess about how many times my profile has been viewed.
I guess part of me is still bewildered...the part of me that thinks I never chose unemployment and I didn't quit...so what I am I doing here in my bathrobe?
I guess some days taking a shower and raising my glass to Jack Butler are the best I can do ,
"Yeah. 220, 221 whatever it takes..."
"I understand that you little guys start out with your woobies and you think they're great...and they are, they are terrific. But pretty soon, a woobie isn't enough. You're out on the street trying to score an electric blanket or maybe a quilt. And the next thing you know, you're strung out on bedspreads Ken. That's serious."
Here's to ditching woobies and bathrobes and doing whatever it takes...
Okay I know that for most of you, this is hardly earth-shaking, something that most of you perform once or in some cases, multiple times daily.
I used to be that way, until unemployment...
Lately, I've been rationalizing that 1.why do I need the bother of a shower when I'm not going anywhere 2. on the really bad days whether or not a bum such as myself deserves the consolation of hot water and fragrant soap.
Then today I got a 'whiff of myself. Heretofore, I believed that my natural scent was an amalgam of daisies, freesias, chamomile, and bergamot with a slight undertone of chocolate almond. It makes sense, being that these are all my favorite flavors and 'tastes'.
It's not.
It's, well...let's just say, it's not...good.
After finally ditching my paint spattered 'lounging trousers' decrepit t-shirt and my ever-faithful Liz Claiborne, 'Spa' Robe, I had that moment when you are pulling your shirt over your head and are trapped for seconds in your own personal, shall we say...air...
And all of the sudden, it occurred to me why the cats weren't killing themselves to come over and jump in my lap anymore...where the bad scent I assumed was coming from some grapefruit that had passed their sell by date some weeks ago originated.
It's hard being unemployed...you can try to put whatever positive spin you want on it, it's hard...
It all starts out novel and new and you tell yourself this is just temporary. Then the reality sinks in and it's like the moment in Mr. Mom when Michael Keaton's character Jack Butler has grown corpulent, stopped shaving and is addicted to the Young and the Restless. In my case, it's the bathrobe, scummy t-shirt and binge watching 'Melissa and Joey' on Netflix.
I hit an all-time low the other day, reading that the ABC Family Channel had cancelled the show, I teared up and fired off an angry email to the network.
I've read all of the support literature, countless '9 Tips for Surviving Unemployment'. I know that I'm supposed to be staying positive, not taking all the rejection personally, finding something or someone to invest in. I've read the how-to books, I've revised my resume about 19 times.
I've deleted my Facebook presence so I won't obsess about others' being happy and getting promotions, etc. I've thrown everything into my LinkedIn profile and now obsess about how many times my profile has been viewed.
I guess part of me is still bewildered...the part of me that thinks I never chose unemployment and I didn't quit...so what I am I doing here in my bathrobe?
I guess some days taking a shower and raising my glass to Jack Butler are the best I can do ,
"Yeah. 220, 221 whatever it takes..."
"I understand that you little guys start out with your woobies and you think they're great...and they are, they are terrific. But pretty soon, a woobie isn't enough. You're out on the street trying to score an electric blanket or maybe a quilt. And the next thing you know, you're strung out on bedspreads Ken. That's serious."
Here's to ditching woobies and bathrobes and doing whatever it takes...
Monday, February 9, 2015
Non-Company that I Worked For But Was Never Really One Of Them...Or What I Learned and How I Learned It
So fast forward...hello 2015.
I missed the beginning of 2015 and most of 2014...
No I wasn't in a coma or anything, but I might as well have been.
Nearly three weeks ago, on a Thursday, I was called to my manager's office to as he put it, "Discuss a few things".
I grab my steno and a pen, dismiss the faint feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach and I walk to his office. As I enter, I see my manager seated at his desk and then as I open the door wider, I see the Sr. HR Rep. In later appraisals of the moment, two scenes from movies come to mind, in Empire Strikes Back, when Han Solo, Leia, Chewy and gang are on Cloud City and invited to break bread with Lando Calrissian and Co, the door swings wide, then you hear the ominous low breaths of James Earl Jones as Vader welcomes them into the dining room with a malevolent hiss, "Please join me". The second being in Jurassic Park, when the velociraptors put their heads around the door, in a 'didn't expect to see us, did you?' pose.
I see an envelope on the desk, it's for me...my 'separation papers'.
I feel just like a wife who is being served divorce papers for the termination of a marriage she didn't even know was in trouble until that moment. Laid off...economic circumstances you understand, corporate restructuring, you are uninstalled, downsized, no longer an acceptable risk...you are out.
So the gist of all of this is, I am once again, unemployed...
It was hard for me to type this out, seeing it in black and white on the page makes it seem so final.
It does however, make all of the resumes sent, the interview clothes purchased and the hairdresser visit seem more worthwhile.
Fast forward to last Monday and I am headed out the door when my phone beeps to let me know I have a message. It's from a former co-worker. At first, I figure it is just another person reaching out, another "Hey man, sucks to be you, keep in touch, k,", both of us knowing all along that it is lip service and that neither of us will really be...in touch.
It's not...
What is on my phone, is a message telling me that a former co-worker is well...no other way to put it...dead.
I find myself thinking...
This time last month, this co-worker (let's call him Greg)Greg and I were having daily discussions about the training of a temp. Less than a month later, I no longer work there and he is...gone.
Really gone.
It doesn't seem possible...doesn't compute, add up, make sense...incomprehensible. My mind won't accept it.
Greg was 52 when he died and apparently he was alone when it happened. No one knew he was gone until he quit answering his cell phone and someone went to investigate. A coronary, no one there to dial 911, to talk to him...to hold his hand, to tell him he was cared about...loved.
I kept wondering, hoping that at least, in his last moments he called out to God and He, as he promised he would, sent an angel to take him the final steps...
"Leave it to Me, I'll lead you Home".
I spent the last 2 years or so living as if already dead. I went everyday to a job and I worked, and I worked and I took the work home with me, both literally and figuratively. I ate, slept, breathed and dreamt about it. I fought anxiety, anger, and depression constantly. Every morning as I drove myself to work, I would cry and beg God not to let me fail. I never prayed for joy or peace or happiness.
I prayed and prayed and I begged God, "All I have is this job, okay, All I am IS this job. Don't let me fail, let me be good at it, let me be the best at it. Please let them want me, please let them accept me, then I'd say again as if God forgot, PLEASE DON'T LET ME FAIL" .
I sat in my therapist's office week after week crying to the point I couldn't form words, could barely breathe. When I could, I'd laugh through tears about my job, that I loved so much I had to go to therapy every week.
I craved success and monetary rewards like a drug. One of the wake up calls is a moment of clarity I had when I told my therapist that the only joy I derived from my work was checking my bank account.
Saturday morning came, I woke, did my hair, spent time doing my nails and makeup. I put on my best Sunday go to meeting clothes and I went to Greg's memorial. As I was entering the church, I saw a few former managers and I heard a familiar voice call my name, "Hi Jill, how're you doing?", and it was if I were passing them in the hall on a Monday morning, as if nothing had ever happened. I was astounded,
"Really, you're going to ask me, how am I doing when you know damn well that you let me go quicker than it takes me to send an email...as if I were a smelly old cat that you were putting down?"
Then a light went on and I realized that for them, this is how they have to be, to make it in a corporate world, you have to divorce yourself from pesky emotions, like compassion, empathy, caring.
I ponder, how much longer would it have taken me to get that numb, that dead inside?
Later in the memorial, people reminisced about Greg.
But not about his work...
About how much he loved baseball, coaching, his son...how passionate he was about both these things. The church altar was literally filled with photos of him in baseball uniforms, and with his son.
I realized that I had nothing like that. No passion...that I been living as dead for years now.
I wonder how much of Greg's coronary was the result of life at Non Company, did he too experience the anxiety, depression, sadness...anger?
I don't want to be dead at 52.
And so, I thank God today that he loved me enough to let me fail.
To fail, so I that I might finally really live.
I missed the beginning of 2015 and most of 2014...
No I wasn't in a coma or anything, but I might as well have been.
Nearly three weeks ago, on a Thursday, I was called to my manager's office to as he put it, "Discuss a few things".
I grab my steno and a pen, dismiss the faint feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach and I walk to his office. As I enter, I see my manager seated at his desk and then as I open the door wider, I see the Sr. HR Rep. In later appraisals of the moment, two scenes from movies come to mind, in Empire Strikes Back, when Han Solo, Leia, Chewy and gang are on Cloud City and invited to break bread with Lando Calrissian and Co, the door swings wide, then you hear the ominous low breaths of James Earl Jones as Vader welcomes them into the dining room with a malevolent hiss, "Please join me". The second being in Jurassic Park, when the velociraptors put their heads around the door, in a 'didn't expect to see us, did you?' pose.
I see an envelope on the desk, it's for me...my 'separation papers'.
I feel just like a wife who is being served divorce papers for the termination of a marriage she didn't even know was in trouble until that moment. Laid off...economic circumstances you understand, corporate restructuring, you are uninstalled, downsized, no longer an acceptable risk...you are out.
So the gist of all of this is, I am once again, unemployed...
It was hard for me to type this out, seeing it in black and white on the page makes it seem so final.
It does however, make all of the resumes sent, the interview clothes purchased and the hairdresser visit seem more worthwhile.
Fast forward to last Monday and I am headed out the door when my phone beeps to let me know I have a message. It's from a former co-worker. At first, I figure it is just another person reaching out, another "Hey man, sucks to be you, keep in touch, k,", both of us knowing all along that it is lip service and that neither of us will really be...in touch.
It's not...
What is on my phone, is a message telling me that a former co-worker is well...no other way to put it...dead.
I find myself thinking...
This time last month, this co-worker (let's call him Greg)Greg and I were having daily discussions about the training of a temp. Less than a month later, I no longer work there and he is...gone.
Really gone.
It doesn't seem possible...doesn't compute, add up, make sense...incomprehensible. My mind won't accept it.
Greg was 52 when he died and apparently he was alone when it happened. No one knew he was gone until he quit answering his cell phone and someone went to investigate. A coronary, no one there to dial 911, to talk to him...to hold his hand, to tell him he was cared about...loved.
I kept wondering, hoping that at least, in his last moments he called out to God and He, as he promised he would, sent an angel to take him the final steps...
"Leave it to Me, I'll lead you Home".
I spent the last 2 years or so living as if already dead. I went everyday to a job and I worked, and I worked and I took the work home with me, both literally and figuratively. I ate, slept, breathed and dreamt about it. I fought anxiety, anger, and depression constantly. Every morning as I drove myself to work, I would cry and beg God not to let me fail. I never prayed for joy or peace or happiness.
I prayed and prayed and I begged God, "All I have is this job, okay, All I am IS this job. Don't let me fail, let me be good at it, let me be the best at it. Please let them want me, please let them accept me, then I'd say again as if God forgot, PLEASE DON'T LET ME FAIL" .
I sat in my therapist's office week after week crying to the point I couldn't form words, could barely breathe. When I could, I'd laugh through tears about my job, that I loved so much I had to go to therapy every week.
I craved success and monetary rewards like a drug. One of the wake up calls is a moment of clarity I had when I told my therapist that the only joy I derived from my work was checking my bank account.
Saturday morning came, I woke, did my hair, spent time doing my nails and makeup. I put on my best Sunday go to meeting clothes and I went to Greg's memorial. As I was entering the church, I saw a few former managers and I heard a familiar voice call my name, "Hi Jill, how're you doing?", and it was if I were passing them in the hall on a Monday morning, as if nothing had ever happened. I was astounded,
"Really, you're going to ask me, how am I doing when you know damn well that you let me go quicker than it takes me to send an email...as if I were a smelly old cat that you were putting down?"
Then a light went on and I realized that for them, this is how they have to be, to make it in a corporate world, you have to divorce yourself from pesky emotions, like compassion, empathy, caring.
I ponder, how much longer would it have taken me to get that numb, that dead inside?
Later in the memorial, people reminisced about Greg.
But not about his work...
About how much he loved baseball, coaching, his son...how passionate he was about both these things. The church altar was literally filled with photos of him in baseball uniforms, and with his son.
I realized that I had nothing like that. No passion...that I been living as dead for years now.
I wonder how much of Greg's coronary was the result of life at Non Company, did he too experience the anxiety, depression, sadness...anger?
I don't want to be dead at 52.
And so, I thank God today that he loved me enough to let me fail.
To fail, so I that I might finally really live.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Dancing with Tears In My Eyes
I haven't been here in quite awhile and actually this time it's been a deliberate thing.
You really wouldn't have wanted to hear what I had to say...
I've been fighting a boulder size case of depression. The real scary kind. The kind that gets you a standing with a therapist every week. The kind that gets you a new pill to pop. The kind that you fight every morning just to get out of bed and get moving.
I couldn't tell you what led to it. There were signs, yes. Trying to buy a new car last spring and sobbing when the salesman was less than kind about my trade in, the terrible pain of turning 40 with no spouse or children, the constant deaths or cancer diagnoses in my family and friends. Upheaval at work, losing my greatly respected manager, a verbally abusive co-worker and a second admin who seems to constantly undermine me. It all just took its toll.
And in the midst of these things, I began to cry a great deal, weeping and sobbing and found myself unable to stop.
I've started rethinking the act of crying. There is a lot of it in depression. Sometimes it comes out when you don't want it to. At work is a problem, and in the company of others. I sought treatment for depression more for the prevention of embarrassment due to tears than anything else. I hated them, they ran makeup, they made my nose red and my eyes swell. I felt that they made me appear weak when I wanted to be strong. I worked and strove and damped down feelings for years trying to keep them at bay. But come they would. It's as if all of the tears and pain that I pushed down and held back for years came gushing forth like a dam breaking it's wall. They and I could be held in no longer.
Boom...depression. Tears and more tears. A monsoon after years of drought. Years of telling myself, "I can handle this."
"I am fine."
"I don't even want children, plenty of people live fulfilled lives without them"
I break down and then I work at therapy. I fight and I fight to just hit the top edge of happiness before falling back down. Sometimes it even happens.
A few weeks ago, I travel for the first time in my life to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Anxiety and panic have kept me from making this trip for years and years. I am 40 and I catch my first glance of the mountains. Hear a wail emanate from somewhere deep inside of myself and then I can't stop them, the tears, rivers of them. The first sight of this majestic mountain range has me sobbing like a child. My companion asks, 'Am I okay', and I laugh while sobbing,
"I never thought I'd get here."
"I never dreamt they were this beautiful...they really look blue...."
On and on I babble, for once the tears are present, but they are a manifestation that something... something good and joyful is happening within me. All of the cares and worries of my life seem to diminish, to melt away in the face of God's awesome creation.
Then last week, the night before the election. I am anxious and uneasy, I am ridden with worry about the country, things like ISIS, Ebola, my company has just announced a 25% reduction in the workforce. Did I make the right decisions, did I do enough? What is enough?
I stand in front of my bureau. I don't know what prompts me...I start to march in place, it feels good, I try one rhumba step, I try a cha-cha step and the next thing I know I am dancing. I am moving my hips, the muscle memory of 'Cuban motion', it comes back, it just feels so good. I am dancing the cha cha, the rhumba, east coast swing, west coast swing, some tango hustle, the cupid shuffle, the merengue, salsa steps. Oh I'm teary, but I'm dancing. Dancing with tears in my eyes...It's 30-40 minutes before I stop and later when I lay down, the worries that have beset me, they are nowhere to be found...I close my eyes and drift into sleep.
You really wouldn't have wanted to hear what I had to say...
I've been fighting a boulder size case of depression. The real scary kind. The kind that gets you a standing with a therapist every week. The kind that gets you a new pill to pop. The kind that you fight every morning just to get out of bed and get moving.
I couldn't tell you what led to it. There were signs, yes. Trying to buy a new car last spring and sobbing when the salesman was less than kind about my trade in, the terrible pain of turning 40 with no spouse or children, the constant deaths or cancer diagnoses in my family and friends. Upheaval at work, losing my greatly respected manager, a verbally abusive co-worker and a second admin who seems to constantly undermine me. It all just took its toll.
And in the midst of these things, I began to cry a great deal, weeping and sobbing and found myself unable to stop.
I've started rethinking the act of crying. There is a lot of it in depression. Sometimes it comes out when you don't want it to. At work is a problem, and in the company of others. I sought treatment for depression more for the prevention of embarrassment due to tears than anything else. I hated them, they ran makeup, they made my nose red and my eyes swell. I felt that they made me appear weak when I wanted to be strong. I worked and strove and damped down feelings for years trying to keep them at bay. But come they would. It's as if all of the tears and pain that I pushed down and held back for years came gushing forth like a dam breaking it's wall. They and I could be held in no longer.
Boom...depression. Tears and more tears. A monsoon after years of drought. Years of telling myself, "I can handle this."
"I am fine."
"I don't even want children, plenty of people live fulfilled lives without them"
I break down and then I work at therapy. I fight and I fight to just hit the top edge of happiness before falling back down. Sometimes it even happens.
A few weeks ago, I travel for the first time in my life to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Anxiety and panic have kept me from making this trip for years and years. I am 40 and I catch my first glance of the mountains. Hear a wail emanate from somewhere deep inside of myself and then I can't stop them, the tears, rivers of them. The first sight of this majestic mountain range has me sobbing like a child. My companion asks, 'Am I okay', and I laugh while sobbing,
"I never thought I'd get here."
"I never dreamt they were this beautiful...they really look blue...."
On and on I babble, for once the tears are present, but they are a manifestation that something... something good and joyful is happening within me. All of the cares and worries of my life seem to diminish, to melt away in the face of God's awesome creation.
Then last week, the night before the election. I am anxious and uneasy, I am ridden with worry about the country, things like ISIS, Ebola, my company has just announced a 25% reduction in the workforce. Did I make the right decisions, did I do enough? What is enough?
I stand in front of my bureau. I don't know what prompts me...I start to march in place, it feels good, I try one rhumba step, I try a cha-cha step and the next thing I know I am dancing. I am moving my hips, the muscle memory of 'Cuban motion', it comes back, it just feels so good. I am dancing the cha cha, the rhumba, east coast swing, west coast swing, some tango hustle, the cupid shuffle, the merengue, salsa steps. Oh I'm teary, but I'm dancing. Dancing with tears in my eyes...It's 30-40 minutes before I stop and later when I lay down, the worries that have beset me, they are nowhere to be found...I close my eyes and drift into sleep.
Friday, June 27, 2014
If Wishes Were Horses...
Right now I am supposed to be doing math homework. Right now I could be bowling a few and pounding some jello shots with my co-workers. Right now I could be binge watching the Walking Dead on Netflix. Right now though, all I really want to do is be inspired...
I miss writing. I miss having the time, the grey matter, the passion.
The inner critic in me says, 'Sheesh, you're difficult to deal with, first you began writing this as a whine-a-thon because you were unemployed and hopeless. Now you're gainfully employed and you are still whining...'
If C.S. Lewis is right and "We read to know that we are not alone", than maybe I write to know that I am still me and plugged into my thoughts. That I am not just the sum total of my job and my struggles with equations and integers, my journey through depression and therapy.
I am coming up on my 40th birthday and I think I've been dreading this day since I was about 13 and realized that one day I'll be 40. I think 40 is the yardstick by which I equally measure and beat myself with over my life.
My parent asked me the other day, noting it was a milestone birthday, what did I want for my birthday? They meant what trinket, what book, piece of jewelry, token of esteem did I want.
When I really pondered the question I realized what I really want can't be bought in any mall.
1. I want it to be 1980 again and to go once more to Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor in the mall with my Grandma and Grandpa G. But this time, I wouldn't care about the ice cream or having my name sounded over the loudspeaker and hear the siren and drum fanfare. I'd look deeply at the faces of my grandparents memorizing every line and wrinkle so I wouldn't forget. I'd hug em' tighter, listen more avidly, and savor every last second. Why youth is wasted on the young who can't possibly appreciate the moments for what they are is beyond my ken.
2. I'd like to be in love with someone who loved me back. For once to look in the face of someone whose face was as radiant with the promise of forever as mine. Someone who'd walk with me in the rain and not care, who'd be as overcome by Beethoven's Fifth, Schubert's Ave Maria, and Handels' Messiah, who'd thrill to the poetry of John Donne, Sonnets From The Portuguese and laugh at Shel Silverstein and Erma Bombeck. Someone who'd be just as happy eating a few M & M's on a park bench or sharing a glass a wine and a plate of spaghetti in each other's company than at the finest restaurant.
3. For more time. I'd like a few extra hours. Maybe a 26 hour day. So I wouldn't always be so behind. Maybe for once I'd catch up or actually cross off a few things off my To-Do list at work that always taunts me.
4. To press the re-set button on a few relationships. Maybe like a computer system restore, I could go back in time before all the viruses and junk corrupted things. So I'd be closer to my sister, my best friend from childhood, a few friends from various jobs who I didn't really value enough at the time to work on preserving the friendships.
5. Go to see Duran Duran and U2 in concert. I never have and as a Gen X'er, I think this is the equivalent of a Baby Boomer who never got to Woodstock like he wanted to.
6. I'd like to make it all the way through War and Peace, just so I could say I read it. Kind of like Sarum, by Edward Rutherford. I read the whole damn thing, I can't remember a thing about it, but I like saying that I read it!
7. I always wanted to get my picture taken with Mickey Mouse. I never have and as a devout Floridian, that's akin to blasphemy.
8. I want to travel to Maine, Alaska and Nova Scotia. To take the train through the Hudson River Valley. Come to think of it, I just want to travel somewhere on a train, period. It might be that I have watched too many movies from the 30s-40's, but to me train travel always seems romantic.
9. For time travel to be possible. I think I might be happier in less modern times. Plus I always wished to see Art Deco when it was really real, not just in movies, maybe I could meet my screen idols, William Powell, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Clark Gable, Greta Garbo, Myrna Loy, Jean Harlow, Carole Lombard, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Jean Arthur, and Barbara Stanwyck.
10. To have the time to really pursue my passions, to become a better writer. To spend more time on Ballroom Dancing, maybe actually compete.
If wishes were horses...this is how I'd ride.
I miss writing. I miss having the time, the grey matter, the passion.
The inner critic in me says, 'Sheesh, you're difficult to deal with, first you began writing this as a whine-a-thon because you were unemployed and hopeless. Now you're gainfully employed and you are still whining...'
If C.S. Lewis is right and "We read to know that we are not alone", than maybe I write to know that I am still me and plugged into my thoughts. That I am not just the sum total of my job and my struggles with equations and integers, my journey through depression and therapy.
I am coming up on my 40th birthday and I think I've been dreading this day since I was about 13 and realized that one day I'll be 40. I think 40 is the yardstick by which I equally measure and beat myself with over my life.
My parent asked me the other day, noting it was a milestone birthday, what did I want for my birthday? They meant what trinket, what book, piece of jewelry, token of esteem did I want.
When I really pondered the question I realized what I really want can't be bought in any mall.
1. I want it to be 1980 again and to go once more to Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor in the mall with my Grandma and Grandpa G. But this time, I wouldn't care about the ice cream or having my name sounded over the loudspeaker and hear the siren and drum fanfare. I'd look deeply at the faces of my grandparents memorizing every line and wrinkle so I wouldn't forget. I'd hug em' tighter, listen more avidly, and savor every last second. Why youth is wasted on the young who can't possibly appreciate the moments for what they are is beyond my ken.
2. I'd like to be in love with someone who loved me back. For once to look in the face of someone whose face was as radiant with the promise of forever as mine. Someone who'd walk with me in the rain and not care, who'd be as overcome by Beethoven's Fifth, Schubert's Ave Maria, and Handels' Messiah, who'd thrill to the poetry of John Donne, Sonnets From The Portuguese and laugh at Shel Silverstein and Erma Bombeck. Someone who'd be just as happy eating a few M & M's on a park bench or sharing a glass a wine and a plate of spaghetti in each other's company than at the finest restaurant.
3. For more time. I'd like a few extra hours. Maybe a 26 hour day. So I wouldn't always be so behind. Maybe for once I'd catch up or actually cross off a few things off my To-Do list at work that always taunts me.
4. To press the re-set button on a few relationships. Maybe like a computer system restore, I could go back in time before all the viruses and junk corrupted things. So I'd be closer to my sister, my best friend from childhood, a few friends from various jobs who I didn't really value enough at the time to work on preserving the friendships.
5. Go to see Duran Duran and U2 in concert. I never have and as a Gen X'er, I think this is the equivalent of a Baby Boomer who never got to Woodstock like he wanted to.
6. I'd like to make it all the way through War and Peace, just so I could say I read it. Kind of like Sarum, by Edward Rutherford. I read the whole damn thing, I can't remember a thing about it, but I like saying that I read it!
7. I always wanted to get my picture taken with Mickey Mouse. I never have and as a devout Floridian, that's akin to blasphemy.
8. I want to travel to Maine, Alaska and Nova Scotia. To take the train through the Hudson River Valley. Come to think of it, I just want to travel somewhere on a train, period. It might be that I have watched too many movies from the 30s-40's, but to me train travel always seems romantic.
9. For time travel to be possible. I think I might be happier in less modern times. Plus I always wished to see Art Deco when it was really real, not just in movies, maybe I could meet my screen idols, William Powell, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Clark Gable, Greta Garbo, Myrna Loy, Jean Harlow, Carole Lombard, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Jean Arthur, and Barbara Stanwyck.
10. To have the time to really pursue my passions, to become a better writer. To spend more time on Ballroom Dancing, maybe actually compete.
If wishes were horses...this is how I'd ride.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Maybe Ephiphanies Are A Bit Over-Rated
Have to make a confession here, I'm usually only inspired to write this thing when I am down or depressed or currently, using it as a crutch to prop myself up while I rationalize things.
For anyone reading my last post, I apologize if you did. I probably should have done the ladylike thing and delete it, but the subversive in me rears up and says, "Hey, while the post had a depressing overall tone, everything in it was true and honest!"
I'm depressed.
It's hard for me to admit things like this even to myself. Part of me wants to conceal that fact with the determinedly saccharine-coated positivity of one of the Disney princesses, "Whistle a Happy Tune"...while surrounded by a bevy of my helpful furry friends. But all apologies to Disney (I'm a big fan), that doesn't work in real life.
As is my wont, a few weeks ago, I had another couple of epiphanies. One was the moment I found myself in a beginners' college math class (trying to finish what I started) and realized that I was older than everyone else in the room including the Professor. Things have changed since I last walked the campus. My classes take place in a building that didn't exist back then. I now walk to my car along a
sophisticated lighted breezeway that has landscaping facing a pond with a fountain water feature that glows with colored lights. It's a far cry from the dank dusky halls where bats literally roosted in the eves and people hung over the balconies getting in one last drag off a cigarette (not me) before classes resumed. Not anymore. Now if you light up anywhere but sanctioned 'smoking permitted' areas, campus police in their Keystone Kops-esque vehicles swarm over you like hungry dieters over the last jelly doughnut. The place is scattered liberally with recycling receptacles and where vending machines used to dispense nearly undrinkable coffee, tea, hot choc and soup (all of which tasted like coffee) now they have an eco friendly café that hawks veggie paninis and fair-trade coffee.
How much would you hate me if I admitted I liked it the way it was? Before it became all sustainability conscious, when the library actually contained books instead of banks of computers. Yes, they have approximately 20 rows of shelves (I counted them), two (2) of which are full of DVD and CD's. But it's a far cry from the nearly eighty (80) they used to have and most of the books that are left are nearly anthropological relics of the 70's and 80's. No more stacks, no more microfiche. No more senior citizen 'library ladies', just volunteers who are all younger than me and can never help me with anything I actually want, like a copy of Thackeray's 'Vanity Fair'. My God, when did we quit reading or teaching the youth about literary classics? I'm just a sad relic who doesn't really want to read the latest installment of The Hunger Games or the newest fad book about vampires or the undead on my Kindle.
I'm depressed. I'm about six (6)weeks from my 40th birthday and when it was suggested that perhaps a party should be gotten up in my honor, I had to decline citing no friends to attend it. Or spouse, or children.
Forty. A sad woman who struggles with math, spends what would be a small fortune in a third world country on beauty aids and salon visits to halt the signs of aging, concealers under my eyes, highlights in my hair. I'm hating it and it isn't even here.
I'm depressed. I'm about to lose the best boss I ever had, the re-doubtable O'Malley. I work in a department that prefers my younger assistant temp to me. Who left me off the invite list for a co-worker's surprise birthday party. Who they never ask to lunch. I keep wondering what I did to inspire such treatment.
Every day I wake up and the only thing that motivates me to get moving to my job is the fear of poverty and unemployment.
I'm depressed, I guess I can finally admit it.
I am hoping that the catharsis of writing this will enable me to face it.
That this will lead me to the solution.
I am tired of saying I am depressed...I'm tired
I'm tired of pretty much everything, except God, my cats, 80's music and old movies...
Maybe that's enough to start with...
For anyone reading my last post, I apologize if you did. I probably should have done the ladylike thing and delete it, but the subversive in me rears up and says, "Hey, while the post had a depressing overall tone, everything in it was true and honest!"
I'm depressed.
It's hard for me to admit things like this even to myself. Part of me wants to conceal that fact with the determinedly saccharine-coated positivity of one of the Disney princesses, "Whistle a Happy Tune"...while surrounded by a bevy of my helpful furry friends. But all apologies to Disney (I'm a big fan), that doesn't work in real life.
As is my wont, a few weeks ago, I had another couple of epiphanies. One was the moment I found myself in a beginners' college math class (trying to finish what I started) and realized that I was older than everyone else in the room including the Professor. Things have changed since I last walked the campus. My classes take place in a building that didn't exist back then. I now walk to my car along a
sophisticated lighted breezeway that has landscaping facing a pond with a fountain water feature that glows with colored lights. It's a far cry from the dank dusky halls where bats literally roosted in the eves and people hung over the balconies getting in one last drag off a cigarette (not me) before classes resumed. Not anymore. Now if you light up anywhere but sanctioned 'smoking permitted' areas, campus police in their Keystone Kops-esque vehicles swarm over you like hungry dieters over the last jelly doughnut. The place is scattered liberally with recycling receptacles and where vending machines used to dispense nearly undrinkable coffee, tea, hot choc and soup (all of which tasted like coffee) now they have an eco friendly café that hawks veggie paninis and fair-trade coffee.
How much would you hate me if I admitted I liked it the way it was? Before it became all sustainability conscious, when the library actually contained books instead of banks of computers. Yes, they have approximately 20 rows of shelves (I counted them), two (2) of which are full of DVD and CD's. But it's a far cry from the nearly eighty (80) they used to have and most of the books that are left are nearly anthropological relics of the 70's and 80's. No more stacks, no more microfiche. No more senior citizen 'library ladies', just volunteers who are all younger than me and can never help me with anything I actually want, like a copy of Thackeray's 'Vanity Fair'. My God, when did we quit reading or teaching the youth about literary classics? I'm just a sad relic who doesn't really want to read the latest installment of The Hunger Games or the newest fad book about vampires or the undead on my Kindle.
I'm depressed. I'm about six (6)weeks from my 40th birthday and when it was suggested that perhaps a party should be gotten up in my honor, I had to decline citing no friends to attend it. Or spouse, or children.
Forty. A sad woman who struggles with math, spends what would be a small fortune in a third world country on beauty aids and salon visits to halt the signs of aging, concealers under my eyes, highlights in my hair. I'm hating it and it isn't even here.
I'm depressed. I'm about to lose the best boss I ever had, the re-doubtable O'Malley. I work in a department that prefers my younger assistant temp to me. Who left me off the invite list for a co-worker's surprise birthday party. Who they never ask to lunch. I keep wondering what I did to inspire such treatment.
Every day I wake up and the only thing that motivates me to get moving to my job is the fear of poverty and unemployment.
I'm depressed, I guess I can finally admit it.
I am hoping that the catharsis of writing this will enable me to face it.
That this will lead me to the solution.
I am tired of saying I am depressed...I'm tired
I'm tired of pretty much everything, except God, my cats, 80's music and old movies...
Maybe that's enough to start with...
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