Held by Jell-O

This is forced blogging.

I am the forcer in that sentence. I am forcing myself to just type and see what comes out because the lack of writing is just so counter-intuitive and i fear it might have some adverse affect on my psyche.

I have been in a funk. A writeless funk. I haven't worked on any of my books in progress. I haven't even blogged. Not because i have writer's block--as I've said before, I don't suffer from writer's block, it suffers from me. This is about mood. I don't FEEL like it. I don't feel like writing. Or going out. And that momentarily devolved into not feeling like showering or being awake. Classic signs of depression. I'm familiar with it, as most overtly creative people seem to be. But i refuse to let it conquer me. I just let it bang on my helmet for a few weeks.

From that point, i went into this food-as-comfort routine, where i caught myself eating frequently, and sometimes too much, so that i have bouts with acid reflux and always wonder afterward why i just kept chewing and swallowing. Was it just something mindless to do? And i have this unusual craving for sweets. Probably my body's retarded idea of how to make me feel better. Sugar high. But I have been constantly staring into the 'fridge and cabinets, making short trips to the grocery at 3 a.m. only to find that one thing--that one bit of consumable energy that would make me feel better. Donuts. Cake. Ice cream. Comfort foods, all. Why aren't carrots and celery comforting?

I'm not an over-eater or binge eater by nature. I recognize it for what it is. An effort to find relief from this ho-hum gel that has been poured on my head. This ecto-plasmic goo from some other parallel universe that likes to punish Intellectual Creatives. I feel like I'm suspended in Jell-O. I can see out around me, but i can't move. And in some strange way, it feels good to just be held like that.

And i have been watching way too many episodes of Criminal Minds. Have grown very fond of the show, but it is, after all, a show about the underbelly of humanity. I used to go through times when i couldn't watch the news because it depressed me so much. How people are. How vicious the world can be, and all the humans in it. So i would avoid it, and feel better. But haven't i been making the same mistake with these serial - killer - crime - investigation type shows too? Maybe that's contributing to my melancholy. I should stop. Let's see, i only have about 20 more episodes on the DVR to go...

The underlying problem is good old-fashioned loneliness. I know that. And i know I'm doing what i can to fix it, but these things take time and money, and since the move, I've been the very quintessence of a hole-dweller. In the hole. It is very grave-like. This too shall pass. I know. But until it does, it sucks. And it's on the heels of prolonged isolation and loneliness from whence i came. I moved to solve this problem (among others). And now I'm smacked by the frost-bitten hand of reality. You can't open a pack of Instant Social Life Deluxe and just add water. It's a stew. Like a crock pot variety. It takes a long time and has to go through a process. And i keep taking the lid off and breathing the aroma and wishing it was done so I could enjoy it.

People suck. But i only say that because I've had an inordinate amount of sucky people cross my path. I can also say that people rock. I have great friends. I just miss them. I never get to be with them. Okay. Love sucks. No, not love. The lack of love. That's what sucks. That warm body next to mine. (And my cats don't count, here, though they do their best by following me around and lounging on me). The lack of intimacy and romantic sparks and connection. Of loving and being loved in a physical, I'm-here-and-I-matter-to-someone-way. But it needs to be someone who matters to me too.

That's the challenge. Finding someone who affects me that way, and then having the feeling be mutual. The hard part is that sheer absence of anyone I am really attracted to. The traits that seem to titillate my dopamine and oxytocin and other choice pleasure chemicals in my brain, seem like something only a paleontologist could find. I am holding on by my fingernails. And they are quite stubby. And bleeding.

But depression is boring. I don't like it and I don't like telling anyone about it. We all know what it is. But i just don't want it to define me. There are other, more pleasant definitions of me. I am only having trouble accessing those at the moment.

Maybe I should just relocate to Prozac Nation.

Held by Jell-O

What Would You Do to Have it?

My friend Justi and I were talking about our various relationships and non-relationships last night--she's in one, I'm not. Part of the reason i relocated to Denver was so that I could meet different types of people than i have been privy to in the past, and have a better chance of meeting someone I could actually commit to.

She asked me if i would ever consider moving again if i met "the one" and "the one" was elsewhere.

My knee-jerk answer was NO.

My knee-jerk answer used to be "yes."

But as I told her, I know that I simply could not go through a major move again. It was so hard on me. There are two lengthy blog entries (Going to Denver Because You're Dead) on that experience-- and it's not one I care to repeat. It was supposed to have been my easiest move, because I got rid of so much, and just drove cross-country pulling a U-haul trailer. But in many ways, it was the worst move, for the toll it took on me physically and emotionally.

And I mean, i have moved 42 times in my life. I don't want to keep doing it. I'm finally in a region I love, which i feel fits me, and offers me everything I could ever need--hopefully that will include a partner at some point. But my reasoning was that if I couldn't find a partner there, I couldn't' find one anywhere, and I would have at least strategically placed myself so that I could have a vibrant life full of plenty of things to do, and interesting people to make friends with. It was my concession to the often cruel machinations of this life. You don't always get what you want. But maybe you can get some things that make the journey a little easier.

But I know that after what I went through with the ruptured disc in my neck and then barely healing from that and going right into moving all by myself cross-country...I just can't do it. It's not even so much that i don't "want" to do it--Love can be a powerful motivator if you're ever lucky enough to find it. It's that I know it's not wise, in relation to my health. Moving is so stressful for me. Mostly because it's been done so many times without any help. Another stance of mine that has been colored by too much isolation and not having a partner to help most of the time.

And moving is also stressful in other ways... there's all this major financial crap--getting my Direct Deposit check switched to a new bank, changing all my EFTs to come out of the new bank, without missing a payment and without incurring fees (that never happens); doing all the unpacking, moving, lifting, rearranging, that inevitably comes from any type of relocation--and this time, I dealt with getting rid of three-quarters of everything I owned before I left--which meant moving things up and down the stairs and carrying them outside to the patio, and having sales, and it was just incredibly physical stuff.

Then there was, this time, dealing with storageI already had in this state, and driving back and forth to that (an hour and a half each way), pulling stuff out, going through it, loading it, unloading it, moving it around, etc....and then the expenses of getting things to replace the things I got rid of; and the unexpected expenses, and the final bills combined with the new bills and the deposits, etc...Holy Harpies! It's just a major ordeal.

So that's why my knee-jerk response was NO. I WON"T MOVE. Why do I have to be the one who always does that? If I meet someone special they better be able to afford to move me, and hire someone to do it, or else, they better just be near where I am. For one thing, as I told Justi, I won't even communicate with anyone who isn't nearby, anymore. I don't even want to get into that situation at all.

Then she countered my declaration with a challenging question--as she is inclined to do--she said, "What if you meet some woman who is just visiting, and you fall for her? Then would you move to be with her?"

I took a deep breath and said, "No." So brave. So crazy.

So she poked those embers a little more. "What if she was local, and you met and fell in love and were together here, sharing a home, and then she had to relocate for a job transfer? Wouldn't you go with her then?"

Well, the only answer to that, was what i gave her:

"Goddammit!"

This type of dilemma is made doubly hard when you're my age. Both because I'm set in some of my ways, and because I can't be doing things that exacerbate any health issues. I want to remain healthy as long as possible. (I have this profound wish to live forever, but only if I can be at about the age of 35 the whole time....I've written about that here and here.) But I also don't want to grow old alone. I don't want to be without a partner. I thrive in partnership for many reasons. I am not cut out to be single. Some of that has to do with the nature of my work--it's isolated, so it's important to have someone to share my life with. Otherwise it's too easy to just retreat inside myself. ---So will the fear of not finding love be stronger than the fear of all that stress and injury, and perhaps being taken away from the friends and environment I've worked so hard to have? I can't answer. And that's one of my biggest irritations. I want to be able to have an answer. To almost everything.

What I'm left with, then, is to avoid meeting anyone who isn't local. If that means that I meet someone and have to ask if they are from here, and if they're not, don't pursue romance, that's what I'll do.

As for the other thing--being in a relationship, and then something happening so that we have to move--all I can do is hope I never have to deal with that scenario, should I find that woman.

Last night, while lying in bed, I found I couldn't focus on the book I was reading. And I stared at the ceiling--while this odd, frisson of sadness tingled inside me, thinking about how much I wished the other side of the bed wasn't empty. And I felt a little panic.





Digital Painting, "After You Go" (c) Kelli Jae Baeli

What Would You Do to Have it?

Horns, Loneliness, Memories & Flight Patterns

I dreamed that there were two ridges rising up on my head, and I could swear they were moving or pulsing. When I would try to show them to someone, they would deflate. Here's my self-analysis....I think I have a subconscious need to grow horns. Meaning, I am tired of always being the nice one, and sometimes I just want to be mean. But I can't seem to do it. It takes a lot of provoking to get me to snap off. So the ridges on my head represented the horns I grow when I'm alone. And when I'm around other people, they go away. I was supposed to have plans tonight. (CAUTION: pity party). Seems everyone is so busy they can't make time to do anything. It's making it so hard to meet anyone. That's about the 10th time since I moved here that I thought I was actually going to have a social life, and it just didn't happen. It's so hard to start over, and meet new people. I guess that's why I was sort of counting on the ones I knew here to help me with that transition...be my guide, chaperon, introduce me to people, etc. That didn't happen either. So I'm thrown in the deep end of the pool again (thanks DAD for THAT memory. Not). I guess I will just have to swim until I can stand up again. It's not like I haven't done that scenario a hundred times. Funny, because today, I grew some horns just for a second, but they were soft, and then deflated, and then I just let myself tear up and cry for a few minutes. It was an honest-to-psych pity party. But I just don't let them last very long. I do let myself feel what i feel though. Pretending i don't is just counter-productive. 

Let me just illustrate how well i understand myself: Yesterday, I went to Best Buy and meant to spend about $50 and instead spend $222. (okay, that's not the understand-myself part); I had one of those moments where I was just sick and tired of having 40-eleven VHS tapes taking up much needed storage space in my home (and fearful some stuff would be lost when the tapes began to disintegrate). I was transferring videos and sharing some on Facebook. Watching these memories from a certain time in my life that was filled with social activity and approval and love, it jiggled something loose in my psyche--that I have missed that life so much, and have been lonely so long, and moved here to take care of that, but nothing has changed in that regard yet. And the postponed date I had tonight** incited a more acute reaction than would be reasonable, because all those videos stirred up a past where I was social, and did have people in my life who loved me, whom I could reach out and touch because they were right there--not on a computer screen, a text screen, or a phone line. I know I crave interaction that's more tactile, more present.  

Now, I know intellectually, that things don't always happen immediately. You can't just buy a packet of "Social Life Deluxe" and add water. But being reminded of what I need and want, and then realizing I don't have it, threatened to throw me into an emotional tailspin. All I can say is, I always manage to pull up before I crash. So here I am, leveling off my flight pattern again, and hoping that at some point I'll get to land. 


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*ART: Butcher Boys by Jane Alexander (1985). An exhibit at the South African National Gallery in Cape Town.  
**The woman was VERY sweet about it, though, so I don't blame her.And we are rescheduling for Wednesday.

Horns, Loneliness, Memories & Flight Patterns

Brain Dump: Mortality & Meaning

Okay, I know this is going to be less a blog, and more a journal entry, but whatever. Consider it the first in a series of brain dumps.
<<--Look, i even made a graphic for it....

Onward.... I usually try to see the bright side of things, and when I can't do that, I try to see the funny side. Anyone who reads this blog knows that. And often the dark side can be funny, if you know how to manipulate the data.

But this morning, I think my brain is in some other gear....PARK, maybe. It hits me like this every so often when it gets triggered by news from loved ones, or dreams I have.

I dreamed I had my ex girlfriend's parrots. Like they were mine or I had inherited them or something. Maybe in the dream she had died...I don't know...(and no, i don't wish any ill toward any of my ex's. They all tend to merge after a while anyway...E Pluribus unum.*) But I was enjoying the parrots. I was always playing with the Cockatoo, named Sophee (that was her real name) but in the dream she wasn't crippled and her personality was more like Keegan's--the African Grey of the pair, who was talkative and personable. I was living in my father's house --have no idea why. A few days ago, I dreamed my father died, too...I'm sure all this came from finding out that another one of my ex girlfriends lost her mother. And once you hear that, there's this mortality bacteria in your brain...and it sort of infiltrates your life for a while, until you get back into the bliss of ignoring all those harsh realities.

When I woke from all this, I lay there with Shoes curled up with half her body on my shoulder, purring softly. (Yeah, my cat. Women don't seem to purr...well, okay, if I'm doing it right, they do.) For a long time I just laid there, and thought about things. Like you do when you're sleepy and just waking up and the brain starts to make that trip back to rational consciousness again.

I felt sad. Like why doesn't my ex, the one who lost her mother--why does she feel she can't be in my life somewhere? Why can't I be one of those friends to her that she seeks out during times like these, for support? Why does she continue to judge me by the person I was 10 years ago? And why does it still matter to me at all? Because she was the only woman I was ever so madly in love with? Because it was the only time I've ever had my heart ripped out of my chest and handed back to me as that person walks out of my life, while I hold my bloody thumping, dying heart in my own hands? Is that why?? (Okay, that was graphic, but that's what the emotion surrounding it is like for me).

And I thought of how sad it is that I am alone so much. Is it mostly my choice, or is it part and parcel of being an author-artist-songster- type person? Everything I do is something I do alone....And I stayed sad as my thoughts wandered to the two dreams of my father.

How tragic that I have a biological family who rejects me on the basis of who I am, (an oxymoron in and of itself) and that it somehow offends their sensibilities to the degree that they would abandon their own child; and I thought maybe it wasn't their sensibilities. Maybe they were all just selfish, shallow people, and I can still feel good about my decision to remove all toxic people from my life. Maybe it's a blessing that I might never know when any of them die.

And I thought of my own mortality. I coughed. I thought for the umpteenth time, that I should quit smoking. It was the last thing left on this "take good care of yourself" train. Addiction to cigarettes is so hard to conquer. I've stopped smoking a large number of times, (yeah, quitting is easy: I've done it a bunch of times) and it was okay for a while, but then I would need that---what? comfort? is smoking really like having a Friend? And I know it makes my brain feel better. It's like I can't think clearly without cigarettes. A crazy excuse from an addicted smoker?

And then I thought about all the weird things that happen to your body as you get older, and how it's a little frightening. The older I get, the more frightened I become. I lament the lost years--wishing I'd known 20 years ago, what I know now. Wishing I had more time. Wishing, as I've mentioned before, that I really could live forever. (Ironic, since there have been so many times that i wished to die). So many things on the horizon, other than a mushroom cloud (if we're lucky). Things I'd like to see and experience....but as each birthday comes and goes, I find myself lying about my age more and more...and I get this dread in my gut...knowing I won't grow old gracefully. That I'll be kicking and screaming the whole way. Never mind all those big personal cosmology questions that arise about death and life and life after death. Just dealing with your own declining vessel is enough to worry about....Like when you're driving a car that starts to have problems, and then there's a whole list of problems on its heels and you know at some point it won't be worth fixing and it should just be given over to the great junk heap. Is that my fate as well?

And will I face this progressing disintegration by myself, with no one to support me, care for me, love me? (I am so thankful for my best friend). Will I live out this timeline of mine without being able to give my heart to someone who deserves it? And why is it so hard for me to give my heart away? Why don't I fall in love easily? Why is it so rare for me to even be sparkin' on a woman? That's only happened a grand total of 2 times in....god...how many years? And the first spark was doused with water pretty quickly. Well, not water. Wine. The second one--I don't know about that. It's current. I have no idea what this woman feels toward me, and I'm too chicken to ask, so I'm focusing on the friendship, which is very important to me anyway.

But amid this, The same questions continue to arise. Will I never find my PERSON? Will I meet my ultimate demise without knowing what it feels like again to be so in love with woman that the thought of her not being there aches like a case of restless legs and angina, combined. After all I've done to evolve and become the type of person who would be considered a valuable discovery for some lovely, evolved, intelligent, and funny woman out there, will it not matter? Is fate just fate? How much control do we really have over how our lives go? And I wondered if maybe my high ideals and constant concern for the practice of sound ethics has gotten me here. Is it just subterfuge? Does it really matter if I'm a quality person? Finding love seems to have almost nothing to do with how great a person you are. Rude awakening, that. Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis.

So today I must try to coax myself back over into my concerted efforts to ignore these things that simmer on the burner at the back of my mind.

R. D. Laing, a British psychiatrist noted for his alternative approach to the treatment of schizophrenia, once said, “Life is a sexually transmitted disease and the mortality rate is one hundred percent.” I wish I didn't resonate with that quote quite so much.

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*Latin for "out of many, one."

Brain Dump: Mortality & Meaning

Desperation Barrel

Take one part sexual frustration, two parts loneliness, three parts overwhelming need to be needed and wanted, add an overzealous good-timer and beer, stir vigorously. Simmer well in a bed of cotton sheets, and you have a recipe for disaster.

When one hits the bottom of the Desperation Barrel, there is always someone down there.

Sometimes we make ill-advised choices based on the ingredients we allow ourselves to stock. While we might not be proud of these one night stands that last months or years, we must appreciate the educational value of such an excursion. If we learn our lessons well, we will be loathe to cook that dish again.

Desperation Barrel