Ransom

Because it's good for the imagination to alternate fiction with reality, here's a bit of a shift from the last few posts...

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The ransom note didn't look anything like the ones she's seen on TV.  No crookedly cut out letters from a newspaper, no carefully typed, nondescript text to disguise the author, just a few hastily scribbled lines, clearly written by someone who doesn't resort to pen and paper often.  If the letter's origin was murky, the contents were quite straightforward.  Rachel was to bring five hundred dollars in small denomination bills to the address given in the note or she'll never see Clementine again.

Rachel reread the note a few times, idly wondering if she should be touching it at all.  What about fingerprint analysis? Of course, that concern was secondary to the main problem at hand.  She had no idea who Clementine was.  She turned the note every which way, hoping she missed something that would negate the obvious answer - the note was intended for someone else.  But it was under my door, Rachel argued silently with herself, suddenly furious at the incompetent kidnapper. 

She put the note on the kitchen table, carefully smoothing it out and sat down before it, trying to gather her thoughts.  First things first, maybe it was a joke?  It could be, but was she willing to take that chance?  What would happen to Clementine, whoever she was, if Rachel disregarded the note? Assuming for a moment that it was real, what now?  Call the police?  And say what?

Rachel reread the note again and realized that there was no deadline given to deliver the money.  Clearly the kidnapper expected the ransom to be paid as soon as the note was found, but what if Rachel had been traveling?  The lack of clear expectations annoyed her further and she found herself composing a "proper" ransom note in her mind while her hands worried the one on the table in front of her.

Michael was slightly taken aback when the normally soft-spoken Ms. Moore rushed to his bank window ten minutes before closing and breathlessly demanded five hundred dollars in small bills.  No larger than $20, she gasped as she tried to catch her breath.  Michael glanced at his screen and confirmed what he already knew; this was well out of Ms. Moore's normal withdrawal pattern.  He opened his mouth but got nowhere before Rachel raised her palm to stop him.  In the torrent of words that followed, he caught snatches of "mistake", "Clementine", "have to do it", "way more than normal", and finally, "please, please, just help me."  Sighing, he opened the drawer and started counting out bills.

Clutching her purse in one hand and her phone in the other, Rachel cautiously approached the dingy storefront that bore the address from the ransom note.  The sign on the front was flipped to "Closed" and Rachel's heart sank, was she too late?  But now that she was here...  Rachel took a deep breath and knocked loudly on the glass door.

Clementine came home with Rachel that evening; the large orange tabby none the worse for wear.

What can happen in a second...

A car can run a red light and hit a child running across the street to keep up with his older brother.

A life can end or be forever altered by a stray bullet.

In the middle of a heated argument, you can see the expression of utter contempt flit across your spouse's face and, in that second, know that your marriage is irrevocably over.

A phone can ring... or not... in the second that will forever be branded as the turning point.

You can close your eyes for a second and miss the look of absolute love on your child's face.

You can turn the key in the lock, walk into the house when you should have been at work, and in the second that will stretch into eternity see your teenage son passionately kissing another boy.

A second is longer than it takes the doctor to say the word you can already see forming on her lips, "cancer".

A second easily carries the words, "you're hired" and "you're fired."

A second to tell someone, "I do" or "I hate you" or "I had an affair" and countless seconds morphing into breadths of time to deal with the consequences.

A second to lose your footing or regain it on a treacherous climb.

A child's first breath or her last.

A second is all it takes for the realization steeped in many sleepless nights to sink in and become reality.

Reading the first line in a book that will change the rest of your life from this second forward only takes a second.

The ringing burst of laughter from a child having the best day ever.

The rushed embrace that lasts a second and is never to be repeated because the plane never made it to its destination.

The last kiss on the forehead before the machines are turned off.

The phrase "pencils down" falling from the test monitor's lips before you realize it really is over.

The answer "yes" when you had been praying for "no."

The answer "no" when you were desperate to hear "yes."

A cry of surrender, followed by humiliating regret.

An intake of breath in response to brutally honest pain; pain that is expected, desired, and feared.

A bow of defeat.

Nothing, to be chased by many more nothings.

Something you never expected.

Everything you've ever been afraid of wishing for.

It only takes a second.

Losing it...

I completely lost it today.

What is 'it', you might ask? 

Self-control.  Composure.  Reason.  Rational thought.  Take your pick... I lost all of them as suddenly as if a bomb had gone off inside me, obliterating all defenses.  No warning, no prolonged prelude of stress or unhappiness hinting at the possibility of a breakdown.  Nothing at all to presage what was about to happen.

The day started off as any other workday does.  I got up at the usual time, got ready for the day, stopped at Starbucks for my usual order of coffee, drove to work, got to the office about five minutes ahead of schedule... So far so good, except that I kept feeling like I wasn't where I was supposed to be.  Nothing specific, just a vague feeling of not wanting to be there and not being up to working.

And then it happened... Barely a half hour after I got to work, in the middle of reading an email, I just crashed.  My hands started to sweat and felt freezing at the same time.  My jaws clenched so hard that I could hear the echo of the teeth grinding in my ears.  I took a deep breath and stopped breathing altogether.  When the breath did come out in a whoosh, I knew I had to get out of there.  It wasn't a panic attack... For lack of a better description, it was an attack of rage.  Not at anyone in particular, just an explosion of emotions so strong that I couldn't even identify the roiling mix, let alone control and tamp it back down.

Minutes later I was in the car and then I drove.  I drove while music pounded through the speakers and drowned out my screams.  I was crying and hyperventilating and at one point just screaming until I was hoarse.  I drove for a couple of hours, staying off the highways at first and then getting on I-5 and heading North.  Each time the tears slowed down and I thought I was done, a fresh burst of rawness would come and it would start all over again. 

I must have gotten off the highway and turned back South because at some point I began to see familiar landmarks again and eventually directed my path home.  By the time I got to the house, my throat was raw but there were no more tears or rage left; all I felt was empty.  I got inside, grabbed a blanket, fell on the couch and fell asleep.  By the time I woke up, it was a little past noon and just like that, it was all over. 

Uncertainty

Uncertainty comes in many varieties and degrees.  There's everything from the grand "I don't know when I'm going to die" uncertainty to the miniature "I'm not sure what I'll do this afternoon" and everything in-between.

The big uncertainties are a normal part of life and I have (almost) come to accept that, or at least I am as accepting of their existence as I am of the idea that something/anything is out of my control.  But it's the little uncertainties that I'm constantly grappling and fighting with.

For example, this morning I'm free, but I won't be free the entire morning, I'm waiting for a call that will tell me that it's time to resume normal life with all its attendant responsibilities and much as I want to enjoy the time I have left, I absolutely cannot do that because I don't know when the call will come.  It could have come by now, it could come as I'm in the middle of this sentence, or it could come an hour and a half from now.  The uncertainty of the boundary of my block of freedom is making it impossible for me to enjoy it.

I function best when my life is boxed into neat sections with well-defined edges.  The "go with the flow" attitude stresses me out to no end.  I can't function without structure, whether imposed by me or someone else.  Of course, being the self-avowed control freak that I am, I prefer to impose the structure myself, but that's not actually a requirement.  I can function within a structure imposed by someone else, although I make no promises not to try and alter it.

I try to control just about every aspect of my life on a daily basis so it would figure that I'll try to control time along with everything else.  Sometimes that means knowing exactly what happens in every ten minute block of an hour, such as the morning routine from wake-up until I'm out the door and heading to work.  Sometimes it's as fluid as setting boundaries in chunks of a few hours, but it's rarely longer stretches than two to three hours.  Anything beyond that begins to feel too random and unstructured.

Losing track of time is the same as losing control.  On the rare occasions when I do lose track of time, such as an unexpected nap, return to reality is inevitably accompanied by a strong panic attack.  I hate napping and if I do give in to the seductive urge, I always set an alarm clock because waking up with heart palpitations, shaking and sweating in a sudden burst of panic is just not worth it.

And as I'm writing this I am remembering that there is one exception to the rule of supervising passage of time.  The exception is playing with J.  When we play, regardless of whether I'm able to get into headspace or not, time stops.  I was going to write that I don't know why it happens, but actually I do know exactly why it happens.  I have severe trust issues, but that's a topic for a whole other post, however, those trust issues are at the core of my need to control everything in my surroundings, including time.  When J and I play, however, my trust in Him is so overwhelming that I am able to let go not just of my need to control my physical surroundings, but of my need to control my mental state of being, including control of time.  And once I let go, time loses all meaning.  Not only do I not want to control it, I don't need to control it.  Once the scene is over though, all bets are off and before I know it, my fingers are itching to pick up the puppet strings I'm used to moving and directing.

So it is that the uncertain end to my current free block of time is worse than getting the call telling me that it's over.  That's certainty and while I may not like the message it carries, there's comforting safety in knowing where the edges are.

Being brave

Recently I found myself thinking about bravery. 

I don't mean the "throw yourself on top of a grenade before it explodes to save innocent bystanders" kind of bravery. I have no background or standing to speak of that kind of heroics. 

I am talking about the little bits of bravery.  The things that throw us in a dizzy spin of panic when we consider doing them and we do them anyway.  The "speaking in front of a crowd in spite of panic attacks" kind of bravery.

I've never thoughts of myself as particularly brave.  In fact, for many years I was brought up to be afraid, to not speak out, to not seek adventure, to be cautious, to stay away from all risks.  My parents' motto when raising me was "Tише едешь, дальше будешь" - roughly translated it means, "The slower you drive, the farther you'll get".  Caution was bred in my bones and although I've rebelled against it as a child, it took many more years before I would shrug off the mantra completely.

So, back to bravery...  Something I've found out the hard way is that when you are really nervous about doing something and you force yourself to be brave and do it anyway, it backfires cataclysmically (is that even a word?) when exactly what you were afraid would happen, happens.  The confirmation of your worst fears is exponentially worse when the results of your bravery kick you in the gut.

Of course being brave doesn't always backfire.  In fact, I've found that I've succeeded more often than I've failed and when I had failed, usually I still felt buoyed by the success of trying.  But the few times that being brave has caused me genuine distress and led me to question my trust in myself and my judgment have weighed on my mind much heavier than all the successes.  And the scars those kinds of failures leave tend to be much deeper even if no one sees them but me.

So, to be brave or not?  Today, I'm still smarting from the last bravery inspired miniature disaster so my answer will be a lot more tentative than if you had asked me the same question a couple of weeks ago.  Still, my answer remains the same...

Be brave.  Going slow and getting farther means nothing if you end up in a place you never wanted to be to begin with.

Blending lives

Seven years...  Almost down to the day, give or take a couple of weeks, but what's a couple of weeks in the face of years?  Seven years is how long my life has been flowing down two separate streams.  Two streams, two existences, two seemingly incompatible realities with torn loyalties and frayed expectations.

I've found, much to my chagrin, that life frowns on symmetry and so the two streams are never in perfect alignment or weight to each other.  Most of the time, it's the stream of "normal" life that's heavier and fuller and runs deeper.  That stream carries the "me" that most people encounter - the dedicated employee, somewhat harassed manager, strict and no-nonsense mother, exasperated daughter, quiet confidante.  If you get to know me through work or chat me up in the grocery store, that's the "me" that you'll get.  I can be funny and I can come across as forceful and determined.  I've been called a control freak and I don't really care if it's meant as a compliment or an insult. I'm intensely introverted and although most people don't know this, I still get intense flashes of panic when I have to engage in conflict or speak in front of an audience.  In this stream, I'm many things, most of them indisputably normal.  Downright vanilla, one might say.

And then there's the second stream.  This one sprung into life seven years ago when I met J.  In this second stream, I'm the "me" that I try so hard to hide from the rest of the world.  This stream carries the "me" that neither has control nor wishes for any.  Here I am someone who tries to be brave but who eventually cries and then screams in response to deliberate pain.  I am the person who finds peace in coils of rope and restraint and who stops hyperventilating at the touch of J's blade on my skin.  Here I don't need to have the last word but I do need to kneel in joyful surrender, abdicating all rights and choices but the right to serve the one I love.  This is the "me" that my other self doesn't understand and is a little afraid of.   

I've tried so hard to keep the two streams separate, as if afraid that one will contaminate and change the other, the way a spoonful of sugary syrup changes a glass of water.  And while I was focusing as hard as I could on keeping the two apart, I missed the turning point when what I was trying so hard to prevent had already happened. 

As all my energies went to maintaining the appearance of normalcy and shoring up the walls of the real "me", the hidden stream was slowly bleeding in through the cracks.  Tiny, curling tendrils of crimson that took longer and longer to dissolve without a trace.  Except that now there is a trace.  Too many bleeds have done what I had been desperate to prevent - my two streams have contaminated each other, blending into one.  It was easier to hide bruises on my upper thighs than it is to hide knife cuts on my arms.  It's even harder to admit that I no longer want to hide them; that I leave those cuts there on purpose. 

I could separate the two again.  I can even see it as a challenge and I'm nothing if not up for a fruitless endeavor, but why bother?  Why not let the two blend and see just how much of a challenge it will be to keep them in balance rather than separate?  Looking back, I can see that the separation was always a carefully maintained illusion; a hard-fought for lie of an existence.

I'm done with lying... let the streams blend and I'll learn how to swim.

What we find beautiful

This past weekend I acquired a new betta fish.  He is a gorgeous if restlessly erratic specimen - sleek indigo body with gold accents on his tail and pale blue fins.  Of all the bettas I've ever had, he is by far the most beautiful which brings me to the title of this post.

Watching him ceaselessly patrol the four walls of his brand new fish tank I got to thinking about what I find visually beautiful.

Some things are downright mundane - flowering cherry trees that I routinely pass on the way to work, my cat stretching after a nap, image of a taut naked female back (or backside, for that matter), calligraphy, delicately carved piece of Asian furniture.  I suspect most people won't take issue or argue with me about the beauty potential of most of these.

Most would also agree that flowers are beautiful.  You get a bouquet of flowers, gorgeous, alive with colors and life - it's a moment of pure beauty.  But as soon as your hands leave it, it begins to die until a week or two later you pluck it out of the murky water, shuddering as your fingers close around the slimy stems before depositing them into the compost bin.  Flowers are a gift of inevitable death. 

I don't find death beautiful.  Compelling and thought-provoking, yes, but not beautiful.

Life and its regenerative powers are beautiful.

Body art is beautiful - tattoos, piercings, scars... and my personal favorite, bruises.

I find bruises on my own skin to be almost unbearably beautiful.  Unintentional bruises will get a passing glance, but it's the bruises filled with intent and brimming with memories that hold my gaze.  Those are the ones that I stare at, mesmerized by the play of colors.  These are the bruises that I'll brush against, accidentally on purpose, awakening the echo of their birth.  They are the ones that I'll watch day after day, mourning the inevitable fading of black and purple into the palest of pinks until only a shadow of the memory remains.

Leave the flowers in the hothouse, bring me bruises... that's beauty in life.

The Walking Dead

No, this post isn't about zombies or other supernatural ghouls, it's actually about something much more mundane - the corporate world. 

One of the dubious privileges of rising up through the ranks is that you occasionally come to know more than some or most around you do about the inner workings of the evil empire otherwise known as your employer.  And sometimes that knowledge takes shape in the form of knowing who will or won't still be around tomorrow. 

It's one thing when there is a severely under performing employee and you have finally bled enough paperwork and documentation for the Legal Gods and Human Resources to bless the exit strategy.  It's quite another when for the good of the company people who have done nothing wrong will lose their jobs.  Not because of something they did or didn't do.  Not because they could have been better or smarter or more proactive.  Not because of anything within their control.  Just because they happened to be in wrong role at the worst possible time.

It's rough when it's in your own department, but funny enough, if you have a heart, it's no better when it's someone else's.  Sure, there's a brief prayer of thanks that it's not you and not your employees, but it's someone else's employees.  It's someone else's friends.  It's someone else's colleagues and proteges.

I don't condemn the decisions.  I even agree with the needs that are being met, but it doesn't make it any easier to look those people in the eye and realize that I know something they don't.  I know something that will become painfully apparent to them in days or weeks. 

I know that I'm looking at the Walking Dead.

Self-control

Delayed gratification, self-denial, self-control, restraint.  All of these are admirable qualities and all are qualities that I struggle with on a daily if not hourly basis.  Self-discipline is another one.  I want to be organized and disciplined.  I want to avoid procrastinating.  I want to be able to control my impulse to express every emotion I feel.  I want to be able to pass by a pastry case and not want to get one of everything and eat until I'm sick.  I want all those things, but I don't want getting them to be this difficult.  I don't want it to be such a constant struggle.

It's all about paths we choose, isn't it?  Coming to the counter in Starbucks, I can choose to get a coffee or a drink with triple the calories.  I can choose to pass by the food or get something that will suffuse me with feelings of guilt before the first bite.

And then there are the near and far consequences and that's where delayed or immediate gratification and self-control step in.  What's more important to me, eating the chocolate brownie or fitting into a corset?  Simple, right?  Of course fitting into a corset is more important and fulfilling than the chocolate brownie.  But the corset is sometime in the hazy future and the brownie, in all its chocolate lusciousness, is right in front of me; available for the asking and $2.95 plus tax.  And while my brain is trying desperately to remind me of the tightening of laces, my stomach is growling and my mouth is watering, already anticipating that first jaw-seizing taste of sweetness.

I want to be good and I want to conquer the demons of indulgence and impatience, but I want shortcuts.  I want it to be easy, effortless.  I want to not want so badly all those things that I fight against every day.

I am someone who likes order. I like things to be neatened away, put together, tied up with a pretty bow, etc.  I don't like unfinished thoughts or arguments and I don't like unfinished battles or battles that have to be fought and won over and over again.  If a battle is fought and won, I expect it to remain won.  And it just doesn't seem to work that way with any of the things I'm struggling with.

Corset or chocolate brownie, indeed.

No Title

Foreword:  This post is actually dated from about four days ago, originally written out in longhand in a notebook.  Yes, I know - pen and paper, how quaint.  But now I finally have time to transfer it here so here it goes.

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Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  Better to experience emotions to their full extent than to feel halfway.  Better to live life to its fullest extent.

Better for whom, exactly?  And better than what?  What is the alternative?  And if you've never experienced such strong emotions, then how do you know what's better?  How do you miss something you never had in the first place?

Let's say for the sake of this circular argument that I accept that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  When people say that, surely the "better" part that they are talking about is the loving part, not the losing.  And even then, loving someone isn't easy or always positive.

Love - real, enduring, all-encompassing love - comes at a terrible price.  The price for every moment of joyful bliss is the crippling fear of loss.  Maybe you don't feel both at once, but you feel it anyway.  You feel it late at night; at that moment right before you close your eyes and feel the ripple of fear wash over you, puckering your skin in a sudden shudder.  You feel it every time you say good bye and wonder if it's the last time you'll see your lover.  You feel it every time you expect a call that doesn't come.  That fear is always there in the back of your mind, crouching in wait until your defenses weaken and it can sink its fangs in for a brief, excruciatingly painful bite.

It's been a while since I've experienced the full horrors of sudden emotional pain and it never ceases to amaze me just how bad it can get.  I've had a lot of time to think about it over the last few days; in particular what makes it so bad and in some ways so much worse than physical pain.

Usually, with unexpected and non-catastrophic physical pain, the start is as bad as it's going to get. It might hurt like hell, you may be bleeding, you may end up with bruises or you may have a sprain or even broken bones, but unless you keep re-injuring the same place, the pain will begin to recede.  It may happen slower than you'd like, but it's a unidirectional process.  Eventually the pain will fade to a dull background ache and then disappear.  And let's not forget all those analgesics out there to help it along.  Better living through pharmaceuticals as J. would say...

Not so with emotional suffering.  In the beginning, your brain will try to help and protect you by deadening all the reactions and cushioning you.  You'll be in shock but you won't realize it for what it is.  Instead, you'll assume this is all there is to it.

Wow, that's not as bad as I thought it would be, you'll think in cautious relief.  You may even test it out by thinking about whatever it is that is at the source of your distress and because you are still wrapped in the cocoon of shock, you'll find that you feel downright okay.   

I can do this, you'll think, I'll be fine.  You'll feel positively buoyant as you go about your day, proud of your resilience.

And then it'll happen.

In the middle of a conversation with a coworker or as you are merging onto a busy highway, the shock will finally wear off.  With no warning, the full horror of the situation will explode in your mind and you'll literally stop breathing.  The impact of the hit can only be matched by the strength of the betrayal you'll feel against your own mind.  And if you've been through this before then you'll recognize that this is only the beginning.  It's just the first nausea inducing wave of pain, panic, and fear.

Unlike with physical pain, this will get much worse before it gets better.  There isn't much you can do about it or the course it takes.  You'll see the waves as they come but will be powerless to stop them from crashing over you and dragging you under again and again.

You'll want to tear your hair out, crawl out of your skin, scream until you are hoarse and your face is bloated from crying.  You'll hit things, scratch your arms, bang your head against the wall, offering physical pain as a pale substitute for this agony, but it will all be in vain.

You can't escape your mind or the gruesome images it will paint to enhance the torment.

You may choose to drink and drink hard to shut off your brain.  And you may even succeed; for a few breathlessly numb hours maybe you can make the pain stop.  But then you'll sober up and it will feel even worse than it did before the alcoholic anesthesia set in with a false sense of comfort.

There is nothing to do but keep breathing and wait it out.

Eventually the next wave of despair will be just a bit smaller than the ones before it.  Eventually the smaller and weaker waves will outnumber the tidal ones.  Eventually you won't be afraid to take in a deep breath lest it come out as a wail.

Eventually it will be over.

Until the next time.

Choices

Every start is also an end.  Every choice made is the death of hundreds of other choices, some considered, some as yet undiscovered and now perhaps buried forever.  When it comes to some choices, the sheer variety of options is so staggering that I sometimes wonder how anyone manages to pick in the first place.

Have you ever thought about the mind-boggling glut of greeting cards in a drug store?  How is one supposed to pick the best one out of hundreds of equally appalling saccharine options?  I didn't get a card for J for an occasion I normally would have because the sheer number of available bits of dead trees depressed me beyond my ability to get over it and just pick a damn card.

So, how does anyone manage to decide in the face of a myriad of options? Of course, not all choices are as numerous as greeting cards.  Some choices are simple - what to have for lunch?  Maybe I feel like a salad or sushi.  Easy, I know exactly where to go to get it.  Some days though, everything sounds equally plausible and satisfying and as a result nothing does.  On days like that I'll usually force myself to settle for something that begins to lose its appeal the moment it lands on my plate.  And occasionally I'll decide that I just can't be bothered to spend the energy on this decision and go without.

I've been picking that latter option quite a bit lately.  I'd skip lunch or dinner.  And if it's dinner, then I'm so hungry the next morning that the idea of settling on a single item for breakfast is laughable and so I skip that too.  Then lunch comes and I am past being hungry.  I'm at a point where the mere thought of food makes me slightly nauseous.  And that's when it happens.

The power to just not eat is intoxicating.

I try not to abuse it, but it's so appealing that I'm afraid I don't try too hard.  I choose to exercise that bit of control that's normally so elusive.  Because to be honest, I love food.  I love eating, I love cooking, I love trying new foods.  I've never been good at setting limits in food or anything else.  If I actively try to not eat or eat less or avoid certain foods, I fail more spectacularly each time I try.  The surest way for me to gain weight is to go on a diet.  It's a daily struggle.

And then, in the face of those never ending battles, come these glorious, accidental days.  Days when the more hours tick by without food entering my mouth and feeding my insatiable hunger by sliding down my throat, the more elated I become.  It's less a countdown and more a game of stretching the rubber band; how much more before it snaps?

This high isn't one I can chase, though.  It doesn't come through effort.  It can't be gained on purpose or by design or by choice  The only choice I have is to enjoy it when it comes and I do enjoy it very much.

Of course as with any choice we make and any freedom we exercise, there comes a price.  The exhilaration of a stomach so devoid of food that you can feel its hollowness even without thinking about it is accompanied by the fear of loss of that pleasure.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not out to starve myself and frankly, while not overweight, I have plenty of padding to ensure that these occasional jaunts leave no lasting effects.  I know I have to eat and I know I will, but just in that bubble of momentary starvation, I really wish I didn't have to.  I wish I could prolong that sensation of emptiness, that slightest touch of lightheaded vertigo, the feeling of the waistband of my jeans shifting in ways it normally doesn't.  But most of all, I wish I could prolong the sensation of feeling the bones slide underneath the skin when I place my hand furtively just above the navel and let my fingers span across my side.

So, what is it about this experience that's so appealing?  In D/s, I would refer to this state as being in "headspace". This is a pale imitation of headspace, but it's the closest I can get to it at the moment.

Being in headspace has been compared to the endorphin rush of a runner's high.  It's an almost floaty feeling of straddling the world of reality and fantasy.  When I'm in headspace, I'm able to selectively focus some senses and shut off others.  Unless I am required to watch, my eyes close and vision is eliminated.  One distraction down, more to go.  Hearing is also usually muted or at least tuned to a very narrow frequency of sounds.  I hear things that directly relate to what I am experiencing, but music, sounds from others, anything not directly related to me is gone.  Touch is there, but smell often isn't.  And so it goes.

And when everything is off except for the raw physical sensations then it is as if the skin is scrubbed raw and every touch is magnified, the muscles are moving, twisting, and expanding in ways they normally don't, and the brain is floating, struggling to cope with the overload of sensations.  Breathing suddenly becomes something you have to think about and devote energy to, because it no longer happens on its own; because sometimes you can't breathe even if you want to.

Being in headspace is dangerous because there is always a chance that you'll come out of it a different person from the one who went in or you won't want to come out at all.  The re-balancing of senses, the return of missing ones and the dulling of the ones that were a focus, is like being woken up by having cold water thrown in your face and kicked to the floor.

It's traumatic and it's unwelcome. 

It's like taking the first bite of food after six, ten, twelve hours of going hungry and feeling your jaw clench and lock up because while your body has been waiting for that first bite, your mind has been dreading it and the loss of control that comes with it.

Imagination v. Reality

First, let me set expectations for what this post is about.  I'm not talking about the "I'm twenty pounds lighter and about to get a starring role in a major Hollywood production" kind of imagination.  That's fun and all, but first, that's not where my imagination goes and second, like I said, not that kind of imagination.

I'm talking about imagining reality and then living that reality.  We all do it every day.  We have to, otherwise we wouldn't be able to plan for anything.  We imagine the series of events unfolding and figure out whether they will get us to the desired end state or not. 

"If I leave work at 4 o'clock instead of 4:30, I will gain ten extra minutes because the traffic will be lighter, which means that I'll get to the grocery store by 4:15, grab a few things for dinner, then rush to the childcare center and still make it home in time to make dinner before it's time to work on homework."

Imagine the reality of all those steps and then live them.  And you have some basis for that kind of imagination because presumably you've left work at 4 o'clock instead of 4:30 before and presumably you take the same route to and from work and you know the lines at the grocery store, etc.  There is a series of previously experienced bits of reality that help you construct that imaginary chain today and lead you to have a certain level of confidence that your imagined reality is not all that different from the reality you'll face when you get on the road at 4:05 (because we all know that you'll never actually leave at 4 o'clock... that's just plain fantasy).

But what happens when we try to imagine a reality that never previously existed?  What if you try to imagine what it would be like to do something you've never done before? And what if you have to agree to doing it based solely on your imagining of that reality?  What then? 

What do you rely on to gain a level of confidence in those imaginings if you have no support for them from reality as you know it?

Or worse, what if you are imagining a different reality from one you've already faced?  Which do you trust?  Your new imagined reality or the one that you've already lived through?  Where do faith and experience cross swords?

And when they do, who comes out on top?  That's what I'd like to know.
  

Writing under the influence

I suspect that most people seeing that header will assume that the post is about writing under the influence of alcohol or, if they don't know me, then the influence of drugs.  But it's neither...  This post is about writing under the influence of different emotions. 

Right now I am angry.  Actually, that's not quite true.  I am not angry.  I am incandescent with fury.  It's bubbling inside me like thick porridge in a cauldron; spitting its venom as angry bubbles grow and erupt.  I've tried to contain it, to tell myself that it's not worth getting so upset over, but the truth is, it is worth it.  Not to get upset over, but to get truly, properly enraged.  Screaming at the top of my voice, kicking walls, hitting, crying, and more screaming kind of enraged.  But, that's not very grown-up or ladylike, so let's settle for angry. I am very, very angry right now.

I sat down to write an email, but that would be akin to cleaning a loaded gun when you're blindly drunk.  You just know you're going to shoot someone or something, the question is just what and how badly.  So, I'm not going to write the email I was thinking of writing because I'll just end up saying a lot of things that will both hurt the person I mean to write them to and fall on deaf ears at the same time.

Instead, I'll settle for the unknown audience of those of you who read this.  So, writing under the influence...

I have to say, I love writing when I'm under the influence of strong emotions.  Over time I've noticed that it's not just what I choose to write about, but how I write that differs depending on the emotion.  When I am angry or irritated, I write faster, my sentences short and more compact.  The writing becomes less refined, more choppy, as if each sentence is a sharp bite of licorice.  I know I need to do a better job of proofreading when I write this way, but in some ways, it's more honest left as is. 

The downside to writing when angry is that my filters are all skewed by rage and I can and do put on paper things that I should have held back. Or maybe I shouldn't hold back.  There's a recklessness to this kind of writing that is both frightening and liberating.  I don't set out to hurt anyone with what I might say, but I do find that I often hurt myself with the things I don't say.  Undoubtedly there's a fine balance there, but it's not one that I can achieve when blinded by rage so I'll err on the side of caution today and I won't write or send that email...  Although I won't promise that I won't do it tomorrow.

Hopeful...  I can sort of write when I'm hopeful, but it's too close to happy and I absolutely cannot write when I am happy.  Happiness or joy are inspiration killers for me.  I don't know what to write or how to write when I'm happy.  It's as if being happy takes up all my brain's energy and leaves nothing for other pursuits. 

Writing when I'm happy is kind of like talking right after dental surgery - it's still your mouth and your tongue and you haven't forgotten English, but nothing works as it's supposed to and eventually you realize that the effort just isn't worth it.  You might as well wait for anesthesia to wear off and for your mouth to return back to normal. 

It may be a morbid comparison, but that doesn't make it any less true.  Say "No" to writing under the influence of happiness.

I can handle calm and I can write when I am calm.  I don't necessarily want or need to write when I am calm, but if opportunity presents itself, I can.  It's not the most productive or imagination filled sensation, but being calm allows me a chance to really think about what I'm writing.  The result is that what I write comes out so polished and worked over that it's almost bland.  With calm comes endless patience for tinkering with each sentence and even each word.  It's writing by design and just like "Paint-by-number" can produce a Van Gogh masterpiece, when you look at it closer, it's just a bit too neat and a bit too clinical to amount to anything.  So, I can write when I'm calm, but I won't write well and no amount of editing will breathe life into that carefully crafted corpse.

So, what's left?  Sadness and arousal.  Some of my best, most eloquent, heartfelt writing was done under the influence of those two emotions.  Sadness, writing, and arousal are inextricably linked in my mind.  Being sad makes me want to write, writing arouses me, and arousal pushes me to keep writing to keep the arousal alive.  When I am sad or mopey or experiencing a sudden bout of depression, my writing just pours out.  Fiction or diary pages, it doesn't really matter. 

I love the English language.  I am not very imaginative when it comes to other art forms, I can't play an instrument or paint or draw, but I can write.  I can turn my emotions inside out by giving them voice.  I can turn sadness into hope and inspiration.  I can create arousal and keep it percolating through phrases that have nothing to do with sex.  Words have amazing power and I can manipulate them for my pleasure and for the enjoyment of anyone who feels like joining me for the ride. 

So, what is writing under the influence of sadness like?  It's lyrical and it flows from sentence to sentence, like a thin stream of water running down a set of stone steps.  There a moment ago and then gone, already burbling on ahead, leaving behind a hint of wetness evaporating before your eyes.  It's both freeing and frightening because it feels out of control.  As the words pour out, you never know what thoughts will tumble out into the open.  Sometimes, reading what I wrote at these times doesn't feel like my writing.  It's too raw and I am always tempted to edit it.  It's not raw in the same way as angry writing is.  Angry writing aims to strike, to change, to influence and enforce.  Sad writing is like slicing open your flesh and leaving the wound open for the world to see.  It's an act of faith, an exposure of vulnerability and offer of trust.  Picture a cat offering her belly to be rubbed - that's sad writing.

And this?  What sort of writing was this?  This was substitution writing or detached writing, if you wish.  It's writing for the sake of writing.  Not very good, not very bad, just there to take place of what can't be written; at least not right now.

Don't think about the pink polar bear

It's a silly kid's joke.

"Don't think about (insert whatever silliness you like here - a pink polar bear in my case)"  

So what are you thinking about right now as you read these words?

Admit it, you thought about a pink polar bear for at least a fraction of a second and then you probably tried very hard to redirect your thoughts and maybe you succeeded, but the only way to know is to ask yourself whether you're still thinking about a pink polar bear and there you go!  It's right there, swimming lazily into your conscience in all its pink, polar beary glory.

Lately there are things that I try very hard not to think about.  You know where this is going...  The harder I try not to think about them, the more they invade my thoughts.  I bargain with  myself.  I tell myself that I'll set aside some time and really focus on those thoughts if only they would leave me alone the rest of the time.  But my thoughts, by virtue of originating in the same place as my good intentions, know me too well and don't believe me.  The longer I avoid them, the angrier they get.  They lie in wait, seething with resentment for being ignored, and the moment I relax my guard, they swarm in, ruthlessly attacking the bit of calm I was trying to enjoy.

I crave order and control and this inability to think about what I want to think about and avoid what I want to avoid feels very disorderly.  I tell myself that this is normal, that everyone has worries and concerns and doubts and fears, but that doesn't help.  The thoughts I don't want to think about snicker derisively in the background, pointing out that I'm no expert on what anyone has or is like; reminding me that I have no friends that I can trust or talk to; confirming my fears that all my worries are my own to solve and deal with.

Where do other people get answers?  When faced with multiple equally feasible options, each carrying costs and rewards, how do others decide which way to go?  How does one logically and systematically think through all the implications of a choice without getting so bogged down in emotions and fears that they instead choose the path of least resistance and just go with what they know?

Hiding from a decision is still a decision.  Ditto for running from one. 

Stalling...  I'm stalling and the thoughts that won't leave me alone know it.  They get buzzier and angrier with each passing day, more determined to break through the veneer of calm, more insistent on being heard or being considered, even if rejected in the end.  They want to be acknowledged.  They want to be validated.  But validation is admission.  And admission is the first step toward the cure.

And I'm not ready to be cured.

Beginnings

So, we are in a new year.  2013 has officially begun.  I'll try to put aside my wholly irrational dislike for the number 13 and my dread of a whole year filled with 13s and consider what my resolutions for 2013 will be.

Every "how to set your resolutions" article I've read in the last week gave essentially the same advice - your resolutions should be realistic, reachable, and specific.

Let's agree at the outset that "realistic" is a matter of opinion.  It's quite realistic for someone else to resolve to not intentionally cut and scar themselves.  It's not all that realistic for me.  Whether a goal is reachable or not is somewhat less vague and it goes hand in hand with it being specific.  Specific goals are reachable (assuming they were realistic in the first place), non-specific goals are usually a waste of time.

I have one other requirement for resolutions, and this is my requirement, not one I'd suggest for anyone else or hold anyone else accountable to.  The requirement is - no trite resolutions.  We all resolve all the time to exercise more, to eat better, to watch less TV, stop nail biting, etc.  None of these will qualify as my 2013 resolutions.

I already know I need to lose weight and exercise more. I readily admit that I watch too much TV and spend too many hours on the couch.  I have tried and failed numerous times to stop biting my cuticles and the skin around my nails.  Did you know that nail biting is now officially classified as a disorder in the DSM IV-R?  Does that mean that I can now stop stressing about it and focus on something else?  Talk about realistic...

At any rate, all of those things are the basics that most people resolve to improve.  In my 2013 resolutions I'm looking for something a bit different; something I haven't already resolved to fix a dozen times before.

And now, on to the resolutions...

~ I resolve to stop feeling guilty about engaging in activities that help me cope with stress.  Perhaps my methods are unconventional, but they work for me and I will resolve to stop adding the stress of guilt on top of the stress heap.  In the spirit of specificity and full self-disclosure, this means that I won't feel guilty when I:

• Use my knife in ways it wasn't intended to be used; 
• Choose to sit alone, in the dark, and drink until my brain shuts off;
• Cannot abide the company of anyone I know and want to be among strangers;
• Gorge myself on work to the point of breakdown;
• Maintain my levels of caffeine at the Energizer Bunny rating;
• Take time for myself to the exclusion of spending it with my family.

~ I resolve to allow myself the luxury of planning and organizing because that's what brings me the greatest measure of control over my life.  I will not let other people's disdain for those things deter or derail me.  I like to plan and schedule; I like to make charts and graphs and draw timelines; I like to organize and arrange and rearrange.  That's how I think and that's what I resolve to continue doing and to hell with everyone else.

~ I resolve to be more balanced in my approach to life; to see both the positive and the negative, rather than focusing on the negative to the exclusion of everything else.  I will  not continue down the path to become someone who sees a hundred things that could go wrong and none that will be fine.  I will resolve to not become someone who always only sees the risks and dangers in everything and never the rewards.  I will not become an unbridled optimist, but I also will not become the person I've spent most of my life trying to avoid becoming.  There is an elusive balance and I will resolve to learn to achieve it.

~ I resolve to not constantly offer my opinion and alternate suggestions unless they are asked for.  Lately I have realized that this is a quality that drives me teeth grindingly mad about a person close to me.  Whatever I say or suggest, this person always has an alternate suggestion.  I couldn't figure out why it drives me so mad when they do this, and then it suddenly came to me.

I think the person thinks that they're being helpful, but in reality, what they're doing is saying "I know you've made a decision, but it's not good enough.  I know better how it (whatever 'it' happens to be) should be done and I'm going to tell you how and why you should do it differently."  This constant offer of contrary suggestions is an implicit disdain for my ability to make my own damn decisions.  Is it any wonder that I'm rarely eager to talk to this person when each time I do, I feel like I have to defend and justify every thought and action?

So, now that I've figured out why it makes me so angry when this person does it, I'm going to resolve to not do it myself.  I will not assume that I know better and I will not assume that the person hasn't already considered what I'm about to suggest.  And if after all that, I do feel that I want to offer a suggestion, I will ask permission first.

~ I resolve to find time every day to do just one thing.  Whatever the thing may be, I will do it with my full attention and without attempting to multitask.  And in the same vein, I resolve to pay attention to my daughter not in addition to whatever else I am doing at the time, but to the exclusion of it.  It won't always be possible, but I resolve to try or explain why my undivided attention can't be given at present.  After all, I expect her undivided attention when I need it and she deserves no less from me.

Those are my resolutions for 2013...  Let the year begin!