Not antisocial

I am an introvert.  There, I said it.  It's not like I didn't know that I had those tendencies, but knowing isn't quite the same as boldly admitting it.  It's the difference between being told you drink too much and walking into your first AA meeting.  So, now I've admitted it and in the same breath I'm going to insist that there's nothing wrong with it.  I'm a functioning introvert and the fact that over the years I've expended so much energy trying to prove to people that there's nothing wrong with me makes my insides twist with anger and annoyance.  All that wasted time and effort, all that pretense of being someone I'm not for the benefit of people who told me that I need to go out more, to make more friends, to socialize, to be "normal".

The anger is directed more at myself than at anyone in particular because I do believe that the people who tried to bring me out of my shell meant well.  I'm sure they thought that if only I would try, I'll find the meaning of life that according to them I was missing.  I'm angry at myself for not having had the vocabulary and the conviction to tell them all to f*ck off and leave me in my solitary peace.  I'm angry that I didn't trust myself enough to stand up for what made me happy.

I accept that I'm different in that I dislike many of the things that others find pleasurable.  I don't want to travel, I don't tolerate change well, I don't want to go out and socialize on a regular basis, I don't want to join my co-workers for lunch, I don't enjoy loud and boisterous parties.  If I must, I'll do all of these things and do them with good grace, giving every appearance of enjoying myself, but that doesn't mean that I wouldn't rather be home, curled up on a pillow with a book in my hand.  Being good at adapting to whatever the situation calls for isn't the same as wanting to be in that situation in the first place.

Don't misunderstand this as me saying that I don't like people or new experiences.  I like both.  I just like them on a much smaller and less frequent scale than most.  I enjoy occasional new experiences, as long as they are circumscribed and manageable.  I love cooking and experimenting with different foods, but I much prefer doing that in my own kitchen rather than going out to a food festival or to a loud restaurant with a crowd.  I like meeting and getting to know new people as long as it's one or two people at a time.  In this way, I can spend hours talking to a single person, but half an hour in a group just about wipes out all my reserves of energy.

It is then perhaps ironic, knowing these things about myself, that I'm about to embark on a people-centered career.  I'm not sure why I think that I'll do well in an occupation where interaction with strangers is mandatory and forms the foundation of the profession.  Perhaps it's a way for me to push past my own boundaries, to challenge myself to do something that I know I'm not very good at.  

In the end, I think the saving grace for me will be grounded in these two premises: I'll be in control and I'll never be faced with more than one person at a time.  As a devout introverted control freak, I think I can handle that.

After I was dead...

After I was dead, time lost all meaning and a great veil of boredom threatened to suffocate me.  This wasn't at all what I expected.  I suppose things might have been different if I had left behind children or a grieving husband, but being a loner meant that my funeral was attended mostly by those who felt it their duty to be there.  Perhaps to ensure that I really was dead and gone.  Who knows?  They didn't care to be there and I didn't care to see them there.

After the mostly dull and uninspiring eulogy by whatever clergy member the funeral home was able to rustle up on short notice, the visitors (one can hardly call them mourners if they barely noticed I was gone) gratefully dispersed, returning to their humdrum lives and leaving me in limbo.

Funny how being alone never bothered me when I was alive.  I suppose then it was a means of escape from people I had no wish to interact with, but now that the loneliness was enforced and permanent, I found myself unreasonably annoyed by it.  Of course, there were other ghosts around, but most seemed busy watching over their families or haunting the dreams of those who wronged them, gleefully reporting the details of the nightmares they inspired as they returned from their exploits.  Frankly, I was as uninterested in joining them in their escapades as I had been in joining my coworkers for a Friday night pub crawl.

The ability to be anywhere at will was at first intriguing.  I went in and out of random people's houses, regardless of whether they were home or not, but that soon lost its novelty.  There are only so many scenes of harried domesticity that one can witness without getting bored.  Then I took to going in and out of high security buildings, art galleries, backrooms of stores I liked - visiting all those places I'd never gotten a chance to see in real life.  The local hospital was interesting for a while, but it was always crowded with ghosts coming and going and the constant noise and activity grew tiresome.  

Eventually I took to spending my nights in my favorite bookstore, floating up near the ceiling tiles and supervising the closing procedures of the staff.  Some evenings I even snuck into the storage room, but the utter chaos of it annoyed me and somehow devalued the experience.  I would have loved to rearrange some things and reorganize the shelves, especially the ones where books were piled haphazardly, causing pages to crease and lose the lustre of newness.  I couldn't, though.  Ghosts can't touch or move things.  Well, it figures, doesn't it?  Nothing is solid to us, otherwise how would we get through walls?  

Anyway, there I was, hovering near the bestsellers stand, bored out of my mind and seriously wondering whether I should join some of the others in their nightly haunts of the local abandoned quarry when the light in the children's section went on.  Near closing time the lights are always going on and off and doors are slamming, but it was near two in the morning. There was just no good reason for anyone to be in the store, well, other than me, that is.  Staying near the walls (I never did get over the unreasonable dislike of having my back exposed, which is especially ironic considering how I ended up dying) I floated over to the children's section.  At first, it looked like there was no one there, but then I saw her.  Sitting cross-legged on the little storytime stage, hair falling into her face and almost touching the book in her lap.  At first I thought she was reading, but then I realized that she was drawing.  She had one of those How to Draw Anything books in her lap and the pencil in her hand was flying over the blank page on the right as she occasionally referred to the instructions on the left.  

I moved above her to see better but her head was still in the way.  It was almost like she was intent on hiding what she was doing from the light.  Sighing to myself, I floated down until I was right in front of her and craned my head to the side.  She had already finished a picture of a large, leafy tree and was now working on what looked like a...  well, not a person, that's for sure, maybe a bear? sitting under the tree.  I moved to the other side to see better and that's when it happened...

"Stop looking, it's not finished yet.  And anyway, don't you know it's not polite to spy on people?" she said, looking straight at me.

On the perils of sensitivity

"You are too sensitive" isn't a phrase that I hear often.  In fact, it's not a phrase I've heard applied to me in years.  Frankly, most of the people who met me over the last decade and have not known me prior to that will laugh at the thought of such a phrase being aimed at me.  "Tough as nails", "determined", "single-minded", "coldly rational", and yes, even "hard-hearted" are the more likely epithets.  

And sure, I won't deny it, I am or I can be all of those things.  Those descriptions are my shell, my way of masking and hiding the crippling sensitivity that I've spent years beating down and suppressing.  And I've succeeded... Oh, how I've succeeded.  My reward for this act of supreme willpower and self-training is that unless I actively try to, I feel absolutely nothing.  

Well, that's not strictly true - I feel fear, anger, anxiety, frustration, and physical discomforts.  Those were never an issue, never something I tried to suppress and so they remained (mostly) untouched.  I've learned to conceal them when appropriate, but that's just part of growing older and hopefully wiser.  What I don't feel is the things that most other people take for granted - sadness, grief, happiness, joy, need.  In grinding to a halt the roller-coaster that I couldn't control, I ended up suspended in the air, neither up nor down.

It's not that I'm incapable of feeling these emotions, I just have to consciously allow myself to experience them.  Well, what's wrong with that? you might say...  I didn't think there was anything wrong with it.  Not at first, not for years as I've worked on building this wall.  It was a slow process and an inconsistent one.  Life would get in the way and tear giant holes in the barricade, but I'm nothing if not determined so on and on I soldiered.  When I could retreat behind the wall at will and it held, I rejoiced.  If you've ever had the dubious pleasure of listening to a blaring car alarm through the night, then you know the utter bliss when the siren is replaced with blessed silence.  At first you don't believe that it's actually over and you keep a wary ear out for the alarm's bleating to restart, but then after a few minutes of silence your shoulders unhunch and you take a deep breath and you convince yourself that yes, it's finally over.  It was a bit like that.

Muting the emotions that I couldn't control was a high like no other I had experienced to that point.  And then a further revelation that the barricade held.  No matter what life threw at me, I could retreat behind the wall and weather it.  It was blissful, except I wouldn't let myself get too excited over it; no chinks in the wall. 

But you know this doesn't have a happy ending...  I wouldn't bother writing about it if it did.  Single-mindedness comes with a price.  The fatal flaw in my plan was not leaving an escape hatch.  Feeling nothing is great when you need to be cold and clinical and analytical in your approach to a problem.  It's not so good when you're a human being instead of a robot.  Instead of learning how to temper and manage my emotions and prevent them from overrunning me, I imprisoned them with no way out.  I wasn't the one behind the wall, my emotions were and I was left on the outside, cold and feeling nothing.

So, what now?  Well, I have two options, neither one of which I like much.  The safer approach would be to accept that this is how it is.  I can continue to live life at low volume, enjoying the calm and trying not to dwell on what I'm missing.  Don't get me wrong, it's not a bad life.  It's calm and restful and probably a lot more stable than it would otherwise be.  It's also like living wrapped in layers of cotton.

The other option is to loosen the restraints and see what happens.  Let myself feel without reservations or holding back.  How bad can it be?  Unspeakably bad, actually.  As bad as it was before I did all this work to fix myself.  Knowing what I know of my past struggles, this isn't an option that I'm eager to pick and yet is it worth a try? 

What's holding me back from deciding on a course of action is not knowing the answer to this question...  Can I learn to control my emotions a little at a time or will all my work of the last decade come crumbling down taking me with it?

Imperative

Move.  I know you don't want to, but you must.  Move.  Now.  Just a small step first.  Turn your head on the pillow to take your eyes off the grubby ceiling and face the window.  You know it's there, on your left even if you have yet to see it.  But you'll do it today.  Yes, you will.  Because I'm telling you to and because you know that I won't leave you alone, no matter how much you want me to.  I'm in your head and I'm not going anywhere.  Move.

No, don't close your eyes, you can't shut me out.  The light from the window is getting stronger, turn toward it now and you'll still have a chance to see it before clouds roll in.  Now, yes, you can do it.  Don't think about it, that's been your problem all along.  Don't analyze, don't predict, don't assume what you'll see, just turn your head and face the window.

Blink.  Again.  No, don't start crying, that won't help.  It won't help at all.  Blink again and focus on the light.  Don't say it, I lied.  It's not a window, it's just a day glow simulator lamp, but look at it anyway.  Admit it, the view is better than the ceiling.  Fine, you don't have to admit it to me, but at least acknowledge to yourself, if not to me, that it was worth the effort.

Shift your gaze further to the left, look at the nightstand.  You don't know what's on it so don't argue that there's no point.  Arguing is another problem, but we'll get to it later.  Look at the nightstand.  Focus on the glass of water.  No, of course it's not real glass, but it's real water.  Reach for it.

Stop laughing, it's not impossible.  Reach for it.  Lift your hand off the blanket and reach for it.  No, I'm not going to give you a break, we've barely started and I've been so very patient with you already.  Lift your hand and reach for the glass.

Why?  So you can knock it down to the floor, of course.  Imagine it.  Imagine your hand doing it.  Imagine the feel of your fingers against the plastic, the slight resistance you'll feel when you start pushing it off the surface.  Use the anger you feel at being fooled into thinking it's glass.  You're angry now that you know it's just warmish plastic instead of cool glass, aren't you?  Don't lie to me, I know you are; your nostrils are flaring.  Let that anger pulse toward your fingertips as you shove the glass that isn't away from you.  Imagine the sound it'll make bouncing off the linoleum tiles, maybe even cracking if you push it hard enough.

There now, that wasn't too hard, was it?  Don't answer that.  And now we wait...

The crash

The sound of the crash echoing off the concrete and boarded up windows could be heard for blocks.  The smoke wafting away from the debris of what used to be a hatchback sedan shrouded the scene of devastation as if waiting for a magician's sleight of hand to uncover something out of nothing.

Where there previously towered a half-demolished wall of a derelict convenience store, now stood a grotesque surrealistic sculpture - mangled remains of the hatchback in the protective embrace of the crumbling bricks and rebars.

"Whoa," someone exclaimed, as the echoes of the crash and the settling rubble gave way to the normal sounds of a street, "did you see that?"

"Hey, someone call 911!"

"Can we get closer?  Is it safe?"

"Do you think the driver...?"

"What the fuck happened?"

The commotion was reaching fever pitch, it'll be time to go soon.  Fingering the small black remote nestling in my pocket, I listened to the questions swirling around and answered each silently in my head...

Yep, saw that.  

Hardly any rush to call 911 now, but if you must...

You can get closer but that wall isn't looking too good.  And touching the car or any of the rubble is definitely a bad idea.

Yes, pretty sure Max is dead; although pulverized would be more accurate.

That's easy - the car sped up going down the street, lost its breaks and steering and was directed straight into the wall.  Splat.

Isn't it amazing what can be done with technology and a bit of determination these days?  And Max said I could never finish anything...

Loops

I don't like leaving things unresolved, be it internal conflicts, arguments, or even an unfinished conversation.  It's true, some conversations are best ended prematurely when you know that nothing good will come from continuing. It's the smarter thing to do and I think everyone has experienced living proof of that particular wisdom.  Except that even if you know it and do the "right" thing, the thoughts left unvoiced and feelings unacknowledged, can eat away at you, replaying endlessly in your mind.

One such loop is haunting me now and although I know I need to let it go, it has burrowed into my thoughts and is refusing to leave.  It wants resolution while I just want it to go away and so we are at an impasse.

I will readily admit, I can be thin-skinned.  Most of the time I have learned to mask it and pretend that things don't bother me nearly as much as they do.  Most of the time I can even convince myself that they don't.  Most of the time.  And then there are times when the combination of people, feelings, and reactions involved leaves me utterly vulnerable and trying to suppress it is like trying to put out a grease fire with water.  It's just not worth the effort, especially when the harder you try, the worse it gets.

Acknowledging it helps a little.  As does letting the loop play over and over again and re-experiencing the feelings, allowing the repetition to slowly dull the impact.  Eventually it always does and I get past it; sometimes in days, sometimes in hours.  But the one thing getting past it doesn't do is what I want the most - it doesn't help prevent the same injury next time.

As much as I may not want to do so, I must acknowledge that some hurts I'll never be immune to.

Comfortable in your skin

I remember a time when I was comfortable in my own skin.  Or perhaps "remember" is too precise of a term.  I've read enough about how memory works to understand that real memories are an illusion, so let's say that I can reconstruct the vision of what it felt like to be comfortable in my skin.

I could go back to when I was around eleven or twelve, a wiry kid with skinned knees and dirt under the fingernails.  I was always short and slight and even in sixth grade I could pass for a second grader which served me just fine when I was, yet again, running late for school and wanted to avoid being written up in the lateness ledger.  A second grader is often given a pass that a sixth grader isn't.

I was a relatively active kid, although perhaps no more so than my friends, but I was blessed with a small frame and an ability to eat little and rarely feel hungry.  I knew I looked good when I cleaned up, but the point was, I was comfortable with the way I was which meant that I rarely thought about how I looked.  It wasn't a worry, it wasn't an overwhelming concern, and I had yet to learn the debilitating pain of feeling that I don't measure up to the ideal.  Because the truth is, I did measure up.  I was cute and slim and I hadn't yet realized that being flat-chested would be a detriment in a couple of years.  Of course, I never got a chance to find out that it would be because in a span of a year I went from being somewhat underweight to being severely overweight.  My skin expanded to accommodate the new body I acquired courtesy of stress eating, but I never again felt comfortable in it.

Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered and I would have found ways of feeling uncomfortable even without doubling my weight; after all, most teenage girls profess to hate the way they look, or at least say that they do.  Had I remained slim, would I have bemoaned the lack of curves my friends were developing?  Would I have fervently wished to have a rounder bum or fuller arms?  Maybe I would have and maybe that body would have felt as inadequate and ill-fitting as the one I got.  I never got a chance to find out.

I have long ago stopped dwelling on the unhappiness that being overweight brought me and these days my struggles are mostly around not gaining weight rather than losing it.  I could be in better shape (who couldn't?), but I'm not overweight anymore and I fervently hope I never will be.

But I am also not comfortable in my skin and I am constantly looking for ways to change that.  I know that a lot of it is attitude, but good as I am at deceiving and soothing others, self-deception isn't something that I can stomach.  I'm not perfect and that's not ok.  Yes, maybe there's an element of self-mockery in that statement, but putting a hand on heart, it truly is what I feel.  If I don't look the way I want to look, if the image reflected in the mirror isn't what I want to see, then I can't accept it.

And lest you think me entirely superficial, it's not solely about weight.  Sure, I'd like a few fewer folds around the stomach and less sagging around the arms, but it's everything together - it's my untameable mane of hair, it's the patch of dry skin on my bottom lip that just won't heal, it's the short stubby fingers, it's the way my body just doesn't want to bend and twist the way I want it to.  I want things to look and work the way I think they should and they just won't cooperate.  Some things even I realize I won't be able to beat into submission, but it's often the ones that I could improve that give me the most grief.  I should be able to fix and adjust them and I just am not able to, which for me immediately translates to "you're just not trying hard enough".

Don't get me wrong, there are things I like about myself and I don't take them for granted, but they are expected and therefore aren't as valued.  It's the ones that aren't up to snuff that deserve the attention.  A bit like the child who gets good grades in school and is well-behaved and gets ignored in favor of a more troublesome sibling.  Not that I'd know anything about that, children in my family weren't allowed to be troublesome.

At any rate, I am keeping a wary eye on things that I have going for me, as if to warn them that they'd better keep going as they are or there'll be hell to pay.  As for the ones that aren't right, the ones that make me squirm in my skin, I see them as fractious mutineers, stubbornly refusing to fall in line and do as they're told.  That's not a good attitude to take with me as anyone who knows me will tell you.

Perhaps I'll never feel as comfortable in my skin as I did years ago, but I sure as hell won't make it easy for myself to settle into mediocrity.  Perfection may be unattainable, but it doesn't mean I should, or ever would, stop trying.

On role models... (or just one role model)

I don't recall ever having role models or seeing someone, real or on TV, and thinking that I want to be just like that person.  In short bursts or for specific traits, sure.  Who hasn't seen a willowy beauty or an amazing athlete on TV and thought, I want to be just like that person?  Beyond a passing thought, I don't think I've ever adopted one as a role model.  Until now...

There's a character on a Netflix series, House of Cards, that I'm completely, utterly, hopelessly obsessed with.  For those of you who know me, I think you can probably guess who the character is, for the rest, it's Claire Underwood.  And just to be clear, I'm not talking about the actress, Robin Wright, who plays Claire on the show, I'm talking about the character, Claire Underwood, as portrayed on the show.

I'm certain that I'm not the only one captivated with Claire, given the show's popularity, but for me this is very new.  J once asked me, when I pointed out a particularly pretty girl in a cafe to him, whether the girl is pretty in a way that I want to be her or I want to be with her.  My answer then, and every time he asked since, was I want to be with her.  I like women and I find them sexually attractive.  It's fairly rare for me to see a woman and think that I want to look like her.  Sure, I might admire what she's wearing or a particularly gorgeous shade of hair, but beyond that, I don't compare myself to anyone or try to imitate them.

Not so this time.  I can categorically say that I don't want to be with Claire.  I admire and look up to her character and this is a completely platonic appreciation.  I find her incredibly, heartstoppingly compelling even if I don't particularly like blondes.  I don't want to look like her, I want to be like her.  For the first time I realize the allure of a role model, of having someone you want to imitate.  I want to be my own version of her.

Over the weeks and months since first being introduced to the show, I've watched it over and over again, zeroing in on the character's voice, tone, gestures, the way she carries herself, her strengths and her weaknesses.  There are so many details about her that already resonate with me that I can see myself in what I'm watching.  I can see myself acting the same way in some situations and at least understanding, viscerally, why she acts the way she does when I may have chosen a different path.

I have been adopting a lot of the things that I like about the character, but being careful not to copy where things won't fit.  Going through my days, I sometimes find myself thinking, would Claire wear this? would Claire eat this? would Claire say or do this?  Somehow I'm certain that Claire wouldn't bite her nails and so I've quit cold turkey a month ago.

I've molded myself to other people's expectations or wishes before so this exercise in being a chameleon isn't entirely new, but what's new is the purpose.  I'm not doing this for anyone but myself.  I am not trying to live up to anyone else's idea of what they find pleasing.  This is for me and me alone.

Gone...

Gone...  The word rattled around her thoughts and rolled into a quiet corner, like a marble left forgotten under a couch after a spirited game.  Gone...  Could the answer really be as simple as that?  Maneuvering the heavy cart with its persistent lazy wheel around the other shoppers, she barely gives the word a thought.  Gone...  No, that's impossible, on to the next idea.

And yet, as she crosses the bustling parking lot, weighed down by the grocery bags, the thought wouldn't let go.  Gone...  She shakes her head, trying to focus on loading the car and planning the rest of the evening.  What is there to plan, though?  First dinner, which she'll make for everyone and will please no one, except maybe John who'll eat whatever is put in front of him; his thoughts on how quickly he can get the pretense of family time over with.  Homework supervision, which will rapidly degenerate into arguments and recriminations and tears, accompanied by slammed doors.  Who knew Algebra could be so fraught with emotions?  And then dishes, routine clean-up, laundry or dealing with whatever other household calamity that gets discovered as the nine o'clock news comes on and can't be put off until tomorrow.  And finally it's on up to bed.  And if she's really lucky, then as she pauses in the slow climb up the stairs, she'll hear the sound of John snoring.  Gone...

The groceries stowed, she settles into the driver seat and automatically reaches for the seat belt.  Marcie, the three year old family dog that everyone wanted and no one wanted to take care of, wags her tail happily.  Front seat is a rare treat and the canine enjoyment knows no bounds.  Gone...

She feels around her purse for the phone, wondering if she should call and let John know she's running behind, that dinner will be late.  Even as her fingers close around the cool plastic, she knows she won't call.  There'll be no thanks for the thoughtfulness of a warning, only a barely disguised barb about the lack of planning.  Marcie is eyeing the purse hopefully and she pulls out a dog treat, absently handing it to the dog.  She knows she shouldn't, but she pulls out another one and Marcie is practically whimpering with giddy delight.  How little it takes to make her happy and earn undying gratitude.  Gone...

Reluctantly she pushes her purse under the passenger seat and automatically checks the fuel level as the car hums to life.  Almost a full tank, no need to make any more stops tonight.  She turns on the radio, the familiar voices of NPR filling the car, and pulls out of the parking lot.  It's getting darker now, but she has driven these streets two, three, four times a day for, she doesn't want to think for how many years, and the car practically navigates itself.  She thinks to the hazy future when the car really will navigate itself as she watches her street come into view, the final left turn in the trough between two sloping hills, and then keeps on driving.

Gone.

Focus

I am tormented by a lack of focus.  Or perhaps a lack of grounding is a better way of putting it.  No matter what I start doing, I am incapable of keeping my attention on it.  Reading, browsing the internet, watching a show, cleaning, it doesn't matter how interesting or engaging the activity, I cannot focus and stay with it for the duration.

Even now, as I'm writing this, it's a constant struggle to keep my thoughts on the piece.  My eyes are wandering off the screen to the people around me, to the muted TV screen on the wall, to the bleak landscape I can glimpse through the half-shaded windows.  My ears are picking up the whispers of sounds that are filtering through the music in the headphones and my nose is distracted by the lunchtime smells of the cafe.  You might think that I'd have an easier time focusing at home where the distractions would be less pervasive, but it's no better at home with the laundry basket and crumbs on the kitchen floor offering a different form of escape.  There is Netflix and two warring cats, bent on gouging each other's eyes out in a quest for territorial dominance.  And let's not forget the bed and the allure of a mid-day nap.  At home the options for diffusion of focus are even more numerous than in a noisy cafe.

It's not entirely unusual for me to be pulled in many directions, but it's rarely this severe and downright disabling.  I know what I should be doing, what I need to focus on but for the life of me, I cannot force my attention to stay on task for longer than ten seconds at a time and even that seems like a stretch at the moment.

I can blame it on poor sleep or my complete lack of willpower or my horrendously sedentary lifestyle or the depressingly long winter, but the truth is it doesn't really matter what the cause is, I need to get through it and I have no idea how to do it.  Usually I'm able to compel myself to do what I know needs to be done, but the usual tricks aren't working or maybe I'm just not trying hard enough.

This entire post is only a few paragraphs long and it's already taken me almost an hour to write...  I can't even stay with this long enough to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.  Maybe there isn't one.

"What If"s

I was thinking today about the two kinds of what ifs.
There is the "What if I had done X instead of Y?" or its occasionally more popular sibling "What if I hadn't done X?".  These are the what ifs of the days past.  The chances not taken, the paths chosen and second-guessed, the choices made and regretted or simply wondered about.  That's the first kind of what if.

The other is the "What if X happens?" - the future potential for regrets, recriminations, joys, or endless wondering.

I rarely indulge in the former because it's pointless.  I wrote before about not having regrets and it's true.  But it's the second kind of what if, the what if that has yet to happen, that sneaks up on me and like a burdock burr will entangle my thoughts and refuse to let go.

I like clarity and structure.  I like knowing what's going to happen every minute of every day, in predetermined chunks and intervals.  I like the safety of planning and the comfort of things going as expected.  And more than anything, I like boundaries.  I need boundaries, even if only to serve as walls to push against.

The yet to happen what ifs go against the grain of everything I find manageable.  There is an endless variety of what ifs and from that endless variety stems an infinity of potential outcomes, each engendering a further glut of possibilities.  The unruliness of this limitless chaos sets my teeth on edge.  It makes me want to crawl under the covers and pretend that I'm in a small, dark cage.  There is immense freedom in firm constraints.

So what are the what ifs that are tormenting me now?  Some are big ones, like "what if I can't find a job?" or "what if someone I care about dies in a freak accident?".  Some are little ones, like "what if I trip and fall the next time I'm trudging through ice and snow?" or "what if my car breaks down when I'm in the middle of nowhere?".  Big or small, they all have one thing in common - there's not a damn thing I can do to prepare to face them.  They are like the night terrors, paralyzing when you're in the midst of one and easily pushed out of your mind when normality reasserts its claim on your mind.

For the moment, my strategy for dealing with them is avoidance - I don't let myself think about them, I don't speculate, I don't attempt to plan, I don't even acknowledge them.  For now, that's working and when it stops working, when the night terrors take over in spite of my best intentions, I will remind myself that when the morning comes and the what if happens, I will deal with it and have no regrets.

And now for a bit of fiction...

"So, I did it..." my voice tails off into laden silence as I glance sideways at Pat.

"It?" He frowns, taking yet another turn in the crowded parking garage.

Finding space for his hulking monster of a pick-up truck is a challenge on a half-empty lot, which this was not.  Mall parking garages in December are not for the faint of heart.  Pat is clearly only paying enough attention to me to show that he's present and accounted for; the rest is reserved for the grunting pick-up.

Ok, maybe he'll just let it slide.  I take a deep breath and open my mouth, about to launch both of us into a conversation on a topic as far away from "it" as I can come up with, but it's too late.

"Wait a minute," Pat's attention is now smack where I don't want it.  He swerves around a car that appeared to be pulling out but instead is just straightening out in the coveted spot, and looks at me. "You did it?  You are serious?"

"Watch where you're going!" I grab the dashboard as Pat curses under his breath and makes a sharp turn to head up to the next level of the parking garage.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

In response Pat just gives me a look and keeps driving.  I sigh.  I'll have to explain now.  For a moment I wish I hadn't said anything, but it's not like I can hide it forever and then I'd have two things to apologize for and explain.

"I don't really know," I start and am interrupted by the sudden screech of tires as Pat slams on the brakes.

"Sorry," he mutters and we both watch as a car right in front turns on its lights.  I stifle a sudden giggle.

"Pat, seriously?  It's a Mini."

He glares at me, but we both know that the chance of him fitting into the spot is about as good as me giving a rational explanation for what I've done. With a sigh, Pat pulls around the car and drives on down the packed row.

For a few minutes we're silent.

"You said you won't do it."

It's unanswerable.  Yes, yes, I did say that.  But then I've said that I'll go to the gym three times a week and stop counting French Fries as a vegetable.

"I know..." I struggle for words. "I did say that, but..."

"So, why then?"

"I just...  I just couldn't leave him.  I know I shouldn't have, I know that three of them in an apartment is too much, but he was so forlorn and he kept coming by every morning and every evening and probably hanging around under the porch all day, just waiting for me to get home."

Once I start, the words just pour out, "He is so friendly and it's been so cold out and I know they have thick fur for a reason, but come on, it's snowing one day and raining the next and he is just so adorable and I just couldn't leave him outside."

Pat swerves, pulling into a just-barely-wide-enough parking spot and turns to face me. I can see the suppressed smile struggling to break through.  He unbuckles his seat belt, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a twenty dollar bill.

"Here", he hands the bill to me. "I made a bet with myself that you won't make it to two weeks of watching that fat furball without letting him in."

I don't know whether to laugh or be annoyed, but I have to know, "And what if I had made it past two weeks?"

He gives me a wry look and shakes his head, "Hon, you know I only make bets that I'm sure to win."

Time & habits

These days I have a lot of free time on my hands.  I could fill it with a lot of different things I normally don't have time to do.  Instead, I find that most of the time I'm just spinning my wheels.  It's not that I don't do anything, it just doesn't feel like I'm getting anything done.

There are so many things I could be doing.  I could be looking for work (I am), I could be doing things around the house (I do), I could read, write, learn a foreign language, take classes online, join a gym, take up a hobby... you get the point.  I could do all of these things, but the motivation to put in the effort is easily squelched by the "why bother?" argument.

I am finding that the mere glut of time and choices is crippling.  I need a structure and yet I balk at creating one.  I write down schedules and make plans, but as I'm answerable only to myself in most of them, it's easy to let things slide.  In the past, I always thought that I lacked the time to do things that are always on the periphery of my activities, but now I'm faced with the uncomfortable truth that it's not time that I lack, it's the discipline.

Most people will probably readily admit that they aren't very good at forcing themselves to do things they don't want to do, but here it's things that I do want to do and yet I'm still not doing them.  At least when I was working full time I had the excuse of working and running the house for why I didn't have time for exercising or engaging in other extra-curricular activities. I don't have the work excuse anymore.  Sure, I'm spending a lot of time looking for work, but there are only so many jobs available and having applied to every one that sounds the least bit plausible, I'm left staring at the computer screen and feverishly devising yet more excuses for why I'm not going to the gym or taking out my Spanish workbook.

It's disappointing...  I had thought that I had conquered my laziness and tendency to procrastinate, but no, it seems like I hadn't.  All I did was bury and mask it with layers of busyness.  So, on top of my other bad habits of biting my fingers and craving sweets, I now have to add procrastination and laziness.  Welcome back, friends.

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.