Self-Help Thru Whuppins

In an attempt to maintain some sort of sanity (and to prevent every conversation from devolving into a rant about my thesis) I’ve been trying to read books about things other than land use policy.  Do not fear, I still read a great deal of land use policy. Piles of it. And it still gets me riled up. But, as a medium for personal growth, land use policy is generally lacking.

I read a lot this summer. I’m still reading a lot – generally reading has superseded my other “relaxation” activities (knitting and re-watching movies) and I have found that much in the same way that I stand in front of the open pantry wishing I had a bit of cookie or licorice after dinner, I will stand in front of my bookshelves and search for something to satisfy my literary craving. I have a lot of books, so this would seem like a desire that could be met in-house. Not so, as evidenced by the piles of new books stacked on every flat surface of my living room (and some not so flat, as Dog has discovered).

These new books fit one of three genres. They are crime/assassination thrillers with complex good/bad guys and a realistic approach to fighting, evasion, and investigation. I care not for long descriptions of physical appeal (how rippling were those abs?) and prefer detailed depictions of the procedure necessary to determine that one is not being followed. Or they are books about how we are messing up our planet by eating unsustainable foods and living in unsustainable neighborhoods and using unsustainable transportation and how all of that is connected and how it has been subsidized and fundamentalized and become such a part of our existence that we can’t imagine not living that way, even though our lives could arguably be healthier, happier, and more meaningful. Or, because the first kind of book gets me excited, and the second kind of book gets me angry, I read books about how to be a better person.

I’ll be straight with you. I’ve started one book on how to be a better person, which almost immediately triggered my gag reflex, and I just finished one book that was technically about how to survive violence that felt like the author knew me – didn’t just know my personality and my experiences, but my thought process and the words that I needed to hear. To be honest, it caught me by surprise. And now I’m reeling a bit. I expected the book about learning to let go (which is what I will get tattooed on my wrist as soon as I am done having surgery on it – an odd tattoo for a climber to be sure, but there you have it) to tell me the things I needed to hear. Apparently either I’ve already moved farther along in the letting go process than I thought, or I am not in the right place for that book because it just made me aggravated. When books start throwing out the “self-love” terminology I find my skepticism kicks into overdrive. When books talk about acceptance AND self-love I start to get that bile in the throat taste. I have never been an acceptor. I do not want to accept – or at least, I do not want acceptance to be my default state. Not for myself, not for the world around me, not for my life.

Change does not happen through acceptance. Change happens through action (and sometimes there is a good bit of resistance too – which is generally a waste) by choice and by recognition that the status quo is Not Good Enough. I remember the first time my therapist told me that I was good enough – he was trying to help me establish some sense of self-worth. He asked if I understood and then if I agreed. I told him I understood but that I didn’t agree, not then, but I’d keep working on it. He took that to mean I’d keep working on acceptance. I meant that I’d keep working to make myself better, stronger, calmer, smarter, more confident, more social, more empathetic, a person who is good enough.

I have a very good friend who is deep into acceptance and finding inner peace. She gets frustrated by me because my reaction to perceived setbacks is often self-denigrating, and she can become infuriated at my emotional flailing at what she identifies as problems inherent in the human experience. This is because I will not simply accept conditions as they are. First I will try to outsmart them, then I will try to get around them, then I will try to overpower them, then I flail. I will not accept until it is obvious that there is no alternative. And even then I will pout.

Yet, for the first time I actually understand why I do what I do and why I cannot ease into acceptance – and I can say with some confidence that it is very unlikely that I ever will.

I just finished Meditations on Violence: A Comparison of Martial Arts by Rory Miller. The book is full of pointers and concepts created to not only explain what happens during a violent encounter, but how to prepare, avoid, engage, and survive one if need be. It is not a macho book. It does not glorify or romanticize violence. Nor does it feed the paranoia. What it does do, though, is explain how violence really happens, and what really needs to be considered before a person finds themselves in a violent situation. How unfortunate it is that the only way to learn what needs to be discovered before being thrust into a violent situation is having experienced a violent situation without that preparation.

At the close of my marriage – when the abuse was still too fresh in my memory to have become part of my story, I joined a martial arts school and began training. I never told my instructors about the abuse. I never even hinted. But one thing was obvious, I was aggressively hunting for change. Not only did I not want to be a victim in my story, but I did not want to be a victim in reality – not ever, and change – a fundamental adjustment to my personality – was the only way to make sure that didn’t happen.

But change is not easy. It hurts. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. It is like going through a box of mementos of your life and tossing the stuffed animals and the spelling tests with gold stars and the greeting cards and school photos. They become things that belong to someone else, and while it is often heart-wrenching, it is also liberating. The key is to stick with it – to keep pushing the change – to not give up. Because giving up is anathema to change. Because acceptance may be less painful, but it doesn’t actually alter the situation.

I realize now that I am someone who would rather hurt and work (fight even) toward altering a situation rather than someone who can find peace in acceptance. I’m not looking for peace – at least not as a permanent fixture. I don’t want drama or war or violence, but I do want the conflict and challenge inherent in change. I want to grow and push myself against my boundaries because I realize that the boundaries I find so limiting are almost always of my own creation. Because that is how I overcome them, through conflict – and that is where I get as close as I ever will to peace.

I’ve been frustrated for a while now because I could not figure out how to get “past” my need to constantly push myself. Frustration leads to punishment (seriously – Meditations had some of the best treatment of “punishment” and its worthlessness as anything other than an expression of sadism (or in my case masochism) that will give me a lot to think about for a while) which ultimately leads to injury or damage or exhaustion or any other of a dozen blocks that stop my progress. The problem isn’t the pushing, the problem is the frustration – the expectation that I should be working out my issues some other way, that what I’m doing isn’t right or best or even beneficial. The reality is that maybe, just maybe I should accept that acceptance isn’t for me. And maybe I should quit thinking of change as a unilateral motion – that can only be accomplished one way.

Like the book said, it isn’t the technique that means the difference between survival and failure, it is the preparation, committment, and intent that are going to be the determining factors. I think I just got a glimpse of the forest through the trees.

Second-Hand Goals

This morning I ran for the first time in three weeks.  It was only 3 miles.  Considering I have a 13 mile race in two weeks, three miles is distressingly little.  This time last year I was running 10 and 12 miles – comfortably.  Easily even.  Not today.  Not this year.

I’m pretty sure I have anterior Achilles bursitis.  Net result is that my right ankle was in so much pain that I couldn’t run.  I couldn’t walk without limping – and as recently as Thursday I was gimping the Dog around at the park.  But I got a new ankle brace, I’ve been trying to do some strengthening exercises, and I haven’t been running.  Which, in my world, means it should heal.

It hasn’t healed.  It has improved.  I was running pain free for the first two miles – the third started aching, but it was generally tolerable.  Or tolerable for me.  I am still learning that a high pain tolerance is not always a good thing.  Just because I can doesn’t mean I should.

Today was a test.  Do I run the race in two weeks?  Or do I accept that I’ve wasted the entry money?  I already know that all my previous goals are shit.  I won’t be running for time.  I’ll be running to see if I can finish.  And I’ve already run that race.  I already know I can run 13 consecutive miles.  I’ve run 13  consecutive miles on several occasions – both officially and in training.  There is nothing to prove there – nothing to gain.

And there may be something to lose – a more severe injury could mean a much longer recovery time – could mean months of not running, not just weeks.  Could mean even a doctor’s visit for a cortisone shot or worse.

Yet I hate the idea of not following through with my goals.  I hate it so much that I’m seriously considering running the race anyway – loading up on anti-inflamatories and vicodin, getting an even more severe ankle brace, and running the race.

I know what this is.  I know why I feel so strongly about it.  I have a story in my head about the kind of person I am.  When I was younger I had a habit of starting projects and never finishing them.  It still happens more than I like, but I’ve worked very hard the last 10 years to rewrite that part of the story – to become the kind of person who sticks with it and pushes through the boring parts and the painful parts and the time consuming parts and finishes what she starts.  That’s the kind of person I want to be – it’s the image I have of myself in my head – and it’s the reason that not running this race is so unsavory.  It would violate my story – invalidate that bit of myself that I’ve worked so hard to create – the bit that finishes what she starts.

So I’m at a conundrum.  I’m going to hurt either way.  Do I take the physical pain and maintain my inner story?  Or do I accept that the story is flawed and let the ankle continue to heal?  The second probably seems the most reasonable – to an outsider, but what would you do if it was your story that was at risk?

I guess I still have two weeks.  Sort of.  In the mean time, I have a collection of  ice packs in the freezer, and a bottle of pain killers in the cabinet.  Either way I’m prepared.

The Fear

I have, over the course of my life, developed a rather complicated relationship with fear.  I hate horror movies or any other use of fear (or some facsimile there-of) for entertainment.  I hear people talk about the “Saw” films or whatever the latest gore-fest is and my apathy gets awfully close to the edge of distaste.

Yet I will do things just because they scare me.  Like ride motorcycles or walk through dangerous neighborhoods or quit my job to start my own business or get in the ring to fight someone bigger, stronger, and faster than me.  This last weekend I took my fear to Bishop down into the Owens River Gorge and threw it at a cliff, to see what would happen.  It had been so long since I’d tested myself against my fear that I’d forgotten how it turns the back of my throat metallic and leaves my mouth dry and my scalp tight.  I’d forgotten how clear everything becomes with a strong dose of fear, how the sights and sounds and smells of the world around me are honed to a razor’s edge while my focus narrows until all I can see is this wall, this slab of weather pocked volcanic stone, this finger’s width edge, this chalk marked crack.

I’d also forgotten how it feels to have the fear take control, to weaken my muscles and turn my guts to lead, to leave me half paralyzed and half frantic and so unnerved that I seriously consider quitting.  And I’d forgotten what it takes to push past the fear, to suppress the frenetic writhing of my lizard brain, to quiet the screeching alarms of impending death, to take control and move with deliberation.

It was good to have a reminder.  Especially one that didn’t result in a trip to the emergency room.

Today the volume has been turned down.  That is the pleasant side effect of facing fear – it alters perspective.  The nervousness inherent in a committee meeting with influential politicians pales in comparison to the kind of fear I found on the rock.  The anxiety that comes with settling into a new job seems less like fingernails on a chalkboard and more like the hum of a high performance engine.  I could handle that, I can handle this, I can handle anything.

The whole experience underscored how important it is for me to keep challenging myself – to not get lazy or complacent.  I get so tired sometimes, so worn down that I think complacent sounds good.  Really, though, it doesn’t.  My tolerance for complacency is about as extensive as my tolerance for horror flicks and fake fear.  Nil.

I’m setting my goals for the summer.  I’ve got some big ones in there – a solo weekend backpacking trip, some serious improvement in my climbing, a new 13 mile personal best, and filling in some of the gaps in my martial arts training.  That along with the job, the dog, and the thesis.  And, if we can get things going, the band.  Because sometimes a great practice is almost as effective as the fear at putting things into perspective.

Which appears to be my theme for the summer.  Perspective.  It’s going to be good.

Pending…

It seems like my life tends to ebb and flow at a remarkable rate.  Maybe this is true for everyone.  But, I haven’t been anyone else, so all I know is what happens to me.  And lately?  That’s been a lot.  If this is more of a rundown than a thoughtful interpretation, well, I’ve spent more time this last week sitting in front of a computer than anything else – including sleeping.  Especially sleeping.  If this thing was anywhere else, I’d be there instead of here.  But here it is, so here I am.

First of all, I have a new job.  An internship really.  No benefits.  A slight cut in pay.  And a set of tasks that are truly challenging.  Yes, there is a lot of mundane.  But there is more that is interesting and important and just plain challenging.  Best of all, what I’m doing is what I’ve been learning to do.  It’s helping – albeit helping from a municipal position.  Which is a bureaucratic position.  Which is its own problem.  But that’s the system as it exists.  It is entrenched.  So entrenched that any change is going to come from within.  And I’m within a pretty good place.

I will say that I’m not used to working with so many people.  I’m at this workstation that is mostly open to the room, and there is constant traffic.  The first couple of days I found that I was having a ridiculously hard time keeping any sort of focus.  It’s gotten better, but I’m still astounded by the amount of walking and talking people do – while at the same time getting a pretty impressive amount of work done – or at least that is my impression.  The overall vibe is amazingly positive.  People are there because they want to be there – it is their career.  I think once I settle in, I’ll do well.  As it is, I’m still finding my stride.  Which has been more difficult than usual.

This is finals week.  I never thought that getting a Master’s degree would be easy.  However, even I’m impressed with the quantity and quality of information I’ve absorbed so far.  I keep running across people who are also pursuing post-graduate degrees.  I’ve started judging their programs by the number of bags under their eyes.  The darker the circles, the more sincere the education.  I’ve yet to rigorously test this theory, but I imagine I will.  I seem to be in that mode lately.

Anyway, this week has been one of the most intense I remember.  I mean, I can remember weeks where I had more homework, but then I was already stable in my job.  And I remember being new to my job, but it was the start of the semester and easy-going.  Both at the same time should be sending me right over the edge.  On top of that I haven’t had the time to get into the gym like I usually do.  Nor have I been exercising in the mornings like I’d planned.  I get up at the crack of dawn, work until dusk, go to class, go home, and then crash.  And the day’s I don’t work are the same, only I study.  Yet I’ve been surprisingly stable.

I think part of it is the new job.  It feels like I’m finally on the right path.  Even the hives have started to clear up.  And I know that part of it is that I’m simply getting used to this.  And I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I’ll be able to breathe come Tuesday.  Four days.  I can stand most anything for four days.

But I think the biggest change has been my new housemate.  Her name is Ryder and she’s an 80 lb Akita that belongs to my brother.  There are a lot of reasons that she ended up living here with me.  I mean, my house is not that big, and that is a lot of dog.  Plus, she’s 5 years old, which is middle age for Akitas.  Beyond that, she’s never really been a house dog – or even a suburban dog for that matter – let alone an urban critter.  She’s lived most of her life in a kennel out on a large piece of property in the country.  She was in the kennel not because she is aggressive or unstable, but because she is a natural hunter, and for prey is anything smaller than she is – and some things considerably larger.  After killing quite a few chickens, harassing enough cats, and playing with a goat until it could no longer walk, my brother had to keep her locked up.

So when somebody jumped my fence one night a few weeks ago while I wasn’t home, and after repeated eggings, and now that I’ve started noticing a lot of new people wandering around my neighborhood and a growing stream of obviously drugged out folks loitering around the abandoned duplex across the way, I finally started seriously thinking about getting a dog.  I had only to mention this to my brother and he offered to bring her here on a trial basis.  Here there are no chickens to kill (at least not anymore) or goats to play with, and I’m totally ok if she wants to chase the cats out of the yard.  It’s a small yard.  And she’s already filled it full of holes hiding buried tennis balls and rawhide bones.  But I’m ok with all of that.  I’m ok with the amazing quantities of hair.  I’m even ok with the lingering scent of dog that follows here everywhere she goes.  I don’t mind picking up poop.  And so far, I’ve been amazingly consistent with feeding times and water checking.  And I’m calm.  Even though I can feel the need to get to the gym growing, even though I’m under an incredible amount of pressure with new job and finals and papers and healthcare and money problems and far too much social isolation, I’m calm.

I talk to her constantly, which makes sense because she follows me around the house like a paranoid sycophant.  Actually she looks more intelligent than that.  She watches everything I do, as though she’s taking notes.  And she’s curious about everything.  The best part about a mature dog is that when she encounters something new, she doesn’t need to be taught over and over what the allowed behaviors are.  I had to tell her twice not to put her paws on the counter (she’d never been in a house before, so she didn’t know) and now she doesn’t even think about it.  She walks away from food when I tell her to.  She stops the seconds I say “no”, or even “nuh uh” which is more my style.  I save the “no” for the serious stuff, like paws on the counter, or the white chair.

It took a few days but I’m getting used to having another critter in the house.  I still wake up when she moves around, but I’ve noticed that my overall anxiety about sleeping has reduced.  There’s something about having another set of ears on that lets me drop my guard a bit.  It’s a relief, really.  Because lately I’d been jumping every time the fridge switched on.

There is another component to this experiment with the dog.  Beyond the security and the company, I’m testing the waters of attachment.  I’ve decided to let myself learn to really care about this animal.  I have become a master of detachment.  It is a long story, but with the exception of a very few people who have either been grandfathered in, or who, by some cosmic fluctuation managed to find me at the right time, I’ve learned to meet people, associate with them, and then leave when the leaving time came – all without the emotional turmoil and grief usually associated with such activities.  And I haven’t been emotionally engaged with an animal since I was 16.  It’s occurred to me that if I intend to ever actually use my heart, I’d best break it out of the safe it’s been hibernating in.  This is me cracking the combination.

So my life has been in high turmoil.

I’m so ready for this summer.  I have plans.  Grand plans, because really, should there be any other kind?

My Inverted World

My life has taken several rather peculiar turns.  Few things have remained constant, not my friends, or my relationships with my family, or my plans for myself.  In fact, just about everything I’ve ever known about myself has changed at some point or another. 

With one major exception.

I experience the world through an inverted relationship with the mundane.  Let me explain. 

I am one of those people for whom the average is exceptionally problematic but for whom the difficult is often surprisingly easy.  Now maybe this sounds like a good thing.  Ah, don’t kid yourself.  It is most unfortunate.

This is because the vast majority of our mundane daily existence is in the realm of average – the grocery shopping and gas getting and mail posting and bill paying and going here and going there and the house cleaning and the scheduling and all of the thousands of little tasks we do every week to make our lives livable are all average.  And I struggle with them so much that it is often comedic, occasionally tragic, and a constant source of frustration. 

On the other hand, if you need a particularly tricky computer problem solved, or if you need help with a serious social problem, or if your baby is about to be eaten by dingoes, I’m your gal.  Need instant access to esoteric information and don’t have access to a computer?  I’m on it!  Need a soundboard for a major life changing decision?  Gotcha covered.  Has your car broken down in the middle of the desert and all we have to fix it with is a wire clothes hanger and a roll of toilet paper?  Don’t even worry about it.  We’re good.

Need that letter mailed, the gas tank filled, and some salsa from the grocery store?  Uh… Houston, we have a problem. 

For instance, (and what would life stories be without instances?) this morning I needed to get gas before I went to work.  I had planned to fill up the night before, but first I forgot, then I couldn’t find my wallet, then it got late and I got tired and I decided I’d do it first thing this morning. 

A tangent, I know that decision is never a good one.  I have a very hard time functioning in the morning.  I’m almost never early.  I’m frequently late.  I’m almost always cranky.  And the difficulty factor of any specific task is magnified by 10 first thing in the morning.

So when I walked out the door 5 minutes early, thinking that was enough time to stop on the way to work and get gas, I didn’t consider that the first station would be closed while the fuel trucks were filling the tanks and some guys were repairing the pumps.  Nor did I realize that the second station, where there was a line of cars, would have problems with their pay at the pump machines and would be requiring everyone to pay inside where there was an even longer line of people waiting impatiently while the cashier tried to figure out how to run a credit card.  Nor did it dawn on me that the third station would be so far out of my way that I’d have to take a new route to work in which I would get stuck in gnarly traffic. 

The funny thing?  It should have.  I should have known it would be all but impossible to get through the mundane this morning.  Because that is how things go.  It is how thing have always gone.  It is probably how they will always go.  And I’m slowly starting to figure it out.

It is that understanding that give me confidence about my thesis and keeps me calm in tense situations and allows me to test well.  It is why I don’t have a fear of public speaking or rock climbing or getting stuck in tough neighborhoods.  Because those are unusual things – out of the ordinary.  Beyond average.  That is where I function smoothly.

But don’t ask me to get groceries.  Because that has FAIL written all over it. 

Reason number 87 why I need a personal assistant.  Or at least someone to hold my hand and tell me it will all be ok when my gas tank nears empty.

Trappings of a Post-Industrial Renaissance Woman

One of the most difficult and unfulfilling aspects of being the kind of person who is interested in everything is the fact that I am not able to persue my interests to their conclusion.  Many of my interests I can’t persue at all.  Others I can get a glimpse of, but have no opportunity to actually get involved – get my hands dirty.  This is why, when left to my own devices, a few spare moments and an internet connection will find me studying wiring schematics for ardino controlled home-made light fixtures and engine diagrams for antique motorcycles and embroidery designs for Tokugawa era obi and artifacts from the latest Saxon archeological find and the mathematical underpinnings of the Delta Blues. 

In a single sitting. 

This is why libraries and book stores are giant time vacuums for me.  All that information so accessible, so tangible – I’m a touch oriented person, and the physical sensation of actually holding an object in my hands while I examine it is often a near-religious experience.  Actually, it is the absence of a physical presence that separates the internet experience from the book store/craft store/thrift store experience.  As long as my sense of touch is not engaged and the experience is purely visual or audible, then my pseudo ADD keeps me from getting too engrossed.  This is why I’ll bring a sketchbook to museums.  I have pages of drawings of pottery fragments and broken sculptures and museum interiors.  The act of holding the book in my hands and drawing what I see engages me in a more complete and integrative way than just standing and starting at paintings ever could. 

The problem with this (and with much of my life in general) is that this process is time consuming.  Chasing my interests is time consuming.  Engaging with the fascinating things in the world around me is time consuming.  Learning about everything I want to learn about is time consuming.  And in a world that glorifies specialization to the exclusion of all else, there is no time to be figuring something out just because it is interesting.  There is no profit in it.  No future.  Understanding the origin and design of the modern washing machine (did you know that they were designed with cement blocks as weights to keep them from spinning themselves apart?  No wonder they were always so difficult to move!) is not going to help me establish a career and make money.  It will not help me navigate today’s economic environment.  For me, this is a catch 22.  I can chase my interests – be true to that part of my personality – only if I am willing to spend my life struggling to meet my physical needs – food, shelter, clothing, etc.  If I want to be financially stable, I have to pick one thing, and focus on it, to the exclusion of most else, and keep after it, even after I’ve lost interest.  Even after I’ve figured it out to my satisfaction.  Even after I’ve realized that it is not what I thought it was and that what it is does not mean anything to me. 

To date I’ve been unable to maintain that kind of focus.  I’ve gone from low-skill low-paying job to low-skill low-paying job while I chased my extracurricular interests – music and art and literature and architecture and sociology and philosophy and history.  And while I’ve made some wonderful discoveries and developed a vast array of skills (albeit with only a modicum of actual ability) and connected many of the dots that are scattered across the human experience, none of it seems to be worth anything in the modern sense – the economic sense.  The financial sense.

None of it makes me any money.  Though I can hold a conversation with just about anyone on just about anything.  (An aside, you’d think that in itself would have value – that it would be networking gold, but the truth is that it has gotten me in trouble as often as it has been helpful.)

With another bout of unemployment looming, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I can live a more emotionally and intellectually satisfying life.  I do not want to end up in another cubicle with another corporate overlord.  This experience where my livelihood is at the mercy of an inhuman commercial machine that has no qualms about cutting me loose – to whom I am nothing but an employee ID number – has affirmed my anti-authoritarian tendencies.  At least when I was dismissed by the Mom n Pop businesses it was an actual person making the decision – somebody I could look in the eye while they pulled the trigger. 

So I’ve been studying fashion.  Ok, not really studying since I don’t have time to study anything but regression equations and data sets and articles about regression equations and data sets right now.  But I’ve been noticing it differently.

Tangent, of sorts.  I have studied music since my mother ended up with her grandmother’s old piano when I was five.  The instrument had been in our house less than a week before I started picking out songs by ear.  I had learned a handful of top 40 hits and most of the melody to The Entertainer before my parents realized what was going on and started me with music lessons.  I quit the lessons when I graduated from high school – for three reasons.  First, I was about as skilled as my instructor at the time.  Second, I hadn’t improved in my skill for a very long time.  Third, I had no illusions about being able to support myself as a musician.  Just like I had no illusions about being an artist, even though I had a fair hand at the canvas.  A fair hand in art or music is simply not enough.  So those interests were relegated to “hobbies”.  Not quite passions.  Not dreams.  Just interests. 

Then, for my 32nd birthday I bought myself a cheap drum kit on Ebay.  The day I got it set up and sat down and played it for the first time (the first time I’d ever touched a drum kit) music changed for me.  I started hearing things in a different way.  A song would play and I would hear the math of it, the algorithms and patterns and equations that made it interesting and appealing.  I’ve never been any good at math, but this new listening, this deconstruction of sound to its base components was not like any math I’d learned in school.  It was organic.  Natural.  And immediately my musical ability jumped.  My piano skills are still rusty – I don’t have the time to practice like I wish I did.  And my drum skills are rudimentary at best.  But I understand how music works in a way that surpasses anything I thought I was capable of. 

I just wish I’d known that this kind of understanding was possible before I gave up.

So, to bring this tangent to a close, something similar is happening to my visual understanding of art, and it is happening through fashion.  I am seeing patterns and textures and lights and shadows and shapes in a new way – as though someone has lifted the veil and suddenly I can see, not only the components as they are in themselves, but as they are connected to all the other parts – as they interact with the piece as a whole.  It is fascinating and enthralling and I find myself deconstructing and reconstructing the visual world around me – constantly craving a sketchbook or a camera or a canvas or something to touch so I can engage with this fascinating realization.

Shitty timing for an epiphany.

I am so swamped with the pedantry of surviving – with the day to day of what has become a temporary (and therefore pointless) job, while hunting for another (probably temporary and therefore pointless) job, while keeping up with my classes, while dealing with my health issues, while trying to keep up with my emotional stability, while doing all those things necessary to live – that, as I told a friend earlier, I’m snorting algae.  I cannot afford a burst of creativity.  I simply can’t.

And it is driving me nutters.  I want to raid the thrift store for projects, and instead I am scouring the U.S. Census databank for demographics.  I’m sending reminder emails about compliance reports.  I’m washing dishes and paying bills.  I’m reading textbooks and answering hypotheticals.  I’m doing everything except what I really want to do. 

It is unsatisfying. 

I made a resolution this year to live in good faith.  Turns out, that is one of the most difficult goals I have ever set.  So much of what is considered necessary by today’s standards forces bad faith.  The job and the job hunt, for instance.  At which point do I say enough?  At which point do I let go of the paycheck and the benefits and accept that I will not be satisfied with a cubicle? 

Not today, not now, not at this point.  Unfortunately.  Today I will finish work, go home and work some more and the whole time my brain will be buzzing with colors and shapes and textures and shadows.  And I’ll do my best to ignore it. 

Again.

Toes

I will confess to being something of a control freak.  I can delegate, but I generally won’t until I know that whoever I am delegating to can handle (or is willing to learn about) the task at hand, and, more importantly, won’t dump it back in my lap at the absolute last minute because they couldn’t handle it but were too nervous or self conscious or lazy to let me know that they couldn’t handle it.  This is why I do not like being group leader unless it is with a group of people that I have formed relationships with – people whose range of abilities I know well enough that I can delegate efficiently.

It must be because of this view of leadership that I take tasks delegated to me seriously.  I always have – especially in the workplace.  Even when those tasks are redundant and inefficient and unnecessary, I still apply myself.  Sure, in the back of my mind (or sometimes even in the front) I’m disgusted with the pedantry of it.  But if it has my name on it, I want it to be quality.  Above and beyond.  Sure it is a boring report, but it will be the cleanest and most complete boring report it can be!

As a rule, I try not to get attached to things/ideas/places/people.  In that order.  You never know when you’ll have to bail on a situation.  Attachment makes bailing tricky.  This isn’t to say that I’m unstable.  I like a certain amount of routine.  Schedules are good.  Consistency is even better.  But routines and schedules are human parameters imposed on circumstances that we have little or no control over.  So while they make it seem like we’re in charge, the reality is that they are a reaction – a proactive reaction maybe, but still a reaction.  Consistency, on the other hand, is an illusion.  There was a great deal of philosophical debate back in the hey day of early modern philosophy about the constantness of things – about how our expectations that because a thing happened 500 hundred time it would happen 501.  That impression – based purely on interpretation – is necessary to make life livable, in my opinion.  It would be impossible to function if we didn’t have a perception of constancy in the world.  Yet it is just that.  A perception.

My little world is getting all tossed about.  No consistency.  No solidity.  My routines are in shambles.  And my schedules are like the latest technology – obsolete before the day even starts.  And I’m finding that I’ve created all these little attachments – attachments that are only now exposed as I’m lurching about trying to figure out what to do next.  They are my attempt at retaining control.  They are failing. 

The restructuring at work is moving ahead – and for the most part I find about changes only after they’ve been made, after I’ve missed some deadline or some notice, after I’ve sent the email or made the phone call or requested the data.  That is not a good time to learn about changes.  I spend a lot of time redacting, a lot of time apologizing, a lot of time trying to figure out what is still my task, and what has been eliminated, outsourced, or simply moved to the person who is going to be doing my job after they close my office.  And if I didn’t care about the quality of my work, if I wasn’t attached to my tasks, if I wasn’t invested in doing my job well, this wouldn’t matter.

But I am.  So it does.  And when my replacement sends me emails with demands – no introduction, no niceties, no explanation, just a demand – for information on a process that I not only improved, but that I was recognized for, and then makes no other acknowledgement, my toes get smooshed.  It is evidence of just how expendable I am.  And I’m not particularly in the mood to have my expendability rubbed in my face right now. 

What it makes me want to do is sever all attachment immediately.  “Oh, you want to take over that?  Ok.  Here.  And take this and that and the other if you’re so good.”  I’ve done it before. 

But I’m not going to do it this time.  Not yet.  I’ll sever the attachments, yes.  And I’ll try to continue to do a good job without caring about doing a good job.  And when the demands that take away my responsibility come, I’ll accede.  And maybe, next time I’m at the store, I’ll pick me up a pair of steel toe boots.

Because it looks like I’m going to need them.

Ephemeral Control

That last post is about as close to pathos as I want this experience to go.  I did not create this to be a chronicle of “poor me”s.  All things considered, and that is a lot of things, I’m doing pretty good.  Except for the hives.  And even those will go away eventually.

I took the day off of work yesterday.  I turned off my phone.  I checked my email once in the morning.  And the rest of the day I spent getting my life in order.  It was a very productive day.

Memory Log!

Yesterday morning I had a peanut butter and honey sandwich for breakfast.  Took some energy drugs, and did that cleaning thing where your hands are never empty – you know the thing, where you are always carrying something to put away in another room, even when it isn’t pertinent to the exact task at hand – cleaning the bedroom meant carrying laundry to the laundry room and then taking the long way back so I could move the snow boots from the dining room to the hall closet.  It is good cleaning – indirectly efficient cleaning.

I finally tackled the office.  I’d been dumping paperwork in a box for the last five months.  Before that it was a paper bag which had ripped and spilled all over the office floor.  And the top of my desk had become so cluttered that there was barely enough flat space for a coffee mug – let alone books and papers.

Tangent: It is amazing how much impact the environment has on me.  While the basic tools of my office have not changed – I still have the computer with the internet and access to the online libraries and I still have a chair and my music and a little heater for my feet and I still have my coffee mug and printer and stapler – before, when it was too cluttered to even move around in, I couldn’t concentrate.  I would come in here, sit down to work, and immediately feel zapped of any motivation or desire.  I’d end up farting around on the internet the whole time.  Sometimes without even pretending to access my school-work files.  This morning though, I woke up early, and for the first time in weeks I’m looking forward to working on my assignments.  Which is about time – I’m behind and if the malaise of the last few weeks had continued much longer, I’d be in big trouble.

Cleaning the office included emptying my file cabinet and storing all of the old documents and then filing the new stuff in its place.  It was very challenging and I now understand fully my reluctance to attack that particular task.  It was the equivalent of reviewing the last few years.

Tangent 2:  Before I had my car accident I was pretty good about keeping on top of my paperwork – bills and what not got paid on time, stuff that needed to be filed got filed, stuff that needed a response got a response.  After the accident, I quickly deteriorated in my ability to manage my paperwork.  Part of this is because it increased in volume.  But more than that, I found that I simply couldn’t manage.  Bills went unpaid – sometimes because I didn’t have the money – usually because I didn’t have the money – sometimes because the insurance was supposed to pay them but hadn’t.  The barrage of insurance documents and collections documents and hospital documents took me to a point where I simply couldn’t manage the rest of my paperwork – the utilities and the phone and my car insurance and the credit cards.  I’d pay what I could when I could and dump the paperwork into the file drawer loose.  Eventually the file drawer became full, and I started using bags and boxes.  Seldom sorting, often leaving letters and bills unopened (particularly if I was paying them online), just stuffing it all away.  Last year when I finally decided to get my tax situation resolved (or at least the federal portion of it) I dumped a lot of this paperwork on the floor so I could shuffle through it to find the documents I needed.

And I never picked it back up again.

Yesterday, as I was sorting through the file cabinet, putting the old stuff that I need to save into storage, roughly sorting the two and a half years of paperwork that had accumulated, and filing away everything from this year, I realized that I was looking at the physical evidence of my breakdown.  It was so vividly apparent, written in the dates of the bills and letters and demands, in the logos and language of the corporate medical machine, the impersonal insurance denials, and the varied collection of rejection letters from my last attempt to find a job.

I have a vast collection of letters stating that while my application is impressive, they’ve decided to go with someone else.  Thanks for my time.  Good luck.  Suck it.

Getting all of that sorted out was incredibly relieving.  It is also a testament to how far I’ve come that I would even consider taking on such a task.  And I have a good foundation to build on for this year.  A whole new organization, and a file just for the next crop of rejection letters.  Except this time they’re going to be from a much higher caliber of employers for a much higher caliber of jobs.   End Tangent.

I did take a little time to go to the gym and get a workout in.  I was very lax this last week about working out – I ran on Monday, hit the gym on Thursday, and then hit the gym again on Saturday.  That is a lot of down days for me, and I can feel it.  The workout was good, but it exhausted me more than I thought it would.  And afterwards, I came home, had a snack, finished cleaning the office, zoned in front of the computer for a while, practiced guitar for a bit, and went to bed early – or at least early for me.

I slept ok last night, quite a bit of tossing and turning, and when I did wake up the couple of times that I remembered looking at the clock, it was quite a while before I fell back asleep.  But it was more than I’ve been getting.  And there was no rooster crowing at the butt crack of dawn to wake me up and make me actually get up and go outside.  That was a huge bonus.

Friday afternoon my youngest brother stopped by on his way home and caught Urban Chicken and put him in a box and took him away.  My relief was so palpable and I was so exhausted from the whole thing that I just went inside, turned my brain off, and sat for several hours.

End Log.

The last two weeks have been very difficult.  Yard Chicken was part of that.  The lack of decent sleep also played a role.  But I think that eliminating the office clutter and the rooster is a good start to regaining some of that illusory control that we all find so necessary to function.  Or at least I do.

Today I’m going to do the last long pre-race run.  I’ll be glad when the race is over, though I don’t think I’ll be really cutting back on my exercise regimen all that much.  I need it to keep an even keel – and my emotional instability and increased stress level this last week has only underlined how important it is that I get enough endorphins.  But not having the race looming will be a good break.  It’s really interesting how when I first sign up for these races I dread them – and have to keep reminding myself that I have plenty of time, then as the training continues, I really enjoy it – enjoy having an excuse to take two hours on a weekend day to go outside and run the trails, and then as the race nears, I start to dread it again – thinking about all the stuff that could go wrong and wishing it was over already and wondering if I did enough training and my mantra becomes “why the hell do you do this to yourself?”.  But if this race is anything like the last, it will all be worth it.  And I’ll probably sign up for the October race again.  Because that middle part and that part where it is over are worth the stress and self-doubt inherent in the process.

Ok, time to work now.  A band that I like very much will be playing this Monday night – during the last half of my class.  I’ve promised myself that if I get on top of – and a little ahead in – my classwork that I can leave to go see them play.  A little reward for pulling my shit together.  Even if it did take a day off work to make it happen.

Stress Test

I would like to think that I’ve always been a pretty cool customer.  I can actually only remember a handful of times that I was actually agitated to the point of outburst – even as a kid it took a lot to get me riled up.  I’m good at holding whatever I’m feeling in – and only expressing it to people I know I can trust to not take me too seriously, people who know I just need to say the words and then I’ll deal with it, people who can do a little validating, provide a little perspective, and then tell me (kindly or not-so if necessary) to pull my head loose.  It has come to my attention that I may be a little too good at this emotional repression.

I have hives.  Again.  My heart has been racing at night.  Again.  I have chest pains.  Again.  And I’m drinking.  A lot.  Again.

So, in the interest of getting it out so I can hopefully get a little relief, here’s the current state of my existence.

Despite many varied (craigslist, neighborhood canvassing, TV) efforts to get rid of the rooster that moved in almost two weeks ago, he is still in my yard.  He still crows a good hour or more before sunrise.  I am less nervous around him.  But he is making a huge mess that is going to take a lot of time to clean up.  Anything that takes time causes incredible amounts of stress.

The computer that my parents decided they wanted updated is still sitting in pieces on my dining room table four months after they realized that it needed more than they knew how to do to get it running again.  The first replacement parts were stolen from my mailbox.  The second set arrived last Monday.  It will take four or five hours to get it up and running so that it can go back to them.  More time.

The speech therapy sessions are going well, I think.  However the neuro has put in a recommendation for an extensive learning disabilities test – one that costs $24oo.  Up Front.  And that will require at least 6 hours to conduct.  I do not have the money.  I do not have the reassurance that I will get reimbursed by my insurance.  I do not have the time.  I’ve been put on a waiting list to take the test in another 6 or 8 months with insurance approval.

I do not know if I will have a job, let alone insurance at that point.

My memory is still for total shit.

My insurance is conducting an inquiry into the brain injury visits that I’ve been making.  They do not want to pay for it, and are going to file a suit against “responsible parties” if at all possible.  They want me to provide an in depth explanation of the whole issue.  Again with the time. 

My employer has re-organized and my position eliminated.  Though they have promised that there will be no net loss of jobs, there has been nothing available in my area.  This is not a field that I want to continue to pursue.  It was an interim job while I worked on my degree.  Yet any job is better than no job – no insurance – no income. 

My job is in a constant state of flux.  I went from having way too much work to having almost none, to having way too much to having almost none.  None of it is interesting or challenging.  Nor is it consistent.  I find out that my tasks have been eliminated or deemed unnecessary only after I’ve completed them and sent them out.  I’ve been relieved of all ability to fix and help – not because I didn’t do a good job, but because I am simply too low on the totem, and the supervisor whose authority I was using is now gone.  The whole thing is demoralizing, depressing, frustrating, and exhausting.  I have to get mad to go to work in the morning.  Anger is the only motivator that can trump the depression.  I spend most mornings on the verge of breaking down.  All this time spend doing nothing, and all these things that I simply don’t have time to do – it kills me. 

I have been job hunting.  It is time consuming, energy consuming, and has a very low return rate.  So far I’ve submitted 6 or 7 applications with absolutely no response.  I do not have the time or the energy to do this with the vigor necessary to actually get a position – it causes me much stress.  Yet not applying for jobs significantly increases my anxiety level as well.  It is a catch-22.

I’m falling behind in my classes.  I simply do not have the energy or the mental focus to work effectively.  I spend far too much time sitting stunned in front of my computer trying to do research, but mostly trying not to allow myself to get distracted by every little thing.  Reading is almost impossible.  Focus is a joke.  And I can see the deadlines coming at me like bullets – traveling much faster than I can track.

My house is in total disarray – particularly my office.  The tax/insurance debacle of 2008 never got cleaned up, and the floor is littered with official papers that need to go back into the file cabinet.  I’ve got sacks of mail that I’ve never opened.  Stacks of files that got pulled and not replaced teeter on the spare bed.  Piles of computer parts litter every flat spot on my desk, printer, and end table.  The rest of the room is a tangle of unfinished projects, bits of arts and crafts, clothes, and more paperwork than can even be imagined.  And this is the room where I try to do my research.  I can’t even write on my desk, it is so covered in trash.  I need a day to sort it all out and put it all away.  Again.  Time.  (Caveat.  I have had days that I could do this.  However, it is the kind of task that I really struggle with.  I’ve started half a dozen times, and gotten so overwhelmed that I’ve given up each time.  This may be one of those tasks I need drugs to complete.)

On top of the house disarray are the leaks.  I still have not put my living room back together after the storm that dumped a bunch of water down the wall behind my fireplace and broke a new crack in the ceiling to drip more water on my floor.  I thought that maybe I’d fixed the leaks.  This last storm proved me wrong.  There are water stains everywhere. 

Even the things that keep me calm are causing me stress.  The race coming up seems like it is going to be fine, but I’ve been having issues with my guts – intense stabbing pains – that have put a damper on my last couple of runs.  I also feel like I haven’t had the time to train that I need.  So even though I’ll run the race just fine, it will hurt, I won’t do as well as I’d wanted, and I’m afraid I’ll end up spending the after race alone again, and that was kind of depressing.  (Caveat, I did ask people to go out.  Everyone was busy – the bane and the pride of my friendships – they all have equally intense lives.)

My climbing has suffered greatly from the surgery, the required down time, and my current inability to get enough of my life together to have a reliable schedule.  I wouldn’t even be able to pass the lead test at my current level.  I worked so hard, and now it is all gone.

Same with weights.

Same with martial arts.  I’ve been practicing more, and it is good when I do practice, but at the same time I have forgotten so much, and all I want is to have the time to do the practice, work from the videos, get my skill back.  Time.

I don’t even have time to practice my music.  I do try to get a little guitar time in every night, just so I don’t lose my calluses.  But it is difficult.  I’m not actually learning anything new.  My singing is getting better, but I’m not able to do the things I want to do with the music.

And that’s the basic list.  It does not include the tasks that are required for daily life – the food shopping and laundry and toilet cleaning and dishes and sweeping and oil changing and and and.  Nor does it include the things that I really want to be doing – the hiking and snowshoeing and skiing and photography and travel and reading and research on my projects.  I have a half finished electric/acoustic upright bass that I would love to work on.

I spend so much of each day standing in my hallway turning in circles as I try to figure out what I should do next, what is most important, what would be most efficient, what has the closest deadline, what would be easiest.

So I have hives.  I’m depressed.  I’m exhausted.  But I’m trying to stay upbeat and easy to get along with and pleasant to be around.  I’m trying to be reliable and resourceful and calm and consistent.  Really, I want to fly off the handle, get in a fist fight, and then get stinking drunk – for three or four days.  Ok.  Two days. 

I’m taking tomorrow off of work.  It will be good.  I don’t know what I’ll get done, but I’m going to aim high.  Hopefully by Monday I’ll have enough caught up that I can quit itching.  Hopefully!

Addicted

I am addicted to endorphins.  And adrenaline – to a lesser degree.  I rely on them to maintain my “balance”.  And like any other addiction, the more I do, the more I need to get my fix.  There are two ways to deal with this law of diminishing returns.  I can increase the length of time involved (and we are talking exercise now) or I can increase the intensity.

I’m already up to three and four-hour workouts – when my schedule permits.  The clock gives out before I do.  So it looks like intensity is the next step.

I have considered trying to find other means of emotional/mental regulation.  Meditation, for instance.  I can meditate – which is something.  For a long time I couldn’t.  But it does not have the same impact as an hour spent running intervals.  For most things I can delay my need for satisfaction.  But endorphins and sugar require the instant fix.  Instant.

I don’t have the energy to fight it.

I watched the “Hurt Locker” tonight.  As a rule I avoid films that require an emotional investment.  Just like I avoid chick flicks.  And horror.  And anything that totally butchers history.  Which leaves comedy, action, and the occasional indie film.  Under normal circumstances a war film – one made while the war is still so fresh – would not be my cup’a.  Yet I’d heard so many good things about this film, though they were all through official channels.

Maybe I was in the right mood.  Maybe it was the right time.  Maybe the stars are perfectly aligned.  But the film worked its magic.  And it did it in such a way that I don’t feel manipulated or cheated.  Instead, I feel a little bit more understood.  Which is strange.  I’ve never disarmed a bomb before – at least not a physical one.

Before I continue, I must say, see this film.  You will not be disappointed.  If it wins Oscars, it is because it deserves Oscars.  The performances are incredibly believable.  The setting is tangibly real.  The whole film is set up to make you feel like you are there, and you do.  Normally I have no problem pausing a movie while I get another shot of whiskey or find my knitting or wander around the kitchen – all part of my attention issues.  This movie, this movie I did not pause.  I thought about it, but I couldn’t make myself disengage from the story.

SPOILER (only in this paragraph though!) I was very gratified that none of the characters that I’d emotionally invested in bought it.  I was terrified that they wouldn’t live – and that is part of the success of the film – it creates characters you care about so deeply that you are afraid for them.  But to the credit of the writer and the director, they didn’t aim to break their audience’s heart – hence the lack of manipulation.  Which makes the film all the more intense, in my opinion. END SPOILER!

What surprised me most about this movie, though, is my ability to identify with the main character – again.  There is something about the emotionally detached lead character that is so familiar.  In this case, the character not only knew that he was emotionally dysfunctional, but he had given into the urge to just do things his way – regardless of what was going on around him – of who was demanding what.  Consequences be damned.  That is something I actually struggle with – not the doing things my way regardless of what happens, but controlling the urge to do things my way, regardless of consequences.

Don’t get me wrong, I can follow.  I spend a lot of time following.  It is necessary to get by in this life.  But I frequently find that left to my own devices, the first thing I do is go off the beaten path.  Or I reconfigure the path.  So much of the following that we do has no basis in logic.  Somebody did something once a long time ago and everyone else has done the same thing – regardless of changes in circumstances or situation – and nobody has stopped to ask why.

And what isn’t defined by precedent is defined by protocol.  One of the key frustrations in my job have been the “Sacred Cows” – tasks required because they are required.  They serve no purpose – go greater good or goal.  They are simply a factor of protocol.  We do it because we do it.  I have trimmed a great deal of that shit out of my personal life.  Yet it pervades my professional and academic life to the point that it is occasionally crippling.

Watching a character recognize that deviation from the beaten path is essentially an exercise in risk-taking was like having a personal mini-epiphany.  At the same time, recognizing that staying on the beaten path is not a sure mitigation for all risk was important.

On a long enough time line the survival rate of everything turns to zero.

There is a message here for me.  My nature is relatively risk-seeking.  Living a risk-avoiding lifestyle – particularly if it stifles my sense of self worth and my confidence in my ability to handle things – is living in bad faith.  I am selling myself short.

I know this.  Now the question is what I will do with it.  This epiphany and this mindset a decade ago would have put me in the army.  I would have done well in the military.  Now I am responsible for figuring out where best to put my efforts.

So many Dragons, so little of St. George to go around.

Segue

Urban Chicken (who has henceforth gained the name “Yard Chicken”) will be staying.  At least for a little while.  Apparently she has grown attached to me.  Today she approached me every time I went outside – getting close enough that I could have reached down and touched her if I wanted.  She has also developed this strange trait that is very much like the equivalent of an avian peeping Tom.  She will climb up on the patio furniture so she can see what I am doing inside the house.  She likes to look in the kitchen window and the sliding glass door in the dining room and watch me do stuff.  She’ll move from one vantage point to the other – whichever will give her the best view.  I find this behavior entertaining.

As long as she doesn’t get aggressive about it, we’re cool.  She pecks me though, and I’m calling KFC.

I bought her special chicken feed today.  Now I need to build a coop.  I did find out where she has been roosting at night – on top of my water heater enclosure.  It is pretty ingenious.  Most critters that would be a threat to her would have a very hard time getting up there.  At the same time, all she has to do is hop off and she’s able to move around.  She has not laid any eggs up there.  No nest.  A coop – particularly one that felt nice and safe – should encourage her to start laying.  That is my eventual goal.  Eventual being the key term.  I’m still getting used to the idea of having a chicken.

I don’t consider myself to be the most responsible of individuals.

I kill houseplants.  On a regular basis.  And only most times is it accidental.  Only most.

I wanted to write a memory log tonight.  And recap the weekend, but I am tired and it is late.  So I will end it with this.  I think I want my tombstone to read, somewhere on it, the word “Iconoclast”.  More than that, though, I want it to be true.