The Bottle

It's 2am and I'm awake again. I got a few hours of sleep, I'm grateful for those. It comes down to being grateful for the little things now, I guess I should have been more grateful before...I'm learning.

I came down the stairs as quickly as I could, my legs don't want to hold me without screaming and my arms take up the chorus when I ask them to help. Down the stairs, away from my warm loving husband, away from the little sounds of sleeping children, and the fuzzy fur ball of our Papillion at my feet...and to where the pills are, where I can take refuge in my computer, and I can cry without bothering or disturbing anyone or needing to explain.

To carry the 32oz bottle of Mocha Cappuchino Bolthouse Farms "perfectly protein" smoothy (I feel like hell, I allow myself these little pleasures) from the kitchen to the office didn't bring tears. I had a moment of being proud, then I had to open it. I considered calling...using my phone to call...my husband, but his phone is here on my desk charging, so I thought about the slog half way up the stairs so I could call to him without waking the kids, but no, he needs to sleep even though I know sleep hadn't taken him yet...let him think for a few hours that I'm sorted and he can relax.

I held it in my lap, my left arm wrapped around the cold bottle ('cold is the enemy' my mind kept reminding me) and held my breath as I tried to unscrew the cap. There was that one moment when it didn't feel like I was making any headway and I knew the pain would be worse for even trying. Fibromyalgia is nothing if not sadistic. Right when the tears came to my eyes and I could clearly feel every joint in my hand (there are a lot of them) the top gave, the safety seal gave it's reluctant sigh as the lid tore free...

And I wept. I put my drink on my desk and cradled my hand and wept. Each time my shoulders shook in that involuntary motion it sent a fresh wave of white pain and accompanying tears. I sat like that for a good 5 mintues...sobbing. A lot can go through the human mind in 5 minutes even when wracked with moments of blinding thought stopping pain.

I was proud, I did it, I opened the bottle...which lead to disgust, I'm 36 not 5 opening a bottle isn't something to be proud of... look how much this fucking disease has taken from me... alone, in pain, and proud of opening a fucking plastic bottle cap.

I wonder sometimes, is it human nature to flog ourselves?

Pain interrupted my dive into the wallowing pool and when I surfaced I felt shame. Not the kind best used as a flogging device, but the real kind that comes with perspective and realization and with that the weeping stopped. I cried for a while longer, I still have the stray tear making an appearance.

I felt shame because I could open the bottle, because I have a warm loving husband I could have woken and wouldn't have minded, because my children are healthy amazing people, because I have friends, I have a house with no fear of losing it, and I have a bottle to open.

Thank you, God, for the bottle and for the perspective. As I look out over the world in my mind's eye I am so very very blessed...so blessed I even have the option of wallowing in self pity. And that is a blessing, it could be so much worse.

I don't know what I can do to help people who are so much worse off than I am, but I'll think of something and when that thought comes I'll be grateful for it because I'll know, again, that those aren't my foot prints in the sand.

PhotoShop and Goodbyes: A Rant

I'm the only person in a family of artists of all kinds with any skill in photoshop, so when my grandfather got the brilliant idea to have a granite memorial erected in the family cemetery with space for several 9x4 inch metal plaques I was the one they came to for the art work.

Now anything done by commitee is generally painful...add in family politics...a huge helping of emotion...and you get a general idea of what I've been handed. Before the plaque idea came about both my mother's older sister and my grandfather's wife (not my grandmother) had passed and been cremated...they're both sitting on my grandfather's top closet shelf in his bedroom. He thinks that's pretty funny since they hated each other in life. But I digress...

When my grandmother passed I was formally handed the family plaque project. 9 revisions of Grandma's plaque later I was asked to also do my Aunt's, 14 revision of Grandma's plaque and 12 revisions of my Aunt's plaque later I finally got to contact the place we were getting these done only to find they'd gone under. So the Family Plaque Project got shelved along with the growing collection of human remains in my grandfather's closet.

-paused for 2 hours...on the phone with mom-

Last fall my mother's cousin passed, and the Family Plaque Project became central to a falling out that spanned across 3 generations. Eventually factions formed: one side wanted all of the plaques in the family cemetery uniform containing only the person's name, date of birth, and date of death; the other side wanted each person's plaque to be a reflection of the person who was no longer with us and thought each side should be unique. Months went by, phones were brashly unanswered, angry emails sent...until finally some bright spark opted to use me as part of the argument: Look how much work has already been put into these plaques!

I tried to hide, to find cover from the falling debris under my desk...but to no avail. They found me, hauled me out of hiding by an ear and both sides sternly looked at me with some sort of violent expectation. I kept my mouth wisely shut and the warring parties went their separate ways and I remained the proverbial elephant in the room for nearly a year.

-paused for several hours...took a friend to the doctor-

It was my great-aunt, the mother of my mother's no-longer-with-us cousin and leader of the identical plaque faction, who broke the silence. Well steeped in rum runners she decided that a sailboat would symbolize much of her departed son, and so the two factions reunited with hugs and long warm conversations...as though nothing had passed between them before. I stood on the sidelines, waiting.

My great-aunt is an amazing artist in her own right and the kind of white-haired woman you're shocked to find behind the wheel of the tastefully colored Ferrari that blew past you on the high way. She is a force of nature, and a woman that had a hand in raising me for time. I love her deeply. Knowing she would be involved in the FPP I realized that I should get my preveous designs together since, clearly, she'd be taking over. Interestingly, she was pleased to leave the project in my, apparently, "capable" hands.

She did do the leg work to find a new place to have the plaques made. Last week my mother suggested that it might be nice for me to get those finished before my grandfather needs one of his own. Hint taken! So I emailed the place my great-aunt found to be sure we were all on the same page yesterday. Today I got confirmation we are on the same page and they are pleased to work with us.

Hooray! Movement at last! I passed along the good news to my mother...only to find out they want to review the previously done ones again, some more. So I dug them out of my increasingly bloated MyPictures folder and sent them to her then spent the next several hours making 4 mock ups for my great-aunt to look at. Apparently, the best of the lot was the one that was only his name, date of birth, date of death, and a 2"x2" fucking clipart sail boat that took me 5 minutes to make.

Why am I doing this again?

In the Dark

I have discovered several things over the last few days. It has been a journey into quicksand that requires I ignore my own slow sinking and keep up a smile as I drown.

I went to my family to ask for help, I knew the Golden Calf was more important than me or my children so I made sure I had an offering to the glittering object of covetous worship. I researched investments, interest rates, pay offs and found something I thought could help us while still appeasing the jewel covered eyes of those I love unconditionally. At first it seemed my offering had been accepted, it was viewed, held up to the higher power of the Banker and agreed upon. I walked away feeling I had not sold my soul, but found a way to feed the glutenous beast of investment that aided all involved. It seems I was mistaken, I had only spoken with those that love me in return and not yet been viewed by the icy cold heart of gold. The heart disapproved of my offering, but was unable to undo its acceptance...so the heart moved through the world of people who could still love and cast doubt as to the sincerity or worth of my offering. New incantations of legality were cast upon it, all to be born into stone on Wednesday.

I turned to the community that has held me often as I have felt weak over circumstance only to be rebuked by A lot of People. I do not know A lot of People, bit it seems it knows me, and finds me unworthy of the warmth of the community I have fought so hard to preserve. A lot of People lashed out, and I struck a blow to its head only to find I had left my back unguarded and the soft places of my being open to a vicious attack. I reeled back, wounded, called out to those few I thought would hear me they came, quickly at first. They put a simple bandage over the worst of the wounds and assured me there would be retribution. The bandage left the wound open to the air, leaving it raw and tender, and I retreated further...to wait...to watch. From the depth of my makeshift shelter I saw retribution become cumbersome and my wound festered filling me with doubts.

I remain there, unsure of who to trust, unsure of my value, unsure of what to do.

I turned to the man on in the great reclining chair and asked for aid, only to find the shadow of a woman block my way to him. All I ask is to forgo a single vice for a single day, that the coin and clatter that would have gone to sooth him for that one evening instead go to feed my children for several days. The shadow moved and poured his wine and kept her back to me as she whispered to him....and my voice was lost, my presence forgotten, and I took my leave feeling foolish for thinking I might have found help with a man I love as only a daughter could.

With in my makeshift shelter I listen to my children play and argue and hold desperately to each sound. So long as I can hear them I can heal, I can continue to fight, I can take another breath without finding the air tainted by the darkness that seems to slowly be consuming me.

I find myself wondering at my long held faiths, at the ideas I have found solace in time and again over my life. So I turn my face away from the pain and look to God and ask for guidance as my body fails me, my support system crumbles, as family politics become more important than the truth of the one thing I still find to be true...that I still hold faith in unshakingly the simple purity of loving all of them. They are safe in turning their backs to me, in leaving their soft places unguarded. Not because I am unable to drive a dagger between vertebra, but because I will not.

My Moon

April 20, 2010, in the bath, on paper...and now here

I live in a world with an unpredictable moon. My tides are defiant and headstrong and too often filled with jellyfish.

I live in a world where there are teeth to be brushed, bodies to be washed, and bruises to be kissed.

I live in a world of blessings, of darkness, of too much pain.

Where the telephone is a companion tied about my waist as a lifeline in such an unpredictable ocean.

My eyes close easily enough, laying the backdrop for my dreams reel to reel play back. Action packed adventures that leave me more exhausted.

Some times I look to the Earth bound moon and wonder at her stability. How effortlessly she moves; commanding the seas and oceans of men while guiding our inner comings and goings with a mother's touch.

To watch her wax and wane without me - I feel very alone. Seasons pass within and through me but they have lost the rhythm Nature set. The Father and Mother tap out the beat, but I am too far to fall into my place in the dance.

It is lonely and cold as my uncaring false moon plays a ragtime rhythm with what used to be my cat. Each clawed out note reminds me of what I have lost.

I look to the sun, proud and unattainable, and ask him if I should carry the burden of missed steps, or if it was really the fault of the dish and the spoon.

I no longer know if it his silence I hear or if it is the sound of my bones on the rocks below.

Silver

I keep feeling as though I stumble upon silver linings.

- Not having health insurance means I didn't have to go through the plethora of testing usually done on people before giving the FM diagnosis.

- I spent 3 weeks thinking I might have MS, so when I was told it was FM it felt like a huge weight had been taken off of my shoulders.

- Coming off of the Zoloft has made me much more aware of how desperate our situation is, which means I can really be a partner to my husband and give him the support he needs to get through this.

- My husband being unemployed during the last few weeks has meant I could escape the family whenever I needed to while I went through the emotional rollercoaster of changing mind altering medications.

There are more, but some things don't need to be written down. It's odd to have so much difficulty in our lives, but to be able to see how truly blessed we are at the same time. There is something in our society that balks against giving thanks for the little things when the larger picture seems so bleak. I'm starting to learn that our society is broken. It's sad, really. The more poor you are in our country the more fines you seem to rack up. Employers are starting to check people's credit before hiring, even though those in the most need of work are often going to have the worst credit. Oh, and I could go on about the credit reporting companies and their inaccuracies for ages!

Really, how can we have gone from trusting the man sitting across from us to trusting a conflicting bunch of numbers?

For now I am grateful for the simplicity my life is becoming. Being grateful for a dozen eggs is a far cry from the odd sense of entitlement I bandied about as I spent my Mom's Weekends Off in a 5 star hotel. I suppose I could flog myself for the waste that was, but there isn't any point in doing so. Instead I'll choose to learn from my mistakes whenever I can to try not to let the past resurface in the future.

Ah, and another bit of silver occurs to me :)

I am living in nearly constant pain, which keeps me very grounded in the moment. I've spent a long time trying to figure out how to live in the present, I suppose I am getting my training in how to do so now.

Coming Out of the Fog

Welcome to the world of FM. Ah, no, not a new radio station...this is Fibromyalgia, apparently my new life long friend, or is it "frenemy"?

Which ever, according to my wonderful doctor and the fancy folk he sent me to it is my diagnosis. FM will be sharing my nearly 36 year old body with a newly found companion named Hypothyroidism and my old buddies PTSD and Sciatica. It seems that PTSD might have been the one to invite FM to the party without consulting me. Which, I'd like to mention, is terribly rude....ahhh, but then, when has PTSD ever really listened to me? It does as it likes, really, like a spoiled rebellious child with direct access to my adrenal gland. But I digress, and regress a bit just to spice things up.

I've come to find I rather like Hypothyroidism. I had blown up like a balloon with infinite access to air in recent months, and my skin (a matter of silken pride even in the darkest of my days) had started to crinkle and flake in the most unfeminine manor. It seems that was all just Hypothyroidism trying to get attention. Now, I greet it every morning with a tiny tablet and a glass of water. In the first week of getting the little bit of attention it needed is settled down and the balloon has lost nearly 12 pounds of air so far and my silken point of pride has recaptured my husband's attentions.

FM and I are still feeling each other out. I am thrilled that it has allowed me to call it quits with PTSD's major controller, Zoloft. Honestly, after seven years it was time to recognize that it just wasn't going to work between us. PTSD has taken the break up rather personally and thrown a few notable fits, but nothing it can't be mostly coxed down from with a bit of Klonopin or the occasional inadvisable Ale or Lager. Once or twice PTSD has needed a good long cry or a bit of time to just be totally unreasonable in the safety of my husband's arms. I don't think PTSD realized it was going to cause Zoloft and I to split when it helped FM in, but so it goes, and we'll all grow and move on.

In truth I'm a bit hopeful that PTSD will skip the growing bit and just take to the moving on part. We've been together a long time, and FM is going to take a lot of my attention now. Perhaps, as I enter the last three days of Zoloft's half-life in my body, PTSD and I can reach a truce of our own without Zoloft trying to be there as the ever present intermediary. Well, one can hope.

Ah, there I said it...or, rather typed it, the magic word: Hope. I try not to think of it too often, the glimmer of light around the dark cloud or at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Hope. What a powerful word...powerful enough to elect a president, to raise the fists of the oppressed against their oppressors, and to help people of all colors creeds and nations battle their own inner demons.

If God is Love, what is Hope? Is it a promise of God in our lives? Is it the song in our hearts that brings that last bit of strength to survive...to live...to come out of darkness of the fog?