Prototype

I’ve never reposted an old post.  I figure I either have something new to say or I don’t.  And if I don’t, then this platform stays quiet until I do.  But Leonard Nimoy died yesterday, and I can’t find new words.  This man/actor/character has been a part of me since Star Trek aired on September 8, 1966.  I was nine years old—impressionable, starving for attention, a little fan-girl waiting to happen.

So, I offer, again, the collage piece I made about him in 2011.  Prototype.  All the images used in this collage are original, pictures I saved from entertainment magazines as old as Star Trek’s first TV Guide cover in 1966.

tiny salute

Protopype

I’m excited to present this finished piece.  It carries so many layers of meaning for me.

As all fathers do, mine created the template for all subsequent relationships with the men in my life.

As a tween, I transfered my longing for attention and protection from my dad to Spock, the ultimate unavailable man.  In my fantasies, I found the secret pathway to Spock’s heart.  Of course he would never demonstrate his affection, never claim me as his, but I knew he would protect me.  It seemed more than I could ever ask for.

My affection for Leonard Nimoy is deep and abiding.  He was, after all, my first.

She Dreamed of Citrine

Citrine

Sometimes, my courage amazes me.

Basic Care

Keep CleanYesterday a crack opened in the bipolar depression that’s been at me for weeks.  Enough to let me remember to return to basics.  Because I’ve looked in the mirror every morning and said to that shocked face, “We’re not going to the hospital this year.  We’re not.”

First a call to the group I worked for this past summer—Integrated Health Services.  Their whole mission is to keep mental health clients out of the hospitals and emergency rooms.  I know I need more support now—I’ve been hearing from my providers all year that I don’t have enough in the best of times.  I’m not sure what IHS can do, but I made an appointment for Monday with Rosario, my care coordinator, and with Allison, my peer, to sit and figure that out.  They are both kind, heart-centered women.  I feel safe going to them.  The fact that I was just able to make the appointment helped.  Doing something, anything, sometimes helps.

Daily PlanToday I will start using my Daily Plan sheet, the one I created after my partial hospitalization last spring.  It will help me focus on small goals and remember to do every day tasks that get waterlogged by the swampy emotions.

I looked at how much money I’ve spent this month and cut back to the essentials.  Today I’ll figure a budget to get me through to May (February is just the beginning.  March and April can sometimes be even worse).  I’ll try to make it something I can live with, not something that will punish me for being sick.

HenryI cleaned out my refrigerator of all the liquefying vegetables and bought a few simple groceries.  I swam at the Y.  I sat with my fading bedspread for a while and sewed a blanket stitch around the frayed edges with gentle music playing and the cats behind my head on the chair.  Henry’s belly makes a gurgling, crackling sound when he’s digesting, and I pressed my ear against his fur to listen while he slept.

My apartment is a sickroom now.  No sudden moves.  No grand expectations.  Everything deliberate and gentle.  I must tend to my sleep, get to the Y every day, maintain my journal, plan quiet visits with friends, try to eat fresh food.  I will try to keep the structure sound while the storm carries on inside.  I will treat myself as someone worthy of care and respect, as someone that I love.

The House

House is Full of Life

Λ

In a room without a window, there burnt a fire, guarded by a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain… In the deep shade, at the further end of the room, a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight tell… — Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

When There’s Nothing For It

Ah, Genetics

 ♦

There are days like today when there is nothing for it.  The darkness is real and thick.  The thoughts are alien and weird.  Nothing helps.  Nothing hurts.  It is a day for soft music and sleep.

Huh. Okay.

Musical SawA few weeks ago, as I papered this space with handiwork from my little studio, I got an odd request from a self-proclaimed fan named Heba at PlusGuidance.com.  She liked my collaged cards, and my blog, and asked me to write a piece for them about using art as therapy.  Not sure about what I was being asked to do, I explored PlusGuidance a little bit.

It’s a hip sort of site with lots of moving parts and graphics.  But the most interesting part is that folks can get online counseling or guidance.  There’s a section for articles and news about mental health issues.  Another section is more of a clubhouse for members to hang out and chat.

I thought, “Cool!” and sent them a piece called The Art of Distraction.

Thanks, Heba, and all the cool, hip folks at PlusGuidance for asking me to be a part of the club.

3:00AM

Kitty-Filled Life

It’s a little after 3:00AM now.  I’ve been up since 1:30 after four hours of sleep—despite my never-fail sleep cocktail of Xanax and Benadryl.  It’s February.

The one good thing about nights like this, when rapid cycling and mixed states turn my days and nights inside out, is that I don’t have to worry about getting up to go to work.  I remember, years ago, trying to talk myself back to sleep. Before any diagnosis told me this might be part of my “normal,” before doctors, and my work ethic, and the State agreed that I was no longer employable, I fretted over my sleeplessness and dreaded the morning.  I know most of us have had nights where we finally drop off at 5:00 in the morning only to have the alarm go off at 6:00.  It’s a horrible, rock-in-the-gut feeling.

Now I just get up.  Open the windows to let the cold, fresh air wash the stale taste of insomnia out of the apartment, stick my favorite mug in the microwave and sip chai while I putter on the computer.  In a few minutes, I’ll close the windows and pull out my plush throw, rearrange the cats on my chair, and read for a while.  When I get sleepy, I’ll go back to bed.  It doesn’t matter anymore when that happens.

That freedom is exquisite.  The absence of that particular stress is like a Christmas present, an emotional gift card that keeps on giving.  It makes the discomfort of this spell easier to bear.

I’m trying to be more conscious of how winter torques my bipolar disorder.  Fellow blogger-friend, Kitt O’Malley (and what a foin Irish name, that is) just posted a clinical piece about the relationship between BP and Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD).  It was the first thing I read when I sat down with my chai.  (Synchronicity is alive and well in my spinny corner of the world.)  It’s always nice to know I’m not alone in my otherness, that there are folks who go through the same kinds of extra grief this time of year, that a committee somewhere labeled it.

It’s the little things that help me keep going when I really don’t want to, little comforts, little efforts.  I give my light box one more try and sit down to make a card—like the one at the top of this post.  I haul my ass to the laundromat, normally a place I love, but now just one more chore I can’t quite accomplish.  But I do it, and the gentle rhythm of the dryers, the warm scent of clean, comforts me.  I let Richard Armitage read to me in the car, his facile voice assuming dozens of characters in a novelization of Hamlet, and it comforts me.

Now the chai and the soothing motion of fingers on a keyboard, the wandering off to read a bit of Rumi, the quiet trust of my sleeping cats all conspire with the space I’ve made for acceptance.  I feel sleep sliding up behind me.  It’s 5AM, and I don’t own an alarm clock anymore.

There is always something to be grateful for.

20 Days of Valentines—Day 18 (and the end)

Lovers Voice

Happy Valentine’s Day.

May you hear only loving words today.

And may you find the voice to speak them, as well.

Happy Valentine’s Day to Me

If you’ve never tried Audibles, they give you a free 30 day trial period with the first purchase free.  So, I got Richard whispering Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 in my ear for free (something I would have paid good money for).  That almost makes up for seeing 50 Shades of Grey yesterday.  As they say, that which has been seen cannot be unseen, but I will drown it out with poetry.

20 Days of Valentines—Day 17

The One

Click the image to find more singularities on Etsy.

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