Setting the Poop on Fire

I realized this morning that I’d started to give up.

This long season of depression has granted me an occasional hour or two of relief before rolling back in.  I distract my conscious thoughts with Netflix and sewing, but have lost interest in exploring my surroundings or reaching out to others.  I know I’m in trouble, so this morning I sat down to journal and let all the ugly thoughts out of their cages.

I was about to see my new therapist for the second time, which just made me miss my previous therapist more.  I knew if I didn’t start processing all the “forbidden” thoughts in my head, I’d never stop crying in her little closet of an office.  So, I scribbled away, which is the only way I know to capture the distorted thinking and actually see it.

I lasted ten minutes with the therapist.  Long story short, I felt disrespected and dismissed.  I will not be going back.

Part of me is very aware that my depression could be warping my perception.  Another part of me is mad as hell, and that’s the part that rises up every time my boundaries get trampled.  It’s the spark that lights up my personal Bat Signal.  Or BadAss Signal.

I have work to do.

I texted my sister and will be meeting her and her grandsons for lunch tomorrow.  We also had a very supportive exchange about feeling out of place and longing for things that we’ve likely romanticized.

I called the other therapist in my shrink’s office and just now made an appointment with her for Monday.  I know this woman is at least kind, because my sister sees her and talks about her.  Kind is a good place to start.  Kind is enough.

If my 17-year-old cat can still unload a huge poop, then gallop through the house reestablishing his supreme authority, so can I.

Consider this my psychological dump.

The BadAss is Back.

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Inspired Upon Waking

It was a small venue—an old church, maybe.  Judi Dench sat on an old piano bench against the right wall, looking worried and undecided.  We all sat quietly, but the people around me held thin plastic squares high in the air—no bigger than a matchbook with rounded corners, so I knew it was an Apple product.  Tiny recorders.

“Yes,” Dame Dench finally said in her raspy voice, “I will sing, but absolutely no recording.  Please.”

No one put down their tiny squares, and I felt anger tumble over my need.

“Put them down,” I said, trying for loud and reasonable, but ending up with shaky.  “It’s Judi’s voice, not yours.  It belongs to her.”

More hands lifted in the semi-darkness.

They’re spoiling it, I thought, desperate.  She’ll leave.

Her eyes found mine in the crowd.  “Oh, all right, then.”

She turned to the piano, away from her audience, but did not play it.  She started to sing a Loreena McKennett song acapella, her Shakespearian-raw voice scratching the notes.  She was not a singer, yet she sang.  At 83, she sang.  Recorders be damned.

There is Beauty in the Fractures

I’m feeling fractured and heart-broken.  It’s just a feeling.  It will pass.  And using Tom Hiddleston as an archetype of broken-heartedness somehow helps.  And the red.  The red is right.

Blessed Assurance

These are the things that keep me going:

1.  An Etsy customer sent me this photo.

She said, “As you can see, I’ve discovered a way to set up your artwork in my apartment; I couldn’t have your cards just sitting in a shoebox in the closet. When I’ve sent out cards to friends and family, I simply replace them with something else fabulous from your shop. It’s a wonderful system; It helps me foster relationships through writing. And you should know, they always love them.”

Another customer said, “You are a warrior woman who is in Amazon training. I join you in your training and I fight the good fight as a secondary teacher who has seen enough of school shootings and is ready for both kids and teachers to feel and to be safe again at schools. Love your positive cards that pack a pint-sized punch. Going to keep some and share some with those in need of a pick me up.”

2.  Choosing to be Grateful

3. Subsonic Purrs. 

4. The moments, however fleeting, when a crack opens in my anger, or paranoia, or hopelessness, or wanting and something wise creeps in—something gentle, something breathable—that reminds me of who I am.

5.  Daily Confirmation of the Power of Art to Heal.  I trust the process completely now.  I sit with no ideas and in a few hours something remarkable creates itself.  No mistakes, no judgment, no hesitation, no Time.  It is Magic.  It is Grace.

The Titanic Had a Plan, Too

Planning is part of my DNA.  Knowing a plan is just the tip of an iceberg was something I had to learn.

As I waited this past winter to move from Iowa to Oklahoma, I tried to imagine what difficulties might be in store.  I knew leaving my therapist and managing without one for a while (I finally meet her this week) meant working as many Tools as I could, including complete acceptance of where ever I landed on the bipolar scale each day.  I expected leaving my friends and UU church community might stir up some ancient loneliness and tendencies to isolate.  I imagined the culture of the Plains might take some getting used to, or that the food might be a little different.  I wondered if living closer to family would challenge my communication skills, my boundaries or shake up what I’ve come to consider my limitations.

What never even crossed my mind was the weather.

I knew it got hot here in the summer, but I was not ready for 95 degrees and 96% humidity the first week of May.

It stupefied me.  The humidity seeped into the crevices of my skull and expanded like Gorilla Glue.

My nephew, the rancher, gave me lots of good advice:  Get any running around done in the morning, then high-tail it home to air conditioning for the rest of the day.  I told him I must be losing weight with all the puddles of sweat in my shoes and no appetite.  He said he thought the same thing when he moved here back in his college days, but it never did work that way.

Well, shoot.

Now, Iowa can be hot and humid.  In fact, my friends tell me it is right now.  But, I don’t ever remember opening my front door at 7:00 in the morning and walking into a swampy cement wall.  It takes a moment or two to find the air and pull it into my lungs.  I feel like Ed Harris in The Abyss.

I can’t tell if my depression is worse because of the weather, or if it’s the normal run of my rapid cycling doing its thing.  I know I’m bored with my own whingeing and try to keep my mouth shut.  I must say it does help to hear locals complain and that the weather service issued a heat advisory yesterday.  It’s not just me, then, being a weenie.

Knowing my A/C will be on until October makes me worry about my expanding carbon footprint.  To that end, I’m determined to recycle and to look at other ways I can assuage my environmental guilt.

I know.  I’ll make a plan.  That will solve everything.

Back at the Table

It’s been a long while since I sat at the studio table and fiddled with my piles of art fodder.  All I’ve been able to do for several months is doodle in my art journal—which is exactly what I needed to dissipate the anxiety and bipolar flares brought on by moving.

Spreading out in my new digs means using the living room as my studio, with a whole wall in the kitchen devoted to wet work (not the CIA/NSA kind).  All the supplies in the photo at right used to be crammed onto that little shelf unit on the far left and in the containers on the table.  How did I do that?

I’d become an expert in carving out space in my little 450 square foot apartment and fitting everything together like a jigsaw puzzle.  So much so that arrangement is still a little wonky here.  New space, new jigsaw.

I sent for an IKEA file cabinet and a two-drawer unit to sit on top.  Now I can file new techniques I want to try.  All the books I rip pages out of sit together.  All my vintage photos are within arms reach.

But, I didn’t christen the Studio for a long while.  And I didn’t worry about it.  Eventually, the stress would ease.  Eventually, the bits and bobs I love would call to me.

Of course they did.  And I went back to making the larger versions of my Penny Positives—little collage pieces on 3.5 X 2.5 playing cards. This morning I took pictures of the thirteen I’ve finished and put them in my Etsy shop.

It was a grunt.  Mornings used to be my most productive time, but I’m still struggling with early morning depression and thick mental fog.  Most days, that lifts.  Sometimes not.  But, I’m determined to tick one, small task off my To Do list each day and to reinforce a new routine.  Hard work, but necessary.

So, for anyone who was waiting for me to make those Penny Positive cards, there are a few in my Etsy shop now and more on the way.

Bit by bit, breath by breath, life, work and my mental shenanigans are finding their way back to the Table.

Part of the Village

This week I went to my grandnephew’s kindergarten graduation. There’s just all kinds of weird in that sentence alone. Children. Family. Social Event. Inclusion.

The school is K-12, laid out in a campus of what reminded me of Morton buildings—low-slung, metal barns. Here’s the south side of my sister as we make our way to the auditorium building

While I’m not one to follow the endless flow of depressing national news, I am invested in Oklahoma’s educational woes.  A January report in Education Weekly ranked Oklahoma schools 47th in the nation with teachers’ salaries ranked 49th.  Teachers went on strike in April, and while the state passed a bill to raise salaries slightly, it neglected to fund the bill.  It never addressed other issues like the lack of program funding and huge class sizes

Teachers are leaving the state like psychiatrists left Iowa, fed up with a system that cares very little about the end-user or those who provide for them.

Oktah, my grandnephews’ school, is considered better than average and receives a federal grant due to its number of low-income students. The superintendent, who spoke at Zane’s graduation ceremony, asked parents and friends to stay involved. More than ever, it seems, it takes a village.

So, I was verklempt, watching my one out of forty-eight kindergarteners dance, sing and use sign language to proclaim his new status.  So was my sister, the retired teacher.

I don’t know if I can help him or his older brother.  Volunteering has always ended up a bipolar casualty.  But I’m staying open to ways I might be part of that Village, even if it’s just being another grown-up (in closer proximity now) who will listen and answer their questions.

You never know the effect of just showing up. That’s something I can do.

Visit From An Old Friend

Early morning light streams over my left shoulder onto the unfinished art quilt in my lap. After a year, it’s graduated from the unwieldy three-foot hoop to a six-incher. Almost done, it whispers to me. This part. 

Missy Higgins croons quietly from the iPod.  Sometimes every inch is bruised, and there’s nothing you can do…

The cats snooze elsewhere, satisfied that nothing superviseable is happening.

One more swallow of chai left in my mug. My favorite mug.

There’s a strange word drifting in and out of my mental rear view mirror, gaining on me, slipping through the open window and settling into the shotgun seat.

Contentment

Yes. That’s it. An old friend gone missing for years, decades, maybe. She’s one of those friends I used to chase after, trying to coax her back, trying to remember what happened to put so much distance between us.

I gave up the chase long ago. I stopped chasing after all the Used To Be’s. All that wanting kept me stuck, kept me sick. Instead, I blessed what I held in my hands.

But, here she is, back for a visit. I’m too savvy now to hope she’ll stay long, but maybe she’ll come back again, now that she knows the way.

And when Henry nestles into his companionable niche against my side, I know how he feels.

Pinch Me

Five days settled, which means I’ve ticked a few things off my Master List:

Furniture rearranged and boxes unloaded.  Check.

New bank account opened and changes reported to Social Security.  Check.

Internet connected and (HooHoo!) a Netflix subscription ordered.  Check.

Most important wall hangings up with the rest on hold.

I’m thinking more about fabric, fibers, flowing funk.  Must ponder this a bit.

Modest IKEA and summer clothing orders finalized.  Check.

Cats settling down and loving actual window sills that offer views of pregnant robins and mourning doves.

Today, I’m off to start applying for Medicaid, then browse a big antique mall for an idea that’s percolating.

I know its early days, but we all love it here.  We love the funky, older construction of the duplex, the friendly neighbors, the bend-over-backwards landlords, the wealth of shops and amenities, and the joy of family rediscovered.

So, pinch me.  I think I’ve come home.

(P.S.) My Etsy shop is open again (the link is in the sidebar at left).  Not that there’s anything new yet, but some folks wanted to know.  And there WILL be new stuff.  Soon.

Ignition

So long, Iowa.

Thanks for giving us eleven years of sanctuary and for teaching me how to live bipolar.

Next stop: Muskogee, Oklahoma.

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