How To Shout Loudly When There Is Nothing To Say

“The stars don’t understand how you can sleep at night after everything that you’ve done, though they’re mostly just referring to all the napping.”

I was catching up on one of my beloved writers when I came across…. Well… a good half dozen moments of brilliance. Funny thing about it…. aside from the general hilarity of the site as a whole, there was the sentiment resonating with me which would normally dictate another day without a post:

“Make a new friend. Learn to chainsaw juggle. Read a book. Go hang gliding in your underpants…. If you have done all of these things and you still don’t have anything to write about, then you shouldn’t be a writer. I’m a firm believer that if you don’t have anything to say, then you shouldn’t be talking. And if you don’t have anything to write about, don’t write.”

And I don’t…. have anything to say or write about. Yet here I am, simultaneously mumbling out loud and typing furiously away. I chalk it up to what feels like months of silence. It can be tough keeping everything inside while experiencing a complete lack of an interested audience. I suppose to that end, I finally “get” Twitter and social networking as a whole. Society, at large, can magically toss every last thought out there without running into a wall of “Shhhhhhh!”. But that’s a lie. I still don’t really get “it” or much else, for that matter.

Each day, I arrive at work (I’ll leave my punctuality up for interpretation on that one) ready to say something. Anything. Desperate for camaraderie. Socializing. Interest. Something. I often find myself preparing little anecdotes for that first break of the day. Those few minutes where I can fill the silence with something meaningful, charmingly witty or at the very least amusing. I’ve spent many years of my life listening. And I mean REALLY listening. Hanging on every last word as though taking sips of the finest wine. Being present. Engaged. PRESENT. That’s a difficult trait to find in another. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not assigning blame as there is none to be assigned. I’ve often found there is a force at play far more powerful than words when two can sit in ethereal silence. Still…. There comes a time for words too. When it feels cozy to be heard. Not just casually acknowledged, but heard.

It’s no government secret that I have very few friends. That can be a treasure too…. I’d certainly prefer the gift of a few extraordinary creatures in my life than an overflowing cup of acquaintances. But backing that train up – I question whether the precious few have any patience for me anymore. Perhaps not even patience so much as interest. I seem to be increasingly irrelevant as I age. That’s a tough pill to swallow. What happens when I cease to have anything, tangible or otherwise, to offer? I’d like to think I’d spontaneously implode so as to at least clean up after myself.

This all most likely boils down to a good ‘ol fashioned helping of loneliness. In the past, I took great pride in maintaining a sense of happiness within my walls. Man oh man, never place that meter in the hands of another. If you aren’t happy alone with your own thoughts, there isn’t a person in the world who can fix that for you. Yet solitary confinement can have its limitations on healthy balance. “Fuck balance”. A phrase from one of my truest friends. I love that. In lieu of that dirty little word, perhaps I’m looking to be more well-rounded beyond the roundness of my own physique. I’ve thought about going back to school for something. Not sure what. Or when. Or how, exactly, I plan on paying for that. So I read. A lot. Too much, I think. I don’t believe I learn much. A lot of it is noise. Noise. I think I need to stop filling the silence with my thoughts when they are quite possibly exactly that.

I need a hobby. Then, perhaps a nap. Or a sandwich. A sandwich and then a nap? Shake things up a little? For now, I just need to go quietly.

Unfinished.


“You're beginning to wonder exactly who is in charge of quality control for all those treasure maps”…

So it seems this whole writing business is coming in handy when it comes to sorting things out and getting over those pesky hurdles. Chicken soup or some such nonsense, yes?  I jest. I’m well aware there’s something very rewarding to being able to express oneself, be it through music, art, writing or kung fu. 

We all need an outlet. There won’t always be a shoulder to cry on and experience has told me, we aren’t by any means owed that.  When we do find ourselves fortunate enough to find a sounding board in life, it’s not something to be taken lightly and most certainly not for granted.

I’m not an easy person to know.

I struggle with that as I don’t think I’ve ever uttered it aloud. Something happens when you’ve spent so much time and energy crafting a pleasant persona for those you have no intention of letting in. The struggle between the outer and inner creatures results in constant torment and grief. Often the persistence of those who sincerely care for you becomes maddening. You earnestly try shooing them away….gently at first.

That rarely works.

You fool yourself into believing perhaps they’ll just forget about you so you can quietly mourn and proceed to make precisely zero changes.

Their stubbornness is almost impressive.
 
Finally the wall begins to crack… to erode… and everything once contained inside comes pouring out. I can only imagine the utter shock on the receiving end, though the facial expressions do much to aid the translation. From there we both find the battle has just begun.

My gut instinct is to apologize. That is rarely received well. After all, they accomplished what they clearly set out to do. And I applaud their bravery. Still, it hardly seems fair. All that work and this is the thanks they get?  Seems like anyone who hangs out with this riff-raff is getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop!

All that said, I’m eternally grateful for those few amazing souls. Not a day goes by when I don’t marvel at my fortune. At these people who inexplicably formed a nest in my heart. In my soul. Who know EVERYTHING they NEVER wanted to know, and still answer my calls or smile in response to my gaze. Awestruck.
My questionable self esteem dictates I will forever feel the scales are tipped. That I have little more to offer up than myself. But there is a protective nature to my beast. I will fight for them until the end of time. I will be there when it feels like everyone else has left. They have taught me their persistence. An unconditional love I didn’t think I was capable of feeling, let alone receiving.  They soften the hard lines around my being and open my mind to experiences I was too afraid to know. It is my hope they realize their value to every cell in my body even when I’m too caught up in __________ to express. They are loved beyond words.

Excuses, Excuses


In a rare moment of solitude, I sat down with my phone, pulled up my post from yesterday, and just quietly read. I was fully expecting to stumble on a rat’s nest of misspellings and incoherent babble. I was almost disappointed to find it contained little more than vagueness. As prone to do when trying to kick myself in the ass to keep up on my writing, I eagerly begin clicking through the posts of some of my favorites. It can feel like catching up with an old friend over drinks, despite entertaining the company of only one. 

Often I find that the further I walk down that road, the more insecure I become of my own writing. The world is an intimidating place, overflowing with real talent. Talent for words. For storytelling. For painstaking detail, thought and love poured into each line. I flash back to my own words, and they seem hollow. They make sense to me, and perhaps that’s all that matters, but the substance…. It’s missing.

When I do find the time, the inspiration, god help me – the motivation, I can only contain the flood of thoughts bursting forth from my skull. There is detail up there. It’s not that I don’t recall the entire story I wish to unleash. Rather, I feel haunted by the permanence of the words splashing out before me. I’m afraid of my own words. My own thoughts. Afraid of who might read them. Those who may map out complex interpretation resulting in perceived malice. I’m terrified of that level of exposure.

Now here’s the real pickle: Unless I’m willing to free the story in its entirety, I will forever feel imprisoned by my own thoughts.  This tends to lead me to believe I need therapy (who doesn’t, right?). I need safety. I have been offered that safety by one person who means the absolute world to me, yet I can’t even seem to push myself past the barrier of embarrassment to release all the poison. Inhibited. It can be a miserable sensation.

Looking back on these words, I find I’m doing it again. There’s vagueness in my words. I suppose it’ll come when I’m ready. But what am I waiting for?

Just Write.

During this extended absence, it became clear to me I was missing something in my life. The past few weeks have been tough. Slipping into the quicksand of depression, my thoughts were becoming increasingly chaotic. My emotions: Up and down.  A rollercoaster of the most damning variety. Still, making sense of it all was akin to learning a foreign language in the span of an afternoon.

The grass is always greener. Always. Somewhere else, the promise of a better life. Of happiness. Fame. Fortune. Beauty. But there is no secret formula. No plot of land promising omnipresent awesomeness. No. Such. Thing. It comes from within. Trouble is, “within” has become a boiling tar pit of yuck. It seems each time I turn inside out searching for an answer, I come out covered in goo and weepy to boot.

“You don’t smile anymore.” Heartbroken. I used to smile like an idiot at EVERYTHING (remind me to tell you about the story I read 2 days ago about the “Jerks of the Aviation World” – I seem to remember that made me smile, if only for a moment). Every hour of every day, I would smile so much my mouth hurt. What happened? Age? Stress? Lack of sleep? That pesky broken back of mine? I don’t think so. So bear with me as I’m planning on using my favorite medium to arrive at some sort of conclusion, here. At least a pseudo-conclusion until I close my eyes only to open them once more and find I have forgotten EVERYTHING. Have I shot myself in the foot before I took my first step?

I rather think it’s something impossibly simple. There is no “I” in “Team”, but if you rearrange the letters, you can find “me”. It’s me. I’m lost. Or rather, I’ve lost myself. Silly as it sounds, I actually enjoy being me. Not the me I inexplicably find myself being for other people. Not the wife, the Mama, the lackluster employee who eagerly takes way too much on her shoulders in the hopes of averting termination. Not even the “cool girl” who is invited out for Metal Night with the boys with the understanding that no chicks are allowed. Just me. Nothing fancy. No sparkles. No effort.

Whatever happened to that broad? Did she win an all-expenses-paid vacation to Shangri-La only to discover it was a ruse? Perhaps she embarked on one of those fanciful capers she was always talking about and she’s currently serving 25 to life? Nope. It’s something far more tragic.

She gradually faded into the heavily patterned wallpaper until the defining lines blurred beyond recognition.

Why? Why do I do that? What metaphorical shackles have consumed every limb rendering my ability to break free futile? Always eager to please, this one. Forever seeking acceptance, forgiveness, indifference yet love. Round and round we go, where we stop, I always know. Depression. Happiness is such an elusive bitch.

Just write. I’m feeling better already…

Have That Removed!

 "Self-improvement may be a noble goal, but the stars aren’t so sure the leg rests, dual cup-holders, and wood paneling are what people had in mind. "

First order of business, Happy Belated Halloween. It's the goddamned greatest holiday of the year and my favorite of the bunch, to be sure. That said, I've been too doped up to bask in all the glory. Didn't dress up. No decorations. There were no deliciously carved pumpkins.... no graveyard. No garish lights. No fog. No spiderwebs adorning my abode.... well there are always plenty of spiderwebs, but that's more a sign of my poor housekeeping skills. The corpse of one of those terrifying spidery bastards is still lifelessly glued to one of my shampoo bottles as the love child of fear and laziness struck at a most inopportune moment. Another day bites the dust. I'm even refraining from commentary on the costume-sporting-hooker-festival I found myself surrounded by last night. 

You see, I went to the doctor. Horrid thought, that. I do so loathe swallowing my pride and surrendering to the vast world of drugs and diagnoses. I generally avoid seeking help at all costs. After all, in my mind, there is little that duct tape and puffy stickers can't solve. As it turns out, those are of absolutely no use when the ailment involves extraordinary pain when sitting or standing. So I did it. I drove my bruised tailbone and ego to the doctor. What I wasn't prepared for was the horrified look on the man's face when he returned with the X-Ray. "Now don't freak out..."  Seriously? I was just fine until you said that! 

"Severely fractured coccyx" (Tailbone to the layperson). Alright, well what do I need, then? A band-aid? Ice pack? Whiskey?

"A trip to the neurologist". Solid.

As I sat in the waiting room yesterday morning, I was having quite the time vomiting my hypochondria on the paperwork before me. Depression? Check. Anxiety? Check. Broken Bone? Check. Bruises Easily? Ummm... Ok. Difficulty Swallowing? Sure, why not. I believe the only section I didn't make any menu selection from involved blood disorders. The red goo seeping out of all my paper-cuts looks fine to me, so I felt no urge to go down that path. Upon entering the exam room and noticing my quite colorful questionnaire, the doctor eyed me up and down in disbelief. I can only imagine the thoughts running through Judgy McJudgerson's mind. 

After a litany of questions surrounding all my fabricated ailments, we got down to brass tacks. As I sat back and observed each successive reflex test and endured poke after poke with a sharp, splintery stick, I felt pretty damn good about myself. Man, I had aced that shit! Everything looked to be going swimmingly. I wasn't even under the influence of narcotics with my assertion of what had just transpired. And yet I was wrong. So very wrong. "Extensive nerve damage to the right half of the body". Back up that trolley... WHAT? I'm also looking at spine surgery. Outstanding.

Add AT LEAST one slipped disc and nerve damage to the laundry list of ailments (imaginary or otherwise). Ugh. 

More tests scheduled, more anxiety, an extra helping of tea for my pity party. On the bright side, I'm totally justified for the next month or so with all my melodramatic whining. But I'll be damned if I'm letting some lunatic open me up and tickle those oh-so-necessary ivories! 

I've known 4 creatures on this planet to have gone under the knife for back surgery. Those 4 same creatures all came out in wheelchairs. To be fair, each and every one of them exceed 70 years or so upon this planet, but I just don't trust it. Between general paranoia and zero positive hospital experiences to date, this all is a bit much to take in. 

Look, I'll be the first to admit my problem pales in comparison to what 99% of the planet endures. One only need tune into the news for a handful of minutes to put things in perspective. And yet I'm scared. Terrified, actually. I'd be willing to bet I wouldn't handle a serious issue with much grace at all. May I just tell you I also don't handle sympathy well? I'm pleased as punch to feel sorry for myself, but once others start chiming in on my limitations, Kitty feels backed into a corner and those claws do come out. Tis quite the conundrum indeed. So where am I going with all of this? Good question. May I just direct you back to the aforementioned bit about being doped up? An excellent first step might be stepping away from the keyboard thus putting an end to all this drivel. Glancing down I just noticed it's the first day of November. Makes enough sense. Let's see what you've got for me, month. For the rest of you, I wish you a marvelous Thursday.


Knocking Some Sense Into The 'Ol Gal

"Surviving this week will hinge heavily on the bear’s ability to understand English, his grasp of such higher concepts as mercy, and whether or not you’ll let go of that honey." 

A funny thing happened to me on the way to work yesterday. Turns out a certain aforementioned accident managed to jar my wee brain JUST enough to make a noticeable difference. For one magical day (and counting) I was ZEN. I'm talking Office-Space-post-hypno-therapy-zen. Yesterday could well have been added to the list of days I wish to forget. But not so. It was perfection. The soundtrack was even a gentle mixture of elevator muzak and calypso. 

After months of stress accumulation amounting to a rat's nest of frustration, it was just suddenly absent. Absent in one of those marvelous ways normally requiring the assistance of high levels of toxicity. Each successive email brought about another helping of yuck to an already overflowing plate. Wave after wave of added responsibility and concern. And yet there I stood.... or sat as the case would be..... smiling blissfully and brushing it off as I would a rogue ash from my cigarette. Yes, yes, I still have that nasty habit, but there's likely some good that may come out of routinely crystallizing my lungs.

I must say, the feeling experienced has inspired me to a state of complete calm. As the resident sounding board for the majority of my coworkers, I felt like I was hovering just a few inches off my seat yesterday. This ethereal being soaking it all in whilst banishing all the bad off into oblivion. It was damn tempting to run home and change into billowing robes for added effect. Of course, that would be absurd as I don't own such a frock. There is quite simply a delicious result from little more beyond coping. I ALMOST wish I had ran into something sooner. Almost.

Why is it that many of us spend so much time lost in worry? What-if's? What-then's? How-On-Earth's? Growing up, I marveled at the stark contrast in the personalities of my own parents. This same contrast undoubtedly led to their ultimate demise as a couple. Still, it was curious. On one hand, you could visibly see.... See, sense, get absolutely enveloped in the stress of one. The other: calm, cool and eternally collected. The latter - not so much as a hint of fluctuation in tone whether the news of the day signaled apocalypse or utter elation. Quite curious, indeed. 

I don't realistically expect this fabulous brain damage to last. And it's possible the whole "Mama's lost her goddamned mind" heckling may grow old. But for now, I am floating along in a manner reserved for creatures of the winged variety. I only wish I could bottle it up and sell it. Sweet merciful jesus, I'd be rich. I've also toyed with the recurring notion of starting my own cult. Nah, too sinister. With great power comes great responsibility, no? If I can pass along the good vibe to even one additional soul, I'll be pleased as punch. Happy Wednesday, Pets.



Kitty

How To Shout Loudly When There Is Nothing To Say

0 comments Friday, March 8, 2013

“The stars don’t understand how you can sleep at night after everything that you’ve done, though they’re mostly just referring to all the napping.”

I was catching up on one of my beloved writers when I came across…. Well… a good half dozen moments of brilliance. Funny thing about it…. aside from the general hilarity of the site as a whole, there was the sentiment resonating with me which would normally dictate another day without a post:

“Make a new friend. Learn to chainsaw juggle. Read a book. Go hang gliding in your underpants…. If you have done all of these things and you still don’t have anything to write about, then you shouldn’t be a writer. I’m a firm believer that if you don’t have anything to say, then you shouldn’t be talking. And if you don’t have anything to write about, don’t write.”

And I don’t…. have anything to say or write about. Yet here I am, simultaneously mumbling out loud and typing furiously away. I chalk it up to what feels like months of silence. It can be tough keeping everything inside while experiencing a complete lack of an interested audience. I suppose to that end, I finally “get” Twitter and social networking as a whole. Society, at large, can magically toss every last thought out there without running into a wall of “Shhhhhhh!”. But that’s a lie. I still don’t really get “it” or much else, for that matter.

Each day, I arrive at work (I’ll leave my punctuality up for interpretation on that one) ready to say something. Anything. Desperate for camaraderie. Socializing. Interest. Something. I often find myself preparing little anecdotes for that first break of the day. Those few minutes where I can fill the silence with something meaningful, charmingly witty or at the very least amusing. I’ve spent many years of my life listening. And I mean REALLY listening. Hanging on every last word as though taking sips of the finest wine. Being present. Engaged. PRESENT. That’s a difficult trait to find in another. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not assigning blame as there is none to be assigned. I’ve often found there is a force at play far more powerful than words when two can sit in ethereal silence. Still…. There comes a time for words too. When it feels cozy to be heard. Not just casually acknowledged, but heard.

It’s no government secret that I have very few friends. That can be a treasure too…. I’d certainly prefer the gift of a few extraordinary creatures in my life than an overflowing cup of acquaintances. But backing that train up – I question whether the precious few have any patience for me anymore. Perhaps not even patience so much as interest. I seem to be increasingly irrelevant as I age. That’s a tough pill to swallow. What happens when I cease to have anything, tangible or otherwise, to offer? I’d like to think I’d spontaneously implode so as to at least clean up after myself.

This all most likely boils down to a good ‘ol fashioned helping of loneliness. In the past, I took great pride in maintaining a sense of happiness within my walls. Man oh man, never place that meter in the hands of another. If you aren’t happy alone with your own thoughts, there isn’t a person in the world who can fix that for you. Yet solitary confinement can have its limitations on healthy balance. “Fuck balance”. A phrase from one of my truest friends. I love that. In lieu of that dirty little word, perhaps I’m looking to be more well-rounded beyond the roundness of my own physique. I’ve thought about going back to school for something. Not sure what. Or when. Or how, exactly, I plan on paying for that. So I read. A lot. Too much, I think. I don’t believe I learn much. A lot of it is noise. Noise. I think I need to stop filling the silence with my thoughts when they are quite possibly exactly that.

I need a hobby. Then, perhaps a nap. Or a sandwich. A sandwich and then a nap? Shake things up a little? For now, I just need to go quietly.

Unfinished.

3 comments Tuesday, February 12, 2013


“You're beginning to wonder exactly who is in charge of quality control for all those treasure maps”…

So it seems this whole writing business is coming in handy when it comes to sorting things out and getting over those pesky hurdles. Chicken soup or some such nonsense, yes?  I jest. I’m well aware there’s something very rewarding to being able to express oneself, be it through music, art, writing or kung fu. 

We all need an outlet. There won’t always be a shoulder to cry on and experience has told me, we aren’t by any means owed that.  When we do find ourselves fortunate enough to find a sounding board in life, it’s not something to be taken lightly and most certainly not for granted.

I’m not an easy person to know.

I struggle with that as I don’t think I’ve ever uttered it aloud. Something happens when you’ve spent so much time and energy crafting a pleasant persona for those you have no intention of letting in. The struggle between the outer and inner creatures results in constant torment and grief. Often the persistence of those who sincerely care for you becomes maddening. You earnestly try shooing them away….gently at first.

That rarely works.

You fool yourself into believing perhaps they’ll just forget about you so you can quietly mourn and proceed to make precisely zero changes.

Their stubbornness is almost impressive.
 
Finally the wall begins to crack… to erode… and everything once contained inside comes pouring out. I can only imagine the utter shock on the receiving end, though the facial expressions do much to aid the translation. From there we both find the battle has just begun.

My gut instinct is to apologize. That is rarely received well. After all, they accomplished what they clearly set out to do. And I applaud their bravery. Still, it hardly seems fair. All that work and this is the thanks they get?  Seems like anyone who hangs out with this riff-raff is getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop!

All that said, I’m eternally grateful for those few amazing souls. Not a day goes by when I don’t marvel at my fortune. At these people who inexplicably formed a nest in my heart. In my soul. Who know EVERYTHING they NEVER wanted to know, and still answer my calls or smile in response to my gaze. Awestruck.
My questionable self esteem dictates I will forever feel the scales are tipped. That I have little more to offer up than myself. But there is a protective nature to my beast. I will fight for them until the end of time. I will be there when it feels like everyone else has left. They have taught me their persistence. An unconditional love I didn’t think I was capable of feeling, let alone receiving.  They soften the hard lines around my being and open my mind to experiences I was too afraid to know. It is my hope they realize their value to every cell in my body even when I’m too caught up in __________ to express. They are loved beyond words.

Excuses, Excuses

4 comments Friday, February 8, 2013


In a rare moment of solitude, I sat down with my phone, pulled up my post from yesterday, and just quietly read. I was fully expecting to stumble on a rat’s nest of misspellings and incoherent babble. I was almost disappointed to find it contained little more than vagueness. As prone to do when trying to kick myself in the ass to keep up on my writing, I eagerly begin clicking through the posts of some of my favorites. It can feel like catching up with an old friend over drinks, despite entertaining the company of only one. 

Often I find that the further I walk down that road, the more insecure I become of my own writing. The world is an intimidating place, overflowing with real talent. Talent for words. For storytelling. For painstaking detail, thought and love poured into each line. I flash back to my own words, and they seem hollow. They make sense to me, and perhaps that’s all that matters, but the substance…. It’s missing.

When I do find the time, the inspiration, god help me – the motivation, I can only contain the flood of thoughts bursting forth from my skull. There is detail up there. It’s not that I don’t recall the entire story I wish to unleash. Rather, I feel haunted by the permanence of the words splashing out before me. I’m afraid of my own words. My own thoughts. Afraid of who might read them. Those who may map out complex interpretation resulting in perceived malice. I’m terrified of that level of exposure.

Now here’s the real pickle: Unless I’m willing to free the story in its entirety, I will forever feel imprisoned by my own thoughts.  This tends to lead me to believe I need therapy (who doesn’t, right?). I need safety. I have been offered that safety by one person who means the absolute world to me, yet I can’t even seem to push myself past the barrier of embarrassment to release all the poison. Inhibited. It can be a miserable sensation.

Looking back on these words, I find I’m doing it again. There’s vagueness in my words. I suppose it’ll come when I’m ready. But what am I waiting for?

Just Write.

4 comments Thursday, February 7, 2013

During this extended absence, it became clear to me I was missing something in my life. The past few weeks have been tough. Slipping into the quicksand of depression, my thoughts were becoming increasingly chaotic. My emotions: Up and down.  A rollercoaster of the most damning variety. Still, making sense of it all was akin to learning a foreign language in the span of an afternoon.

The grass is always greener. Always. Somewhere else, the promise of a better life. Of happiness. Fame. Fortune. Beauty. But there is no secret formula. No plot of land promising omnipresent awesomeness. No. Such. Thing. It comes from within. Trouble is, “within” has become a boiling tar pit of yuck. It seems each time I turn inside out searching for an answer, I come out covered in goo and weepy to boot.

“You don’t smile anymore.” Heartbroken. I used to smile like an idiot at EVERYTHING (remind me to tell you about the story I read 2 days ago about the “Jerks of the Aviation World” – I seem to remember that made me smile, if only for a moment). Every hour of every day, I would smile so much my mouth hurt. What happened? Age? Stress? Lack of sleep? That pesky broken back of mine? I don’t think so. So bear with me as I’m planning on using my favorite medium to arrive at some sort of conclusion, here. At least a pseudo-conclusion until I close my eyes only to open them once more and find I have forgotten EVERYTHING. Have I shot myself in the foot before I took my first step?

I rather think it’s something impossibly simple. There is no “I” in “Team”, but if you rearrange the letters, you can find “me”. It’s me. I’m lost. Or rather, I’ve lost myself. Silly as it sounds, I actually enjoy being me. Not the me I inexplicably find myself being for other people. Not the wife, the Mama, the lackluster employee who eagerly takes way too much on her shoulders in the hopes of averting termination. Not even the “cool girl” who is invited out for Metal Night with the boys with the understanding that no chicks are allowed. Just me. Nothing fancy. No sparkles. No effort.

Whatever happened to that broad? Did she win an all-expenses-paid vacation to Shangri-La only to discover it was a ruse? Perhaps she embarked on one of those fanciful capers she was always talking about and she’s currently serving 25 to life? Nope. It’s something far more tragic.

She gradually faded into the heavily patterned wallpaper until the defining lines blurred beyond recognition.

Why? Why do I do that? What metaphorical shackles have consumed every limb rendering my ability to break free futile? Always eager to please, this one. Forever seeking acceptance, forgiveness, indifference yet love. Round and round we go, where we stop, I always know. Depression. Happiness is such an elusive bitch.

Just write. I’m feeling better already…

Have That Removed!

6 comments Thursday, November 1, 2012

 "Self-improvement may be a noble goal, but the stars aren’t so sure the leg rests, dual cup-holders, and wood paneling are what people had in mind. "

First order of business, Happy Belated Halloween. It's the goddamned greatest holiday of the year and my favorite of the bunch, to be sure. That said, I've been too doped up to bask in all the glory. Didn't dress up. No decorations. There were no deliciously carved pumpkins.... no graveyard. No garish lights. No fog. No spiderwebs adorning my abode.... well there are always plenty of spiderwebs, but that's more a sign of my poor housekeeping skills. The corpse of one of those terrifying spidery bastards is still lifelessly glued to one of my shampoo bottles as the love child of fear and laziness struck at a most inopportune moment. Another day bites the dust. I'm even refraining from commentary on the costume-sporting-hooker-festival I found myself surrounded by last night. 

You see, I went to the doctor. Horrid thought, that. I do so loathe swallowing my pride and surrendering to the vast world of drugs and diagnoses. I generally avoid seeking help at all costs. After all, in my mind, there is little that duct tape and puffy stickers can't solve. As it turns out, those are of absolutely no use when the ailment involves extraordinary pain when sitting or standing. So I did it. I drove my bruised tailbone and ego to the doctor. What I wasn't prepared for was the horrified look on the man's face when he returned with the X-Ray. "Now don't freak out..."  Seriously? I was just fine until you said that! 

"Severely fractured coccyx" (Tailbone to the layperson). Alright, well what do I need, then? A band-aid? Ice pack? Whiskey?

"A trip to the neurologist". Solid.

As I sat in the waiting room yesterday morning, I was having quite the time vomiting my hypochondria on the paperwork before me. Depression? Check. Anxiety? Check. Broken Bone? Check. Bruises Easily? Ummm... Ok. Difficulty Swallowing? Sure, why not. I believe the only section I didn't make any menu selection from involved blood disorders. The red goo seeping out of all my paper-cuts looks fine to me, so I felt no urge to go down that path. Upon entering the exam room and noticing my quite colorful questionnaire, the doctor eyed me up and down in disbelief. I can only imagine the thoughts running through Judgy McJudgerson's mind. 

After a litany of questions surrounding all my fabricated ailments, we got down to brass tacks. As I sat back and observed each successive reflex test and endured poke after poke with a sharp, splintery stick, I felt pretty damn good about myself. Man, I had aced that shit! Everything looked to be going swimmingly. I wasn't even under the influence of narcotics with my assertion of what had just transpired. And yet I was wrong. So very wrong. "Extensive nerve damage to the right half of the body". Back up that trolley... WHAT? I'm also looking at spine surgery. Outstanding.

Add AT LEAST one slipped disc and nerve damage to the laundry list of ailments (imaginary or otherwise). Ugh. 

More tests scheduled, more anxiety, an extra helping of tea for my pity party. On the bright side, I'm totally justified for the next month or so with all my melodramatic whining. But I'll be damned if I'm letting some lunatic open me up and tickle those oh-so-necessary ivories! 

I've known 4 creatures on this planet to have gone under the knife for back surgery. Those 4 same creatures all came out in wheelchairs. To be fair, each and every one of them exceed 70 years or so upon this planet, but I just don't trust it. Between general paranoia and zero positive hospital experiences to date, this all is a bit much to take in. 

Look, I'll be the first to admit my problem pales in comparison to what 99% of the planet endures. One only need tune into the news for a handful of minutes to put things in perspective. And yet I'm scared. Terrified, actually. I'd be willing to bet I wouldn't handle a serious issue with much grace at all. May I just tell you I also don't handle sympathy well? I'm pleased as punch to feel sorry for myself, but once others start chiming in on my limitations, Kitty feels backed into a corner and those claws do come out. Tis quite the conundrum indeed. So where am I going with all of this? Good question. May I just direct you back to the aforementioned bit about being doped up? An excellent first step might be stepping away from the keyboard thus putting an end to all this drivel. Glancing down I just noticed it's the first day of November. Makes enough sense. Let's see what you've got for me, month. For the rest of you, I wish you a marvelous Thursday.


Knocking Some Sense Into The 'Ol Gal

4 comments Wednesday, October 24, 2012

"Surviving this week will hinge heavily on the bear’s ability to understand English, his grasp of such higher concepts as mercy, and whether or not you’ll let go of that honey." 

A funny thing happened to me on the way to work yesterday. Turns out a certain aforementioned accident managed to jar my wee brain JUST enough to make a noticeable difference. For one magical day (and counting) I was ZEN. I'm talking Office-Space-post-hypno-therapy-zen. Yesterday could well have been added to the list of days I wish to forget. But not so. It was perfection. The soundtrack was even a gentle mixture of elevator muzak and calypso. 

After months of stress accumulation amounting to a rat's nest of frustration, it was just suddenly absent. Absent in one of those marvelous ways normally requiring the assistance of high levels of toxicity. Each successive email brought about another helping of yuck to an already overflowing plate. Wave after wave of added responsibility and concern. And yet there I stood.... or sat as the case would be..... smiling blissfully and brushing it off as I would a rogue ash from my cigarette. Yes, yes, I still have that nasty habit, but there's likely some good that may come out of routinely crystallizing my lungs.

I must say, the feeling experienced has inspired me to a state of complete calm. As the resident sounding board for the majority of my coworkers, I felt like I was hovering just a few inches off my seat yesterday. This ethereal being soaking it all in whilst banishing all the bad off into oblivion. It was damn tempting to run home and change into billowing robes for added effect. Of course, that would be absurd as I don't own such a frock. There is quite simply a delicious result from little more beyond coping. I ALMOST wish I had ran into something sooner. Almost.

Why is it that many of us spend so much time lost in worry? What-if's? What-then's? How-On-Earth's? Growing up, I marveled at the stark contrast in the personalities of my own parents. This same contrast undoubtedly led to their ultimate demise as a couple. Still, it was curious. On one hand, you could visibly see.... See, sense, get absolutely enveloped in the stress of one. The other: calm, cool and eternally collected. The latter - not so much as a hint of fluctuation in tone whether the news of the day signaled apocalypse or utter elation. Quite curious, indeed. 

I don't realistically expect this fabulous brain damage to last. And it's possible the whole "Mama's lost her goddamned mind" heckling may grow old. But for now, I am floating along in a manner reserved for creatures of the winged variety. I only wish I could bottle it up and sell it. Sweet merciful jesus, I'd be rich. I've also toyed with the recurring notion of starting my own cult. Nah, too sinister. With great power comes great responsibility, no? If I can pass along the good vibe to even one additional soul, I'll be pleased as punch. Happy Wednesday, Pets.