I am finding my mood is improving some. I'm feeling a little less depressed. There's still some pretty hard swings going on, but I'm beginning to get a feel for how to cope with them. Now, if only the alternating feels of being too hot and freezing would go away, that'd be perfect. At least I'm not sick.
I'm making progress on my deep cleaning the apartment. The kitchen is done except for the floor. But I'm waiting until we have the floors all picked up so I can just run the vacuum cleaner over the whole apartment in one shot. My next room to tackle is the bathroom. I may have a little bit of a harder time there.
roses
Thursday, February 28, 2019
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
It's all real.
The funny thing about gas-lighting is that if you're subjected to it long enough, it becomes part of your mental backdrop to everything. You start to second guess everything you do and your memories of things. I started keeping a bullet journal/planner in part to help me combat the long term effects of gas-lighting. Today is not a great mental health day. Part of it is because I'm hormonal and suffering from seasonal affective disorder. Part of it is because all of the gas-lighting from when I was a kid is rearing its head right now.
My parents didn't believe mental illness happened to our family. It was treated as if you were some how mentally defective and that through force of will and correct thinking you would be cured. My parents didn't believe me when I complained of pain in my knees as a child. Cue 30 years later and I was diagnosed with arthritis with my doctor horrified that no one listened to me as a kid. My parents told everyone that I was a compulsive liar and a hypochondriac from as soon as I could start talking. My parents used gas-lighting to do their best to keep my siblings and I compliant with their will.
The years that was most active, my brothers and my father don't remember. I have spotty memory that is coming back in bits and pieces. The memories coming back are pretty horrible. I don't talk about them with the rest of that side of the family because as far as the narrative goes, we all had a normal childhood and I was the weird one with issues. But, I remember things like my parents having screaming arguments over money late at night. I remember my mother throwing cast iron pots at my father as she screamed at him for some reason or another. I remember that stuff and worse.
I don't sleep well at night. Some days, I have this crisis and I question my memories harshly. I can't tell for a moment what is real. Is what I remember accurate or is what I was told about myself true? Each segment of my life where I have spotty memory recall due to trauma, I have this crisis. All because of gas-lighting's long term effects. It is like imposter syndrome all the damn time.
But, when the people around you confirm some of those memories that you don't talk about, you realize that all of your memories are real.
My parents didn't believe mental illness happened to our family. It was treated as if you were some how mentally defective and that through force of will and correct thinking you would be cured. My parents didn't believe me when I complained of pain in my knees as a child. Cue 30 years later and I was diagnosed with arthritis with my doctor horrified that no one listened to me as a kid. My parents told everyone that I was a compulsive liar and a hypochondriac from as soon as I could start talking. My parents used gas-lighting to do their best to keep my siblings and I compliant with their will.
The years that was most active, my brothers and my father don't remember. I have spotty memory that is coming back in bits and pieces. The memories coming back are pretty horrible. I don't talk about them with the rest of that side of the family because as far as the narrative goes, we all had a normal childhood and I was the weird one with issues. But, I remember things like my parents having screaming arguments over money late at night. I remember my mother throwing cast iron pots at my father as she screamed at him for some reason or another. I remember that stuff and worse.
I don't sleep well at night. Some days, I have this crisis and I question my memories harshly. I can't tell for a moment what is real. Is what I remember accurate or is what I was told about myself true? Each segment of my life where I have spotty memory recall due to trauma, I have this crisis. All because of gas-lighting's long term effects. It is like imposter syndrome all the damn time.
But, when the people around you confirm some of those memories that you don't talk about, you realize that all of your memories are real.
Monday, February 18, 2019
Menu for the week of 2/18/2019
| Date | Breakfast | Lunch | Dinner |
|---|---|---|---|
| Sun | Donuts | sandwiches / leftovers |
meatloaf roasted potatoes/ mashed cauliflower green beans |
| Mon | kids: scrambled eggs & toast me: oatmeal, coffee |
Kids: sandwiches Hubby: pizza & hard boiled eggs Me: cobb salad |
hamburgers & cheese burger salad |
| Tues | kids: cereal me: oatmeal, egg, coffee |
Kids: ez mac Hubby: noodle bowl w/ meatballs Me: salad |
crock pot chicken fajitas |
| Wed | kids: pancakes me: oatmeal, nuts, turkey & coffee |
Kids: sandwiches Hubby: sandwiches w/ chips & eggs Me: leftovers |
spaghetti & sauce (spaghetti squash) |
| Thurs | kids: eggs & bacon me: zucchini hash w/ eggs & toast & coffee |
Kids: sandwiches Hubby: leftovers Me: leftovers |
pork tenderloin couscous cucumber salad |
| Fri | kids: pancakes me: veggie omelet & toast & coffee |
Kids: ez mac Hubby: leftovers Me: leftovers |
Bombay style chicken breasts 'rice' & naan |
| Sat | eggs, bacon & fruit |
leftovers / sandwiches | pork chops apple salad couscous |
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Return to your roots.
So many signs point me back at my roots. At the same time, there are places I can not go now. There are people I can not talk to now. I question where my roots are and just how much of it is a fabric of lies. Perhaps this is why I am getting this message so many times from so many places. Spiritually, I am on the verge of a month of discipline and preparation for spring. I am facing the beginning of a week where the kids are on break from school. I'm not feeling very well. I'm not sleeping very well.
And yet, I feel this deep pull to go back to my roots. Not just here, but on my other blogs. In my other writing. I feel almost compelled to exhume my old work from high school to just review it. I kept my writing journals and my personal journals. They're among my prized possessions. They're my memories when my brain is not functioning correctly. I've added to them my daily journal in the planner format.
I don't know why it is so important for me to return to my roots. But, I find myself wishing I could walk the hills of my youth and hear my grandparents' voices again. I find myself wishing that I could have one more cup of tea with my late aunt and let her know that I actually wanted her at my wedding but my parents pressured me into not inviting her and her wife. I find myself not missing my childhood but reliving parts of it by way of dreams and being confused.
My memories are a patchwork of trauma and blank spaces from that period of my life with shining moments of joy interspersed. There are more blank spaces then happy memories. And intermixed with it all is the narrative that I was told about my childhood from my parents, which runs so very contrary to what my memories tell me.
Go back to my roots. How do I find the roots of it all if I can't remember the way? I suppose the gods and my ancestors will show me the way. They always have.
And yet, I feel this deep pull to go back to my roots. Not just here, but on my other blogs. In my other writing. I feel almost compelled to exhume my old work from high school to just review it. I kept my writing journals and my personal journals. They're among my prized possessions. They're my memories when my brain is not functioning correctly. I've added to them my daily journal in the planner format.
I don't know why it is so important for me to return to my roots. But, I find myself wishing I could walk the hills of my youth and hear my grandparents' voices again. I find myself wishing that I could have one more cup of tea with my late aunt and let her know that I actually wanted her at my wedding but my parents pressured me into not inviting her and her wife. I find myself not missing my childhood but reliving parts of it by way of dreams and being confused.
My memories are a patchwork of trauma and blank spaces from that period of my life with shining moments of joy interspersed. There are more blank spaces then happy memories. And intermixed with it all is the narrative that I was told about my childhood from my parents, which runs so very contrary to what my memories tell me.
Go back to my roots. How do I find the roots of it all if I can't remember the way? I suppose the gods and my ancestors will show me the way. They always have.
Monday, February 11, 2019
Phyllis & The Visitor
Phyllis sipped her tea and listened to the children arguing behind her. It had been a long day. She simply had run out of energy and just let the boys argue. As she turned on her soothing New Age music, the 35 year old mother tried to refocus her mind on the soaring aria that was being sung over a cloudy mashup of sythesizer and cello. Phyllis looked at her book and tried for the fifth time to read the beginning line of the page.
Shrill shrieks replaced the bickering.
With a sigh, Phyllis, she put the book down and turned to face her boys. Aaron, age five, was wrapped around a toy fire truck as Edgar, age seven, tried to pry the truck out of his brother's arms. Phyllis got up out of her chair and walked over to the fighting boys. She leaned down and firmly took Edgar by the arm. She lead him away as Aaron stopped shrieking. "Edgar," Phyllis said for what felt to be the millionth time that afternoon, "You need to share with your brother." Edgar glared down at his feet.
"It's not fair," Edgar muttered, "I wish I didn't have a brother. I hate him." Phyllis sighed. This had been Edgar's refrain for the past week. She suspected that it had something to do with his brother starting school and riding the bus with him. Phyllis knelt down beside Edgar to look him in the eye.
"Now, Eddie," she said gently, "You don't mean that. You love your little brother...."
Edgar's head whipped up. He put his hands on his hips in a gesture that mimiced the one Phyllis took when she caught them in the midst of trouble. Edgar narrowed his eyes. "Don't call me Eddie," he snapped, "And I do mean it. I hate him. I wish he never was born." Before Phyllis could do anything, Edgar turned on his heel and bolted from the room. As he pounded up the stairs, Phyllis looked over at Aaron. Aaron looked at her with a deeply wounded look.
"Aaron," she said with the same gentle tone of earlier, "Eddie didn't mean that. He was just angry." Aaron's lower lip quivered as his eyes brightened with tears. Phyllis inwardly growled with frustration and caught herself starting to grind her teeth as she walked over to her son. "Aaron," she continued in her best soothing voice, "Don't let what Eddie said bother you. He just gets mad and says things he doesn't mean."
"Why are you lying to the boy?" a deep male voice said from the doorway to the hall. Phyllis's head whipped over and there before her, she saw a tall, red haired man dressed in a dark grey pinstriped suit. His green eyes seemed to be alight with some emotion that Phyllis couldn't define, though his facial expression was solemn. He stepped into the living room and walked towards Aaron, who was caught somewhere between tears and shock at this strange man appearing in his living room.
The man crouched down beside Aaron and pushed the forgotten firetruck towards the lad. As the siren wailed and the lights flashed, Aaron looked down at it. Phyllis felt a cold tingle of fear run down her spine. The firetruck had the batteries taken out of it last week. "I don't know who you are, but you should get out of here," she said with more conviction then she felt.
The red haired man smirked at Phyllis. She could see scars over and on his lips. Phyllis wondered if they were from some sort of drug use. She seized upon the idea and straightened up. "I will not have a drug dealer in my home," she declared, pointing out to the hallway and the front door at the end of it, "You will leave or I will call the police." At her vigorous statement, the red haired man stood up, chuckling.
"I do not deal in drugs. That is beneath me, Phyllis," he said, sounding as though he was on the verge of full throated laughter at the concept. "I am here because you asked me here," he explained, gesturing towards the door and then towards Phyllis.
"I have no idea who you are," she spat venemously.
Her strange guest smiled and pulled out a pristine white business card. He held it out to her as he gave a small bow. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said as he did so, "I am Loptr Naalson." Phyllis hesitantly took the card and looked at it. Embossed in elegant script was the name that her strange guest gave and nothing more. "As you were making your tea, you asked for help," Loptr said, smiling, "I was in the neighborhood and decided I would do so."
Phyllis looked at the card and struggled to figure out what Loptr was speaking of. Then her eyes widened. "I said god help me," she replied, "You are obviously not a god. You're standing right here infront of me." Loptr laughed. "Get out," she insisted, "Get out right now, or I will call the cops."
Loptr straightened and walked towards the stairs that Edgar and fled up. "I presume that the problem is Edgar," he said, "I will deal with him straight away and then go on my way." Phyllis darted between the lean man and the stairs. Loptr arched an eyebrow. "Do you want help or not, woman? The boy is on an evil path. The fights and the cat is proof of it," Loptr said with no trace of humor, "Your insistance upon scripture readings and corporal discipline has done nothing for the child. I can show him what road he is treading and give him the chance to choose the correct one."
Phyllis shivered with fear. This strange man knew, somehow, about the fights that Edgar got in and the cat he almost lit on fire. It was a secret she did her best to keep from the community, and yet this man knew. "How do I know you're not the devil?" she whispered as Loptr mounted the first step. He looked over his shoulder at the fearful woman and smiled, "How do you know that I am?" Phyllis stared as Loptr climbed the stairs. Soon, Loptr came to a narrow hallway that lead off to his left. The door at the top of the stairs was closed and he could hear something being thrown at the wall. Loptr gave a rueful smile and shook his head. He walked into the room and caught the lacross ball as it came flying at his head. Edgar stared at the interloper in dumbfounded amazement. "You and I need to have a chat, son," the tall man in the suit said as he shut the door behind him, "You're mother is going to pieces over you."
"She's always blowing up over something. It doesn't make a difference if I do something right or not," Edgar muttered as he sat down on his bed. He crossed his arms and glared at the man who tossed the ball between his hands. "Why're you here? Are you some minister to pray over me?" the boy asked suspiciously. Loptr laughed.
"Oh no," he assured Edgar, "I'm much worse."
"You're not a cop, are you?" the boy said, "You can't take me to jail. I'm too young." Loptr grinned and Edgar couldn't help feeling a little disgusted at how the scars on his lips twisted. Loptr shook his head. "If you're not a cop and not a minister, what are you?" Edgar demanded, refusing to be cowed by this stranger.
Loptr held the ball tightly in his hands. "Who I am is not important," Loptr said, crouching beside Edgar, who leaned away from him. Loptr brought his hands up, with the ball covered by his long fingers. "What is important is what I'm going to show you. After that, you decide."
"What," Edgar sneered sarcastically, "A ball?"
"More then that," Loptr retorted, and he opened his hands. Where a scuffed, white rubber ball had been, there was now a crystal ball. Edgar's eyes went wide with amazement. "Look in there," Loptr said, "That's how this works. You look into the ball and then you make up your mind." Edgar leaned forward to peer at the ball and then gasped in shock to see a miniature version of himself sitting on his bed with the suited man beside him. Edgar waved his right arm and in the image he saw the same thing. "Cool," he said in a whisper. Loptr passed his left hand over the ball and Edgar saw an older version of himself. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit in a small room. "What's that?" Edgar asked. "Keep looking and it will be revealed," Loptr said. Just as the red haired man had said, the image shifted, the minature, older version of Edgar had his hands cuffed by a policeman. He walked out of the small room and into a much larger room. Edgar, who had seen enough court dramas on television, recognized the location as a court room.
"But I'm going to go free," Edgar said, "I..." Loptr shook his head.
"No, son," he said solemnly, "You're not there for breaking somebody's window. You murdered your little brother." Young Edgar's face blanched. "You can change this," Loptr said, "Not many people get the chance to change things like this. Tolerate your brother and channel your desire to break things into more... appropriate directions." As Loptr spoke, the image in the ball grew cloudy and then showed adult Edgar on a construction site. The image of Edgar was at the controls of a crane with a wrecking ball. "This can be your future," Loptr said quietly, "All you need to do is choose."
"But what about Aaron," Edgar said petulantly, "He's always in the way. He's always getting into my stuff and bugging me." Loptr gave Edgar a wry smile.
"What does your mother say about that?" he asked, his tone rich with amusement.
"That he'll grow out of it. That I should treat him how I want to be treated," Edgar replied glumly.
"A few years isn't that long to put up with him being annoying," Loptr said, "It's better then not having him for the rest of your life. As much as he irritates you, you'd miss him. And on that path, he would never forgive you or come to see you. You would lose him just as surely as you lose your mother."
Edgar sighed. "I just want him to leave me alone," he said.
Loptr patted him on the shoulder. "I feel that way about my brother sometimes," he said, "There will be times where you will want him around too."
Edgar looked at the crystal ball with an expression of disappointment. "You don't need to act on the impuses to break things," Loptr said, "Just wait until it is the right time and the right thing. It will come. I promise you." Edgar looked over at Loptr's solemn face.
"How will I know?" Edgar asked. Loptr smiled.
"You'll just know," he answered and set the ball into Edgar's hand. As soon as the ball touched the boy's fingertips it turned into his lacross ball. Edgar's eyes went wide with wonder. He looked up at Loptr as he stood.
"How did you do that?" Edgar asked. Loptr smiled wider.
"Magic, of course," he answered, "now come down stairs so that your mother doesn't think I've eaten you or something." Edgar dropped the ball onto his bed and walked down the stairs ahead of Loptr. When he got to the bottom step, his mother flung her arms around him. She looked up the steps to see if the strange man was going to come down.
After a long moment, Phyllis went upstairs. She looked in Edgar's room and found nothing but a falcon feather sitting on the bed. She searched the rest of the upstairs and found she was the only one there. Again, Phyllis shivered with dread. As she walked back into Edgar's room, she picked up the feather. "Perhaps he was an angel," she whispered.
With a sigh, Phyllis, she put the book down and turned to face her boys. Aaron, age five, was wrapped around a toy fire truck as Edgar, age seven, tried to pry the truck out of his brother's arms. Phyllis got up out of her chair and walked over to the fighting boys. She leaned down and firmly took Edgar by the arm. She lead him away as Aaron stopped shrieking. "Edgar," Phyllis said for what felt to be the millionth time that afternoon, "You need to share with your brother." Edgar glared down at his feet.
"It's not fair," Edgar muttered, "I wish I didn't have a brother. I hate him." Phyllis sighed. This had been Edgar's refrain for the past week. She suspected that it had something to do with his brother starting school and riding the bus with him. Phyllis knelt down beside Edgar to look him in the eye.
"Now, Eddie," she said gently, "You don't mean that. You love your little brother...."
Edgar's head whipped up. He put his hands on his hips in a gesture that mimiced the one Phyllis took when she caught them in the midst of trouble. Edgar narrowed his eyes. "Don't call me Eddie," he snapped, "And I do mean it. I hate him. I wish he never was born." Before Phyllis could do anything, Edgar turned on his heel and bolted from the room. As he pounded up the stairs, Phyllis looked over at Aaron. Aaron looked at her with a deeply wounded look.
"Aaron," she said with the same gentle tone of earlier, "Eddie didn't mean that. He was just angry." Aaron's lower lip quivered as his eyes brightened with tears. Phyllis inwardly growled with frustration and caught herself starting to grind her teeth as she walked over to her son. "Aaron," she continued in her best soothing voice, "Don't let what Eddie said bother you. He just gets mad and says things he doesn't mean."
"Why are you lying to the boy?" a deep male voice said from the doorway to the hall. Phyllis's head whipped over and there before her, she saw a tall, red haired man dressed in a dark grey pinstriped suit. His green eyes seemed to be alight with some emotion that Phyllis couldn't define, though his facial expression was solemn. He stepped into the living room and walked towards Aaron, who was caught somewhere between tears and shock at this strange man appearing in his living room.
The man crouched down beside Aaron and pushed the forgotten firetruck towards the lad. As the siren wailed and the lights flashed, Aaron looked down at it. Phyllis felt a cold tingle of fear run down her spine. The firetruck had the batteries taken out of it last week. "I don't know who you are, but you should get out of here," she said with more conviction then she felt.
The red haired man smirked at Phyllis. She could see scars over and on his lips. Phyllis wondered if they were from some sort of drug use. She seized upon the idea and straightened up. "I will not have a drug dealer in my home," she declared, pointing out to the hallway and the front door at the end of it, "You will leave or I will call the police." At her vigorous statement, the red haired man stood up, chuckling.
"I do not deal in drugs. That is beneath me, Phyllis," he said, sounding as though he was on the verge of full throated laughter at the concept. "I am here because you asked me here," he explained, gesturing towards the door and then towards Phyllis.
"I have no idea who you are," she spat venemously.
Her strange guest smiled and pulled out a pristine white business card. He held it out to her as he gave a small bow. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said as he did so, "I am Loptr Naalson." Phyllis hesitantly took the card and looked at it. Embossed in elegant script was the name that her strange guest gave and nothing more. "As you were making your tea, you asked for help," Loptr said, smiling, "I was in the neighborhood and decided I would do so."
Phyllis looked at the card and struggled to figure out what Loptr was speaking of. Then her eyes widened. "I said god help me," she replied, "You are obviously not a god. You're standing right here infront of me." Loptr laughed. "Get out," she insisted, "Get out right now, or I will call the cops."
Loptr straightened and walked towards the stairs that Edgar and fled up. "I presume that the problem is Edgar," he said, "I will deal with him straight away and then go on my way." Phyllis darted between the lean man and the stairs. Loptr arched an eyebrow. "Do you want help or not, woman? The boy is on an evil path. The fights and the cat is proof of it," Loptr said with no trace of humor, "Your insistance upon scripture readings and corporal discipline has done nothing for the child. I can show him what road he is treading and give him the chance to choose the correct one."
Phyllis shivered with fear. This strange man knew, somehow, about the fights that Edgar got in and the cat he almost lit on fire. It was a secret she did her best to keep from the community, and yet this man knew. "How do I know you're not the devil?" she whispered as Loptr mounted the first step. He looked over his shoulder at the fearful woman and smiled, "How do you know that I am?" Phyllis stared as Loptr climbed the stairs. Soon, Loptr came to a narrow hallway that lead off to his left. The door at the top of the stairs was closed and he could hear something being thrown at the wall. Loptr gave a rueful smile and shook his head. He walked into the room and caught the lacross ball as it came flying at his head. Edgar stared at the interloper in dumbfounded amazement. "You and I need to have a chat, son," the tall man in the suit said as he shut the door behind him, "You're mother is going to pieces over you."
"She's always blowing up over something. It doesn't make a difference if I do something right or not," Edgar muttered as he sat down on his bed. He crossed his arms and glared at the man who tossed the ball between his hands. "Why're you here? Are you some minister to pray over me?" the boy asked suspiciously. Loptr laughed.
"Oh no," he assured Edgar, "I'm much worse."
"You're not a cop, are you?" the boy said, "You can't take me to jail. I'm too young." Loptr grinned and Edgar couldn't help feeling a little disgusted at how the scars on his lips twisted. Loptr shook his head. "If you're not a cop and not a minister, what are you?" Edgar demanded, refusing to be cowed by this stranger.
Loptr held the ball tightly in his hands. "Who I am is not important," Loptr said, crouching beside Edgar, who leaned away from him. Loptr brought his hands up, with the ball covered by his long fingers. "What is important is what I'm going to show you. After that, you decide."
"What," Edgar sneered sarcastically, "A ball?"
"More then that," Loptr retorted, and he opened his hands. Where a scuffed, white rubber ball had been, there was now a crystal ball. Edgar's eyes went wide with amazement. "Look in there," Loptr said, "That's how this works. You look into the ball and then you make up your mind." Edgar leaned forward to peer at the ball and then gasped in shock to see a miniature version of himself sitting on his bed with the suited man beside him. Edgar waved his right arm and in the image he saw the same thing. "Cool," he said in a whisper. Loptr passed his left hand over the ball and Edgar saw an older version of himself. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit in a small room. "What's that?" Edgar asked. "Keep looking and it will be revealed," Loptr said. Just as the red haired man had said, the image shifted, the minature, older version of Edgar had his hands cuffed by a policeman. He walked out of the small room and into a much larger room. Edgar, who had seen enough court dramas on television, recognized the location as a court room.
"But I'm going to go free," Edgar said, "I..." Loptr shook his head.
"No, son," he said solemnly, "You're not there for breaking somebody's window. You murdered your little brother." Young Edgar's face blanched. "You can change this," Loptr said, "Not many people get the chance to change things like this. Tolerate your brother and channel your desire to break things into more... appropriate directions." As Loptr spoke, the image in the ball grew cloudy and then showed adult Edgar on a construction site. The image of Edgar was at the controls of a crane with a wrecking ball. "This can be your future," Loptr said quietly, "All you need to do is choose."
"But what about Aaron," Edgar said petulantly, "He's always in the way. He's always getting into my stuff and bugging me." Loptr gave Edgar a wry smile.
"What does your mother say about that?" he asked, his tone rich with amusement.
"That he'll grow out of it. That I should treat him how I want to be treated," Edgar replied glumly.
"A few years isn't that long to put up with him being annoying," Loptr said, "It's better then not having him for the rest of your life. As much as he irritates you, you'd miss him. And on that path, he would never forgive you or come to see you. You would lose him just as surely as you lose your mother."
Edgar sighed. "I just want him to leave me alone," he said.
Loptr patted him on the shoulder. "I feel that way about my brother sometimes," he said, "There will be times where you will want him around too."
Edgar looked at the crystal ball with an expression of disappointment. "You don't need to act on the impuses to break things," Loptr said, "Just wait until it is the right time and the right thing. It will come. I promise you." Edgar looked over at Loptr's solemn face.
"How will I know?" Edgar asked. Loptr smiled.
"You'll just know," he answered and set the ball into Edgar's hand. As soon as the ball touched the boy's fingertips it turned into his lacross ball. Edgar's eyes went wide with wonder. He looked up at Loptr as he stood.
"How did you do that?" Edgar asked. Loptr smiled wider.
"Magic, of course," he answered, "now come down stairs so that your mother doesn't think I've eaten you or something." Edgar dropped the ball onto his bed and walked down the stairs ahead of Loptr. When he got to the bottom step, his mother flung her arms around him. She looked up the steps to see if the strange man was going to come down.
After a long moment, Phyllis went upstairs. She looked in Edgar's room and found nothing but a falcon feather sitting on the bed. She searched the rest of the upstairs and found she was the only one there. Again, Phyllis shivered with dread. As she walked back into Edgar's room, she picked up the feather. "Perhaps he was an angel," she whispered.
Making no sense.
I have been struggling to write lately. The words just refuse to form. It's like having an idea that something is a color but you can't tell someone the color directly. Charades doesn't translate well to paper. It's also a crappy party game.
Imposter syndrome has been hitting me pretty hard. I've been having some anxiety over it all going wrong and I just can't stay health enough to have a career or even a hobby writing. Or at least, that's what my anxiety tells me. Because every month, I spend around half of it depressed, on average. But, that's an average.
Thus, the last three weeks was a depressive episode, but I didn't rate it as 'that bad' until last week. Now I'm feeling better but tired. Why am I tired, you ask. Well, I've some kind of stomach bug that's been making me feel rotten for the last few days. I didn't sleep so great last night because of it. On top of that, I am starting to have some disruption to my sleep. With my mood coming up out of depressed and my sleep starting to get erratic, I think I have a hypomanic episode coming up. Those last a few days to a week. Then I crash into a depressive episode.
Somewhere along the way, I have about a week of stable mood. It's really frustrating. Because until my depression gets severe, I think I'm just having a bad day. And in the hypomanic state I ... well, I am buzzing around doing ALL THE THINGS. When it has passed, I don't remember what I did. It makes finding things in the pantry a challenge. It is all very organized when I'm done, but gods help me if I can make sense of the organization.
Once, I had a therapist tell me that part of my memory issues was because my memory problems are mood dependent. Thus, when I'm depressed, I am only remembering bad things and when I'm in a good mood I'm only remembering the good things. I don't think that's accurate but I do think there's something to the argument. I know that when I'm depressed, I have a lot more flashbacks and I'm less resilient to the disappointments of life. When I'm manic, I am more resilient but I'm also very driven to do things. And my thought processes might click along faster, but they're going in more erratic directions.
It's hard to come to grips with all of this. It makes me realize that even with medication, I am not stable enough to re-enter the workforce. It makes me realize that I am going to have to play the long game when it comes to a writing career and that freelance work may not be a thing for me. That makes me feel kinda bad. I thought that maybe I was stable enough to possibly start writing to deadlines and stuff. Writing comes pretty easily to me, except for when I am depressed. Then everything gets hard. And I highly doubt someone is going to accept "I'm sorry this is late, but I was too depressed to figure out how to write a decent paragraph." as a reason for an item being past due.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do here. I'll figure something out. I always do. Usually when I'm in that hypomanic state.
Imposter syndrome has been hitting me pretty hard. I've been having some anxiety over it all going wrong and I just can't stay health enough to have a career or even a hobby writing. Or at least, that's what my anxiety tells me. Because every month, I spend around half of it depressed, on average. But, that's an average.
Thus, the last three weeks was a depressive episode, but I didn't rate it as 'that bad' until last week. Now I'm feeling better but tired. Why am I tired, you ask. Well, I've some kind of stomach bug that's been making me feel rotten for the last few days. I didn't sleep so great last night because of it. On top of that, I am starting to have some disruption to my sleep. With my mood coming up out of depressed and my sleep starting to get erratic, I think I have a hypomanic episode coming up. Those last a few days to a week. Then I crash into a depressive episode.
Somewhere along the way, I have about a week of stable mood. It's really frustrating. Because until my depression gets severe, I think I'm just having a bad day. And in the hypomanic state I ... well, I am buzzing around doing ALL THE THINGS. When it has passed, I don't remember what I did. It makes finding things in the pantry a challenge. It is all very organized when I'm done, but gods help me if I can make sense of the organization.
Once, I had a therapist tell me that part of my memory issues was because my memory problems are mood dependent. Thus, when I'm depressed, I am only remembering bad things and when I'm in a good mood I'm only remembering the good things. I don't think that's accurate but I do think there's something to the argument. I know that when I'm depressed, I have a lot more flashbacks and I'm less resilient to the disappointments of life. When I'm manic, I am more resilient but I'm also very driven to do things. And my thought processes might click along faster, but they're going in more erratic directions.
It's hard to come to grips with all of this. It makes me realize that even with medication, I am not stable enough to re-enter the workforce. It makes me realize that I am going to have to play the long game when it comes to a writing career and that freelance work may not be a thing for me. That makes me feel kinda bad. I thought that maybe I was stable enough to possibly start writing to deadlines and stuff. Writing comes pretty easily to me, except for when I am depressed. Then everything gets hard. And I highly doubt someone is going to accept "I'm sorry this is late, but I was too depressed to figure out how to write a decent paragraph." as a reason for an item being past due.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do here. I'll figure something out. I always do. Usually when I'm in that hypomanic state.
Saturday, February 09, 2019
Menu for the week of 2/11/2019
| Date | Breakfast | Lunch | Dinner |
|---|---|---|---|
| Sun | Donuts | sandwiches / leftovers |
pizza |
| Mon | kids: school me: oatmeal, coffee |
Kids: school Hubby: pizza & hard boiled eggs Me: cobb salad |
hamburgers & salad |
| Tues | kids: school me: oatmeal, turkey coffee |
Kids: school Hubby: noodle bowl w/ meatballs Me: salad |
pulled steak tacos |
| Wed | kids: school me: oatmeal, nuts, turkey & coffee |
Kids: school Hubby: leftovers Me: leftovers |
spaghetti & sauce (spaghetti squash) |
| Thurs | kids: school me: zucchini hash w/ eggs & toast & coffee |
Kids: school Hubby: leftovers Me: leftovers |
pork tenderloin couscous cucumber salad |
| Fri | kids: school me: mason jar omlette & toast & coffee |
Kids: school Hubby: sandwiches & chips Me: leftovers |
meatloaf w/ roasted potatoes salad |
| Sat | eggs, bacon & fruit |
leftovers / sandwiches | pizza |
Thursday, February 07, 2019
Vintage patterns are a pain.
I respect the hell out of people who can just pick up any ol' patterns and whip it off like nobody's business. My late grandmother could do that. I didn't realize the extent of her knowledge until I started trying to make things from vintage patterns. And when I say vintage, I'm not talking about 1990s. I'm talking about patterns from the 1940s, '50s, and 60s. There is a distinct lack of standardized sizes for yarn or crochet hooks for a good lot of this.
I sat down with a hat pattern and attempted to work it up with a size 'E' hook, as per the pattern. I wound up with something that was toddler sized. It was supposed to be an adult sized hat. I was extremely annoyed. It isn't the first time something like this has happened with vintage crochet patterns. It gets even harder when you start looking at crochet patterns from before then because hook size is a thing that barely gets any mention. And good luck guessing what weight yarn you are going to be working with if you go by the pattern directions.
Reverse engineering some of these patterns after the abysmal failure of creating things as per the pattern is an interesting challenge. It is almost enough to satisfy the nerdy side of my brain. I confess, however, sometimes it is a lot of work for something that just isn't going to get used.
I sat down with a hat pattern and attempted to work it up with a size 'E' hook, as per the pattern. I wound up with something that was toddler sized. It was supposed to be an adult sized hat. I was extremely annoyed. It isn't the first time something like this has happened with vintage crochet patterns. It gets even harder when you start looking at crochet patterns from before then because hook size is a thing that barely gets any mention. And good luck guessing what weight yarn you are going to be working with if you go by the pattern directions.
Reverse engineering some of these patterns after the abysmal failure of creating things as per the pattern is an interesting challenge. It is almost enough to satisfy the nerdy side of my brain. I confess, however, sometimes it is a lot of work for something that just isn't going to get used.
Monday, February 04, 2019
Ugh. Diabetes can die in a fire.
I hate diabetes. If I eat later in the day than 6pm my morning blood sugar runs high. If I eat earlier than 6pm, I feel like I am starving for the rest of the evening. I find myself in this position where I am stuck with a schedule I don't like dictated by circumstance and hunger. I am finding that if I am not up by 6 am every morning, I get things mixed up and I forget to take my medications. That screws up my blood sugar numbers for the rest of the day and part of the next. And I feel like hell because my blood sugar numbers are screwed up and I didn't get my anxiety meds at the right time.
If I eat breakfast at 6am, I have to eat a snack by 10 am. If I don't, I feel terrible and get hangry. If I eat lunch at noon, I have to have a snack by 4pm or the same happens. But this makes me have less of an appetite at dinner time. And I have to eat dinner by 6pm this way my blood sugar numbers are not too high when 9:30pm hits and I am having my bedtime snack.
Now, you'd figure with the regular snacks and meals I wouldn't be hungry all the damn time. But I am. And I can't eat the food that I know would satisfy that feeling of hunger because my blood sugar runs high when it happens. Because carbs and I don't get along well now.
I'm getting exasperated with all of this. And, since the diabetes diagnosis my night vision (which wasn't that awesome to begin with) has gotten worse. To the point that I am avoiding driving at night because I get blinded by headlights. The bitter irony that I, the kid who wanted to be an astronomer, can't see worth crap in the dark is not lost on me. I'm going to be scheduling an appointment with my optometrist when I know the insurance will cover it. Because the insurance only covers one eye test per year unless it is medically necessary. And I don't think my bad night vision requires I get a new pair of glasses because my distance and close up vision haven't changed.
On a clear night, I look up and I can see the stars. As long as there isn't any street lights or car headlights around. But, I live in town. So, I can't really do any stargazing now. I have a telescope that I can't use because of my vision issues. It makes me feel awful. Because I can't even stay up to do much stargazing anyhow. My night time medications knock me out in about 30 minutes. And if I don't get to bed by 10, I am not going to be functional at 6 am.
This was not how I envisioned my life happening.
If I eat breakfast at 6am, I have to eat a snack by 10 am. If I don't, I feel terrible and get hangry. If I eat lunch at noon, I have to have a snack by 4pm or the same happens. But this makes me have less of an appetite at dinner time. And I have to eat dinner by 6pm this way my blood sugar numbers are not too high when 9:30pm hits and I am having my bedtime snack.
Now, you'd figure with the regular snacks and meals I wouldn't be hungry all the damn time. But I am. And I can't eat the food that I know would satisfy that feeling of hunger because my blood sugar runs high when it happens. Because carbs and I don't get along well now.
I'm getting exasperated with all of this. And, since the diabetes diagnosis my night vision (which wasn't that awesome to begin with) has gotten worse. To the point that I am avoiding driving at night because I get blinded by headlights. The bitter irony that I, the kid who wanted to be an astronomer, can't see worth crap in the dark is not lost on me. I'm going to be scheduling an appointment with my optometrist when I know the insurance will cover it. Because the insurance only covers one eye test per year unless it is medically necessary. And I don't think my bad night vision requires I get a new pair of glasses because my distance and close up vision haven't changed.
On a clear night, I look up and I can see the stars. As long as there isn't any street lights or car headlights around. But, I live in town. So, I can't really do any stargazing now. I have a telescope that I can't use because of my vision issues. It makes me feel awful. Because I can't even stay up to do much stargazing anyhow. My night time medications knock me out in about 30 minutes. And if I don't get to bed by 10, I am not going to be functional at 6 am.
This was not how I envisioned my life happening.
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