I wake to a stomach full of angst, and write a friend to address a wrong that I see done. But I am, on the whole, delusional. Perhaps a wrong was done and perhaps I have imagined it. Perhaps it's old and they don't remember it. Ah, life with borderline personality disorder.
I am ashamed I lean so hard on some friends. I try not to, and perhaps I need to get my shrink to up the abilify. I do network as hard as I can, but friends are somewhat hard to come by for anyone. I have run into a problem at the local food bank. Apparently, I am not Christian enough for them, or they are frightened by my illnesses. I really don't know. So I search for another one.
I haven't had any coffee yet this morning, and my mojo is low. The cats and the dog sleep, and I hope to join them soon, especially after yesterday's debacle. There, that's better, a strawberry snack. I have changed my diet to mostly raw fruits and veggies, and beans and rice. The results are some bad breath (I am told the toxins that come out, do that) and farts which would make my dog proud.
The window is not open this morning. An unseasonable, ha!, heatwave has come over this smallish valley at the very end of summer, and the night is muggy and hot. The cats will just have to suffer in the air conditioning.
What is it about sleep that I wake in such a panic from? My dreams can be bad, but not so extraordinarily horrible that I should wake in such a state...panic, eating compulsively, afraid not to be conscious. Perhaps it's that last one. I have woken so many nights afraid not to be conscious of any threat to me...
So I reach out, to calm myself, and look on familiar objects. I see the orange football that is Ratty, lying beside Max, who has his head on one of the bed pillows. My eyes rove over the contents of my room, the picture of me in Scotland, the gold clock, the cat trinkets. The sleepy kitties, and the brightly colored painted ones...the one from Cairo, made to look like those cat statues put into graves for thousands of years.
And beyond them? Into the living room, with it's air of placidity and calmness, deliberately cultivated to calm me from everyday anxieties. Very few trinkets there, actually, only two: the ironwood statue of a leaping dolphin that my Father gave me. Everything else on the table tops are lamps, and one lone wood carving of a pair of hands, held out as if to hold water.
The differing woods calm me. Woods have a language and each particular wood has its meaning. Cherry wood is gracious; mahogany is spiritual healing; walnut is clarity; oak is majesty and fidelity. They all speak to me. I think of those who have sat in the chairs, or laid their hands on the tables. My brother has a bed made of oak, that belonged to my grandfather's parents. The posts on each corner are tipped with iron, perhaps? And one is worn down by the action of my great-grandfather's hand, as he helped himself out of bed in the morning, and his son did, as well.
The clean, white paneled walls meet the grey carpet with a trim seam. It reminds me of something of a ship, something from childhood. It reminds me of some familiar scene, of ship's cabins, and white walls that gleam, and shiny brasses and polished glass. The idea is reflected by a ship's painting on one wall, and a painting of the sky on another. A picture of the Madonna with child, is above it.
One large plant, with broad, glossy, yellow-streaked leaves, dominates the room at one end. It is in front of the door to the outside, and brings the garden into the apartment a bit. In winter, besides the holiday assortments, it is the only bit of strong color to the room. The rest of it is teal and pale pink, from the upholstery, and cream colors, from the shades of the lamps.
In winter, I bring out the colorful pillows; one bright blue with embroidery, and one sharp red, and one with a picture of a flower, embroidered by my Mother on it, brown and gold. In the winter, I collect the cream pillows and the dark brown pillows, and replace them with these cushions, to serve the color-starved part of me. A red or green cloth goes on the dining room table.
I have added the rocking chair, with it's painted trim of autumnal fruits and leaves picked out in gold, to the living room chairs. A pale blue cushion comforts the seat, and a cream pillow rests the back. A cream throw is flung over the top of it. It's my baby rocking chair, where my Father spent the most time with my Brother and I, when we were very young.
Perhaps now I am calm enough to sleep.