Archipelago

The weekend is over, almost before it has started. But there are memories left, of grass and water, frogs and cats, rain and blue skies.

Today, although I am up at 2 AM, I am not 'suffering' from my MI's (mental illnesses.) Although that's a subtle point to make. I am not in active pain today. I had bad dreams, but who doesn't? Today, I have shelter, food, animals in my life. I have a support network, and a best friend who really is the "best". I have a shrink I adore, a therapist who laughs a lot, a group that I love. I take my medications today, at the urging of practically everyone in my life, and I can laugh about that.

This is a rare moment in time for everything passes. "This, too, shall pass" means the good as well as the bad. It illustrates an intransigence that can drive someone with borderline personality disorder over the edge. I am not close to the edge today.  I would have to take a long ride in a 1968 Aston Martin, to get there. I don't have one...

Tuesday is Pancake's 'launch' date, going to a new home. She will be a frequent visitor, so I will keep you updated with pictures. Right now, she is an adorable pile of arabian carpet-colored fur, stretched helplessly in sleep.  Last night, she fell asleep in my lap, with both front paws stretched above her head. I have done a good job with my fosters, socializing them into trust with humans. I hope their parents live up to that trust.

This is my post: I don't like to think that I am acceptable only on medication. But time and again, I have demonstrated that it makes life so much easier on those around me, and myself, most importantly. I don't want to go out of this life as lonely as my mother did. She withdrew the last 15 years, as only deafness and mental illness can impel one to do so. My heart twists when I think of her.

I have lost jobs, due to lack of medication. That's the tough one to face. After I was assaulted at the workplace by a coworker, and ground into the dust by Southeast Rural Community Assistance Project, Inc., their CEO and lawyers, I suffered consequences, that cannot be addressed. Jobs cannot be unlost, time cannot be unspent, things cannot be unsaid, nor actions untaken. I feel my anger is justified. Which is always a dangerous thing, friends. Always. It corrupts as surely as power, this justification. It is produced in quantity by humans in general. How else could atrocity exist? It must feel justified. And justified anger produces resentment, which will only get me drunk.

These are mists that cling around my ankles in the darkness morning when I wake. Add some sexual assaults, and a penchant for cold, calculating bastards when it comes to personal relationships, and voila! A hodgepodge of diagnosis and addictions, with a dose of me thrown in there.

To take my medications, uses a ladder to climb out of the morass.  It takes years of therapy that can be grueling, agonizing, and lonely. It takes losing friends and gaining enemies. It brings me here, today, this morning. It brings me a lovely kitten, and 3 adorable, unicorn meat eating cats. It brings me a dog, not to replace my Eddie, my service animal, but to succeed him.

My HP has brought me to this apartment, with some turmoil, but also with good memories, that shine like the polished mahogany of the pink chair. There are candles, here, and bright white walls, and lovely works of art, given by friends. There is the garden, my garden, with zinnia and lavender, and impatiens, dahlias and daisies. And, beyond the maple tree, there is the field, bordered by forest. In that forest is the HP, Healing Power, that follows and guides me.

It is a real, physical presence that supplies real love to the wounds on my mind. It supplies grace: that elusive quality that makes life, literally, worth living. Grace gives me strength, where there is none. It gives courage, that I thought long vanished. It builds the field, and the forest. It helps me communicate and connect.

And it gives me this: I am not my mental illnesses, or my animals, or the sky, or the god, but part of the whole. Some portion of all of this is simply me.

Grace. 

Surprise!

Pancake is now spayed and no different than I can tell. Of course, I neuter or spay all of my animals, and yours too, if I catch them. Just kidding. Maybe.

I have joined an online dating site for fun and amusement, at the urging of a friend.  I tried eHarmony one time, and it lined me up with a guy in Wisconsin that thought the world was at an end, and traded assault rifles for his rent. Does that sound like me after 150 question 'test'?

Now, my "Cup of Coffee" ad is answered by guys with names like Timberwolf, who likes 'muddin'. Seriously? What does "No Nascar fans" mean to you? Extra points for this man, if you are a 'natural' redhead. He will never find out.

I thought I wrote my profile and was specific about being a city dweller, with an education, and a penchant for throwing parties...I know that I marked myself, as the 'Artsy' type. I lean to the liberal side, to say the least, and consider myself as a decent writer and poet.

I do not kill animals for fun or profit. I do not like "'huntin', fishin', drinkin'" beer with the boys' fun activities. I do not ride Harley Davidson motorcycles, or any vehicle that carries the risk of having my arms pulled out of my sockets, or losing a leg to. I will not respond to an ad where the only picture is a chest. No kidding. Unless Alan Rickman is answering my ad, I don't care what the guy does for a living, but make it more interesting than, '3 Guesses.'

I am not traveling to Paw Paw, West Virginia to meet you. My hobbies are not 'snuggling, cuddling, kissing.' The beach or the mountains: make up your mind. The first date will not be a candlelit dinner at my house, believe me.

The first date will be a cup of coffee. I will not be wearing camouflage, or lace. I will have on sensible shoes, for running purposes, if necessary. If he can't find Mill Mountain Coffee & Tea, 'he' is not for me. This is a small town. Odds are, I can find out who is married and who is not.

One guy refused to meet me Downtown because of the "police presence" there. After further questions, he had gotten a DUI in Downtown, "I only had just had 2 beers" and it was a "plot" to trick people into going to jail after they drank and started driving. This guy actually refused to meet anywhere but Lynchburg, where apparently, he wasn't 'wanted.' One man wanted to meet at a hotel, on the outskirts of Roanoke, on his way to Northern Virginia. Just for coffee. Another invited me to be his relief, from a "disastrous 20 year marriage that is exploding." I still can't believe that one.

One guy wanted to 'chat' dirty at 3 AM. One guy told me he 'cleaned up nice.' I will not answer ads where the picture shows the guy with a cat, or his children, unless they are old enough to sign a photo release form. If he drinks, and doesn't have any pets at all, he can keep moving. I don't care if he has tattoos, but don't want to see all of them on the first date.

I don't hang out at Jersey Lily's, on Orange Ave. I don't know or care when Bike Week is. If he is so unknowing, (read: clueless) as to his own personality that he cannot describe his interests, I will feel no 'spark'. And if he is a 'hopeless romantic', i.e. doesn't fart on the first date, I will find out soon enough.

I expect a grown man to wear adult clothes. I'm not picky: he doesn't have to own Valentino...but I don't want to know who the favorite NASCAR driver of the year is, when first meeting him. And don't call me, "Buttercup."

I don't answer ads where the profile picture is of a man who has just stepped out of the shower and is still in the bathroom. I don't answer ads where humor is offered in place of needed information. "LOL" is not a good response to the question, "What is your favorite animal rights organization?"

I think my main problem is: I am not really serious in any of this. I think if HP would like me to have male companionship, HP will provide it. And for every 'country' man, I think someone is out there just waiting to be that 'little girl.'

A Million Toys

in the world, and Pancake has to play with the computer.

And yes, I cheated by using an older picture, but you got it, right?

So I give her a dog toy, and the dog is jealous and takes it back, so I throw a candy wrapper...her spay date is today, so I will drop her off this morning for the big snip...she goes to her new parent next Tuesday.

I don't know what is going on. I have been having happy dreams, lately, and wake up in a good mood. It's absolutely refreshing. The reappearance of the pool seems to have something to do with it. And I have to say, that the Abilify is kicking in. It's a helluva choice: shorter, happier life, or longer, more miserable, paranoid one? Of course, there is not much sex in the happier life...psychotropic meds do that. But what the hell?

It seems, as with everything else, that in Nature, there are some trade-offs. So if I am happy and the apartment is a mess, and I get bigger than I was, so the hell what? There are worse things, dear Friends. Much worse.

I promised my brother, Marc, that I will watch the first two seasons of Game of Thrones, a show which has become his absolute passion. But I simply want to curl up on a couch and watch them all in one day. With my memory problems, it's the only way to go.

Speaking of: apparently a lot of bipolars have memory problems. I thought at first it was just the medications, but I have seen too many posts on Facebook pages to write it off to the meds. Sometimes, I cannot hold a simple conversation without forgetting how it started, or where it is going.

I know. For those of you out there who have bipolar, this may not be a news flash, but the agonizing tone of the questions on the mental health pages, reflect the importance that memory takes in our lives. Whereas, on the Abilify, I simply don't care anymore...do with that what you will.

I have just thrown a stick to the kitten, and the strength of the purrs indicate it will keep her occupied until I am ready to crate her. She positively levitates with the volume sometimes.  I can follow her progress from one room to the next by it. And, she's a carrier. You know, one of those cats who picks things up in their mouths, and carries them. She can carry a dog toy farther than any cat I have known except for Texas, my Dad's cat, who would carry a crumpled, empty cigarette pack, and fetch it, too.

If my post seems more random today, that's the influence of the weather. For a multitude of years, the weather has determined our comings and goings, and to think it is not as important today is silly.

Someone wrote me that today, this weather seems like fall. I think she is right, and I am enjoying that quality. The light is not at all the same, but the cooler temperatures, and the almost misty mornings, with the heavy dew, is delightful. But the air does not have that sweetness, it takes on in fall. Nor does the light go lemony with nostalgia that is sweeter than any air I know, except for the Isle of Skye.

And, does everyone realize that we are approaching the last season of Burn Notice?

Clear a Path

I think I sprained my ankle in my sleep. I will keep you updated.

Again with the wake up at 1:30 AM. In Rome, in those old days, this would not be unusual. Pre-dawn was the time a well-disposed writer could give to his art, and the rest of the day was spent in service, to his friends, his community, his world. I don't have to compose by candle light, or rushlight. I have no slaves to rustle up to attend me: my secretary, my wash-slave. But I love to view the scene in my mind's eye, eked out, of course, by too many reruns of "I, Claudius". The open nature of a villa, hopefully with the ocean nearby, the breezes coming in through the eternally open windows. The scents of a well planted garden, in the dark. A horse ride away was Rome.

Of course, odds are, I would have been born a slave...still, it's a nice thought, don't you think? I am not alone in romanticizing the past, so I don't feel guilty about doing so. Roman writers complained about the dissolute youths of the wealthy roaming the streets at night. And don't forget the horse that was elected Senator. Echoes of Eric Cantor.

Back to today, and it's almost 3 AM. Pancake roams the streets of the apartment, as reckless as any privileged youth. Her teeth and claws are her knives. She stops to eat and drink and poop, and that's it. Apparently, a grown cat that hisses and spits at her, is inviting her to play. Only the dog is her faithful companion, and he is jealous of his toys. He will search the apartment for days, after she is gone.

Changes in my support network happen, beyond my control. I have no control over anyone's actions but my own, and I try to remember that. My faithful anchor, my Dark Star, has not moved though, in all these years. I can chart a course from her position in the night sky.

The dog has now sat on his toy to hide it.

An old friend told me once, that everyone, absolutely everyone, has the night that comes and one stays awake and thinks over the past, and maybe, what could have been. Friends and family who are gone are remembered, and old orchards walked, that are now just grassy meadows.

On that note, J.R.R. Tolkien made a distinction between those beings who love the tended orchard, and those who love the wilds. Between those who love the hills and valley, or those who love the plains, and those who love the oceans and rivers.

Just for today, I am one for the tended orchard, full of the sour, tart cherries of the Old House. But I am cast out into the wilds of the forest. It is a comfort that my animals wait there, at the forest's heart. Sometimes I run into the Healing Power that lives there, too. I stand here, once again, at the edge of the field. I look into the forest, and remember the stream that passes through it. The rocks and the ferns wait, as transient and patient as any. The small, rare flower rests at the edge of the darker shade under the leaves. The knowledge that the grapevine seat hangs near the water, pulls at me. The old, old oak stands by the old fence that lets into nowhere now. The gate at the foot of the oak, is pushed forever open and welcome, by the brambles behind it.

At the top of the rocky trail, up the mountain, there sunlight floods the rocks, and a crown of young trees flourish. When I stand there, on the next mountain I can see the fern path under the pines that leads to the blackberry meadow below, where the deer rest. Somewhere, in that jumble, a large lone satellite dish points at the sky, rests beside the old VW, that mark a later home than the fence and gate. They mark the 'old' edge of the forest bordering the road, that the trees now possess again. I am grateful for their gangly reminder...wire fences live there, and it is well to remember them when riding on horseback.

Beyond? Stretches our National Forest, and mountain laurel.  Paths have been cleared, the blue, rock moss stands out in the light.  The path is two horses wide. It's funny that the deer marked, first mountain paths are clearer and more numerous. But the trees have not been cleared from the edge. The leaves brush my neck constantly...

Sometimes, I grow tired of wondering what wakes me at these hours. I can smell the horses, and the lights from the barn beckon into the darkness.

I Want Whiskers

Damn these early mornings. Truthfully, it's not such a bad price to pay, for being here. An occasional night up, watching the cats and Max sleep. The pond now resembles the pool that it is, more than not. The water is blue, and chlorinated to the Nth degree. The poor frogs have disappeared, although I hear them, at dusk. Of course, they do disappear. They turn the color of the pool, which is an odd blue, with grey, fake pebbles. To see a frog that color disturbs the mind.

It is a great time to muse about life. But it's too early in the morning to start sentences with, "You know, so much is wrong in the world today..." and then finish with 'we are all going to hell' or 'but sunshine is just around the corner'. One point, Congress needs to give in before the American people do. THEY work for US. Stop the Sequester. Now.

A friend brightened my yesterday, with a bouquet of chocolate 'flowers.' This is the new mother of Pancake. I am always glad she visits, as she is good company, and she forms a relationship with Pancake. I now feel comfortable enough to turn my darling over to her new mother. It will happen soon, I promise.

I promise.

No, actually, no kidding, I do promise. The unicorn meat eating cats, especially Ratty, are so bothered by her small, zipping form, as she races around the apartment. I would like to have fostered an older cat, but it is time to give my cats a needed rest from territorial issues. Perhaps later on in the summer.

More later. I promise.

7 AM EST

Yeah, I do go on about how that time of the morning is great, if I can't sleep. I have a dim view of that time, now that I have had some more sleep, and I deserve every minute.  I can see for one thing. Nothing like drinking coffee in the dark to try to make your day brighter, huh? The morning scents are cheerful, coffee, candle, cat poo. The ground is full of dew. Pancake hangs from the curtains, and all's right with the world.

It's uncertain mornings like this that make me second-guess myself about the blog, sometimes. No one knows the true identity of Mrs. Klonipin Chronicles, but my name is written all over my blog. Same for other writers in our field, mental 'illness.' There is a reason for that. When I meet people, they say one of two things: "I would never have guessed," OR "Oh, yeah" in that frightened, uncertain tone, as they back slowly away.

I am just a person, with some recognizable features of several disorders and a disease. There are too many of me to count, on this ever exploding planet. I am creative and passionate and hurt easily. I am vulnerable with a lot of personal courage. I wear a human face, although I would sport cat features, if it was allowed. The ignorant, judge, and sometimes, sadly, the educated do, too.

Oh my. How I do go on. The day is lovely, and I have a new haircut to flaunt. Life is not hard. If my disorders bother some, they don't bother others. What my life is today: eat, take my meds, take a shower, do chores, talk about my sobriety to my HP and my sponsor. Talk to my friends, eat, nap, love, clean. Meanwhile, the cat poo stinks. 

Ordinarily Every Day

I would be waking to a clean apartment, but the floor is strewn with trash from the kitten playing, and goings-on. A large piece of cellophane crackles underfoot if I get off on the wrong side of the bed. On the right side of the bed, lie the remnants of the cardboard tube, that was a kitten toy. The dog, Max, loves the kitten toys, and methodically destroys them, all in good fun.

I picked up the kitten's collation of candy wrappers the other day. I don't know where she gets them. Someone around here is eating Mounds and Milky Ways, and then throws the wrappers on the floor for Pancake to play with. She learns to be grown up cat, by sleeping in the right spots, eating from the right spots, and pooping in the right spots. Using her own litterbox has been a last resort for quite a while.

I only have the one kitten, Pancake, now, of course. She is a mighty whirlwind in a sea of barley, as this Scot says.

My life is everyday, today. I am profoundly grateful for that, too. I will take a shower, my meds, eat some breakfast, and then clean. I haul the kitchen trashcan from room to room, and rake the floor. Subtleties, like vacuuming, are out of reach. The walls are clean, thank goodness, and the ceiling, for the most part.

This year, once again, I will start on my paint project, which has turned into the eternal project. I might pick a color for one wall of the living room. Teal, I think.

The pool cleaning is already begun, as you know. I participate in it with some interest in being able to swim this year, which is a good change. My motivation to clean the pool hangs around my ankles when I know I am not going to swim.

And, in a semi-annual rite, I will get my hair cut today. Pictures will be posted on Fbook later. Unless it's very bad.

Pancake plays cute, by sleeping. The dog sleeps and dremas as well. I feel some baklawa calling me...

Rain Song

You really should visit your local Lebanese Festival when you can. I have managed to eat four pieces of baklawa, in my sleep. I don't sleep-eat often, but when I do, it's on a spectacular scale. The last time I pulled an 'all nighter' was the time I ate a pound of fudge, overnight. And let's not forget the pound of fudge I consumed while nursing a hamstring injury in Scotland.

I think it's now time for a cuteness picture.

Don't worry, I still have Pancake for most of this week, but I thought this picture spoke volumes.

I woke profoundly depressed yesterday, but thanks to some motivation left over from the Jurassic, I left the house anyway. I scored the baklawa, and something at the silent auction, and became very Lebanese during an afternoon of dance and music. It's nice to be accepted as part of a community for anyone.

I have spoken to my sponsor, as I do every morning, for my 12 Step Program. I meditated in a bit of a hurry, but I can go back to that. I am grateful.

It is cloudy, with rain today, as was yesterday. The Pond, thanks to the addition of some truly powerful chemicals, is turning back into the pool. Last year, I couldn't have cared less about swimming, but the year before, my first year with a pool, I remember how wonderful it was to be able to swim at twilight, and at night. A swim under the stars is not an event to be missed in this life. There is something about a slow swim, in the reflection of the stars, and the toss of the head, to see the star fields above, that defies description.

I suppose something about it is a mystery. To feel that darkness is a welcome thing, and not something to run from. The flowers and veggies are soaked from last night's rain, but the ground is still firm. The scent of a summer late in coming, rises from the moss under the trees. The impatiens grow well, but the Mexican plants, the dahlia and the daisy, remain small, although they bloom lustily enough.

The forest is full of leaves that drip this morning, and the forest floor absorbs my footsteps. The bird song is subdued, in deference to the sound of the rain. Here, the rain is almost silent; it makes no noise on the trunks of the trees, but sounds fall from the leaves. I suppose that the green makes a sound, and it travels as a vibration against the cheek. The ferns are quietly happy. The path is a bit muddy, but well cleared; no tall grass to wade through. Here and there, a startled bird suddenly flies from one tree to the next. The deer herds are moving slowly, to accommodate the fawns...