Notes on a Day

I know. I can't believe I am back, blogging at this hour. It seems almost normal, to use a phrase. I spent time in a yellow room yesterday, with a dog named Doc Watson. Don't ask.

The remains of the silly wabbit have gone back to the woods from whence he came. Just thought you would like to know.

It's now a week without hot water, although men work earnestly on it, and they have replaced every part except the tank...thank god for a neighbor, who is a dear friend. And has hot water.

It's especially quiet this morning, and a therapy day to boot. We will not run out of subject matter.

My week of isolation has resulted in some rocky relationships at this point. It makes me long for the sturdiness of my borderline group, where everything changes, except the fact of our diagnoses and  that is understood. I have been in AA for 20 years, and have had some long term sobriety. Now I am on the receiving end of some, not a lot, of the attitude of "get with the program." And, "what's wrong with you? You just aren't trying hard enough." That is my resentment speaking, I know.

In group therapy, where most are dually diagnosed, with borderline personality disorder and an addiction, as well as many other mental health issues, I hear, "Did you cut, too? No? Oh good! Did you tell the therapist yet? I was worried about you. We missed you last week." The fight everyday is to not cut, not relapse, do the homework, while understanding that shit happens, and that's why we are in group: to learn to cope. Just get up and start again.

 I have also found this attitude in NA, Narcotics Anonymous, where the relapse rate is higher: the important part is to look at why you stumbled, and at all costs, to get back up and start again. The AA attitude I am running into is more of a "What a fuck up you are. Why do you bother? You must not want this very much." I suppose the difference is that AA assumes that if you work hard enough, you can have what you want. That if you want enough, you can have what you want.

Cutting is not longer an option for me, and I need to move acting on my addiction into that category, my therapist points out. Why one and not the other? I don't know.

It's also hard to hear that my relationship with my Higher Power is also the cause of my drinking. That is, if I am spiritually fit, everyday, this shit wouldn't happen. I have a great relationship with my fireball in the forest. It was there when no one, except a life long friend in Pennsylvania, was there for me. The feeling that It was there, never deserted me. Instead, I felt, "Why me?" and "What response do you want, HP?"

And everything I have written so far is called, Processing, in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT). Processing is removing oneself from the emotions of an event(s) and thinking logically about it. "Thinking it through." It's not wallowing in something that happened, but looking at it, with an idea of understanding, how and why we, as humans, react. CBT teaches us to process, DBT teaches us to learn why we react, and how to change the reaction, with practice, over time. CBT teaches us to leave the football field, and watch the game from the newscasters' box. DBT teaches us how to get back into the game, and change it.

Everything I have written is also a lot of emotion that is a result of relapsing and judging myself. Saying to yourself, "Ok, you fucked up. Now what?" is different than "Thou Shalt Not Fuck Up."

There is a lot of resentment on my part, toward my nay-sayers in AA, but a lot of understanding from those who have relapsed themselves...and even some from those who haven't. The loveliest thing I heard from my 'relapse meeting' was, "God has a plan for you. I know you worry and feel bad about going in and out over the years. But God has a plan."

I will not "I Should" on myself today. Because what follows "I Should..." is always a judgement, Ladies and Gentlemen. Always.

There is a zinnia that blooms now in my garden. It's left over from last year's scattering of the flowerheads. And there is the new zinnia, quite small still, that is a result of this year's sowing. It is a bright fuchsia, astounding pink, and it blooms furiously, tall and proud. It is something left to me from this hard winter, this long winter. The pink that it casts, makes the grass seem greener, and the clover seems whiter, than any other flower in my garden.

The impatiens are straggling a bit, but the begonia, with their blooms of cherry red, and their dark green leaves, flourish. The hydrangea comes in blue, with a tinge of pink. And the bright orange dahlia, and yellow daisies, bloom together in their container. For the first time, I have bought a strawberry plant, and small, tasty strawberries grow. No doubt, that is what attracted the poor rabbit.

Lilac time has come and gone, but the lavender remind us of purple, and the marvelous way it scents the air. I keep a glass container of it, from my mother's belongings, in a heart shaped container, on my bedside table. The time is fast approaching when the growing lavender should be harvested, but the bees seem small and stunted this year, and I have pity on them. I will leave the lavender as long as I can, unharvested: foodstuffs for the bees and white butterflies that come. Today is Freya's Day, Friday, and I am in love with my garden in containers, and the plants that grow vigorously by the side of the pool. The only flower left from my garden at the Old House, the tall, white, Shasta daisies, live against the side of the red brick gathering sunlight, with the tomatoes.

I have heirloom tomatoes this year, and can't wait to taste them.

Thor's Day

Thank you for your patience, I am much better now. That's the whole thing about having a mental health diagnosis: if you don't like your mood, just wait 5 minutes...I am back out of the insanity of the disease of alcoholism. Although, to touch a fine point it still has a hold of me. After all, I am still an alcoholic. The disease is still rampant, but I am not intaking it. I still have all my character defects, and a crazy mentality, but I settle back into routine.

And routine is the name of the game when it comes to someone with my disorders. Maybe you find it is so for you. Maybe not, but I feel you will understand.

Life breaks in right now. Ratty, one of the unicorn meat eating cats, has gotten desperate the herds have moved north, and has caught a bunny this morning. Usually, they like to play with their food, and I have a chance to catch and release. But not this morning. So the cats are happily disassembling the bunny to eat. It's happy for me that they haven't tried to bring it/him/her inside.

My friend, Exponential, called last night to make sure I was healthy, or not, for that matter. I appreciate her thoughtfulness, in this day of email and tweeting. I love to call people simply to hear the human voice, I feel less isolated that way. And I feel it is a simple enough process that not enough people are willing to indulge in, in this day. For most people, it is easier just to Tweet a status and walk away. Which abjures a responsibility in a relationship.

But bitching about an age of sound-bytes, ties me to all of history. Every writer craves communication. With Man, with Nature, with a God. It's not only writers, of course, that seek this, but I use that illustration because I am one, and it's something I know about. The whole process of Art is communication, and it's a good thing, too.

I harvested my lavender for a thoughtful friend, yesterday...even gardening is communication. The walk in the forest that I take, seeking my HP, my god, if you will, runs even into the field surrounding the forest. It flows like the stream, that runs in the middle of it. And it flowers with the blackberry vines, that seek the sun.

Today, on Thor's Day, there are dark skies, and the possibility to hear Thor's Hammer, in the thunder. Of course, Freya's Day, which is tomorrow is my favorite. She is the Norse goddess of orchards, tended plants and trees. Although I do love the wildness of a day with Thor riding the sky, the wind and the rain, I also love the tended garden...the flowering trees, and the herbs.

So enjoy this day of Thor, in whatever small corner of the world you live in. And I hope I will see you here tomorrow. I have missed you.

Touch the Leaves

My friend, Exponential, urges me to write, so here we are again.

Fortunately, I am in a mood to write, and if I was not, I would write anyway. You see, gentle reader, today is not a bark day, not a day to stand on the roots and feel the pulse of the tree. Today is a drinking day, which is a super bad idea for someone like me. How? Why? I no longer know. Suffice it to say, someone brought a wine cooler to a pool party I hosted, and 5 days later, here I am.

I have done my meditations, what little they are, and my earnest prayer to be released today. I accept that HP has a better way to live than I do.

Today is for a place in the forest with an oak. Today is a place for green leaves and moss, not the day I would like, filled to the brim with vodka. My medications have had no chance to work lately, and thusly, I am blue. I am filled with hatred of myself, and overwhelming fears. It's going to take some time to stabilize myself again, and, like a planet seeks to right itself by throwing off stellar rings, I write this morning, as a way to normalize my day.

It fills me with horror that anyone else feels this way, but Exponential assures me they do. Exponential thinks of my readers today, the ones with my diagnoses, and tells me I need to write for the ones who can't name their disorders as 'anonymously' as I can. 

So let's face this dawn together, you and I. And count the minutes until we can call our sponsors.  So touch the rough bark with me, and feel the cool of the leaves. Hear the breeze blow from the water as it splashes down it's path.

Blue Room

I am despondent. I'm depressed. I'm blue. Yesterday a friend picked me up and took me to a magical place, with running water no less, and I couldn't wait to get away. "Look up" she said and the dizzying silence was filled with leaves, and the sound of a waterfall. But I retreated to her purple room, a bedroom in her house she naps in, and we talked.

Which I would choose of all the rooms I have been in: a purple room. With purple flowers on the wall, and a cool blanket chilling the heat wave going over me. A lazy day, with talk and animals, and leaves.

There are water days and leaf days, and sometimes the two come together. But I couldn't wait to get away. Back to my safe apartment, to the grey carpet and white walls, and pink and teal furniture. I needed the potted pothos on the stool, and the dark wood gleaming at me.

I needed the lavender and the impatiens, struggling in this season of derechos and heat. I needed the unicorn meat eating cats. I needed the memory of friends around me, the scent of lemon, the sound of water. I need my dog, snoring on the bed next to me. A trusting soul, that never trusted another. The day I decided to keep him? He had snuggled up under my arm and I felt him relax, completely and totally. I needed the dirty dishes in my sink and Pancake running around with my candy wrappers.

Write. A dear friend told me, write. It's so hard to write through these times, loved ones. But I am meeting you here today, in this room, to tell you I love you.

Let's talk.

thursday

So nice of my computer to publish NOTHING before it shut me down for a Windows update. I really hope this is not how my day is shaping up.

My Twisted Little Day

I am proud to have socialized this cat.

This is Pancake, yesterday. I know, I promised to write again about noon, but was sleeping. Something about the past week caught up with me yesterday, and my body collapsed in a minor way. One nap, a good deal of crying and a visit to Angels of Assisi to formalize the adoption later, and I can say I have had a good night's rest.

I can visit her whenever I like, and she will be visiting me with her new mother, after they bond. Today, I am so very lucky to have had all the kittens adopted, and my heart is very, very full.

Now, onto the stuff. I talked to someone else on Abilify, and she is eating day and night. Especially night. See? It only takes one other person to confirm that it isn't just me, it is the medication, to make me feel normal again. I thought that nighttime eating was an hormonal response, or emotional eating, or whatever that makes me, me. But no, it's the medication. Thank HP.

Now, I can take my little anti-Evil pills, and go about my twisted little day, safe and secure in the knowledge that it's not me: it's the medication. What every person with mental illnesses wants to hear: it's not You. It's the medication. THIS, Ladies and Gentlemen, is why we don't take medication.

Enough of that. I will take my meds today, and eat and take a shower. It's that sterling of a day, now that my baby is safe in her new home. The dog, Max, is taking it very well, I must say. I said her name to him yesterday, and he alerted toward her crate, now silent and empty for the first time since March.

It's a day for the unicorn meat eating cats. The window has been open for them to roam for about 2 hours now. They have been leaping in and out with practiced ease, and I have no fear that Pancake will somehow imitate them and be lost. She is now safe, as an indoor cat can be. I do miss the small, hurtling bodies* throwing themselves around the apartment, but it's now Happy Hour for the adults that are left...

I gain weight steadily, due to the Abilify. I adjust my eating habits and up my exercise, and still the weight problem looms. I need to find a formula for it...the Mediterranean diet, high fiber, whatever will work.  Believe me, if it were economically sound for me to eat nothing but fruit, I would do so. And I ponder on going Vegetarian.

The grass grows faster than I do. It has become coolish for this time of year, and meteorologists are calling for another derecho, in our area, and around Cleveland, OH. A derecho is the odd, weird storm that hit us last year about this time. We lost power for 3 days, and the temperatures were sweltering. But what a sky! And such a storm! Sky the color of a blood orange, with shooting stars that leaped out of the electrical transformers, as they blew, one by one, in a chain. The marvelous wind, my favorite element, swept first one way, and then another, strong gusts bent the trees.  The heat after the storm, melted faces, and made tears run from our foreheads...

I wonder if it's too early to call and see how Pancake is doing? 

*James Herriot

Bit and Pieces

I'm in a bit of a hurry today: it's Pancake's last day, as a full time resident here. She has been a nuclear bomb's worth of energy since she woke. After today, she will have someone to play with, as Bob, so-called demon spawn, is very ready for a new room mate. Bob and Princess will be her new companions. You can be sure pictures will follow.

Bob and Princess live a very small way across a very small town, and I will see Pancake often. I am still sad, but happy that she will finally have another being to play with that doesn't outweigh her by 42 lbs. 

After a small flood in the apartment yesterday, and a leaky hose on the now swimmable pool, the excitement for today is making a cake, and Pancake's adoption ceremony.

O dear. I promise to write about noon today. Catch you later.

x