Solstice Epiphanies

Last night Griffin and I talked about the sleep problem I’ve had for some time. Basically, I average 4.5 to 5 hours of sleep a night. Not only is it bad for me in general, it’s particularly bad for the fibro. Unfortunately, this is a habit I settled into after Mom died, or maybe just after I returned to Houston. I had developed the habit previously off and on over a few years prior to that, but never quite as extreme as this and not for as long an ongoing period.

Griffin suggested I keep a diary. He suggested I note when I go to bed, what time I wake during the night, what time I return to trying to sleep, and my feelings at the time — I think he meant my feelings as I try to return to sleep, but I think I should do so when I first get ready to go to sleep, and maybe when I first wake, if appropriate. To this list I’m adding a) what plans I have for the next day and what time those plans are for, and b) any events of note that occurred during the day, especially the evening.

I went to bed at midnight. I woke at after 6 a.m. to go pee. Then I sat in bed and journaled, and the rest of this post came from that journal entry. I made some important realizations and am going to write up the appropriate ones into thank-you cards for Griffin and Sabine, each. The following is the majority of the entry, edited for clarity.

***

6:20 a.m.  12-21-13  YULE! SOLSTICE!

Realized earlier that I didn’t do much for a long time [after I moved to Seattle] because I was healing. I’d wanted to just be cared for during all those months and years after Mom’s death — was so tired and drained and hurting and scared for all that time. So I got here and [Griffin and Sabine] took care of me. I may have needed care for longer than we all expected, but I am finally coming out of this mental and emotional space and doing chores around the house. Griffin being temporarily less able spurred me.

I am feeling more healed, I realized. Something that was clenched inside of me has loosened. I still have a lot to work on, but maybe I am now better able to not only work more effectively but recognize my progress.

Christmas Memories: Sadness and Joy

I always loved Christmas while growing up because it was a big deal to us as a family gathering, both immediate and extended. For the first 11 years of my life, we got together with my dad's family on Christmas Eve, even at immense inconvenience to other family members, to open presents after midnight when my grandfather arrived from closing up the movie theater he managed. After that, the younger siblings (my dad's generation) rose up in protest and we began having our gatherings at a more suitable day and time and took to drawing names instead of giving gifts to everyone, another hardship on the younger families. Even with all the craziness and sometimes 35-40 people in a small, three-bedroom house, I loved the holidays. And Christmas morning was always just about the four of us: Mom, Dad, my little brother Jim, and me.

However, the year I was 16, we moved 1100 miles away from the town, and everyone, I’d known my entire life. At least that Christmas, it was still the four of us. Unfortunately, Dad died of a heart attack the following May (or March, I'm not sure after 35 years) and Mom insisted we stay where we were. So the Christmas I was 17, there was just Mom, Jim, and me. Mom wanted to make it something to remember as being different, so that it wouldn’t be a memory of loss — any more than it already was — but a new memory. So the three of us talked about it and decided to have lobster tail for Christmas Eve dinner! Mom had never cooked lobster of any sort before, but she asked the man at the fish counter where she bought the lobster. Jim and I made the salad and melted the butter and set the breakfast bar for our feast. We even had little glasses of wine with Mom's regular-sized glass. And it was a very fine meal! It was a nice way to start a new memory.

In addition, my brother and I were panic-stricken that there was no one to fill Mom’s stocking or give her gifts from Santa that year, so we did it. We bought small gifts for her stocking, and we went in together on a single gift for her from Santa. On Christmas morning, Mom quickly figured out who the 'elves' were who had surprised her by filling her stocking, but the look on her face when she found a package to her from 'Santa' was one of shock. I think she believed in Santa for a moment, or that an angel had reached down and given her a gift. Then she saw the smug looks on our faces and realized that her 'angels' were the two teenagers who were her anchor in this world.

By then, our extended families no longer extended. Our family was just the three of us.

Flake

I have a confession: I am a flake. Iffy. Dodgy. A really good liar and undependable in work and play. Torpid. Stubborn. Lacking integrity, untrustworthy, and afraid of commitment. Basically, I kinda suck. I don't much like myself and I'm still working on loving myself.

I didn't used to be this way. Before I fell apart in my mid-30s, when an overwhelming depression washed over me and pulled me into deep, dark water. Before my ex-boyfriend — the one who'd changed his mind and decided he didn't want to get married, have children, or buy a house with me — got married and asked me how I used my 401K to buy my house. Before my insecure boss made me so diminished, anxious, and crazy-feeling that my psychiatrist prescribed not one but TWO mental health leaves within a six-month period. Before all that I was not perfect, but anyone could count on me to do what I said. Friends, family, and employers could trust me. I was active, flexible, creative, and committed.

I hate the way I am. I hate that I'm not the way I used to be. I hate that I can't seem to find my way back, after nearly 20 years. Twenty years is a long time to be disgusted by the person you've become.

"Ah, the sun is blindin'
I stayed up again
Oh, I am findin'
That that's not the way I want my story to end"

Wet

Friday evening, my friend Skye (I know, right?) took me to her spa for a hydrotherapy evening. She has a membership to the spa that involves use of the hydrotherapy pools and massage. She gets one or two guest passes a month and asked me if I wanted to come with her this month.

The hydrotherapy set up consists of two pools and two saunas. You start in the hot pool. Then you move to the wet sauna where you scrub your body with salt (and you sweat and try to breathe the hot wet air). Shower off the salt, then out to the cool pool (which feels quite cold after the sauna), and finally to the dry sauna with cedar ledges. We did two full circuits, separated in the middle with a sit in the quiet room with tea and cookies, and then a final soak in the hot pool. Afterwards, I felt soft, smooth, loose, and relaxed. It was one of the most wonderful experiences I've ever had.

And we talked. We started out with the basic "what have you been doing lately" and, as we were there for nearly 3 hours, it just kept going deeper and wider.

I can be a chatterbox, especially if I'm feeling anxious or self-conscious. I realized later in the evening that I had forgotten my afternoon dose of Xanax, so that probably contributed some anxiety, but also I am still getting to know Skye and I am fairly insecure about my ability to make friends. Plus, I like Skye and want to create a solid friendship with her, so there's a little bit of anxiety there. (Hi Skye! I know you're there!) Because I know about this chatterbox behavior of mine, I remembered from time to time to specifically ask Skye about herself and to listen closely. Sometimes when I am in full-out chatterbox mode, I can forget to let the other person participate. I even apologized for babbling at the end of our hydro time, partly because I wasn't sure if I monopolized the conversation and partly because I was often chastised for talking too much as a child, sometimes by my parents and sometimes by teachers.

One of the topics that came up started with a discussion of fibromyalgia. In general, experts say that people with fibro should avoid exposing themselves to extreme temperatures. However, I enjoy heat a great deal. The few weeks when I went to a therapy pool for my fibro, I was completely grossed out by the body-temperature water. It felt dirty or greasy. ::shudder:: Heat doesn't seem to hurt my fibro any.

Slow Maelstrom

That silence you've heard for the past week and a half was me resting, sleeping, and surfing on the interwebz. You might have heard some snoring, too, from the sleeping. My mind has kind of been like that empty, static-filled screen you see in the middle of the night on some TV channels.

So I'm here, in the Seattle area, and it's kind of weird. I still feel like I'm visiting, even though I oversaw the movers when they put all my stuff in a storage unit. Part of that is because I'm staying in someone's guest room, I'm sure, and some of it is because those times when I have been here over the last dozen years I have been visiting. I need to change my mental framework.

I'm very glad I'm here. I'm also kind of weirded out by it. Many thoughts and feelings have been swirling around inside of me: happiness, exhaustion, stress, anxiety, surrealism, expectations, trying to not have expectations, positivity, fear, and today I'm having some fibromyalgia pain, which I think is partly a delayed reaction from all the stress I was experiencing just getting ready to move. Everything has been swirling slowly, probably due to the exhaustion, for which I am grateful. I couldn't handle vertigo too right now!

The weather has been quite a bit cooler than I am used to. Colder, really — in the 50s during the day. We had a lot of rain and gray days my first week, but we've been having some simply glorious days recently, with brilliant blue skies, puffy white clouds, spring greens, flowers and flowering trees in all colors. These are the days that almost make you forget about the rain and the gray.

I remember when I first moved to Houston: one of the habits I had to wean myself off from was always taking or wearing a jacket or at least an overshirt with me when I left the apartment. Well, I changed that habit and got very comfortable going outside in just a tank, shorts, and sandals. Now I'm in the position of having to reverse the process! I'm underestimating how much I need to wear to be warm enough, usually by a thin layer (think an undershirt or camisole). And I don't always bring a rain jacket when it looks like rain (which is often). I need more weather-appropriate shoes and probably another jacket or vest or two. My BFF says I can borrow his sweaters until I can buy more of my own, which is nice. I really need an income so I can buy these weather-appropriate clothing items. I'm just hoping that I can make enough of my Houston wardrobe work here in Seattle enough of the time so I don't have to buy an entirely new wardrobe, which is more or less what I did in Houston.

A Day of Beauty

Sometimes I get so wrapped up in therapy and processing and my inner life that I kind of ignore the outside of myself. Even when I take walks in the park, my mind is going on about myself and my issues, wants, needs, etc. But yesterday, a good friend took me out of myself and into nature.

I got up at 5:30 for a 6:30 am pick-up. I didn't have breakfast because we were treating ourselves to kolaches and donuts along the way. I timed it well because I had just one more little thing to do when he called that he was waiting in the parking lot for me.

At first it didn't look too promising. There had been a forecast for 30% chance of rain and it was a little sprinkle-y and very cloudy when I got in the car. But we drove and drove to the southeast, talking and enjoying each other's company.

When we arrived at the nature preserve, it still didn't look promising. We hadn't seen any groups of snow geese along the road the way we had a couple of years ago. And it was still cloudy and overcast, making for a very flat light.

Traffic jam! The white in among the marsh are snow geese on the ground.

But inside the preserve were some 20,000-30,000 very smart snow geese. They can't be hunted inside the preserve and they simply covered the marsh, flying in and out, possibly looking for their favorite neighbors to land next to within the honking, foraging, white mass. Even with the cacophony of honking, we could still hear the explosions of gunfire from the hunting areas just outside of the preserve.

Lingering Effects

People say you shouldn't live in the past, and I agree with that. What I don't agree with is when people say "you shouldn't let what happened in the past affect you now." 

It's not like it's a choice. Past traumas have to be dealt with and processed before you can move on. Some people are lucky enough to have done that processing back when the trauma happened. Others of us were a little overflowing in the trauma department and are still working on processing old traumas.

For example, my discussions of connections and friendship with my therapist. This week we were just chatting at first and we got on the topic of my rosacea, which is doing the best it's ever done. It's mostly pink with some light red areas. Before I had laser treatment on it in 2007 (thanks, Mom!), it was pretty much the color of a fire truck in bright sunlight, and was that way since I was 12 or 13. 

That took us into a discussion of the effects the rosacea had on me in junior high and much of the rest of my life, because people ALWAYS commented on it, asking if I'd been out in the sun and gotten a sunburn, offering home remedy suggestions, and, in junior high, being total asshats about it, pointing it out, calling me names, and in general picking on me to an extreme extent. Yes, I was that kid, the one who everyone picked on and put down so as to not be the lowest person on the totem pole. 

I also think my rosacea contributed in part to my lack of romantic success: it made me stand out in a non-attractive way and men are very visual creatures. As a couple of friends said when we talked about my face over the years, they noticed the red a lot until we became good friends. Then they never noticed it again. So a guy would have had to become friends with me to even get past the redness of my face, I imagine. But no, I'm not going to blame the rosacea entirely for my eternal singlehood: I just think it was a contributing factor both as being visually off-putting to others (people are still more attracted to attractive individuals) and developing in me a hesitancy and a defensive manner toward others.

But What Do I Want?

What do I want from friends and friendship, in general and in specific? That could tell me what I feel I'm missing in my life, and it could inform my casual search for friends. (I don't intend to make an impassioned, active search for friends right now, partly because it sounds kinda scary and stalkerish and partly because it sounds like it would involve the part of me that probably scared off potential friends in the past.)

I already have some of what I want; I'm just listing all my wants, even if I have some of them. And hopefully there is or will be overlap among these friends.

• I want close friends with whom I can talk about anything and everything. Someone to share the good and bad times with. Someone I could cry on (and let me tell you, I don't cry in front of people easily) and who would cry on me if necessary.


• I want friends to do things with, to have fun with. Someone to go to a museum or the zoo with, someone to play card games and board games with, even the twisted games like Cards Against Humanity. Friends who have time for me and like to spend time with me.


• I want friends who get my sense of humor and at least some of my references, including the role-playing-game and H.P. Lovecraft references. I make jokes that include these things with some frequency and it would be nice to not get the blank look. I want friends who will sincerely laugh at my jokes.


• I want friends who will accept the less-acceptable side of me, the side that I don't talk about even on this blog, the darker side of me, I guess.


• I want a two-way street: give and take in both directions. Friends who will let me do things for them when they need it and who will do things for me when I need it.

That seems pretty comprehensive to me. Isn't this what most people want from friends? Or is my list oddly different from other people's? How is your list of friends you have or want different from mine? How is it the same?

Friends of a Feather

On my previous post, a couple of commenters talked about how there are different kinds and levels of friendships. Another commenter talked about how some of her friends were not what she expected. Those comments got me thinking about expectations I have had for friends in the past and that I have now.

For example, I do tend to stay away from the extremely outgoing extroverts as friends. I have had a couple of friends like that and the friendships weren't as deep as I wanted; when my situation changed and I wasn't able to be where those friends were, they stopped being friends. Yet, we had fun when we were together. And what's wrong with having some friendships that aren't deep? Do all of one's friendships have to be strongly emotionally intimate? I hate to use the words "shallower' or "more superficial" because they carry negative connotations, but what's wrong with friendships that are just fun and only a few inches deep? Perhaps I imbued those friendships with attributes they just weren't capable of having.

The people I'm used to having as friends are introverts with a background in reading science fiction and fantasy or playing role-playing games, but not the folks who like to live it such as the LARPers (Live-Action Role Players) or who spend all their free time in the Society for Creative Anachronism. People who were moderate in their love of the non-conformist and the out of this world. People like me, in other words. So I am guilty of dismissing many people as possible friends. In my defense, I have friends who do not fulfill all those aspects and have a couple of good friends who fulfill none of them. 

On Making Friends

Today in therapy, we were congratulating me on the strides I've made in my cognitive therapy: developing my center and a sense of home in myself; becoming comfortable and content with the way my life is, even though I would rather it be less solitary; basically developing more of an internal locus of control rather than external.

Then I asked my therapist, "What next? Go back and do some trauma work?" She was curious why I felt I need trauma work rather than to continue with cognitive work. 

"Where in your life do you feel that past traumas are holding you back?"

That was a good question. We talked about that for a bit, then I came up with my problems with making connections: both friendship and romantic. Since I've lived in Houston, I've had two friendships go ballistic on me (and had to go to other friends to get reality checks to make sure I wasn't the crazy one in each situation), one dropped off the radar, and one has had very good reasons to be scarce. But in my past, I've watched as other people made workplace friendships that developed past the workplace and I saw people make love matches that eluded me. I've developed the expectation, I told my therapist, that either I won't make any connections or the ones I do make will end very badly. (I have one good friend I made via work and who has remained a good friend for over 25 years.) I feel I'm so poor at making friends I might as well start making them out of Sculpy.

There is good reason for me to think that traumas have affected my ability to make intimate and lasting connections. But it's also possible that my expectations, based as they are upon experience, have twisted my beliefs and self-talk about friendships and romantic relationships. So far, we are doing quite well with the cognitive stuff, so why not keep going on that, my therapist suggested. 

Connection

Humans are born hard-wired for connection, which is why being thrown out of a group, being ostracized, or simply having no community is so devastating. Even the non-conformists have to find other non-conformists to hang out with!

In my e-class on shame, love, and worthiness, one of the things Ms. Brown talked about was the need for a connection network: people in your life whom you can go to when you need support, when something that felt shaming to you occurs, when you need a reality check, and just for that being part of a group of people who love and accept you.

I have a very small connection network of people I know in person, and most of them live elsewhere. But I've discovered that I've got a lot of online friends who I've never met in my connection network. These are the people who cheer me along during my difficult times and my good times and who help me recognize good things amidst the rubble of my current life or who suggest good things that are not too difficult to do to make things better. These are the people who don't seem to mind that my blog has so much angst and depression to it. They see beyond the depression and anxiety to me, which boggles my mind.

As I slowly learn to accept that online friends count just as much as friends I've met, I slowly start to feel better. I feel as if I've met many of these friends and I find I want to give to them as much as they give to me. This is my community. This is my neighborhood. We drop off virtual casseroles on bad days and we share virtual margaritas on good ones. If I had the money, I would fly out to meet every single one of these people, give them a hug, and take them out to dinner (this was how we showed appreciation in my family).

So to all of you who are my virtual friends and family, and to those who may become such, thank you for making me feel more connected and less alone. It's taken me awhile to appreciate this kind of connection, but I have appreciated your kindness and thoughtfulness for as long as you've been providing them.

Love and blessings to you all!

Wanted: Suggestions for Movies or Books on a Specific Topic

Specifically orphans, or children whose parents are terrible parents, so the children have to learn how to fend for themselves, trust themselves, and become adult on their own.

"Why such a specific topic?" you might be wondering. It was an idea from my therapist today. We were talking about my lack of individuation or separation from my family members the way most people do in the normal way of growing into an adult and how my people to separate from are all gone. "That's okay," said my therapist. "You'd be doing most of the work anyway." But it might have some effects. 

Then she came up with the idea of movies or books/series that might kind of serve as an inspiration and even as a guidebook for me, suggestions of how to get there from here.

So if you know of a book or series or a movie about a child in such a situation, please recommend it or them. (It has to have a happy ending, okay?)

What Have I Accomplished?

My BFF tries to help me be more positive and become healthier. He worries, oft times for good reason. Right now he wants me to put together a list of all my successes and I'm having trouble doing it. My list of accomplishments seems so short for having lived 51 years. Some of the things on my list are that I've crocheted some beautiful doilies. That just seems like I'm reaching for the bottom of the barrel with that one.

This list has two purposes: 1) remind me that I can accomplish notable things; and 2) help decrease my anxiety over being able to accomplish things ever again, or basically, my anxiety over everything.

There are things I'm very proud of that I think are quite notable, such as teaching myself to ride a two-wheel bike when I was five years old, or buying my first house all by myself and with all my own money when I was 33 years old.

Then there's the doilies. They are pretty doilies, but not exactly notable.

Part of the problem may be that I generally think that if I can do it, it's not such a big thing then. It's taken me the over 3 years that I've (mostly) lived in Houston to accept that my just getting up and taking off for destination unknown IS a big deal.

A sub-purpose of this list is to help me regain my confidence and lose my anxiety over looking for and finding work. It was so nice to be working and making some money. I feel so worthless when I'm not making money, because I don't want to end up having to depend upon others to get by.

So, I'm having difficulties putting together my list. My BFF said he'll help me brainstorm and as much as he gives me crap a lot of the time, he does think very highly of me. 

He may even think that the doilies count. Not that he wants one.

How do you build your confidence? Do you know what your successes are? Share a few here!

January Sucks

My boy, HS senior photo

As I wrote yesterday, my brother killed himself 29 years ago,  just days before my birthday. I always get depressed in January. I was also always used to having my family making a big deal out of my birthday, even as an adult. Mom called me every year on my birthday ever since I went away to college and sang Happy Birthday to me on the phone, even when I lived in the same city as she did. She called me with my brother, then with her second husband, then with my grandmother, then just her. But she always called and sang. So I'm feeling quite unhappy about January these days, even more than before.

My mom, HS senior photo

Because of my brother's suicide, every January hurts, but at least every year prior to last year I had my mom — whose own loss of a child was greater than I could imagine — for comfort and to take my mind off my birthday loss and pin it on birthday gains (such as all those additional years that are better than the alternative). I miss her voice.

Family ... Kin ... Clan ... Tribe

What is 'family'? Who are they? What part do they have in your life ... and you in theirs?

All my life, 'family' meant people related to me by blood. We rarely included anyone from outside the blood-clan into our tribe. So members of my family had a huge impact on my life and on me, sometimes not so good. But good or bad, I loved my family more than my own life.

Mine wasn't the type of family that invited others in. Our parents didn't invite a friend each for my brother and me to take along on even short trips: we and sometimes our cousin(s) were supposed to be enough playmates for each other, and if you knew my cousins you'd know why this was a delusion. My parents had friends they spent time with, but there was a strong line between friend and family. And you never, ever asked favors of friends. 

A Sally Fields Moment

The past year-and-a-half has taken me places I've never imagined. I never imagined taking care of my cancer-stricken mother — or being able to for that matter. I never imagined moving back to Oregon then back to Houston, all in the space of six months. But more than that, I never imagined finding out that So Many People Like Me!  They really, really Like me! (And one or two have even said 'L-O-V-E'!)

Yeah, I have a strong Sally Fields side. That Oscars moment of hers was very painful to me, because I could (and still can) identify so strongly with her. 

It's such a wonder to me, to be liked, to be loved. My parents loved me, as did my brother. So did my grandparents. I imagine that while I was very young and very cute and had few significant opinions of my own that my aunts and uncles and some of my older cousins liked or loved me as well. I was 8 when I found out that not everyone loved, or even liked, me. It went downhill from there. Apparently I am one of those people who often causes others to form very strong opinions one way or another. 

There's lots of history and tons of stories in there, but they aren't the point of this post. The point of this post is that, as a result of my difficult year-and-a-half, especially the last month or so, I have found out that many people I like and respect Feel The Same Way About Me! It matters because it hasn't always been so. It matters because it feeds the part of me that needs external validation and that has been feeling empty for too long. And it matters because I have lost the favor of several who cared, or said they cared, during that time. This is not a one-to-one correspondence in growth here folks. I believe that I have acquired approximately 5 to 10 times as many "likes" as I've lost.

I think I'm feeling a bit dizzy; perhaps I'm coming down with something. Oh yeah, I think it's that thing called a Sally Fields Moment. I think it's a crazy little thing called 'loved'.

Don't Mind My Reach

Reaching out for contact, for comfort and support, and for help: this is a concept and a behavior I know little about. Sure, I know on a theoretical basis, but not on a practical one. My family only reached out to other family, and then tried their best to not do that. Being a burden was considered a very bad thing.

Thus I have no way of judging when I am and when I am not being burdensome. When do I ask for comfort and when am I just whining? When do I need someone to hang out with and when am I just being self-pitying? What's the difference between asking for someone to listen ... and narcissism? Do these seem like excessive comparisons? Now you know why I don't have an effective yardstick for judging. 

Where Was I?

So much has happened since my last post, written that innocent day in mid-August when life seemed so much simpler. Full of work to do, yes, but not as complicated as it was to become. I'm very glad I didn't know the future!

Where do I start? I added a week to my two-week stay so I could finish all the tasks I needed to finish. Two days before I was due to fly back to Houston, I had an emergency appendectomy. Luckily for me, I finished all the main things I needed to finish and had sequestered my own things in one place. Sure, a few small things went missing after that, but I hadn't gotten around to sequestering them, and who needs more than one copy of the key to the lock on the storage unit? Only those of us with OCD issues about losing the remaining key.

So I had surgery. And no home to return to: it was being readied for the estate sale. But people offered to let me stay with them, and I was and remain grateful to them for this. My realtor/friend was more nurturing than my mom's friend, so it's good I stayed with my realtor first. Plus, she had no animals, which made my time there very peaceful. I entertained her and her husband, even when I wasn't looped out on Percocet; later on she told me that, during a rather uneventful visit by her nephew, she and her husband looked at each other and said, "I miss Skye!" Aww. They want me to stay with them the next time I visit.

But there went another week and a couple of days before my doctor said I could travel.

Then my friend Steve from Seattle drove down and took me back to Seattle for a much-needed visit. Not only was I not entirely recuperated enough to be sent home, I needed to be with my friends there to distract me from the anniversary of my mother's death. (Actually, I think I did my grieving as I lay in pre-op, realizing that my mom couldn't be there for me then and wouldn't be there for me afterward.)

Finally, five weeks and two days after I left Houston, I returned home. My car, parked under cover at the Park n Fly lot, started right off. For only the second time since surgery, I drove; I got home fine, but I was exhausted and my tummy was sore. And the apartment was just as messy as it was when I left it, unfortunately. Where are those house-elves when you need them?

I've rested a lot since I got home — I can only go so long before I simply fall over, and so long isn't that long. I gave myself the first three days to lie around in my pjs and do nothing. 

I've accomplished things, I've left the apartment, and yet the place is still virtually as messy as before. Tomorrow, my mom's — now my — RAV4 arrives in Houston, driven by a couple of very generous friends. Soon thereafter, they drive away in my Subaru, taking it to its new home. Change, change, change, change. Dammit.

I have projects promised, I have been offered an insane work proposition, and I have a lot of people to reconnect with. But I'm taking it slowly, because my tummy still hurts and my mind is still swirling from the point when everything flew apart and I just haven't landed yet.

I have some posts started when I was still in Oregon that I'll finish and post, later. But I wanted to catch up to the present, before reaching back into the past. I have so much to do, and so much I want to do, that I wanted to at least settle onto the hard-packed earth of right now. I lost my footing. I need to ground myself so I can go on.

So here I am: crazy and tired and swirly and wanting to work and so much less sure of things than I expected to be at this point. I keep reminding myself: this is not my true natural state; this is an artifact of the way my life has been for over a year. Slowly perhaps, I will make my way back to the focused, fun, highly capable, and cheerful person that is me. My current state is transitional and temporary and I'll sweep it out the door just as quickly as I can.

With that, I bid you good night.

Ms. X and the Storage Bins of Doom

The morning dawned bright with promise, so I was told when I wandered over to my neighbors' at 10 am. The morning was still bright, but dawn was long gone, and so soon would be my neighbors. We were still yelling our good-byes as I clawed my way through the short path between our houses (Note to self: tell the yard lady to trim back the hedge). 

And there she stood by my front door — Xatrax, come all the way from her hidden compound near Portland, to help me store irreplaceable items inside inconsequential-seeming plastic bins. We were continuing the work begun by my previous assistant and myself just days before. With the preternatural intuition that she is known for, Ms. X knew that without her help, my project was poised for failure. I beamed with gratitude so strongly that Ms. X had to bat it away from her face like a fog of gnats.

"Yes, yes, you're welcome. Shall we get down to work? Your project is too vital to let it fail," she said. Grabbing her ever-present gear bag, she ushered me into my house, letting the screen door slam closed behind her. From the tips of her dark, skull-hugging 'do to the soles of her history-encrusted boots, Ms. X radiated "can-do" ... and the super-secret power of the FGB vibe.

Our first forays showed that my assistant Kem had gone further toward my project's end than I had first thought. Areas of action were sharply defined by lime paper and cobalt ink — both highly necessary ingredients in my plans. Leaving me to my mumbled thoughts — No, this stays here, right? Oh lordy, we never even looked there — Xatrax efficiently collected what I pulled out of nooks and crannies and gathered it all in the staging area.

Then it was time. I whipped out the bubble wrap and Xatrax slid free her lethal knife and we threw ourselves at the suspiciously innocuous-looking plastic bins in red and blue. By tag-teaming, a little cutting, some tight wrapping, and a lot of re-positioning, we filled those bins efficiently and effectively. As for the infamous Dancing Ladies, a little bright yellow duck tape from Ms. X's bag was enough to hold them where we wanted them. And thanks to her magical sparkly silver pen, we know what is in which bin. No surprise is a good surprise, is what I say.

There remain a few outliers lying low about the house that don't fit in a bin or were forgotten during the choreographed mayhem of earlier, but we did a lot of work and I rewarded us both with a leisurely, talk-filled lunch of BLTs from Subway. 

After our energizing and nutritious lunch, I discovered that there was no work remaining to do at this stage. This left us with an unanticipated significant amount of time left before Ms. X had to return to her home in the wilds of a Portland suburb. So what to do with all that time?

THE BEACH!!!!

Yes, it was another perfect day at the beach and I so wanted to impress the great Xatrax with my physical strength as well as my mental prowess that I poured my remaining energy into keeping up (mostly) with Ms. X, even tho' I've spent most of the last year hanging out on a couch. I don't know for sure how far we walked, only that it was a really, really long way great distance and my legs ached. A lot. (I know I would have to pay for this unaccustomed physical activity tomorrow, but I conceived the plan to just walk again on the new day and the new pain will simply blend into the existing pain so I won't notice it. Brilliant!) It was awesomely fun a tremendous experience, even when I got my shoes, socks, and the bottom four inches of my jeans wet because it turns out I can't actually jump anymore. (Gotta fix that before the Zombiepocalypse!) Xatrax cheated: her boots are Goretex.

Talking for hours with a girlfriend another super-power is a comfort I've missed, comfortable even if the friendship is still new and there is so much initial stuff to learn about each other. We packed. We talked. We ate. We talked. We walked down 137 steps and across a wide expanse of soft sand and we talked. 

We walked and talked (except when I was stopped and panting) all the way down the beach from 21st to the Wayside, which Google Maps says is approximately 1 mile. When you are walking on mostly soft sand in one direction, it's more than one mile. When you are walking uphill in the other direction, it's more than one mile. Those are my rules. So by my rules, we walked at least 3 or 4 miles. Ms. X very kindly lounged on a park bench with me as I regained my strength, commenting that she, too, needed a rest. The woman's legendary graciousness is a truth.

We looked at kites and tacky souvenirs, then I bought chocolate and Xatrax bought caramel corn and we carried our treats and our weary bodies uphill back to the house. After a too-brief leave-taking, the amazing Ms. X, woman of mystery and a really great hat, swept away in her little Black Soul, bearing sand and caramel corn to the incomparable Mr. X, and leaving me nursing sore calves, sore thighs, sore feet, sore achilles tendons, sunburned cheeks ....

Thanks to Xatrax, I now have no worries. My plan will succeed. It will change lives and turn around economies. Most importantly of all — it will finally be all over.

Territorial

I spent today marking my territory. Instead of pee, I used lime green post-it notes and a blue gel pen.

The friend who was helping me suggested I mark items before beginning The Great Adventure in Packing. Smart woman, that Kem. So we wandered thru much of the house marking stuff to be sent to me in Houston, to go into storage for me (and a couple of things for my aunt), and then marked things for the estate sale as $ for Skye or $ for Carolyn. It was a useful day, complete with lunch from Subway and lots of talking. 

All that remains are the two smaller bedrooms, although there is a lot of stuff in one of the closets. Once all the marking is complete, then the packing can begin!

I imagine I'll begin some of the packing tomorrow, after a break and perhaps a walk on the beach. Then my friend Glynis will be here all day Monday; I imagine we will finish most if not all of the rest. Plus a walk on the beach.

The movers come Tuesday to swap stuff in and out of storage. Then Wednesday I begin to go thru my own storage unit so I can make room for whatever is left in the second storage unit.

Universe, please give me enough money so I can afford a larger living space and be able to move the things in my storage unit in Oregon to my home in Houston. Really, I've spent more than enough money on storage. And, no, getting my portion of the estate will not be the money I'm asking for. See yesterday's post and my comment for why.

I'm tired and should consider going to bed very soon. I imagine I will feel like this most days that I am here. (Hey Merry! Come join me at the beach!) But it's a good kind of tired. It's a "I've been on my feet almost all day and accomplished a lot" kind of tired. And I am very grateful that I had help; I couldn't have accomplished half of what I did without it.