Coming Back

Today I felt comfortable in my mortality.

Lit a cigarette, swigged a Monster, drove without fearing for my life.

I had to enjoy it before the anxiety crept back in.

Safety is a fleeting illusion in my world.

Even my  house is reminiscent of how solidly I live—heavy antiques anchored to the floor, thick, dark curtains, soft cat—weighing me down so I won’t run screaming. Must be the Taurus in me.

Aries couldn’t care less for security.

I could never be that girl who couch surfs or moves in with a friend on a moment’s notice—every step is measured, tested until sure.

Even now the tingle of fear is taking hold.

Too much stimuli in this crowded little bar.

Fuck, there is even a group of children in here.

The coffee is burnt, drunks at the bar grate on my single, hypersensitive nerve.

I can’t go back home, someone is there. The heavy-footed landlord doing repairs.

I don’t know where I want to be.

I am unanchored today.

What little victories or fears await me…

Death is not a dream, just an inevitability.

We need to abandon this country like rats jumping a sinking ship.

My best ideas arrive whilst I’m driving or falling asleep.

My handwriting is shit today.

I want to marry Veronica Varlow.

Trainwreck of thoughts, no?

Maybe that’s all I am today. Everything drags.

Wearing black & combat boots, a too big coat drowning me, exhaling smoke & draining coffee, shoegaze and jazz in my brain, I’m a post-grunge beatnik. But the words just won’t flow as they could.

Maybe I’ll blog this—the sour coffee, my dirty hair, fatigue-glazed eyes. I’m not turned on or plugged in. I did eat a whole fucking pizza today, though. Plans to exercise with my friend, a play with my twin, but I really want to drink rum, watch the BBC, and sleep on the sofa.

I’d run half a mile to be with you—and then stop because you’re too fucking far away and I’m out of shape.

I want to spite the air, so I will swear in Japanese.

This coffee is really awful.

I feel dead in the best way today.

We need to start making ceilings out of pressed tin again, not that creepy corkboard stuff. It seems like nothing has craftsmanship anymore. All the pretties are cheap and made in sweatshops.

I suppose that’s why I collect Edwardian furniture. Character and quality in a sofa, who knew!

What about the quality of people? Sometimes I feel like I’ve lost my luster.

The minimum wage job and food stamps don’t define me. Maybe my shitty poetry does. What does that mean on the days when the words won’t come?

I don’t want to be buoyant, I just want to be stable.

My mood is usually down while my nerves are up. A terrible, Holocaustic combination.

I like drawing eyes. I have sketchbooks full of the buggers.

No idea why at this age, but I am terrified of being judged. Sometimes I think I cared less when I was an apathetic little Goth girl a decade ago.

Sometimes I want fame and recognition, other times I want to live in an anonymous little cottage by the woods.

A little poison can be good for you sometimes.

At least the dump is now full of shiny things!

I have decided that I need to do some artistic housekeeping.

So many talents, so little time! was my motto for so long, and now I am making the difficult decision to banish some mediums from my life for, basically, ever.

With tremulous hands I picked through my baskets of crafting supplies, hesitant to be rid of anything that might come in handy, craft-wise, in the future. But here my things lay, powdered with at least five years' worth of dust motes, untouched save by the odd carelessly flung sock that may have landed in a basket as they moldered in the closet corner. And then, steeling my resolve, I began to heft whole baskets into a garbage bag.

What brought about this sudden, relentless purge? To tell the truth, I was more than a little exhausted by how many projects I have scattered about, woebegone and half-finished, some of which had been lying in wait for me to finish the for more than three years now. I can blame my new-found love of chucking things out, at least partially, on the fact that I am moving into an apartment and thus need to consolidate my space while I can. But those idle projects have been gnawing on the edge of my consciousness for a while now, disconsolate zombies of decoupage and paint, and I keep coming back to a realization I had a few weeks ago.

Just because I *CAN* do it doesn't mean I *HAVE TO* do it.

So what if I have the capacity to make collages? Do I even *like* making them? Well, the end result might look nice, but it's a heck of a lot of mess, honestly. And all of those odds and ends of jewelry donated to me by friends who thought "this might be useful in your jewelry making!" well, thanks, but they were pretty useless after five years, so boop! Into the rubbish bin they go. I don't need to be stockpiling fabric if I have no ambitions to be a seamstress, and who is going to care if I only make a handful of earring styles? Everyone needs a niche, right?

If I do decide to embark on a solo oil painting exercise, I will buy what I need for the project and donate the rest. No need to drain all of my thin energy into fifteen canvasses, a quart of phthalo blue paint, and hours of frustration staring at all of that crap piled into a corner when I run out of ideas for what to do with it (besides making a bonfire, of course).

Already I am feeling my spirits lighten, having less to distract me from the things I really like to do - although until Netflix goes belly-up, there will always be *that* to distract me - and my cats are enjoying all of the new spaces they can explore in the closet and under the bed.

Plus, my space is a hell of a lot cleaner right now.

So, while I was away from the keyboard, LIFE happened.

Yes, LIFE! So many new things came hurtling into my life like a catnipped-up kitten that I have hardly had time to breathe. Let's start with this summer...

A NEW JOB.

I finally found employment...as a barista at Starbucks. Not the most glamorous postition, nor what I was really looking for, but the company has been good to me so far and, aside from the occasional rude customer (they're everywhere in life, it seems), I like it fairly well. I'm not used to so much physical labor, even in my time at the used bookstore I got to flex my Bachelor's degree in English every now and then. There aren't many opportunities at Starbucks to use critical thinking skills, but hey, I have full-coverage health insurance. And I get to drink espresso all day!

SHAKESPEARE IN THE PARK.

O, for a horse with wings! I would fly backward in time to perform again in Cymbeline with that amazing cast. I've not had the chance to play a leading role since I was around twelve years old, so it was a bit daunting to take on the role of leading lady Imogen. But I was done with sitting around the house, done with my social anxiety ruling my life, done with crocheting (for the time). I will definitely be auditioning more in the future, after one last surgery in January. I'm also planning on resuming voice lessons so I can try out for the Wichita Grand Opera.

THE TWO-YEAR NIGHTMARE ENDS.

For the past couple of years I have been embroiled in a lawsuit against some fellow who murdered my car on the highway and crippled my spine. About a month ago everything was resolved, leaving me with an incredible lightness of spirit.

OTHER FUN STUFF!

My new job has been helping me pay off bills, which I dearly hope is doing good things to my credit score. I also have a new car, a cute little red Fiat 500 Pop, and unlike my last vehicle this one does not try to kill me. Grad school is on the horizon, as is my first apartment (to be mine at the first of the year), and my artwork is coming along for the first time in a couple months. Work has been exhausting, as I wake up at 3:30 am to get there, and so by the time I get home I am so tired I can hardly function, let alone create art. But I've been doing it, nonetheless!

I will post some mediocre photos of my newest artistic accomplishments as soon as I can remember where I placed my camera...drats...

-Cat =^..^=

Anxietybeast

I promise that I don't start every blog post with the intention of delving into my own oddball psychology, but heck, somehow it manages to assert itself anyway. So please forgive me for all of my random babbling on the subject!

The creepy little thing that has wriggled around inside of my brain for several years is now trying to take control of my consciousness! Anxietybeast is a ravenous creature, and yet all of my positivity it devours won't fill it up. It's a bottomless pit, and sometimes I have no food to give it. Let's just say anxiety is draining. Exhausting.

What kinds of things do I think about when I'm anxious? Where do I start? Myself, of course, and my shortcomings. That's at the core of the problem. I worry about how other people see me, if I have offended someone without knowing it, having to leave the house (social anxiety is the most painful of all)...you name it, it worries me. My anxiety has caused me to let people down as well, as sometimes I panic at the idea of leaving the house to make appointments. It is a hindrance and it might just kill me.

As a Buddhist, I have been practicing detachment from my Self; according to Buddhism, things like anxiety are the result of a self-cherishing mind, the negativity resulting from attachment. But no matter how hard I practice, my body's chemistry, in the end, is what controls my creepycrawly anxietybeast. My serotonin levels are way off to begin with, hence the funtimes associated with depression. Ever since I became unemployed a year ago, my anxiety has continued to build. I have been stuck at home for months, fueling my social anxiety, and being unemployed has seriously damaged my sense of self-worth.

So, even though the beastie is gripping my brain and not letting go, I am trying to pry its claws off of me enough that I can function like a normal human being (well, semi-normal, normal is boring!). Making art always helps, it gives me a sense of accomplishment. Medication is an option, but from my experience it doesn't always help...I hope some glimmer of inspiration will come my way and I can slay the anxietybeast for good.

Make ART. It will save your life.

Lately I have been unearthing skills I had buried through lack of use, namely my artistic talents. Once I switched from art to English major six years ago, I allowed my artistic eye to atrophy enough that I forgot many techniques and some mediums vanished entirely from my repertoire.

 

Then, a few months ago, an odd penchant for painting cropped up, quite by accident, and took me by surprise. One watercolor spawned a series, and I only ceased painting once the ecstasy of creation died down enough for me to realize, "Hm, these aren't as good as they used to be." Good enough for some, maybe, but for me? No way! So the watercolors and acrylics were put once again to bed, but on the couch this time, for the occasional spark will ignite my right brain into action and I have found easily accessible paints to be useful. I even plan on taking a watercolor class at my alma mater this autumn to further hone my craft and feel confident enough in it to finally have an art showing.

 

In the time in between the brush and the canvas, I have taken up an even older hobby of mine--decoupage collage. In a quieter time before the death of dialup, my babysitter taught me how to cut and paste pictures from magazines onto boxes and strips of cardboard, creating a tableau with glossy cutouts and the ubiquitous jar of Mod Podge. Not really having any medium suitable for collage, I grudgingly sacrificed the cardstock backings that have kept my little comic book collection tidy for the past few years. Alan Moore will have to forgive me.

 

So, what is next? After I underwent spinal surgery this February, I took up, at my twin sister's insistence, needlework--crochet in particular. Since the first gasps and death rattles that accompanied the birth of my first potholders I have crocheted a few scarves and mismatched wrist warmers ("They're charming, really!" is what I tell myself) and recently started a few Game of Thrones-themed scarves. House Stark is very nearly finished, and a commission for House Greyjoy is underway. The nice thing about crocheting is that I can carry around my yarn and hook in my purse and whip them out whenever I am feeling bored--at the dentist's office, while watching telly, or on a tedious car trip. It passes the time, and crocheting and knitting are known to be beneficial to one's mental and psychological well-being.

 

It needs to be said that before I began knocking out artistic endeavors like baseballs in a park, I made a change in my medication. Thanks to the fun quirks of genetics, I have a constant companion called Depression, and very much like in the commercial for Abilify it tends to hang around like a little cloud, just behind my consciousness. Yeah, not really fun at all, more like annoying. Thanks to my depression, I often don't really care enough to do anything other than lie around and act like a turtle. After my back surgery, and the cessation of pain medication, I started taking Abilify, and my GODS it has changed things! One of the first things I did was take tie open my bedroom curtains--where before I was content to hide like a badger in my dark hole, something in me now needs light. This little Goth is still getting used to Vitamin D cravings, but so far I haven't recoiled, hissing, in horror (yet...). Alongside my newfound respect for the burning ball of gas and plasma came an itching to *do* something. Now, still being in the clutches of post-op recovery it isn't feasible for me to start heavy exercise, but I at least have been taking my Australian Shepherd, Penelope, on walks by the river. She loves it, and I've enjoyed spending time with her and getting back into sync with Nature.

(Photo: Me, Penelope, and a Snow Tiger!)

 

I'm hopeful that my talents will only continue to flourish, and I make sure to practice every day with at least one medium, be it paper, painting or drawing (I also write stories a bit...more to come on that front). If things hold, perhaps I will submit my art to be in a Final Friday gallery in town. That is, if the artist in me thinks they're good enough!

Spinal tap dance? Hm.

It's been a scant week since my spine was surgified, but already I am suffering the ill effects of being cooped up indoors like an asthmatic, accident-prone child with a sunlight allergy. Every time I peek past the drapes to spy on the world as she disrobes for her annual spring frolic, I get both wistful and grumpy. Just as I so desperately want to join in the (maybe not skyclad) frolicking, I know for certain that I will manage to trip, stumble, crash, or any other number of verbs which lend themselves to my ending up horizontal and slightly mangled on the lawn. This is the luck of the Irish (which in itself deserves a blog post of its own...this will happen).

 

I knew it would be annoying, but being stuck indoors this time around is somehow worse than the last time I had back surgery in 2009. Perhaps it's because the recent procedure was more intense (I endured a spinal fusion versus a simple microdiscectomy), but my thought process these past few days runs along the lines of, "I want to go run around and cavort with the friendly neighborhood creatures! Dead grass and snow-slush igloos shall pave the way to the glories of April with her noontide tornado sirens and daisy chains!"

 

But here I am, homestuck and cranky. To ease my boredom, I've compiled a little list of things to expect, post-op-wise, if you are having back surgery. I got through it twice (so far), and I'm assuming you can as well. I didn't catalogue everything, just the major things that stuck out for me.

 

- The fun part, waking up from anesthesia. Odds are you will be horribly groggy for several hours after your procedure, so take advantage of this induced snaily state. When you finally kick the anesthesia, you are going to be achy and not want to move. Luckily, the nurses will have equipped you with a trusty morphine pump, which you can use to distribute the drug every ten minutes. And you will distribute it every ten minutes, believe me.

 

- Moving around will seem like the last thing you should do, but the day after the operation you'll be dragged to your paws and made to march down the hallway, probably in a nifty back brace (mine's brand is "Ninja," and it it looks very shinobi-like. I think there are places to stash kunai...). Walking will suck, but it forces your body to jumpstart the healing process. Because you will be expected to perform less tasks than are expected of a toddler, people tend to think that while you are homebound you will have to be bedbound. Not the case. Lying down may feel more comfortable than standing or sitting, but don't give in to the charms of the mattress! Stretching out your muscles (without overdoing it, please) will make you feel better in the long run. If you have staples closing your incision, you are going to be uncomfortably aware of them, especially if you lie on your back. The doctor will remove them about two weeks after surgery, thankfully, but in the meantime try to zen-out and pretend like they've always been there, or else you'll be driven crazy feeling like your spine is the spine of a cheap book.

 

- Well before the day of the surgery, you should stock up on things to do - have a pile of books at hand, or board games if you have family and friends willing to help you feel less useless. I took up knitting (badly), and of course my sketchbook is never far from my paws should I feel the need to doodle. I also made sure to put my important day-to-day items in places that wouldn't be difficult to reach, mostly at counter-top level, because DROPPING THINGS WILL KILL YOU. Well, technically, BENDING TO PICK UP THE SHIT YOU DROPPED WILL *HURT LIKE HELL. Trust me, even bending a little bit to pet your cat or dog will end with you howling like an arrow-pinioned woodsbeast. Get one of those grabby picker-upper sticks, I have no idea what they are called, but they will be so useful that you will wonder how you could have cleaned your room without one. Just today I spilled a bottle of ibuprofen on the floor, and I used the grabby stick to clean up the mess. Like a boss.

 

If you are used to doing things on your own, the weeks after back surgery will teach you, none too gently, that sometimes we have to rely on other people to help us out. I'm one of those obnoxiously proud people who become offended if someone implies that they can't do something on their own, so being in a recuperative state has humbled me by several degrees. There is a difference between requesting help when you need it and placing unnecessary burdens on others with your demands, and most people will let you know if you are crossing a line. Hopefully they won't do it by smacking you upside the head with a grabby stick.

 

*I don't think you can actually die from bending over post-op, but I really don't want to find out, so please let us leave that avenue undiscovered...

Cute? I'll give you cu-...ooh, a shiny!

Yes, being cute can be a terrible thing.

 

I am not uncomfortable referring to myself as "cute:" it is a trait that has been pointed out to me ever since I was only able to respond with a big-eyed look of mild confusion (I was a polite baby). And it's not the, "Hey there, cutie *wolfwhistle*" kind of cute, but the "Omigosh, you are so adorable I just have to hug you!" kind of cute, which can be problematic as people of any sexual persuasion can find something to be fluffypinkkitten cute, thereby extending my misery across the spectrum of humanity.

 

My idiosyncrasies, which I find weird, are endearing to the majority of the populace. What is so cute about vocalizing non-verbal cues (Gasp! Oof! Zzzip!), making catlike noises (when you are around certain people ALL THE TIME over a span of 25 years, if you have an overdeveloped sense of empathy you will eventually mimic your roommates), making obnoxious faces (15 years of theater), or speaking in funny accents (my mom read to me, that's my excuse)? I don't see the allure, but hey, maybe I'm too close to the case being studied.

 

One might think, "Hey, being cute can open a lot of doors, so you shouldn't complain, Cat!" This can be true. When people think you're endearing, you can get away with a lot of stuff because others see you as less of a threat - sort of like how a Rottweiler puppy is less scary than an adult dog. However, is the mild advantage of being less of a threat worth the less positive effect of being seen as more object than person?

 

Let me use my cat, Trixy, as an example. She is damn cute, and has the lamentable benefit of being very cuddly. Here's photographic evidence of the snuggly cuddlebeast:

 

 

 

See? She looks more teddy bear than cat, to be honest.

 

The mixing of these virtues unfortunately stirs in those nearby an inescapable urge to snatch up and snuggle poor Trixy. Unable to fight off her captors, clawless and thumbless, the little black cat is reduced to loosing feeble cries for aid that go unnoticed by the snuggler and any feline deities that might reside in the aether.

 

See what cuteness gets you? Trapped. Unable to form a cohesive argument, your appeals for personal space are taken for granted and you are denied even the freedom of using your thumbs to poke your offender in the eye. Well, I suppose that is only one way in which being cute can get you down, but still, there are some basic similarities between being a cute animal and being a cute...whatever the heck I am.

 

When you are cute, it seems less likely that you will be taken seriously by others. From my own experience, friends in particular are guilty of making me feel more like a team mascot than a member. A fantastic idea will occur to me - something innovative, intoxicating, and kinda cool! - but upon its utterance, said awesomesauce idea is met with a similar response to a parent congratulating a four-year-old on the artistic merit of her macaroni-and-paste portrait of the deceased family cat. A pat on the head, knowing smiles, and a distinctly false "good for you!" air, all work to make you feel as if your spark of inspiration is more comparable to a dead lightning bug than an illumination of a mystery.

 

It's all enough to make me want to buy an Orc mask at the costume store. "Being cute" my paw.

 

 

We are hopeless, Trixy...