Bananas...

Bad, bad me. I didn't make it to work yesterday. I got showered and dressed and put on a few pieces of funky jewelry from a fav Etsy Seller. I even put on makeup, and that hasn't happened more than a handful of times in a year. Took my anxiety meds. Wrote yesterday's post. Listened to a frantic message from my boss.

Maybe I'm being stubborn, but I don't think so. I think I'm picking up their anxiety, and it's building on top of mine. Either way, getting to work ain't happened yet. I called this morning and told them I was trying again this afternoon. Trying. Again.

I mentioned that I got dressed for work and put on makeup, right? What I did forget to say was that I'm also taking my little pet monkey. He hangs out and eats bananas. And didn't we learn from Chiquita Banana that bananas have to ripen before eating? Ripen=progress=prepare. Hey, I'm preparing!

And here I thought being bananas was a bad thing.

(Image used is a print of an original collage that is mounted on a wood block. It is entitled "What's Wrong" and is available for purchase for the Etsy shop WicksomeMay.)

(The original Disney Studios commercial featuring Ms. Chiquita Banana has been out since the 40's. Do you remember the tune? Saying that I do really shows my age. See the entire minute-long video here www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFDOI24RRAE )

Too much time, maybe?

Embrace change.
Change can be difficult.
Difficult times call for difficult measures.
Measures taken to an extreme.
Extreme means to an end.
End of life as we know it.
It doesn't have to be this way.
Way to go!
Go west, young man.
Man does not live by bread alone.
Alone in the dark.
Dark clouds raining down on me, drowning me, drowning...
Drowning is the third most common cause of accidental death.
Death of a Salesman.
Salesman of the Year.
Year after year I've tried to tell you.
You can't always get what you want.
Want is not the same thing as need.
Need to know.
Know how.
How can you mend a broken heart?
Heart of Glass.
Glass of wine, a good friend, the kind of therapy that money can't buy.
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack, I don't care if I never get back.
Back to the wall.
Wall of Fame.
Fame--I'm gonna live forever.
Forever and a day.
Day by day...three things that I pray...
Pray, Eat, Love.
Love of money is the root of all evil.
Evil triumphs when good men do nothing.
Nothing comes from nothing, nothing ever could.
Could you speak up, please?
Please forgive me.
Me and You and a Dog named Boo.
Boo Hoo, I can't believe it's true.
True blue in everything we do.
Do you know the muffin man who lives on Drury Lane?
Lane with you in your embrace...

Obviously my brain took a break.

(Image is entitled "Thought Blockade" and is found at chicalookate at Etsy.)

Don't mess with me...

I can hardly believe that May is almost over. Most of April and May were taken over by everything related to refinancing. It really did take two months to complete the process. The initial contact to get the ball rolling was on March 25th, followed by the cleaning spree and then finally the fiasco of waiting on the bank to fix a 20 year-old error. Phew. Done. Over. Let's move on.

So now I'm back to reading a lot about hormones and menopause and about stress and how it affects aging and hormones. I think I may have said several times how confusing the whole menopausal phase is when no one talks about it. One author notes that it wasn't so very long ago that women were sent to sanatoriums because of the symptoms of nervousness, sleeplessness, irritability, and "a tendency to cause trouble"!! (Yeah, I would definitely be in a sanatorium.) To even speak of it was to risk being placed in a institution because if a woman knew about then it she must be experiencing it, and it was considered a dangerous time of life. (Dangerous to anyone around a menopausal woman, that is.) Thus, very little information was handed down. Hysteria was once considered a medical disorder diagnosed only in women. The word uterus derived from the Greek work for hysteria. Go figure. Plato discussed the problem of the "wandering uterus" creating havoc as it moved through the body. (I might buy that since I experience quite a bit of havoc inside.) However, by the mid-19th century, it was generally thought that hysteria "stemmed from sexual dissatisfaction," and several methods of treatment would result in "hysterical paroxysm," now better known as an orgasm. Huh. (Strangely, my doctor, a woman, has never mentioned this as a possible treatment for me.) Now get this. Treatment was tedious to physicians (who were always male) who tired of manual vaginal massage. Awww. (I think tedium must be the male equivalent of hysteria. Tedious males should have been put in institutions. Makes me wonder why their hands got so tired anyway.) It wasn't too long before massage devices were invented so those poor old doctors wouldn't get tedium. In the mid-19th century, a "hydrotherapy" device was available at bathing resorts. People used to go to these resorts to bathe in the waters, usually considered to having healing properties. Hugely popular. Now we know why. "By 1870, a clockwork-driven vibrator was available for physicians." (I wonder how long they set it for. Ten minutes? Two minutes?) "In 1873, the first electromechanical vibrator was used at an asylum in France for the treatment of hysteria." Catch that? Used at an "asylum"? Well, that is where we all were sent when we got hysterical. Thank goodness I didn't live back then. I probably would have been sent to the asylum when I was 12 and would have been placed in the hands of a doctor who treated his patients with vibrating electrodes attached at the temples. No paroxysms for me.

Seriously, all of this is just interesting to me when I think about how people view symptoms of stress and menopause now. I don't think much has changed except that we no longer are thrown into those sanatoriums. No, we are expected just to keep pushing ourselves harder and keep working a job while also doing all the work at home. We aren't supposed to think of ourselves, we should say yes to anything asked of us and feel deeply guilty should we ever consider saying no. If we are moody or irritable, just stuff it. And never, ever say that we're too tired. (The sanatorium is sounding better all the time.)

I'm also beginning to think there might have been something to Plato's ideas because something has definitely moved in to increase the size of my upper abdomen. It makes me feel like I am full all the time. Sitting makes me much more aware of it. I've always had a bit of a lower belly, but now the upper as well?

Makes me want to get into a hysterical fight with a tedious man.

(Image used is a pastel and pencil drawing entitled "Mood Swing" and is by orbisdeo at Etsy. The information on the histroy of hysteria was found at Wikipedia.)

Around and around I go...

My journal reads like a record that skips and plays the same thing over and over and over (does that tell my age?). I'm beginning to believe that I've always been this way. Add the stress and the emotional turmoil on top of it, and the highs and lows were just, well, higher and lower. But in somewhat of a bubble here at home, I realize that I really am always just slightly depressed. Even with meds, I still cycle through the milder lows on a regular basis.

We closed on the refinancing loan last Friday. At the lawyer's office, there was an assistant that everyone was praising for her abilities and her cheerful attitude. That used to be me. Clients would tell me how much they appreciated me, and some of them wanted to hire me! So, I was a bit down upon leaving the office that afternoon, brooding the rest of the evening about much has changed. On Saturday, I went to have my nails done and to get a pedicure as well. It's been two months since I last went. Aahh, bliss. A spa pedicure with a reflexology foot massage and seaweed wrap. Oh, and, of course, pretty toenails. But while sitting in line with the other 11 women, I noticed that my legs were getting a lot of attention and not in a good way. My legs are blindingly white, having not seen the sun for over 20 years. They were the first place that my hives appeared, and that signaled the end of my days in the sun. Heat just makes them worse. It would seem a blessing in disguise since I have fairly good skin from staying out of the sun. But trust me, blinding white is not pretty, especially since I cannot shave my legs because of my hives. I do not understand Vietnamese, so I could only imagine that the lilting sing-song of their conversation went something like this: "What wrong with her? She have weird skin. Funny color. Eeww, hairy. Look terrible. Don't want to touch. Put on gloves. Hee hee." (Sorry, that is how they talk. No offense meant.) The bliss of the treatment was undermined by my humiliation. Plus, I wondered afterwards why I even bother to keep having my nails done. Who sees them but me? Huh. Afterwards, I finally made it to the mall to return those stupid shoes I've had for a month. I had one other errand I wanted to accomplish, and the two stores were at opposite ends of the mall. Walking through, I find that the mall hasn't changed much since the last time I was there many years ago. There are still no stores for old people, unless the mattress store is considered. Anyone over 40 is sitting on benches and watching the younger crowd. Probably in envy. There was still store after store specifically for teens and twenty-somethings. The clothing was cheap and cheaply made, minimally priced and sized to fit teeny bodies. Now, I had to try on no less than three pairs of pants on Friday before I could find a pair that would fit. This not-going-out-of-the-house situation has made me realize that I have put a few pounds onto an already less-than-svelte body. I was determined on Friday not to let it bother me, but at the mall, it was too painfully obvious that I was out of my league. The "big" league. Not the one I wanted to be called up to.

So once again, I find myself in a slump. I'm questioning everything about myself. I hate this uncertainty and the feeling of not being good enough in any way. I'm afraid to try to work for anyone because I doubt I could maintain any kind of schedule or handle any stress at all. I would love to work at the boutique where I was offered a job, but my consistently low moods won't go over very well in a store where I would have to be "up" all the time. And I haven't made it back to the office where I was employed to get the things I need to work at home. I have not started the Etsy shop I have planned and now am wondering if I'm going to be able to anyway. My ideas involve non-eco-friendly materials, and I've been doing a bit of thinking about that lately. I would have to change quite a lot of my designs if I go to all natural materials. And, I screwed up at the shoe store because they wouldn't let me return the shoes (I paid through Paypal so I could only exchange them), and I traded them in for a pair that I know I will never wear because I have nowhere to go. I have a closet full of awesome clothing that I'm not wearing because I can't fit into them and have no place to go. I'm not taking care of myself, inside or out, because who will notice? Certainly not my other half. Nor would he care. I'm not doing anything meaningful, nothing with a purpose, nothing that benefits anyone. What is the point of being me??

I hate feeling this way. I hate being the way I am. And I hate continuing to write about it. What used to seem like a good place to record my thoughts now just feels like a place for constant pity-parties. Wasn't the point of writing in a journal to feel better? To keep track of my progress? I'm not progressing, I'm stuck in a harmonic wave of oscillating moods that are like a record that skips and plays the same thing over and over and over...

(Image used is a funky necklace entitled "You Sound Like a Broken Record." It's made by WillowandIvy and available at the Etsy shop of the same name.)

It's a cruel and crazy business...

I have to confess that I'm not a movie lover. I would much rather read. It's been proven that the movie that runs in my head while I'm reading is ssooooo much better than the one that gets produced! And not to sound all miss high and mighty but even if I did like movies, I doubt I would want to even see 98% of the movies being made these days. Of course, I love the classics. And there are some movies from my childhood that never get old. But my favorite kind of movie is one that, when it's over, makes me sit still for however long it takes and rethink the whole thing. Or maybe even immediately watch it again. Because movies that make me think and have layers within layers of meaning are the best. And since most of the movies out there these days are made specifically for people who don't like to think (or who can't), that sort of counts me out at the theaters. Even if a movie trailer looks interesting, I still need to know someone who has seen it before I will go myself. This leaves me with two options: rent or buy movies, or watch them on TV. That in itself brings up another interesting twist in this tale because I seldom watch TV. I would rather read. Okay, now I think I'm going in circles.

Anyway, my other half left yesterday morning to go on a three-day trip. Having seen that the movie "Atonement" was coming on, I decided to watch it. Period pieces usually are some of my favorites simply because of the costuming and sets. However, this one never grabbed my attention. I did not like any of the three main characters at all during the first thirty minutes of the movie. Big disappointment. Normally, I would just let my other half decide what he wanted to watch, but since he wasn't home, I decided to scan the guide. What did grab my attention was "The Devil Wears Prada." I'm probably the last person in the free world who has any interest in fashion to see this movie. I didn't expect to like it. I didn't want to like it. I thought that Andrea was going to get sucked into the churning fashion machine and become a mini-Miranda. Don't get me wrong, I loved seeing all those clothes. But jeepers, how does anyone work in that business?? I think it's really like that since I saw part of reality show that tracked interns at ELLE magazine (I think). Those girls ran around town talking on their cellphones, picking up coffee and clothing from places they didn't know how to get to and all on a 30 minute deadline. They probably couldn't get out of the building in 10 minutes! Scary.

I thought where I worked was crazy...

(Image used is an untitled photographic print by Capree at Etsy.)

Toss me a towel...

The recent appraisal and my marathon cleaning project have propelled me deeper into depression. My biggest triggers that caused the decline are stress and lack of sleep. Fatigue can be a trigger, but it is often a result of not sleeping enough. The last weekend prior to Monday's appraisal was the most hectic of the three weeks I spent cleaning. I got very little sleep Saturday night and practically none on Sunday night. The appraisal itself became a stressor as the deadline got closer, and my other half constantly voicing his worries only added to my stress. I thought if I heard him say one more time that we weren't going to make it (to the deadline), I was going to shoot him. Thankfully, I don't keep a gun in the house. His lucky week, I guess. Anyway, between pushing my limits in these areas (fatigue, lack of sleep, stress) and getting a new puppy, I went downhill quickly. The puppy isn't stressing me at all, but my allergies have gone haywire since getting him! Whatever he was bathed in on the day we picked him up is doing a number on my sinus and skin allergies as well as keeping the door slightly opened so that I can teach him that the yard is where he goes when he has to go. Add to that the dust stirred up while cleaning. By late Wednesday, I had a minor case of hives along with a mind that wasn't functioning well. I was in tears by Friday with a major case of hives and no mind to speak of. I had to take extra Benedryl to combat the hives, which really puts me in a fog. I tried to do several puzzles to keep my brain focused, but I wasn't even seeing all of the numbers. Saturday and Sunday were both the same.

Today it has been one week since the appraisal and most of the things that occurred to send me into this decline. I have tried to keep up with the events in terms of my depression cycle as well as how long it takes me to recover. Having been able to avoid my stressors for awhile, I can track the cycle better than I have ever been able to. I know that I have hit the bottom of this cycle and am on my way back up. Last week after the appraisal I was supposed to get my nails done, return some shoes at the mall, go to a chiropractic appointment and get the quarterly information from my employer by Friday. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to leave the house to accomplish any of those things. And they all were very necessary. I am apparently going to keep experiencing this fear of leaving the house when I am in a low cycle. Good to know these things and even better to be able to track them. I should be back to the point at which my meds are controlling my depression by the end of the week. Hopefully, sooner.

Meanwhile, I'll rest and recover and let the craziness of the last four weeks drip off/out. I think whoever said "don't sweat the small stuff" must have never had much stuff and could afford to forget the small ones. I'll sweat it all away, thank you.

(Image used is entitled "Tranquility," an oil painting by shiloratnerart at Etsy.)

Inside my skin...

Yesterday I was supposed to go to work and help with a payroll project. I emailed them on Friday and said I would be there. Then I just didn't go. I tried, but I couldn't make myself walk out the door. I haven't gone in four weeks. I've never been like this. When I knew that something important needed to be completed, I was the one who always bent over backwards to do everything I could to make it happen. I don't even feel bad about not going, and I haven't tried to go in today.

I think I've quit caring. I don't like being this way. One one hand, it feels so selfish and just wrong. On the other, I almost feel like I'm rebelling in some strange way, like a little kid who is saying "nah-nah-nah, you can't make me." Ever since I had that meltdown a few weeks ago, I've been getting more and more like this little brat, with an attitude of "don't tell me what to do or I won't do it just for spite."

I've always carried around a lot of guilt because I felt like I wasn't good enough or strong enough (mentally or emotionally). I was even told that I didn't care enough when, in fact, caring too much was what created the problems. I felt a lot of guilt over the last six or seven months when I opted to stay home from work. Guilt for not doing enough for my employers as well as guilt for creating our difficult financial situation at home. I mean, really major guilt trips. Now, I've gradually come to realize I'm not feeling guilty at all. Not about anything.

I'm becoming someone I never thought I could be. I don't think I like me this way.



The image used in this post is from a 2004 exhibition by Elizabeth Ingraham, a faculty member at UNL's Hillestad Textiles Gallery, and is entitled "Guilt." Her exhibition was titled "Information, Memory and Desire: Skins," and the lifesize figures were created from various fabrics and findings. The exhibition annoucement had this to say:

“Through a series of life-size, dimensional female skins, I am exploring how expectation, desire and convention - our own and others - form casings which shape our deepest selves and which become so familiar they seem like our own skin,” Ingraham said.

She likened the skins to costumes and camouflage, saying that they describe emotional states, conceal and reveal identity. The works are tactile as well as visual and are designed to be touched and handled by the viewer - unzipped, unbuttoned, entered, read and rattled."

Read more about her at culturalterrain.com or at monet.unk.net and see more of the "skins"--Duty, Denial, Regret, Baggage, etc.--"...the guises in which women enrobe themselves."

These shoes were made for walking...

Another problem these days is trying to decide what to do about finances. I was out of work last year for almost six months. I went back part-time in January, but thus far I've only been able to go one day per week. Our financial situation isn't one that will allow me to remain on the employment fence much longer. Actually, I think I have to be off of the fence by the end of this weekend.

It may be so hard to get my butt into the office every week because the extreme stress that sent me over the edge is probably always in the back of my mind. There is something in my head that just refuses to listen to reasoning even when I know I'm really going to be in trouble with my other half if I don't go into work. I have often thought that shame might play a part in how I feel about my failures or when I can't meet expectations. I remember specific incidents of shame being the disciplinary vehicle my mom used. Guess it carried over. It's either fear of the stress or shame, or it may be a combination of the two, but I'm not doing a very good job of getting past it.

I really liked my job. I really like the people I worked for. But I couldn't take the stress of being the only other employee doing all the admin and client paperwork. They admitted on more than one occasion that they needed at least two people and maybe three. They knew I was working too many hours and never making a dent in the stacks. We just couldn't ever find anyone. The one person we hired stayed only a few months. They hired someone else after I had been gone about two months. Now I'm more of a gopher, trying to help get things caught up. I can make my own schedule and am not responsible for any of the day-to-day stuff. It should be a no-brainer, so why am I so hesitant to go back? Maybe I should go be a greeter at Walmart or get a part-time job at the mall. I couldn't work at a bookstore, clothing store, shoe store or pet store. I would simply hand my check back to the owner on payday. That doesn't leave me many no-brainer possibilities for employment. I don't want to work somewhere that I will get so involved and feel so responsible. Gets me into too much trouble. I would love to do something at home, but I have no self-motivation right now. And there is still the issue of making a difference whatever I do. I saw an ad on TV recently that advised doing marketing surveys online that paid "thousands" of dollars. Yeah. What I really wish is that I could get paid for cleaning up my house. It has suffered the past year right along with me.

During tea today, my friends gave me a bit of advice. Alice said she wouldn't recommend falling into a hole, but she did admit that if I was in a place where everyone was mad, mad, mad, I might feel right at home. I'm thinking that the most important thing about their experiences is that neither one of them had a need for cash. Not in Wonderland or Oz. Something to consider.

Wonder how far it is to Yellow Brick Road. If I don't start making a monetary contribution to the home fund soon, I'm gonna be sent packing.

(Image used in this post is by artist Margaret Teichert and is entitled "The Yellow Brick Road." It can be found at margaretteichert.com.)

She's come undone...

I have often been told I am a true Aquarian. I don't think that's even a word, but that's why it perfectly describes me. I walk to the beat of a different drummer. I am independent. Solitude suits me just fine. My mom and dad have often said that they brought the wrong baby home from the hospital! I am the weird one, the rebellious one, even though I never did any of the stuff my brothers did. I think differently, I dress differently. My mom made my clothes, and I never could find fabrics or patterns that I liked. I had a vision of what I wanted, but no one could ever sew it. My mom was a true seamstress--no seams showed on the inside, prints matched at seams, lined, etc. Perhaps because I demanded perfection in everything I did (though I didn't realize it at the time), I wanted to wear what we now know as deconstruction style. I don't think that was a word back when I wanted it. For certain, my mother had no clue how to make it. My outfits were an odd combination of bohemian, punk, and goth before the last two were popular. Kind of a step up from the hippies of the sixties. Long chains, metal fastenings, lace, high-heeled boots, ripped and shredded, loose and layered. Rings on every finger and toe, bracelets up to my elbows and there wasn't a day when I didn't wear a scarf tied somewhere on my person. And I went to a prep school/college. Pink and green and La Costa. Hated it then, and still do. And yes, I was considered quite different. Duh. Did I care??

My tastes were refined as I got older to include asymmetrical and architectural looks. If I was lucky enough to find something like that, I still wore it in a way no one else would. People would stare at me and might say something about how "interesting" I looked! The Japanese and Belgians, among others, were designing the kind of clothing that I wanted, but I wouldn't discover it for years.

I did a similar thing in decorating. Long before it was popular, I was doing the shabby chic thing without the chic. My love of fibers and metals and layering translated into antique clothing and rusty stuff put together in unusual ways. I bought antiques that were broken or falling apart, and I used them just like I found them. Well, I did clean them up. I just didn't do any repairs. I went to flea markets up and down the east coast, shopped antique stores, did some dumpster diving, picked up "trash" off the side of the road and even picked pieces out of trash piles behind the antique stores in rural areas. I consider the found freebies some of my best treasures! I display the old clothing, usually in some state of decay, like art. Broken garden statue parts are scattered around my home, as are old mannequins and tabletop displays. I have been told by quite a number of people that my house looks like a museum. They usually make it sound like it's a good thing, but who knows? There was the one woman who asked me why I had severed limbs, heads, and torsos in my house. What could I say? She didn't get it, and I wasn't even going to try to explain.

Now, I mention all of this because I know that I am different in so many ways. Odd, unusual, weird, but for the most part I am very comfortable with myself. However, a friend told me a few years ago that she thought the reason I dressed and decorated with things that were flawed and falling apart was because I thought I was flawed and falling apart. What? I didn't know how to feel about that comment. Is it possible that I am outwardly manifesting my inner self with all my flaws and problems by the way I dress? Did I happily keep broken things broken because I was broken inside? Is it possible for a person to subconsciously do that? And would that same friend see every person with a mental disorder in the same way? Or was it just me?

I have to say that I've been disturbed by her words ever since. I'd like to think that my style is a completely separate issue from my mental and emotional state. Because if they are connected, then not only have I been this way all my life, then I am likely unable to change. And truthfully, while I do want to change on the inside, I don't want to change my style at all.

Maybe I should dress like a mental patient. Because it really is my style.

(Image from Dazed and Confused.)

Locked up...

Having grown up with a mother who was distant, imagine my surprise when she called this week to ask me to go with her to a dinner/speaker event. We do very little together. There is also the fact that at one point in my past, my family kicked me out. Out of the family. Really. It's quite a long story which I won't go into now. Of course, their side of the story is not like mine at all. They did it with love, out of concern for me. Right.

It took me a long time before I could even have any contact with them, and then to have that contact be meaningful in the least. I was the oldest and the only girl in a family that was "old school." I didn't even realize that until much later in life when I started looking back to try and make sense of it. By "old school," I mean that males mattered more than females. There's probably a nice word like "patriarchal" to describe the situation, but I've also been told my family was chauvinistic. I was floored by the comment and, or course, vehemently denied it. It wasn't too long before I realized how wrong I had been.

I think I may have been cherished before my two brothers came along, but I was so young that I don't remember much at all. I do know that my mother told me that she "had no idea what to do with you since you were so strong-willed and stubborn." I got locked in the closet several times. See, it all comes back to that surfeit of emotions that seem to define so much of my life. I feel everything so deeply and passionately, and when those feelings emerge, they sometimes can be explosive. Apparently, even at a young age.

Too bad the concept of "time out" wasn't around then. Then again, I probably wasn't a "time out" kind of kid. It's doubtful that a mere chair would have had any affect on me. But who knows what damage that locked closet caused?

Maybe that's why I have such a fascination for old doors and keys.

(Image used in this post is by ErinGarrisonDesign at Etsy and is entitled "Waiting to be Unlocked.")

Fighting struggle...

Thankfully, things have been a little less rambunctious around here. Once I finally got the ladies settled down from their little blogger war, they have been on their best behavior! I really do not like conflict, especially when it's between people who hold a special place in my heart. I guess that has also been a big part of my past struggles. When emotions run so high during conflict, I am completely distraught and consumed by it. I'm even affected by conflicts between people I don't know! Don't ask me how or why that happens, but if it can, just imagine how much worse it is when I do know the people. Keeping everyone happy seems to be both my goal and my struggle.

The artist of today's image quotes the following about struggle: " 'there will always be a pull, tugging at you from every angle. fight it, and you will lose. give into it, and you will be home.' "

Easier said than done, I think.

(Image used in this post is from TinaCrespo at Etsy and is entitled "The Struggle."

dez place is crazy...

Ladies, please!! This is getting out of hand. No more comparing yourselves or your time in my blog. That's right. MY blog. Remember? I'm the one who started this and who invited you two to be a part of it. You both are here for moral support and encouragement. I never promised you blog time.

Now, tea and cakes, anyone?

(Image used in this post is by Seller derekwragge at Etsy and is entitled "Dez.")