Sound in Silence...

Lately, there have been too many small references to my lack of living in the real world made by the other half who lives here. He and I have been over and over this same subject more times than I can count. I agree with him on some points. I know I have created problems. But why can he not get through his head how I am feeling now as opposed to years past? He thinks I can do what I've always done--after taking some time, move on. It isn't that easy now. But he seems to think that I can somehow be magically cured just by talking to someone. How could he have lived with me through these last 25 years and not figured it out?? I am clinically depressed. On medication. I've done the talking. I'm through talking. On the night of my last meltdown, I told him that he didn't really know who I am, didn't understand my soul, that he just didn't "get" me and probably because he never really listens to me. Even recently, he admitted that he had no idea what was going on with me and my hormones. Forgive me if I'm going over something I've already said many times, but I am so frustrated. This past weekend, after he made the hurtful remarks, I spent all day Sunday in bed, first being angry, then being annoyed and then crying. Yesterday I was exhausted by all that spent emotion. However, one good thing did come out of it. I have always written down my thoughts and feelings and called it my "poetry." I'm not sure if it is, but it's mine and so there. I have shared only one or two of them ever (out of maybe 50 that I've written), so I am a bit hesitant to share one here. Once on the net, forever on the net, and such. Anyways, for what it is worth, here it is.



Listen to the Sounds

I read somewhere that tears are the result of the soul or spirit crying out in pain.
The spirit can be broken, and the heart can break.
[Where do the tears come from if the spirit is broken?]
[How does the heart keep beating with so many scars?]
I've heard that the mind splits--[or does it shatter?]--into pieces that allow the pain to be forgotten.
[I wonder how many pieces are inside my head?]
A body/soul/spirit/heart/mind can only take so much hurt and pain.
Then it needs a safe place to rest and to heal.
Something to wrap itself in, like a cocoon, insulated from feeling.
To bind the bleeding wounds.
To stitch the broken heart and put the pieces back together.
To wait to be reborn as a person with the strength to try again.
For a time, I was able to cocoon myself like that.
I would emerge, but not like a glorious butterfly.
No, I was a moth.
Drawn to the hurt and the pain.
Drawn until I was burned by the flames.
Drawn until I was once again crying/breaking/shattering/falling.

I need my cocoon.
It is my safety net.
A necessary part of my healing.
Because a person will cry/break/shatter/fall from all the pain.
And a person needs a net when they fall.
[If I fall and don't have a safety net, is there any sound?]
[Do falling tears plead or the breaking heart scream?]
[Does the mind shout out a warning before shattering?]
[It doesn't matter. No one is listening.]

I'm falling, and something is different.
Something has happened to my safety net.
It's not stopping my descent.
I'm lying here, surrounded by the broken fragments of what is left of my net.
[Has it been damaged every time I broke/shattered/fell?]
[Does it shatter like glass into sharp, broken pieces?]
I can't feel because I'm broken.
I can't see because I'm crying.
I can't hear anything over the screams of my body/heart/mind/soul/spirit.
I need a cocoon.
I pull the sharp fragments around me, and they cut into my skin.
Deep cuts, exposing what is inside me.
[Frantic. Find bigger pieces to cover up the bad parts. Too ashamed to let anyone see.]
Now I'm bleeding, a slow leaking of self.
[It makes no sound.]
I've built walls around myself with the fragments of my net/cocoon.
Walls that are not stable or strong.
[I am like the man that built his house upon the sand.]
My net/cocoon is worn, thin, ripped, unraveling, in pieces.
It doesn't matter.
I no longer have the strength to wrap myself up in anything now.
I can only lie here.
Exposed, bleeding, crying, broken, alone, trying to hide behind my walls.
I've lost my cocoon.
Without it, I can't heal.
Without it, I can't insulate myself from pain.
Without it, I can't be reborn, stronger.


I need my walls.
They are my only hope.
A translucent cover of broken pieces, stacked and piled, surrounding me.
My walls are so very fragile.
Definitely not safe.
I cannot let these pieces fall.
[God, please don't let these pieces fall.]
I lie still and silent.
Still and silently crying/broken/shattered/bleeding within my walls.
Within/inside/behind/under my walls.
[If I fall and die in a dream, will I die in my reality?]



(Image used is entitled "Broken" and is by shenanigansarah at Etsy.)

Indicate choice by chewing a hole next to it...

Earlier in March I posted about our rescue dog, Maris, who has a rare form of cancer in one eye. We had just taken her in to our regular vet for a general checkup to get a handle on her overall health. We did so in preparation for the vet eye specialist appointment this week. We took her in yesterday, and the prognosis was exactly as we thought it would be. The cancer was discovered in early July, 2009, and the specialist said that she probably had six months of sight left. His recommendation was to remove the eye when she no longer could see out of it. We found out that she has, in fact, now lost total sight in her left eye. Maris has been doing some things differently, but we hadn't chalked them up to her being blind in that eye. Duh? Don't know why. I knew she was losing sight, but I guess that since I see her every day, the changes come little by little and aren't as noticeable. After the appointment, we talked about a few of the things she has been doing. She gets to the steps that go up to our deck, but instead of using the steps from where she is, she walks around to the other side of the steps, then walks up the steps diagonally. This has been happening for awhile, and at the same time she started doing it, we had been having an issue with Berra's arthritis. Since they both are getting on in years, we thought she was having problems with her legs. We even gave her meds for arthritis! Now we know that as she got to the steps, her left eye was closer to them, so she couldn't judge the steps as well. Once she walked over and turned around, her good right eye was focused on the steps and she would go up at an angle so she could keep her sight on them. Also, she has always had a hard time with learning to wait patiently for food to be put in her bowl when it is time to eat. She would stand right next to us as we scooped the food, then make a mad dash to her bowl, where she would hop, hop, hop in place as we would race to get the food in her bowl before she could put her head in it! Awhile back, after hopping, she started waiting for us to put the food in the bowl. I was congratulating myself on a great training job! Yeah, right. What I hadn't paid attention to is that she turns her head as we put the food in the bowl, again indicating that she has turned her head to the side so she can see the food going into the bowl. Ah, well. She hasn't been in any pain, and our vet specialist has assured us that she shouldn't be for another few weeks. However, the cancer, which started out small, is now completely covering her eye. We are adamant that she not suffer any pain at all, so we went ahead and made the appointment to have the eye removed. Both vets told us, taking everything into consideration, it was what they would do for their pet. I still had a hard time with it. So how did I decide?

Well, I sat all three dogs down one afternoon so we could have a chat. This is no easy task as Guidry has ADD. Seriously. Berra and Maris are ssooooo laid back, but Guidry demands attention and entertainment (she's our other rescue). We are working on her behaviors. Very hard. But back to the discussion. I told them what was going on and what needed to be done. Now some people think dogs can't think. Most people think dogs don't have emotions. But I have seen some astonishing actions from mine both here and gone that indicate that they were thinking and feeling. Poo poo me if you will, but I'm gonna chat with my dogs. I gave them the facts and the choices. Then I asked them to vote for eye removal or going to sleep (how could I phrase that any other way???). Choice #1: Eye removal? Barks, noises, movements, etc. Choice #2: Going to sleep? Nothing. After a few seconds, Guidry turned her back and made a dive for Berra's toy. He made a fairly good attempt to get it, but she is much faster. Meanwhile, Maris is just sitting partially in my lap being sweet and watching them. I took that to mean that they had made their decisions and it was back to playing. Isn't it nice to share the load?

I've heard of animals painting on paper. I wonder if I should put the options on paper to let them vote. Hhhhmmm...

(Image is entitled "The Hanging Chad Necklace" and is by markaplan at Etsy.)

I ain't going 'til the fat lady gets skinny...

Okay, so it's Friday morning, and I still haven't made it into work this week. Supposed to be there on Monday. Hhmmm, just a bit late. I'm trying to rev myself up for the trip by including a few side ventures that are more appealing. I found out yesterday that I am the most requested "most wanted to see" teacher for the high school "Classes of the 80's Reunion" coming up in April. Most requested by far above any other teacher. Did the lady that called make this up? She even wanted a confirmed RSVP that I would be attending so she could announce it since it would mean more alums would come. Huh?? ME?? I admit that I loved teaching at first. I got so burned out that I had to quit. But I loved the kids. Since I was still single, I was cheerleader sponsor, student gov sponsor, FCA sponsor. Had the FCA group over for dinner, made them waffles one morning, took them ice skating. I mean, I really did love these kids. I got the reunion invitation in January and hadn't given this event one nano-second of thought. Wasn't going, no way, no how. So back to the appealing side trips idea. If I go to this thing--big, big if--what in the heck do I wear? Who am I kidding? They probably wouldn't recognize me. I'm 30 years older and fatter. I need to schedule some lipo immediately, but won't since I can't afford it. Notice that the idea of plastic surgery isn't the thing that stops me. Wait, it can't be lipo, it has to be skin removal. I have extra belly skin from losing 50+ pounds years ago. Okay, I have a friend who owns a shop and she sells these jeans that are supposed to make a person look two sizes smaller. I've never given these any thought before since they cost over $200. However, when compared to the cost of lipo or surgery, it's a mere pittance. That's where I'm thinking of venturing later today. After I go to work. For sure. Most definitely to work first. Maybe I need to run up and join the closest gym and begin an intensive 6-week body makeover. No, no, work first. Can I wear jeans to this reunion? Maybe I should go to the expensive lingerie store in town and buy some of those slimming undergarments that are supposed to work like lipo. Do I even have six weeks? What I really need to do today is get my butt to work. Maybe I should consider a butt lift. I don't really have one to speak of. My boobs are good since I gained weight, they got big, then I lost weight and they didn't. Bonus! But they could use a lift, too. Lord, why don't I know any plastic surgeons?

I'm really going to go to work. Right now. Probably. After I call to see if my friend has any of those jeans.

(Image used is a print of a painting by Nguyen Dong entitled "Fat Lady," and it's found at lenity at Etsy.)

Inside what's left of my skin...

I have always had vivid dreams, and I usually can remember most of them. I usually spend some time trying to figure out what the heck my dream means or what it's telling me or saying about me. I think that dreams are probably made up of both memory and the things that have been relegated to the subconscious maybe because we can't focus on them consciously for whatever reason. It's interesting that originally the word dream meant joy or gladness. Interesting because most of my dreams are anything but joyful. They usually revolve around something that plays a part in my life but it gets turned upside down and inside out. Freakin' weird is what they are. Like my grandmother turned axe murderer. Actually, now that I think on that one, it's probably not so weird. I saw her chop off a chicken's head (yes, with an axe) and everything else she did to get it to the cooking pot. In my dreams, however, she was after my brothers and me. This was one of my regular childhood nightmares.

Last night, I dreamed about a place where everyone was covered in some kind of strange...rubber cement like stuff. It wasn't sticky, but it was pliable. The people in this place were not very friendly, and in fact, constantly looked for anyone who was different in any way. Of course, that would be me. The punishment for being different was that the "skin" was removed and the person vaporized. Now I have no idea why the skin had to be removed if the person was just going to be vaporized anyway (maybe the skin was really a protective cover?), but who can explain dreams? I'm fairly certain that Freud could find something in my dream that would represent sex in some way, shape or form. I'm not big on believing it all winds down to that. So if anything of a sexual nature can be found in my dream, just keep it to yourself. All I know is that I really got into the artist's work from an earlier post--Elizabeth Ingraham's fascinating and strangely disturbing "skins," which were meant to represent the mental or emotional things women take in or take on. Society has placed these labels on women for so long, and only since my generation have women tried to buck the system. Her site describes most of the "interactive" skins and how she portrayed the various labels. Some were beautiful, like the one named Regret, made with lace and covered with beads and shells. Ms. Ingraham says that Regret "...rattles at the slightest touch, producing faint echos of love and loss." I'd say that's about right except my echos would not be faint. Accommodation was constructed so that she would open up and become larger by pulling on a row of snaps. "After becoming large enough to accommodate virtually anything, she then obligingly snaps back up into her normal size and shape." Interesting that it's someone else that has to pull the snaps to open and then shut them back up. Accommodation doesn't seem to be in control of what she's accommodating. Guilt was pictured in my earlier post, but there were no words that described her on Ms. Ingraham's site. Guilt appears to have seams or zippers over most of her "body." Perhaps as she tries to atone for each of her offenses (inadequacies) each unzipped area pours out red fabric. Self-flagellation, drawing blood whether by scourging the outside or ripping ourselves apart from the inside.

As I said, I've always carried a boat-load of guilt. For anything and everything. Things I did and things I didn't do. Until recently, that is. Now I'm not so much feeling all that guilt. I guess by not being bombarded with stress and requests and feelings of having to make everyone happy, along with doing whatever I can to make myself feel better, there really isn't anything to feel guilty about right now. Although I did feel guilty about selfishly taking so much time for myself at first. Now I feel okay about saying no when it is what I really want to say. I don't say it to everything now, but I didn't used to say it to anything. Making some progress in the last seven or eight months, no? Today I realize that not feeling guilty is not the same as not caring. Big load off my mind, because I was really feeling guilty about not caring. Never ever want to not care. Thinking about my dream made me realize that no one else can make us feel guilty--we do it all to ourselves and usually over our own ridiculously high expectations. Thanks, Ms. Ingraham.

Too bad I had to get vaporized to figure it out.

(Image from this post is entitled "Ray Bradbury 2010" and is found at workingearth at Etsy.)

(Along with Ms. Ingraham's "Skin" exhibition, an experimental dance performance was given at La MaMa Theater in New York in 2005 based on the "Skin" concept. The performers eventually "...become so wrapped up in societal expectations and others' opinions that they become mummies. After being fully bound in tape and adorned in plaster, they are left alone for us to consider: real, struggling people trapped inside someone else's dressing. Their emergence from the oppressive tape that binds them is a turning point in the story." Read more at offoffonline.com.)

Think Green...

Today being Saint Patrick's Day and me being Irish, here are my Irish words of wisdom:

Live well. Love much. Laugh often.


Happy St. Pat's Day!!


Yeah, none of that watery green beer. Go for the stout!

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."

Ah, Spring! Ah, choo!

Spring is definitely in the air. Trees are budding, bulbs are pushing up through the soil and neighbors have already starting mowing lawns. All of which stacks up to sheer terror for me. Well, maybe it's more like misery, but to a person who is allergic to the outdoors, it's close. For the last three or four days, I've suffered through my first bout of acute symptoms--sneezing, itchy, red, swollen and watery eyes, sinus congestion and runny nose. Soon it's going to affect my skin allergies, too. Hives, no less. Having three dogs doesn't help either. I went through a box of Kleenex and most of my Benedryl in two days. Having tried all of the over-the-counter medications, I am at the point of needing to see an allergist for shots. My dermatologist told me that North Carolina ranks in the top three places for the worst allergy conditions. Soon our weather reports will include a daily allergy alert (as if those who need them really need them!). I knew I loved snow for a reason!

I wonder if I could make this mask look more fashionable?