Just say whoa...

Most people say time flies when they are having fun. For me, time flies even faster when I have an unpleasant chore, maybe because I wish the time away. I simply cannot believe that it's been two weeks since my last post or that I have done one thing and one thing only in that same time. Clean. Clean and then clean some more. (Yikes, big lie there. I'll explain in my next post, hopefully sooner than two weeks from now!)

For the last five or more years, my schedule was so full that I had very little time for cleaning. On the weekends I was exhausted from doing too many things at one time. As usual, I said yes to too much and needed to learn to just say no. In between the stuff I was doing were several emotional upheavals (are there other kinds in my life??) that created their own stress and exhaustion. And at some point within the last few years, I had gradually started that winding down time of life known as menopause. While some women may have been prepared for the changes, I was not. I have always had fatigue that resulted from monthly hormonal changes, and this was as bad if not worse. Suffice it to say that if I was at home, my preference always was to rest rather than clean. If I did any cleaning, it was minimal.

Funny how things can really pile up. One day there is that day's mail on the counter, then suddenly there are weeks' worth just sitting there. Not to mention the things emptied out of my hubby's pockets each night as well as the stuff I brought in each week from the many projects I was working on. It was so much easier to move the piles upstairs to keep them out of sight. Of course, there came a point when the piles had to stay downstairs because there was no room upstairs. And laundry? Piles of dirty laundry versus piles of clean ones. Did I mention that I don't like to use the washer on a lot of items and never use the dryer on anything except linens? I have four clothes racks that are labeled by color and are constantly in use. Move the dry clothes off the rack onto the sofa and start the whole process over again.

Imagine how completely embarrassing this is for me to reveal. Now imagine how it was to actually have anyone see it. No one, and I do mean no one, was allowed to come in my house for the last five years. One friend did see it because she took me home after a surgical procedure, and at the time I could have cared less that she saw it. Later, however, I was truly mortified. My other half's family were sending him articles about how to deal with hoarding. As angry as that made me, I still did nothing about it. I knew I wasn't hoarding, and he really didn't think it was either, but he wasn't certain. The few times I did try to work on the house, I got so overwhelmed that very little was actually accomplished. There was too much to do in such a short amount of time.

Which brings me to what has kept me away for two weeks. We are refinancing since I haven't been working and contributing to household expenses. At some point, there will be an appraisal, and that is what ultimately motivated me to get to work. The first week was almost a full-time cleaning event. Almost round the clock since we thought that the appraisal was going to be "any day now." Unfortunately, I got so tired that the second week has been more part-time with rest periods in between and an early quitting time. I am happy to report that things are looking much, much better! I have managed to get all but one room in decent shape. Not completely clean, but I will go back and do more if I have time. I saved the worst room for last. Actually, I started upstairs and worked my way downstairs, so it just happened to work out that way.

Anyway, that's what I've been doing, and time has flown. I have purposely not taken time to look at anything online, knowing how I have a tendency to spend hours bouncing around in space. No reading since I usually start and finish a book in a single sitting. And definitely no tea parties! No, I forced myself to focus on the cleaning. Now I know why an annual spring cleaning is recommended. Otherwise, stuff, both necessary and not, just piles up and becomes overwhelming. And although it took a TV show ("Hoarding" on AandE, I think) and several chats, my hubby realizes that I'm really not hoarding, just holding onto and collecting things for all my artistic endeavors. I'm not sure, but I think he based his decision on the fact that in the show there were lots of dead creepy critters underneath all the "stuff" that was shoveled out. Thankfully, I didn't have to use a shovel, and I am happy to report that no critters were found during my cleanup. Well, except for the three that kept taking the trash out of the bags and playing with it, making me wonder if they shouldn't go in the bags, too!

I also thought about hiring some help at first. This crew looked interesting and did have a shovel, but I couldn't find any recommendations, so I just said...

(Image used is entitled "Mule Day Cleanup Crew" and is by PhotoAmerica at Etsy.)

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.)

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.)

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."