* Reading the novels sent to me by Kim Shable and Susan
* Leaving the bar at Smartini
* Seeing Reese and Dillon
* Contact with the outside world
* Being productive at work
* Writing (in a way that uses that MFA thing I've got)
* Finances - surprise - $270 for car servicing! Taxes not back yet. Yelch.
* Sending back the merchandise that Amazon sent me incorrectly
* March project for volunteer group (although, I will have to partially blame it on the rain that is falling, falling.)
* Putting a picture of The Barrister on my desk at work
* Life, generally speaking
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Ominous message on the letter board outside the Apostolic church half a mile from my house:
"When we take things for granted, those things we are granted get taken."
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
* to stop by strangling, stifling
Like Pavlov's dogs, I respond to their reactions. An endless cycle of act and react, the latter beginning to paralyze me.
* to stop the breath by squeezing or obstructing the windpipe
The more they squeeze, the faster I run. After all, I have to breathe.
* to suppress an emotion
I will not give in to the angerandfrustration. I will swallow it again and again and again. And though I am full on it, though it rises up in my throat, I will choke back the words and bite my tongue; shed blood in my mouth to keep the peace.
* to check or slow down the movement, growth, or progress of
Aging faster than I'd like to admit and surrendering my independence inch by inch. As the days grow closer to thirty years, I grow more and more emotionally crippled.
* to fill chock-full; jam
And it's like this over and over again in my life...memories flood back to me. Thirty years of redirection through tense silence and direct assault. In the classic words of parents everywhere, I've had it up to here.
* to enrich the fuel mixture by diminishing the air supply
It crushes my ribs, collapses my lungs and pushes every last bit of air out of me. I am gasping. But the independence that's been jammed down to the pile simmers, threatens to ignite.
* to seize with a chain, a cable or the like to facilitate removal
It's time to free my independence and move forward. To rise above and sail away. With the fire fueled quietly, kindling underneath the surface, I fan the spark.
* to shorten one's grip on
I'm firming up my grip on myself and my emotions, preparing my grasp for what promises to be a fight. I flex my fingers, try to be strong and dig in.
* to fail to perform effectively because of nervous agitation or tension
Again and again, I shy away from the confrontation. I choke under the onslaught of terse words, unpronounced judgments. I forget how to be me. I forget how I want to be. Because I'm trying so hard to be what they want me to be.
* to become speechless from the effects of stress or emotion
And I realize after all these years, I can no longer say I'm sorry. I know they want me to have words for why I am as I am. Why I am different. Why I break the mold. Why I go forth, marching to the beat of a drummer no one else hears. And truly, there are no words other than to say I am me. I am me.
* a slight narrowing of the barrel of a shotgun to concentrate the shot
Choking on the crowd of selves trying to prevail, I narrow my focus. I have to push the one I want to the front. I have to be to the world as I am. I have to be true. I have to make independence my target. I have to keep my inherent fragility in my sights. I have to be ready, aim, fire and shoot-to-kill the illusion of me that threatens to destroy the reality.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
When I was little, we used to sing a chant about bears in a bed. It was a counting game of sorts...and it went "Five bears in the bed and the little one said, 'I'm crowded! Roll over!' So they all rolled over and one fell out - four bears in the bed and the little one said..." You get the picture, right?
That's how life feels these days. Only no matter how many times things roll over, nothing falls out of the bed. It only grows more crowded. And I feel like the sheet, stretched as tight as possible to cover everything.
And yet, try as I might to stretch and reshape to get it all covered, I fail. Little bits and pieces start to slide out from under me, followed by bigger more substantial parts. Slowly, life drifts apart and I'm hustling to and fro trying to recover those things that have escaped my grasp.
It is this sense of lost control that pervades my mind. Even my dreams are fragmented, disjointed snatches of lost moments or anxious reenactments. I am starring in The Actor's Nightmare. Forgetting tests. Getting lost.
I am an overpromising underdelivering machine these days. I am late for work and lethargic and foggy when I get there. I forget to make calls. I can't find time for emails. The blog languishes. Family waits impatiently for me to join. Friends send out S.O.S. signals in the wake of my disappearance. I don't write. I don't read. Nothing is organized. Everything is frantic. I am everywhere and nowhere. I am responding but never enough.
It is like being lost in a crowd...taking up space, cognizant of yourself as existing. But so easily lost, discounted, nearly invisble. There but not. Taking up space but not really mattering.
Friday, March 06, 2009
"This girl in my class who we really don't like got kicked by a horse last night." --The Barrister
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
The Barrister asks me today, "Which is more disappointing to you? That I'm not left-handed or that I'm not British?"
Monday, March 02, 2009
March 2, 2009
7 lbs., 12 oz.
For some reason - is it because I' m a girl? - I keep getting asked if I want to go back to the labor and delivery room. Umm. No. I do not. Like, why is it okay for my dad and Eva's dad and brother and (although less surprisingly) The Barrister to park it in front of daytime TV? But me? They keep prodding. "You can go back if you want." Why would I want to go back there? I want to see the baby, sure. But after it's ungoopified and smelling nice and wrapped in swaddling clothes. I do not need to see the actual emergence into the world. That is all.
And for the record, an epidural is in place and I expect we'll be getting push reports from "back there" before long.
At the moment, The Barrister and I are sitting in the waiting room watching snippets of Dr. Phil addressing the Octo-Mom in his typical incongruous metaphors. I can't really pay attention. Part of me want to go back to sleep...seeing as how we fled the storm of the decade that unceremoniously dropped six-plus inches of snow at home and arrived at Anna's just before 9 last night. And then got up at 6:30 this morning to get ready for the baby's arrival. Not that this chair is all that comfortable, but I am rather tired.
I walked back to the delivery room to say hello to Eva...she's having contractions about ten minutes apart. It was cool to hear the baby's heartbeat. But the machines, the tubes, the hospitalness of it all. I'm content to be stuck with Dr. Phil and now experts on rosacea. Mom had suggested that I might want to stay in the delivery room...but. No. I think I'll wait until Reese is here and wearing a cute little hat before I get involved. Stay tuned...