attack-decay

one vegas moment

More than once, someone has looked at me quizzically and said, "you don't seem to me like a Vegas person." That makes sense to me. I don't gamble, easily get overstimulated by crowds and loud noise, and can take-or-leave massive entertainment spectacles. Liking Vegas happened by accident. Five years ago this January, Mike and I were searching (and *searching* --he kept vetoing my ideas) for places to elope. I was getting rather cranky. I would have gone down to the courthouse and signed a document, except I wanted a good wedding story to match my good engagement story. We both did. So we ended up getting married at Valley of Fire State Park. The photo on the main page of their site is rather boring. If you are curious google-images "valley of fire" to get a better idea of the glorious nature that surrounded us. And so we spent a few days in Vegas. The place has become special to me. While I don't really take advantage of the high profile opportunities that it offers (mostly opportunities to lose lots and lots of money) I'm sort of obsessed with the interior design of the hotels.

The place we stayed this time was a delicious resort built around at least three separate water attractions. There was a wave pool, a "lazy river" pool, and a topless beach. Guess which one we didn't go to? Anyway, it's not often that I go in the water, even though I love water. I guess the last time was jet skiing on the lake near my uncle's house in Georgia. I'm rather shy about my body. It's pretty average looking, I guess, but I have all the stereotypical female insecurities: too small here, too large there, lumpy, etc. And I inherited my father's translucent skin and varicosities in my legs and ankles.

When I asked Mike if I could blog this next part, he sort of scowled and said, "you'd better make it about your other husband." So to be clear, this is about my *other husband*, not the one I married five years ago. My other husband, for reasons he has no control over, is a bit short-statured and slender. If you know him, you know why, and if you don't, he'd probably say it was none or your business (or he might just tell you... he is a gracious person-- moreso than I) He has trouble keeping weight on. While I, like many women, work to keep it off. It's not hard to feel, well, kind of big, around him. Even though I'm not "big." I would say I'm medium. But I'm bigger than my husband. (I mean, my other husband.) I know he feels the counterpart of my feelings. The man is "supposed" to be built this way and the woman built this way. Even though we are both intellectuals and know that this is socially constructed BS.... well ... we live in the world.

But here's why I bring it up. Because this was the best moment in Vegas. And I'm blogging it, even though it was a sort-of-private-in-public moment, because I have shared lots of shitty, demoralizing, sad, and achy things on this blog and I need something to balance it out.

We, my other husband and I, went into the wave pool. I don't think I'd ever been in a pool with him before. And here's the thing about a pool. You're weightless. He carried me in his arms and we whirled and spun around. I almost cry just thinking about it. I almost choke on this beauty. I wished all the other people gone, or at least to the edges away from us, just so we could dance and spin and feel completely alone. I feel like I got my fairy tale moment, you know? I'm sharing this because I want the positive energy to radiate among you, readers. And so that I can look back on this entry when (24 hours from now) I write about something sad or complicated or weird.

Apparently procrastination is on the axis of behaviors called "impulsiveness."

I have at least three blog posts rolling around inside and they're sort of all jamming up the pipeline. In the meantime, you get words from someone else.

* * *

I'm either a narcissist or naive, because I can't tell you how often (and every time) I am shocked, SHOCKED when someone else has the same specific, complex emotional response that I have.

I can handle the pain... the shame, / I've been practicing all my life. What I can't / handle is the fire that flames my gut -- / anything might touch me off. All I've swallowed / has poisoned me. Don't you know this? Do something / ... fix me. No. Fix the world.

from  "Dear God" (Jim Ferris)

Last Day in Vegas

So it's 7am here and I'm not supposed to wake up until 8. This didn't work though, because I'm sunburned everywhere and the weight of the comforter on me was starting to be irritating. I'm barely awake, so ... fun blogging! This whole trip I've only used my cane in the airport. In this and other hotels, it's been all "sighted guiding," which for Mike and me means careful hand holding. I don't know why I made this decision. It sort of made itself up out of my unconscious. Certainly, I'm never going to see any of these people again.

So venturing down here to the Orchid coffee lounge by myself was like what I am now considering "the old days." Walking slowly and hesitantly. Really paying attention to sounds to figure out my distance (and closeness) to the world. You know what has a lot of ambient noise in it? A casino. Friendly Me is out this morning, especially to baristas doing the morning shift. I got a soy mocha because I only have one of those little pills that mitigates lactose intolerance left, and I want to use it with Mike at breakfast. They don't have soy in the breakfast place. But that means I had to forego a pre-breakfast mini cupcake... I gotta say these are real beauties. The supermodels of mini cupcakes, with an elegant minimalism. If the light was better I would have tried for a picture.

Things are so surreal at this time of morning. There are gamblers coming in from what looks like all night sessions. They look sort of baggy and rumpled. There are many behind-the-scenes people scurrying to make sure the "guest experience" is ongoingly even and nary a leaf of asiatic lily is out of place.

I would post you my pics but I forgot the cord that connects the phone to the computer in our room. Mike sleeps. I kiss his forehead and he murmurs something. His hair trails over two pillows. It's so long! Like butt-long. When I suggest cutting a few inches off, those last ratty few, he says cryptically that it might be "time for a change" hair-wise. One can only wonder what that means. I know that when I had my hair at its longest, which was only at about chest level, it felt like I was constantly minding a small child. Don't get caught in my backpack. Don't get snagged in the door. Now it's cut close to my head on the left and either a sleek cascade or a wavy wildness on the other side. When I pull a piece down, it hits just above my clavicle. My right-side, normal clavicle, not my left-side, crispy crispy crispy clavicle. I have the weird sunburn pattern of someone who went in the pool and was then haphazard about re-applying lotion. The ends of my hair on the long side are dry from the chlorine. Not used to having dry ends. They needs a deep conditioner or something. I was thinking I'd dye it raspberry when I got home. It wouldn't be the first time, but the first time in awhile.

[Alaina, if you are reading this, do you remember the cherry kool-aid dyeing experiment you did in high school? Your long dark tresses had that raspberry gleam. Do you mind if I write a poem about it?]

I actually got to read! books! while I was here and love the experience of sitting by the water reading. Wish I could re-create that. Part of me is like, why can't you dummy? I've managed to crawl out from under the panic and guilt long enough to have some fun. Whoa. Mind-blowing. I've read The Miseducation of Cameron Post, which Carrie sent me as a gift. It's by her friend Emily Danforth. If one had to categorize it I would say: a queer coming of age novel. It was really riveting. I had to make myself put it down, attempting to pace myself. My plan was to finish it on the flight back but too late! It's done. I intend to write Carrie with all the books this one is "better than." There are MANY highly touted volumes, and also some noir, which I've tried and failed to read on the plane --just gave up and fell asleep. After about an hour I get super-claustrophobic on plane flights. Mike will sometimes stretch his legs by walking the aisles, but my limited vision plus unlimited shyness make this plan not a good fit for me.

[When I went back to add the link from Amazon, I noticed that Miseducation is one of Amazon's Best of the Month in Young Adult selections. Rock on with your bad self Emily!]

I'm also reading Jim Daniels' book of ghazals All of the Above. Adastra put it out last year or so. Good. Soooo goooood. Like, these poems surprised and impressed me with their leaps of language and image. I think of "the Jim Daniels poem" as being fairly straight-forward, narrative, and sort of tough. I'm a little in love with these ghazals though. Of course then after getting about halfway through the book, I had to write a ghazal. So yay, one vacation poem.

And then I picked up on Kindle, Nancy Mairs' Waist High in the World: A Life among the Nondisabled, which I'm also knocking out much faster than I intended. I'd wanted to read the whole thing instead of scattered essays in anthologies. I need to get something lighter for the plane though. Mike gifted me Christopher Moore's Bite Me: A Love Story at Christmastime. I adore Moore's humor, but I don't know if I can do vampires right now. Maybe I'll see what Amazon thinks I should want.

Then again, when I went back to add the link for Bite Me, I noticed that this book has "a huge shaved vampyre cat named Chet" in it. I think of Rus, my oldest at 13... soon to be 14! Tall, strong, and meaty with giant fangs. He won't let anyone stick their hand in there but me. Let's hope he doesn't go all vampire.

Uhhh, speaking of sharp things, I'm getting new ink on Friday. It will pretty much trail down my left arm the way the leaves-and-eyes trail down my right. Again, I designed this one myself and it's kind of wacky. Jason said holy fractals! when he saw it. I don't really think the fractal is super apparent.

Okay, now I'm babbling, because I haven't had enough coffee, and I don't have much more to give you right now. It was nice to get away. I'm restless to get back already. But I don't want to lose this otherworldly relaxed feeling.

Everyone who continues to read this solipsistic crap should get free chocolate or something.

Dear woman on the bus,

I know that you were attempting to be kind by ushering this blind girl, whom you assume can't see anything, to a seat on a crowded bus. I also observed by the look you gave your friend, that you may have taken offense when I said, rather tersely, "Thank you; don't touch; all right," and moved to a seat further from where you are. Let me take a moment to explain from my point of view.

1) Since I have a very narrow field of vision, your sudden touch on my arm surprised the holy hell out of me. So did the fact that you seemed to be insistent, not letting go immediately. It felt more like a pulling touch than a guiding touch, if you know what I mean. This makes me tense and cranky.

2) I also think it's not nice to touch people without asking, unless you are trying to prevent them from falling into a precipice or retrieving them from a burning building, or other similar dire scenarios.

3) My balance is pretty unstable. When you grab my forearm and tug on it, just a little bit, it throws me off balance.

4) Your grabbing of my arm delayed me getting to the seat I wanted. I know you wanted me to sit sideways in the very front of the bus, because that is where I'm pretty sure you've seen most blind people sit. Sitting sideways on the bus sometimes makes me seasick. Sitting sideways on the bus ALWAYS minimizes my ability to use what remaining vision I have. I noticed that there was a front-facing seat, and I wanted to get to it. You were preventing me from doing this by grabbing my arm.

4) I felt guilty all the way to my stop, as the bus chugged slow slow slowly up the south side slopes. I was sincerely hoping you'd get off before me, but no. I tried to make amends by saying "have a good one," and doing that half-smile thing I've been working on, but you may not have noticed it. I'm pretty soft spoken around people I don't know.

5) Maybe it will cheer you up, as it did me, that as I was unlocking my front door, I heard the neighbor kid call his sibling a "giant butt cheek." I snort-laughed loudly, like HA, and stuck my head all the way into the mailbox to cover up my laughter. I'm giggling now as I remember it. Perhaps you don't approve of that kind of language, but I'm offering it as a giftlet of humor, which we probably all need more of. I know I do.

I found my bag of eyes.

Good thing I had labeled it eyes really big.

I found my bag of eyes and a shiny page of crystals.

Haven't been blogging in a few days because my brain is in a really bad place like almost-relapse bad and I don't want to share it with the whole internet in specific. But I am staying strong.

There's a long long list a-building. One of these days. I'm going to tell them how I feel. Use my words! Ha.

She yells at her child and then asks him why he is crying. Does it remind you of anyone?

No man is an island but is, perhaps, a woman an island?

A woman-made island. A woman, made island?

But in the meantime. If I can't make a bridge. I found my bag of eyes.

I can't stand it, I know you planned it --I'm tellin y'all it's a sabotage

On Wednesday and Thursday I woke up happy. Not bubbling-over-with-joy happy, but ... I will try to describe it. Not so skincrawlingly anxious was the biggest change. Not feeling all-over-angry. I smiled. I laughed. I giggled. I talked more and faster. I spoke up. I smiled at people even when they were being a little nerve-wracking or the situation was tense. And it wasn't a fake smile. It was like, oh well, things are weird, but it'll pass. And the cane. It didn't matter. Not as much. It was just a serene sort of... whatever. In a relative sense, it was BLISSFUL. I felt like a weight had been lifted. And I don't know what caused it or how to get it back. 

I know that when I have a large positive change like this, I tend to exploit it. For example, in January of 2011 I switched my meds and had a lot less fibro pain, I said yes to every opportunity that came my way. Workshops, classes, readings, meetings, projects. I did everything because I was feeling so damn good. I steadily burned into July. At the beginning of August I was completely exhausted and then had a bit of a "trough," shall we say. A valley of exhaustion. That lasted from August 2011 thru January 2012 when I got PT for my back injury in November '11. 

So yesterday, when I realized I was getting a BONUS DAY of feeling good, I made a list of events. I had three events planned. Usually with the fibro, two is a good plan. But I had three. I knew I was pushing it but hey, once in awhile is okay, right? So I did a bunch of errands that required a lot of exertion (event one), visited with Jenn (event two) and had drinks with Katherine (event three). This all involved a lot of walking, busing, standing waiting for buses. It was really hot out. I felt happily exhausted, kind of gross with sunscreen. 

In the meantime, I found out that surprise! there would be a fourth event. Dinner with in-laws. I thought we weren't going to see them until Saturday morning, but I didn't get the memo about the Friday night dinner. Mike apologized for not telling me about it. I forgave him but was still pissed off. Intellectually I know he has been under enormous deadline pressure, and that a miscommunication was inevitable. But emotionally I was pissed. I think he quasi-offered for me to skip the dinner. But here's the thing: Mike plays the dutiful son. Mike IS the dutiful son. In many ways, not just this one, he is, morally, a better person than I am. So I feel extremely guilty when I don't play the equally dutiful daughter-in-law. But I'm not wired that way, to be close to my family. My family visits about once a year. Sometimes less. It's not enough. We see his family like ants in my pocket, every three months. They both work full-time. It's a five-hour drive. And still they come. It's more than I'm used to. But, weirdly, I have sort of started to LIKE having family around. Again though, not wired that way. When I see his family so often, I miss my own. It's hard to explain. I want MINE, not his. It's like... cognitive dissonance. 

So, exhausted I came home and took a shower to get all the sunscreen off. The shower was Edenic. And I knew it was the first day of Real Summer. After showering, my back started to spaz a little. I was like oh, fuck. No. We have one more damn thing to get through. C'mon back. I know you're tired. We can do this. So I flopped on the bed. "I have to rest my back for five minutes." I needed an hour. I got ten minutes. The door knocked. I was like, "Shit fuck hell." Mike was like, "oh for godsakes." I guess he thought I was overreacting. Fair enough. 

I should mention that during the errands event in the morning, i bought pretty sandals. Most of my shoes sort of tow the line between pretty and utilitarian. I have balance problems, so I can't really wear heels and I need the shoes to be stable because I don't drive, so, walk a lot. But yesterday. I bought in addition to cute-yet-functional black sandals to replace my falling-apart pair... *~two pair~* of cute sandals. Not practical. Not for a lot of walking. Ornamental. One pair of red flats and one pair of silver sparkly sandals with the tiniest of heels. Vegas baby! We leave next week. Finally we get our vacation. 

I figured going out to dinner was a great way to break in a pair of sandals. Minimal walking. We were going in the C A R rrrrr. So I chose the red flats. They were the easier than the ones with the heels and I was tired; I knew that. 

Aside: I usually practice walking in my shoes, whichever shoes they are, because of my balance. My feet have to get acquainted. My equilibrium has to stabilize. My muscles have to learn. Just for a few minutes. But we were leaving NOW and so I put the sandals on (glancing in disgust at my chipped, grown-out pedi) and went downstairs.

And as we were exiting the porch... it has two whole steps. And I tripped down them. And I hung onto the newel post to avoid falling. The result was a sort of total-body whiplash, with OF COURSE my lower back having a total spaz and my right elbow getting the rest of it. Fuck. I took a whopping dose of muscle relaxers and fell asleep on an ice pack. It sort of helped I guess. I am SO MAD NOW. I hurt all over this morning. 

Both A and N have spoken to me about back spasms in particular and fibro in general that happen because "it's my body's way of expressing my needs when I refuse to do so in the normal (speaking: hey, I need this) fashion." They both feel that the more emotion I can get out of my head and into the world, the less my pain will be. Not that it will go away, but that I am holding onto it, in some sense creating it, as a result of the constant anxiety and repression of anger. 


I have to give this idea some cred. N is a psychiatrist. A is an "energy worker." Both ends of the mental health spectrum and they say the same thing. I've also read scientific articles about fibro and the parasympathetic nervous system. How your fight-or-flight response gets stuck in the on position and you can't relax because the "danger" never goes away. And it makes these "overactive nerves" that they talk about in the commercials for Lyrica.

Which leads me to want to be like *head desk**head desk**head desk**head desk* until I black out. Because wtf?! I'm doing this to myself? I can't help it, but somehow, I can? I get it. I understand. But I resist. The story of my existence. Intellectually I get it. Emotionally, I'm like *head desk*. 

Needs. 


Mike asked me awhile ago when his parents were planning on coming up for Memorial Day weekend, did I mind. Well, what was I supposed to say? Did I mind indeed. Not at that moment, no. In fact, I believe I was involved in something, like putting together a submission or some other brain-taking task. But somehow, I knew there was a chance that I would mind. But what could I say? I had no actual objections. So no, I didn't mind. What was I supposed to say? Who says no? Who says I mind? A selfish person.


But guess what: I do mind. I haven't spent any fucking time with my husband who has been DROWNING in work with no real foreseeable outlet in the medium term future. He's sacrificing to pursue his dream. I get that. And he's doing really well. And I am so proud of him. And there will be Vegas in a week. I hope. But the last time we were going to go to Vegas, he got very, very sick the night before. And I'm praying it doesn't happen again. So yes, I mind that they're here because I wanted to spend a goddamn weekend with my husband. All the fun family shit we're supposed to do with THEM, I want to do with HIM. We both have chronic illnesses, me and him. But this weekend, neither of us are sick. My family visited just a few weeks ago. I feel like his family JUST HAD TO VISIT AGAIN, just to keep the ratio as uneven as ever. I know some of these feelings are irrational. And some... some of them may have valid points........ {trails off}

But I didn't speak those feelings. Now I blog them. I blog them to the entire fucking world because maybe my back spazzing will spaz a little less. In fact, I swear I can feel it unwinding just a little. {insert maniacal crazy laughter here}

*head desk*

*head desk*

*head desk*