Monthly Archives: September 2015
Straight Outta NSFW
I do not want this blog to be about RA. Not constantly, and not as its focus. I want it to be about writing and good stuff and chipotle and unrepentant cats. I currently have 86 drafts: half-finished (or barely started) posts about everything from current events (not so current since they’ve been stashed) to writing to celebratory stories of pure awesomesauce.
It’s a big, big world out there, and something is always happening.
If my writing delves into RA, which it is apparent that it will, I want it to be about the inner transformation that is possible because of it. What happens through RA it is far more important to me than what happens from it.
And so, I have started a list of ways that my life has changed for the better since my diagnosis. I am writing them to post over a few “Fabulous Fridays.” (The first of which is here.) I was officially diagnosed about 5 months ago. It is still new. Things are still unknown, still changing. I suppose they’ll always be changing, RA or not. Just when I thought I was becoming accustomed to this new life and comfortable in what I could expect, things change again, and I realize that I have no idea what to expect from life any more.
I’m living in the vast ocean of the unknown.
“46 & 2” was the song of the week. The one I needed to hear over and over and over. It’s the song of change, of transformation, of excising “what could’ve been.”
I’ve been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could’ve been.
I’ve been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions
For a piece to cross me over
Or a word to guide me in.
I wanna feel the changes coming down.
I wanna know what I’ve been hiding in
I spent many years digging through and picking scabs, believing that I must get to the root of “it,” the “whatever,” the root of the issue, the root of the problem, in order to burn it all away.
I’ve always been a “Why girl.” Why’s the sky blue? Why does my cat hate me? Why are people hypocrites? Why did this happen to me? To them? To us?
Something has happened, though, and I have either moved through this stage or I have found it’s no longer necessary. Not for everything, at any rate. I no longer require a “why” in order to choose my “what’s next.”
It’s the difference between spending endless energy on pondering “Why is the sky blue?” and being more solutions-focused. “Okay, so the sky is blue. Is this something that needs to change? If so, what do I do about it? What can I do about it?”
When it comes to issues like dropping things, much like changing the color of the sky, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it, other than focus on getting replacing my dinner plates with plastic.
I’m still clearing out what could’ve been. Perhaps that’s part of my de-cluttering challenge. There are some things that “could’ve been,” but will not be. I’ve accepted that. There are other things that may yet still be, but cannot be right now. Swimming with dolphins, for example. Or road trips. I’ve accepted that as well.
As for my list, I’m going to go ahead and skip to the end. The last item on my list (saving the best for last and all that jazz) is, quite simply, I’m straight outta fucks to give.
What this means for me is that, if someone gives me the shifty eye because I’m on crutches or use my handicap parking tag, so be it. I’ll smile and keep on stepping. It means that if someone attempts to draw me into their drama, I’ll swing my London lilac-coiffed, steroid-inflated moon-head toward them and say, quite calmly, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”
It also means that if I’m gonna have to use a cane, I’m going to have a rocking-as-fuck cane.
What this means is that I’m not as accommodating as I used to be–I simply can’t be. It’s not that I have given up the notion of service or of kindness. My day job title is secretary; my self-styled job description is “Serving People Who Serve People,” and I’m fiercely proud to do so.
But I am learning my limits, and I’m learning a whole new kind of exchange rate. My energy is my currency, and I’m learning not to spend it haphazardly. Everything has an energy price-tag attached; everything has a price.
And, as I write this, I have a treble-flare: my feet, my jaw, my neck.
But I’ve gotten exactly what I wanted:
I wanna feel the change consume me,
Feel the outside turning in.
I wanna feel the metamorphosis and
Cleansing I’ve endured within
This is what change feels like. This is what the outside turning in feels like. This is the metamorphosis.
Change has never been painless for me. In order for change to occur, for movement to occur, something must be lost or killed or moved away from, and something else must be found or birthed or moved toward.
Change always involves loss.
This is a cleansing, a wiping away of all that is not necessary. It is liberating, and it is consuming.
Despite the steroids, I’m not angry. I know that I tend to use the word “fuck” quite a bit when I’m angry, but this more…something. Pure. Unadulterated. Fuckery. It is a bit frustrating at times, but it seems that my fury has burned away, destroying with it the false self, the petty little bullshit and concerns and distractions that left me listless and directionless and stole away my energy.
I am not angry. I am joyful. In a halle-fucking-lujah sort of way.
I AM fabulous-as-fuck.
I could be better–I could always be better, but right here, right now, I’m fabulous-as-fuck.
Thankyouveryfuckingmuch.
Credits:
Music Monday: 46 & 2
See my shadow changing,
Stretching up and over me.
Soften this old armor.
Hoping I can clear the way
By stepping through my shadow,
Coming out the other side.
Step into the shadow.
Forty six and two are just ahead of me.
Stretching up and over me.
Soften this old armor.
Hoping I can clear the way
By stepping through my shadow,
Coming out the other side.
Step into the shadow.
Forty six and two are just ahead of me.
From Ænima by Tool
Sunday Something: Adaptation and Letting Go
Two of the biggest lessons that RA is teaching me involve adaptation and letting go.
I’m not quite as good as either as I’d like. For example, I’m still steaming about the fact that all week I’d been longing for chocolate ice cream and, braving rain and being unable to drive (Thank you, Driver!), I managed to make it through the grocery store, buying supplies to make several meals and sandwiches, only to find that my chocolate ice cream had magically become coffee and donuts ice cream.
Who makes such a thing? Who chooses such a thing?
I haven’t quite let go of the fact that I didn’t double check it before I put it in the cart (I swear, I was looking right at the chocolate!) nor have I adapted by even tasting it yet.
So there’s that.
A friend of mine is doing a 30-day minimalism challenge on Instagram. On the first day, she gets rid of one thing; the second two things, and so forth. At the end of the month, she’d be rid of a shit-ton of stuff. Four hundred and something, I think she said.
I’m too lazy to count them for specificity.
I wanted to do something like this. I’ve been in the house for six years now, and I still have boxes I haven’t unpacked. I have tons of stuff I never use.
At any rate, that’s waaaaay too ambitious for me, and so I had to adapt it so that I’d at least have a chance at success. My goal for the next four weeks is to get rid of 3 things per day. That seems far more doable, and I seem to work best in 3’s. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s a memory thing. But because there are days that I may not be able to do anything, I’m going to make it simpler: 21 items/week.
It is simple in theory, but the truth is, I collect stuff. I don’t mean to. I just do. I hate throwing anything away.
Cause, you know, I’ll need it as soon as I throw or give it away (is has happened), or magically, I’ll drop 20 pounds and be able to fit in my old-favorite jeans again as soon as I donate them.
That hasn’t happened, by the way.
If all goes well, I will have 84 fewer things in it that I’ll never, ever use.
Today, I found a shirt that doesn’t fit and 2 pairs of tennis shoes that I’ve given up on trying to wear. Those I’ll donate at work tomorrow. I also found — in my garage while waiting for my ride to the grocery store–not one but 2 broken coffee pots. In my junk drawer, I found a set of Mardi Gras beads that some of the beads have come off.
So that’s 5 things so far. Sixteen more to go this week.
It’s a start. Here’s to a simpler life.
Have you ever done a de-cluttering challenge? If so, how’d it work out?
Word Wednesday: 09/23/2015
Music Monday: I Want it All
I’m a man with a one track mind,
So much to do in one life time,
Not a man for compromise and where’s and why’s and living lies
So much to do in one life time,
Not a man for compromise and where’s and why’s and living lies
Fabulous Friday: Fabulosity Part One
In a Facebook Rheumatoid Arthritis group that I’m in, someone posed the question: How did your life get better after being diagnosed with RA?
Not necessarily because of RA, but after you found out you had it?
I marked it, saved it for later for when I was a) not hurting so badly and b) could actually think of ways my life has gotten better.
My answer, when I had sketched it out, was far too long for a Facebook post. In fact, it’s far too long for a single blog entry.
So I present to you, Part One.
I. I have become more mindful.
I say this one first, because it is the foundation for all the rest of the ways my life has improved.
Within the past few months, I have incorporated meditation into my morning routine, a short piece of time where I try to do nothing but follow my breath. It’s a bit funny…everything comes along just as I sit “to sit,” as they say, and that’s when the dog’s butt must be scratched, the wild cat who detests me decides to rub against me, and the cats in the far bedroom knock something over that may or may not make it dangerous to walk into my bedroom.
But I sit.
2. I also take 20 minutes in the morning and use it to attempt to learn something new.
I have what may be a literal ton of books in my house–many of them I haven’t read. I’ve made a vow with a passion that Brienne of Tarth could appreciate: I will not get any new books until I read the ones that I have. I’ve been tested. There are so many things out there I want to read, and I am ever-so-grateful for Amazon’s wish-list feature.
Aah, my precious. Is that an Oathkeeper in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?
But I have so many books that I have and, at one time or another, wanted to read them. So, I read them first.
Right now, for example, I’m reading Dealing with People You Can’t Stand: How to Bring Out the Best in People at Their Worst by Dr. Rick Brinkman and Dr. Rick Kirschner.
I think i won it for raising my hand at a customer service conference I went to several years ago.
It’s a decent read, at least at 20 minutes at a time. I don’t know that it’s affected my behavior in dealing with people. In fact, I don’t know that it’s directly changed anything except pointed out the irrationalities of some of my own behaviors.
It’s just one of many elements that have been introduced within a short amount of time. But I am different. I deal with people differently. I deal with my time differently. I deal with forgiveness differently.
My life has deepened; it has–perhaps not more–but different meaning. What I love has been magnified: a flower that is where it “shouldn’t be,” a shared laugh with a friend, really, really good coffee, the feeling of accomplishment at adding another 1,000 words to the novel.
What I don’t love has lessened or fallen away: the attraction to negativity, the addiction to distraction.
Mindfulness–as it’s progressing for me, anyway–has been the single biggest change in my life, but it has set the stage for every other positive that has happened since I was diagnosed.
It reminds me that flares are temporary, life–with or without flares–is fleeting, and my proverbial clock is ticking. It forces me to examine the question: What do I want to do with my life?
Rumi said, “Let the beauty of what you love be what you do.”
RA has, at the very least, sharpened my focus and led me, perhaps kicking and screaming, in small steps toward the beauty of what I love be what I do.
I won’t go so far to say that “RA is a gift.”
I am SO not that Zen.
But it has brought about changes for which I am grateful.
And that is something.
(Image Sources: Featured Image taken by my cell phone; Brienne with Oathkeeper from HBO’s Game of Thrones found here.)
Word Wednesday 9/16/2015
(Image from Etsy.)
Music Monday: Lucky
I want to see how lucky Lucky can be
I want to ride with my Angel and live shockingly
I want to drive to the edge and into the sea
I want to see how lucky Lucky can be
Yes indeed.
Just a Little Longer
September 10 was Suicide Prevention Day. Sadly, I didn’t get it finished and posted on time.
His name was Tim, Tim of the floppy hair and floppy pajama bottoms that made his legs look all the skinnier.
Tim, a Carpe Diem boy, jumping on and over furniture as he recited Jim Morrison’s mantras and Shakespearean soliloquies. Tim, the one man Cirque du Soliel show, flipping over and flipping off, oratorian to a star-struck audience of one.
Tim of the animated features: eyes that widened and contracted as he traced the height of me, head that nodded, dragging his floppy hair along for the ride, and mouth that was the sloe gins of slow grins, spreading not just acceptance, but approval and intoxication, when I declined a joint.
Tim of the one kiss. One single night; one single kiss. A kiss in the shadows against a friend’s house, a kiss that lasted forever. Tim of the kitty-cat tongue and kitty-cat teeth. Bit my ear and whispered, “This is how it’s done,” while I melted into a sixteen-year-old puddle, lapping at his feet.
I didn’t learn what “it” was nor did I learn “how it’s done” that night.
But about year later, I learned what it was like to lose someone that I loved from afar.
This boy, this beautiful boy who had awakened in me a trembling passion for Morrison and kissing, for Shakespeare and choice, this boy who had, in a split second, given me more reason to say no to drugs than a thousand television ads with frying eggs ever had, this beautiful boy committed suicide.
He shot himself.
I didn’t know how to process it. He had just transferred to my school, had a girlfriend, and I saw him for moments between classes for a very short period of time.
Rumor had it that he had also left a note behind blaming his girlfriend.
A few months ago, I had the privilege of attending a suicide awareness event hosted by a local group called CAYA RACE. I lit a candle for Tim and listened to stories.
Standing in the community didn’t matter. Sexual orientation and race didn’t matter. Those who showed up were as diverse a group as I’d ever seen in south Mississippi. And they all had stories.
Some were stories of people who had, despite their best efforts, managed to succeed at living. They spoke of bullying, of depression, of angelic friends who, in the last possible moments, pulled them from the ledge of their bad decisions.
Some were stories from loved ones. Those left behind, wondering the why, what, and who of it all.
All of them were heroes. There were those who stood up, spoke out, and became the friend they needed when they were in the dark. A mother spoke of her daughter’s best friend who had taken her own life, and how it transformed herself and her daughter into a superhero duo who would answer the call, twenty-four and seven, for anyone who needed to talk. They would go to the caller and sit with them to make sure they were safe until someone else could take over.
Of course, superhero is not what she called herself and her daughter.
But I do.
Even Captain Hammer says “Everyone’s a hero in their own way; everyone’s got villains they must face.” (We’ll ignore the part where he says not-that-heroic way because, well, it is Captain Hammer).
I didn’t mean to speak at the Suicide Awareness event. I just did. Bumbling on crutches through the sand, I stood and spoke, my words all a jumble. I spoke of Tim, but I also spoke of myself, and that was something I did not expect.
Here’s the part where I stand, just a little more maskless than I was before.
I have attempted suicide. Twice. I’ve wished for death to take me more times than I have fingers and toes. In the past. I had told God that “If You love me, you’d take me,” and when I woke, took my breathing for proof that either there wasn’t a God or that He didn’t love me.
I’d listen to the Trevor Project’s promises of “It Gets Better” and I hated them for lying. Because, somehow, I was beyond the point of it ever getting better.
I am here to tell you that the Trevor Project’s promise is NOT a lie. It DOES get better.
Wil Wheaton has talked many times about how depression lies. Jenny Lawson, better known as the Bloggess, has talked about how depression lies.
What depression does is create a sense of tunnel vision where nothing is visible beyond the immediate pain. People talk of the selfishness of suicide, but I think they’re missing the mark. Those who attempt it aren’t selfish so much as they are blind. Depression steals vision from those who suffer from it just as it steals hope.
Depression lies.
And now that I’ve firmly established myself in my forties, and living a far more challenging life than I could even imagine for myself, I am here to say that no matter the circumstances, life can get better. It will get better.
For all its pitfalls and prizes, life is just too damn interesting to let go of. I want to see it through–too much lies ahead of me that is still undone. Too many people and places and adventures left to see. Too many stories left to tell.
There are bad moments. There will be bad moments. There are bad days. There will be bad days.
But there are also glorious moments, when you see or hear exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, or when you succeed at something in a way that exceeds all expectations. There will be many glorious moments. There are magnificent days, when you reconnect with a “long-lost” friend, or see the perfect sunset, or be given a boon that you never saw coming. There will be many magnificent days.
You are in this place at this time because you have a purpose to serve. Whether you believe in God or a universal “big picture” or simply the natural world, each person has a part to play otherwise he or she wouldn’t be here.
Find that purpose.
Breathe deep. A bad moment is just a moment, and a bad day is just 24 hours. They may stretch on for what seems to be forever, but nothing earth-bound lasts forever.
Breathe through it.
Keep breathing. Imagine the walls of a tunnel chipping away with each breath until you can smash them with the tap of a single finger.
It will happen.
The walls will crumble and tumble, and you will have regained your vision and your hope.
Depression lies, tells you hope and vision are gone forever.
They are not. They’re just tucked away in your pocket for safekeeping. Breathe and reach into your pocket. You’ll find them again. If for some reason you can’t find them in your pocket, reach out. There are many people and organizations out there that are holding your hope and vision for you until you can carry it again. Find them. They are waiting for you to welcome you back into life again.
There are only two things you must do: keep breathing and hold onto the tiniest bit of hope that you will find the right resource. If one doesn’t work, seek out another.
You will find it again if you just hold on a little longer.
Turn to Mr. Koyczan and listen to his Instructions for a Bad Day.
Call the suicide hotline or find them online.
1 (800) 273-8255 www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
If you are out there, somewhere on a continent other than North America, reach out.
They are waiting for you.
Hold on. Just a little longer.
(Featured Image: http://aeirmid.deviantart.com/journal/New-Contest-A-Candle-in-the-Darkness-462480705)
Lyrical Fool 