the crazies

So there was that article all over the internets the other day that more or less said "Lack of sleep will make you nuts." That must make me certifiably insane. I kind of think I may have dozed off between 5:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m this morning, then lay there til my alarm went off at 7:30. So an hour is a generous estimate for last night. The night before that, I'm hazarding a guess and calling it about 3 hours. Night before that not much more. The night before that I actually slept heavily and hard, because the night before that I slept about 2 hours then spent the day at a wedding outside of Boston.

Things like the first game of the World Series feel weirdly distant from me tonight. Was watching and not caring. No emotion. More critical than my disinterest in the Red Sox is... my disinterest and distancing in general. I'm not feeling good about myself or my life. Trapped, depressed, and worried about self-sabotaging behavior. Mildly engaging in self-sabotaging behavior. Concocting half-assed and hare-brained schemes to get myself out of... this life.

I'm actually afraid of the potential damage I am capable of, not in the sense of anything violent or injurious to myself (though for the first time in a long time I had a strong urge to cut the other night.) Just - I'm having a really hard time feeling and staying positive or hopeful about many things, and it's chipping away at me, and it's not very good. It's pretty bad. And I'm fucking scared. And I don't know why I'm posting this, but I can't write anymore.

Really, really, I'm going to try and sleep now.

Go... uh, Sox

Does anyone else see a solid gray box sitting on top of the bottom of my last post, so you can't actually read the end of the post? It was there last week, and is still there. The only way for me, at least, to view the whole post is to click on the title and view it on its own page. So anyone, please tell me if you see it.

Sorry to bore you, but, um... the Red Sox are ahead in game 7 of the ALCS. A whole new level of anxiety and obsession will be part of my world if they win this and go onto the World Series. Of course I would love to see them wrap this up, and they're close to doing it. Having said that, I find myself already empathizing with Cleveland, who deserve to go to the World Series every bit as much as the Red Sox.

If they lose, they will have to endure the almost certain madness that will erupt in Boston, both in and out of Fenway Park, drunk and obnoxious fans, just fucking noise and mayhem. Yeah, I know they're making plenty of money and all that. But honestly, I look at these guys and can see my nephews in them, and yeah, missing out on a chance to go to Series is just going to SUCK SHIT, I don't care how much money you make.

Today I've been sad, so I'm thankful for this game. Yesterday I went to a wedding, actually, it was up near Boston. I drove up with Yankees fans, so we didn't listen to the game on the way home. I did watch the end of it at home with my favorite company. I had barely slept the night before the wedding, and started drinking at around 3:00 pm, and had my last drink around 8:00. Didn't get drunk, but between the steady drinks and lack of sleep, my energy level and focus was - weird - by the time I got home.

Long story short - two very tired people, nonetheless insisting on having an all-night marathon with naps in between... and when he had to leave in the late morning, I just wanted... more. I mean I wanted coffee and to take a shower and go to the flea market and make dinner together. But instead I had to say goodbye, feeling like we had a lot of physical contact, but needing more "normal" contact - cooking, eating, talking.

There was no way around it. And I just felt sad. Weird, nagging, worrisome thoughts have been creeping in and out throughout the day. I feel clingy and at the same time like curling into a little shell. Thinking about returning to work tomorrow is causing me anxiety, too, which is a little strange. I think I'm back on the "thinking about quitting" tack.

The Red Sox are murdering Cleveland right now, and it's not making me happy. I want them to win, but I honestly kind of hate it when a team gets destroyed. For Cleveland's sake, I hope they score a bunch - well, at least a few - when it's their turn. Christ, it's now 11-2, bottom of the eighth. No more quasi-blogging about the Red Sox, I promise.

It's over, obvs they won. I'm crying and I don't know why, not happy tears. I'm sad today, like I said.

Distraction

Though it's causing me significant anxiety, the Cleveland-Red Sox game is again on in my living room. It's the bottom of the fifth, and Cleveland just scored the first run in a runless game, has two men on base and no outs. Two runs in, one out, still two men on base. I don't like this. At my parent's house, my mother has at this point surely left the room. She might possibly be saying the rosary. It's true, my mother prays for the Red Sox.

What can be said? Cleveland is fired up and solid. I drank a Guinness and have switched to scotch. Unfuckingbelievable. 3-0. This is why I don't like getting involved in these things. I start getting too invested, and of course it doesn't help that my family happen to be die-hard fans. They watch Yankees games just to see them lose. I don't take it that far. I simply want the Red Sox to win. It makes my parents really fucking happy, and that makes me happy. 6-0. This is not happening.

Time to change the subject. I'll be participating in this on Friday. My brother and his wife arranged to start this up in our town, so we can just zip over there after work and try to make a statement. I'm looking forward to it. (7-0. Just let it go.)

I still don't know the word, despite some helpful suggestions. (Youklis scores! 7-1.) (Ortiz scores! 7-2. How ridorkulous can I be? Sorry.) The word. Maybe it wasn't such a big deal. But I know it wasn't. I remember telling myself - yeah, just remember that word and you'll remember everything you're thinking about right now. Thoughts in the sleepy darkness are as fleeting as dreams, it seems.

It had something to do with forgiveness. It had something to do with sanctuary. (OMG Manny scores! 7-3! Zero outs!) It had something to do with nakedness. Exposure. Safety. Innocence. Truth. Expansion. It will come to me, again, in the dark, and I will turn on the light and remember it.

That's it. Time to pray for the Red Sox.

Lost Words

I hung up the phone and lay in the dark nest of my bed last night, thinking of this. There was a word, circling through my head, that I told myself I would remember, and by so doing would remember the path of thought I was traveling in the darkness, that I knew at the time was important.

Tonight I sit sipping a Guinness, Red Sox on in the background, losing 4-0 in the top of the sixth, Manny's up with men on 1st and 2nd. One pitch away from a walk or a strike-out. Motherfucking double play. Also: if I have to see that motherfucking commercial for the vampire flick 30 Days of Night one more time, where the chick says "Please God!" and the vampire dude mumbles "No God" I'm going to shoot the fucking TV. Come ON, Red Sox!

What was the word? As I lay there I knew I needed to write about it. I also knew I couldn't possibly write about all that was twisting down the corridors of my mind at this hour in only one sitting. And so I continued to lay in the dark, and committed myself to sleep, having not slept at all the night before. I slept hard and heavily, despite the tangled thoughts.

In general terms: I was thinking about relationships. I was thinking about the structure of my family, the sheer numbers (9 of us), the birth order (I'm number 8). The strong need and desire I had for protection. The sense that I didn't really have it. A feeling of being lost on the sidelines and in the fray of activity. Of wanting recognition, specialness. Cherishing the small ways I received it, in particular from my father.

He used to take naps on the living room floor. For many years I would sometimes join him, laying side by side on the hard floor, he would put his arm out for me to use as a pillow. Silent, resting side by side. Everyone else was too old for this. For these fifteen minutes, he was mine, it didn't matter that other people were passing through or milling around. Sometimes my younger brother would lay on the other side, but this was ok. He and I were a team of sorts, bonded by our position on the totem pole.

In a basic way, we grew up not expecting much. We did not receive a lot of attention, and in some ways, this suited us. Secret forts could sometimes thrive for weeks unnoticed, with stores of stolen cookies or soda, hidden plans and agendas. Adult attention was not necessarily considered a good thing. It was often an expressly bad thing.

I did not expect, desire, or have heart-to-heart talks with my parents, this feeling only solidified as I grew older. I did not expect or desire advocacy, guidance, or coaching from my parents, and generally did not receive it. There were rules. We were expected to follow them. We were not to take seconds at dinner, and were to drink orange juice and milk from cups that probably held about 6 ounces of liquid, tops. If we had an overnight guest, they received the better or bigger of whatever we had. We were to attend mass as instructed. Respect elders. Not complain about what you have or don't have. Remember that this was a family - what makes you think you're so special?

I don't fault my parents for anything. They did what they had to do, what they knew how to do. They accomplished a lot with relatively little. A vague feeling of having raised myself only places me in a lot of good company. And so why am I writing about all this, as if I have missed out on something? I'm thinking now about the word expectations, though that isn't THE WORD I have yet to recall.

You get what you expect. And it's a sorry thing to not expect much. That's a little bit of the problem I'm having, the problem I've had. I've written about this before, and I'm still trying to navigate my way to the bottom of it. I think I deeply want and need full attention. But I don't know how to receive it, how to receive it without pushing it back, running away from it at the same time my heart is burning with a need for it, with a need for recognition and acceptance and - yes - love.

Being recognized means being known. And being known, when you've felt unknown, is a scary thing. I'm an excellent hider. Hiding is easier than explaining. How do you explain when you don't know how? To whom do you explain when there is little or no trust? How does one believe in the idea of safety without knowing how that really feels? The world shrinks around me til it's closet-sized and dark, that's the place I end up when I'm afraid to explain, afraid to say what my heart is feeling, afraid to say what I really want. I'm not done writing about this, not even close. But I'll lose you if I say much more.

Final score 4-2 Cleveland.

Single Malt

A sip of scotch, and suddenly every texture, smell and sight at my grandmother's house comes into focus. The hard, waxy, gray and yellow squares of linoleum and speckled counter top, pine cabinets filled with cream of tartar and mace and food coloring and coffee syrup and condensed milk and canned mince meat. Dusty things. Yellowing things. Things I hope never end up in a recipe I have to pretend to enjoy. Actually, that was never a problem when Gram was around, just now, when Aunt Bea routs something out of there. No, Gram was a kick-ass cook. Fuck. She kicked so much ass.

But that was awhile ago. And a sip of scotch brings me there. They all drank it. Grandpa, Grandma, Aunt Bea. My mind travels inexplicably to days filled with baskets and baskets of blueberries, a serious business, this was, blueberry picking. Pint after pint, they would spend half a day, Aunt Bea, Gram, and mom. Sometimes we went, too, but children are unreliable for such tasks, eating half of what they pick and inevitably distracted. No, blueberry picking was serious business, because of course you want your jam and your pies all winter, don't you? Nothing else can compare.

Sips of scotch remind me of ill-advised and uneducated experiments with fine whiskey as a teenager, utterly ignorant and innocent, always wretching and completely gone at the end of it all, and swearing off the stuff until some other fool convinced me otherwise. Fools. Fools and their whiskey. Whiskay druuunk... like a whiskay skuuunk, the refrain to an inspired free-verse song coined by a pair of drunkard male friends way back in the day. It inspired the most crazed behavior of all, whiskey. The same two friends throwing giant potted plants down the stairs at poor TF's house, then diving down the stairs after them, dragging the beaten bodies of the plants out into the street, leaving them for dead.

But back to the sips of scotch. I think I understand why a drunk might adore it. It seems to store memories, almost holographic in detail and scope. Full, round, textured memories live in the full, round, textured taste. It feels almost like a collective memory, where you feel and taste the drunkard's walk home from the bar, the night after night in a stone house or cramped apartment, the dull pulse of a city, the darkest of rural roads, fevered love-making and other acts of creation, earnest confessions and sloppy messes of lies.

Rain falling in tap-tap______tink__tap_tink-tap__tap_tinks on the metal awning, trickling slowly into the soft earth, feet sinking in, lungs drinking in every vapor, every sweet and sour scent.

The clothesline traces graceful gray arcs adorned with tiny wet orbs of light, hung out to dry.
The parentheses of steel posts and wooden T-bars shrug, blameless.

Why

...did I decide to listen to the Dirty Three Ocean Songs tonight and take pictures of my crying self? No answer to that, but while I'm on the topic of documenting the sadness and reality of the human condition I'll mention a wonderful book called "Putting Myself in the Picture" by Jo Spence, which I always think of when taking or making brutal self-portraits, not that I consider the above brutal, no, they're rather kind. Hardly brutal. I need my sadness, and I love my sadness, and one day I'll find someone who understands that.

Fuel

Not entirely sure why I am starting a post, because I think I must be tired. I mean, I didn't sleep last night, at all - it's kinda been that way lately, bad sleep, tossing and turning because of my totally fucked back, coupled with an overactive imagination. Have been having these "dreams" which are not really dreams, because I'm fully aware of the fact that I'm lying in bed not sleeping; they're weird enough trains of thought that you might mistake them for dreams, but dreams they are not. More like a mental television set, running all night. Fucking annoying.

I'm craving dead sleep, sleep where I'm in another world, where everything's on autopilot, the body decides it's comfortable enough, and even if it moves, it doesn't register with the brain, with consciousness. I want to forget my body. That's the kind of sleep I need. It's so fucking rare.

After not sleeping, I went to work and literally did not eat or drink a single thing all day other than my black morning coffee. We have a community meal where I work every week, and staff rotates to do the honors. This was my week. Something about cooking for a crowd causes me to utterly lose my appetite. I made a white chili, which by all accounts was very good, also cornbread. We had vanilla ice cream with fresh raspberry compote. I just couldn't eat any of it. I had the teeniest taste(s) of the chili, just to adjust the seasoning.

I was such a spaced-out, sleep-deprived, dehydrated, pms-ing wreck by the time I left there that as soon as I stepped out the door I started crying, and didn't stop til I got home. At home I drank three large glasses of water, and started feeling better incrementally. I realized I needed calories, but the thought of chewing and swallowing anything was turning my stomach.

It occurred to me that a Guinness might help. Made my way down to the packy, the owner as usual was sitting in the back of the store. I head back to drop off my empties. "How's it going?" he asks helpfully. I scrunch up my face. "Honestly? Not that great." I shrug dismissively. He seems slightly amused by this response. "Well, it's my Friday at least," I continue "can't be that bad." I snatch up a 4-pack of Guinness Draught. Giving me my change, again with a funny smile, the owner says "I hope your night gets better." I nod, "Me too."

The night, to be honest, got a lot better. The Guinness was exactly what I needed. Restored my appetite enough to make some french toast with dark rye, frickin' yum, seriously. Then I found out that tomorrow will be a sleepover, which kind of put a red wax seal embossed with a big "IT"S OK" on the day/night. Sleeping like the dead would change that to "IT"S FUCKING GREAT" but I'll take OK for now...

Wagoneer

Work has been a big ball of stress for the past few days, and I'm suffering from a bit of "caregiver burnout." My attitude has gotten a bit flip and cavalier, and even though I know the people I'm working with have varying degrees of mental illness, I've been pushing back when they push too hard. I haven't been mean, mind you. Just very blunt with the reality checks.

The other day I was trying to talk through an issue with a client, and she was being very, very stubborn, and yes, you could say manipulative. Which is a survival mechanism for her, understood. As she belligerently and strenuously tried to convince me to give her extra cigarettes "just once", a call came in from another client who had accidentally cut his hand and was "bleeding all over the place."

I calmly instructed him to call 911 immediately after getting off the phone with me, and told him I would drive over immediately as well. I hang up and tell this woman I have been arguing with that I have to go. She heard the whole conversation I had with the other client, including the part about bleeding and calling 911. "But what about my cigarettes?" I just stare at her. "Did you hear me tell that person to call 911?" "Yeah, but..." "Yeah, but I have to go NOW! We'll talk about your cigarettes later!" Fuck. Anyway.

I'm still on this weird body-hyper-awareness thing. I've basically been doing some arguably good things for my body, but it's happening very organically and intuitively and even though it feels a little unfamiliar I like it. It's not that I ate poorly before, and I still don't think I was drinking excessively (it's arguable that I might've been drinking more than is really healthy - arguable) but I'm in a different, very subtle place. Much more focused on food. The quality of it, and the effort put in to prepare it, even when it's just for me.

My mind feels still and searching, that's the most I can say about it right now. Things are quiet. I feel like I've entered a labyrinth, but the center is still far away. If I sound kooky I don't mind, because I also feel real.