Tag Archives: depression

The elephant in my head moved over a bit, and then things got a little woo-woo around here.

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[Note:  this one is a little woo-woo, and pretty serious, and won’t make much sense if you haven’t been following along, or at least haven’t read my last post about talking with the elephant in my head who wouldn’t let me look at my issues.  and, as always, some of the best stuff is in the post-scripts… enjoy!]
 

So.

I’m still dealing with the fallout from the conversation with the elephant in my head.

She’s moved over a bit and I’m working on stuff.

(and I realized that I love the elephant for protecting me)

(and I also realized that she might be Ganesha, the elephant headed Hindu deity revered as the mover of obstacles and the God of beginnings…. Isn’t that awesome?)

It’s been a difficult time and I’m feeling very raw and vulnerable, but some good things are happening.

Really good things.

I’m working with an amazing woman, who somehow miraculously lives in this tiny village in Mexico at exactly the same time that I do and exactly when I need her the most.  She is a shaman, energy healer, therapist and a saint, probably.  You know how some people just exude love and peace and presence?  She is one of them.  And I get to work with her.

(thank you, universe) 

I think of her as my teacher, rather than my doctor or counselor or healer — as  I have finally realized that no one else (and, no magic pill, apparently…) is going to come along and heal me.  I can be guided and supported, but I am going to have to do the heavy lifting all by myself.

Sigh.

The teacher approaches everything from three (seemingly, but probably not) different perspectives — energetically (chakra-ish), from a shaman perspective and from a more traditional, Western, psychotherapy viewpoint.  It’s perfect for me, because I am more familiar with the Western view (having been the recipient of years of that kind of therapy/self-help), but am open to and have benefitted from energetic healing and am fascinated with the work of the shaman.

And I need help.  So, at this point, I’m open to all possibilities that allow me to live a life that doesn’t involve repeating the same negative behaviors ad nauseum and despising myself until I die.  Alone.  Under a bridge.  Unloved to the end.

(see how I think?)

Just a little drama to lighten the mood…. 🙂

Anyway.

So, it turns out that I have been on the right path!  The teacher is thrilled that I’ve been identifying and having conversations with parts of myself (kim, kimmy and Kimberly, the walls, the monsters, the elephants, oh my!) and writing about it here on the blog, which in turn thrills me, because I am nothing if not a girl who always wants to be the teacher’s pet…. (hello, people-pleasing ISSUES)

And she thinks that I may need to befriend a few more parts of myself.  Which immediately makes me nervous.

There are more?

(and then I start thinking about Sybil, and multiple personality disorder, which isn’t called that any longer, now it’s dissociative identity disorder, but really it’s the same thing and how many more parts can I identify before I start qualifying for a little “rest” at a clinic, which of course I can’t afford because I don’t have medical insurance and..)

And I’m resisting this idea because I’m pretty sure I know what led to my tragically low self-esteem, which, it seems, is the root of everything I’m dealing with now and, knowing that, I thought that all I needed now was to learn new ways to behave, not dredge up the old crap.  Not find new parts of myself to chat with.  Ya know?  Why go over it again?  I’m so tired of my story.  Seriously.

But the teacher explains that it is not enough to have a general idea of when and why things started falling apart — i.e., it’s not enough to say “my parents were alcoholics with huge boundary issues, on top of that, my mother was a  manic/depressive artistic genius and my dad was a charming, brilliant womanizer, and don’t even get me started on the sadistic step-mother, of course I’m fucked up!” — you have to go back and investigate what actually happened.

Fuck.  Why?

(and also, “how can I do that when I’ve got so few memories of my childhood?”)

She says that when there is trauma early in a child’s development, a part of the life force/soul/psyche becomes trapped or locked away.   And while the child/body continues to grow and function, a vital part is left behind and if the pattern is repeated (and it usually is, because for most of us, life can involve some trauma…), the body/soul/psyche  can become depleted, exhausted, unrooted from the source, literally split apart.

And that is where I am, folks.

I can feel the truth of it as soon as she says the words.

I am tired.  I have no passion, no energy, no life force to work with.  It’s depression, but not depression.  If that makes any sense.  When I first met with her I described that I feel unrooted.  Lost.  Like I’m watching this person, in this body that I don’t even recognize, living my life and I don’t understand her.  I don’t know her.  I’m completely disconnected from my body.  I don’t know what I’m doing here.  And not just what I’m doing here in Mexico,  I don’t know what I’m doing on this planet.  I don’t know my purpose.

It occurs to me that this might be far beyond simple low self-esteem issues.

And I’m scared.

So.  The teacher explains that the goal is to try to find out when parts of your soul/psyche/energy were affected by traumatic experiences and to try to retrieve that energy and return it to the whole.  Or release it back into the whole.  Something like that.  In shamanic terms, it’s called Soul Retrieval.

And it looks like I’m going to have to do it…

The teacher wants me to identify when, as a child, I was the most terrified.  This freaks me out because (a) as mentioned above, I have few memories of my childhood and (b) for as long as I can remember, I’ve been worried and scared, so it’s hard to pinpoint which thing has been the most terrifying, when my experience has been that pretty much everything is terrifying.

Also I have this sense of loyalty to my parents — I quickly tell the teacher that I’ve never been “traumatized” — I wasn’t beaten or locked in a closet and I always had food and shelter and clothing, I mean, who am I to even complain about anything, really?  So then we have to deal with THAT.  Shame.  No, I’m not like many of the kids that I spent my career in child welfare law trying to “save”.  Those kids were traumatized.  And what about the kids who don’t have food or clean water and die of AIDS?  That’s trauma.  And she helps me see that we all came here (to this earth, to this plane of existence) for different reasons and I shouldn’t trivialize my stuff, just because it doesn’t seem as bad as other stuff.  It’s mine, it’s painful, and I’m here to work on it.

So, we decide to talk to four-year-old-me.  The teacher helps me — she walks me through trying to find the four year old — What is she doing?  Where is she? What is she wearing? What does her hair look like?  What is she feeling?  Will she come back to you? — and here’s what happens:

Me:  (I find her — four year old Kimmy — under a table, in a blanket fort of sorts, holding a doll) — “Hi Kimmy, do you know who I am?”

Kimmy:  nods yes and scoots back so I can sit down

Me:  “I’m you, but I’m all grown up now.  How are you feeling?”

Kimmy:  “I’m worried.”

Me:  “You’re only four, Kimmy, what are you worried about?”

And then it all starts flooding out — Kimmy isn’t talking (umm, obviously, since she’s in my head…) but I’m somehow remembering what happened when I was four — my brother was born when I was barely four and I was excited but then it was scary and there was a fire at my dad’s office and there was fighting and locked doors and my mom was unhappy and she painted a bad picture with a knife and blood and she cleaned out our house when my dad was out of town and we moved away from everything – away from my dad, away from my grandparents, to a new town and she was sad and she was angry and I wanted to stay in my house and I wanted everything to stay the same but she said I had to come with her because I had to help her.  She needed me.  And the baby needed me.  But didn’t my Dad need me? And I didn’t understand.

Me:  (crying)  “Wow. That’s a lot, Kimmy.”

Kimmy:  “Who is going to take care of me?”

And there it is:  WHO IS GOING TO TAKE CARE OF ME?

And then I really fall apart (in real life, lying in the middle of my teacher’s loft office, while she gently holds space for me) and I see that little girl was so scared and she was too young to even comprehend what was happening, much less to soothe herself and she had no one.  All the adults who were supposed to be taking care of her were caught up in their own drama and their own mental illness. And then I start getting mad:

WHO THE FUCK IS GOING TO TAKE CARE OF ME!!!!  I’M FOUR YEARS OLD, PEOPLE.  I’M THE CHILD.  YOU ARE THE ADULTS.

And eventually something comes over me and I start to feel a little energy come back.  And I started to remember that that was then, and this is now and that it’s ironic that my biggest fear has always been “who is going to take care of me?” when the truth is that it’s always been me who has taken care of me:

Me:  “Me.  I am going to take care of you, Kimmy.”  And then I start showing her that we grew up, and we were ok, and we kept taking care of mom and then we had a baby (sweet Austin) and we took care of the baby and he grew up and we kept taking care of mom, and now she doesn’t need us anymore.

Kimmy:  “But I can’t go with you, I have to help mommy and that baby.”

Me:  crying again — she doesn’t know mom is gone.  Is there really some part of me that doesn’t know, hasn’t completely accepted that mom is gone?  And so I try to explain to her that we did help mom, and now she doesn’t need us anymore and that baby brother grew up and now he has his own baby to take care of and we even had a sister after that, and we took care of her for as long as we could and now she is all grown up and has her own little girl.  But Kimmy still doesn’t want to come.  She doesn’t want to leave mom and she isn’t sure about me.

Kimmy:  “How can you take care of me?  You don’t even want to take care of a dog.”

Me:  …… (thinking: well that was a low blow, Kimmy…. but you’re right – everyone in this dog crazy town is trying to get me to adopt a dog and I keep resisting because I don’t want the responsibility of another living being, I’m done with taking care of other people/beings for awhile, I’m tired, I don’t trust myself to meet their needs…. but YOU are ME — I want to take care of you, I need to take care of you and I need your energy.  Maybe if you come back to me, I will find that I have the capacity to take care of a pet, or not.  Either way, I can take care of you.)

Kimmy:  (climbing into my lap and wrapping her arms around my neck)  “Are you sure?”

Me:  “Yes.”

Kimmy:  (clinging tighter)  “I’m scared.  This is all I know.  Are you sure mommy will be ok?”

Me:  “Mommy is ok, Kimmy.  And we are going to be ok, too.  Will you come back with me?”

Kimmy:  “Yes.”

*****************

So.

That was huge.

I’m not quite convinced that the four-year-old is back with me.  But the teacher says to talk to her and comfort her and be patient while my body/psyche try to make space for her.  She says to rest when I need to, cry when I need to and to write all I can.  So that’s what I’m doing.

xoxo

kim

p.s.  I think the picture is the elephant with kimmy… isn’t that sweet?

p.s.s. I realize this is a bit woo-woo, and I’m not asking anyone else to believe in what I’m doing or take a position on shamanic Soul Retrieval or anything else, for that matter.  It’s just me, dealing with my stuff, the best way I know how.  And I’m sharing it with you, just in case it can help.

p.s.s.s.s.  We all have issues with our parents, don’t we?  I felt angry for the four year old, but the forty-eight year old knows that you do the best you can with what you have at the time — my parents were sick for most of the time I was growing up — and they did support me financially and they did love me and they did try and I know they wished they had been there for me (and my brother, and my sister) while growing up because they both told me that while they were alive.  I love them both dearly.  Maybe this should be a whole separate blog post, but it seems to be coming out here…. Anyway.  I don’t want to discount my parents, or my extended family who did, and still do, provide me with unconditional love and a place to call home.  I just need to sort it all out now and put the ground back under my own feet.  And part of that is looking realistically at the bad stuff that happened.

p.s.s.s.s.s.  And if you’re wondering how this post and the woo-woo work relates to the last post and the self-esteem stuff and the repeating patterns of trying to get my needs met by other people (read: usually men) join the club.  I mean, obviously it’s related, I just didn’t pull it all together here.  Stay tuned.  I will work it out… 🙂

p.s.s.s.s.s.s.  One of the very last things my sweet mommy said to me was “I think Mexico is going to save your life.”  I wonder if this is what she meant.

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Filed under My Big Book of Me, Writing and Not-Writing

The elephant in my head is back and this time she is a little snarky, to be honest.

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[Warning:  So.  I’m finally back to writing about what is really going on with me. If you’re new here — you should probably go read one of the funny posts…  This one is uncomfortable and itchy and not as funny as the lists, but ultimately better for me, and hopefully my process/floundering around can help someone else out there who is struggling… or just make you laugh, I don’t know.  Anyway.  This was a hard one to write.]

I need to write.

I think this has been established.

Over and over again.

I need to write. It’s what I do. It’s how I process. It’s who I am.
(it makes me laugh, it makes other people laugh with (at?) me, it makes things better every single time)

And, to be honest, somehow, without even really (consciously) trying — I have built the perfect life for a writer who isn’t really a full-time writer yet — I have a job that is basically seasonal — very very busy for 4-5 months and almost deadly slow the rest of the year, I have TONS of free time, my son is in college and, apparently (sniff), doesn’t need me much anymore, I’ve run out of sick/dying relatives to take care of (OUCH), I’m single, I don’t even have a pet to take care of for God’s sake.  There is no reason why I shouldn’t be writing my fucking heart out almost every single day.

Well, there is one reason.

Remember the benevolent and stubborn elephant in my head who tried to keep me from writing when my mom was dying, because she thought it would be too much for me?  She’s back.  She’s big.  And she doesn’t seem friendly…

ME:  “So.  You’re back.  What the fuck?”

ELEPHANT:  (Refusing to look at me, spraying what I can only imagine is delightfully cool water over herself, because apparently the inside of my brain is as hot as my body at this point….)  “Well isn’t this interesting…. she finally notices the blatantly obvious huge mass that is moi.  And we used to think she was so quick.”

ME:  “Who are you talking to?  I’m right here.  I can hear you.”

ELEPHANT:  (Turning to gaze down at me with what I can only describe as a bemused look on her face)  “Who am I talking to?  Who are you talking to?  That is the real question.”

ME:  (eyes rolling)  “Don’t act like I’m crazy, I’m not.  You wanna know how I know? The elephants in real crazy people’s heads don’t like to point out that they are not, in fact, real elephants.  Everybody knows that.”

ELEPHANT: (cocking her head and chuckling)  “Whatever you say, baby girl.”

ME:  “I’m not a baby and it is whatever I say.  I know you’re not, like, an actual “being”.  But you are big and powerful and once again you’re standing right the fuck in the way of EVERYTHING.  I need to write.  I need to write and I need to process and all this Big Scary Stuff is coming up for me and you know it and you won’t move and you won’t even let me begin to look at it.   I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t do this anymore.  Didn’t we have that agreement?  Why are you here again?”

ELEPHANT:  “A.  We did have an agreement. and B.  You broke it.  You’re the lawyer, what happens when agreements are broken?  The agreement is over, that’s what happens.  Law 101.  So I’m here.  And I’ve been here for a long time.”

Me:  “First of all, not all agreements are over if one person is in breach.  It depends on the kind of breach and the kind of contract and it’s all very convoluted and there’s never a simple answer, even though people want lawyers to give simple answers and OMG WHY IS MY LAWYER BRAIN ON RIGHT NOW???  How do you think I broke the agreement?”

ELEPHANT:  I said that I would stop worrying and not get in between you and your creative genius if you took care of yourself and didn’t get overwhelmed and depressed and lose yourself again and you said “of course I won’t do THAT again, look how healthy I am, look how I’m taking care of myself, of course you can stop worrying and protecting me from myself, I will never go down that road again, because I know what it looks like, I’m FINE…”  and you were fine, for awhile, sweet pea and then your mom died and you were still fine because you took care of yourself when you felt the grief turn to depression and you hung in there, but then things started changing and you started to lose yourself again and this time you didn’t see it, honey.  And I could see that you didn’t see it, so I came back to protect you.”

ME:  (trying to swallow lump in throat) “Oh. Thank you.”

ELEPHANT:   “Of course.”

ME: “You seem different.  Bigger.  More…. comprehensive?  I think you don’t just want to stop me from writing, you want to stop me from dealing with, or even looking at, the Big Scary Stuff that is being triggered all over the place for me right now.”

ELEPHANT:  “Yes, that’s true.  It’s too much.  You’re not ready.  If you start writing about it and dealing with it, it will overwhelm you and pull you under again and I can’t let that happen.  Better to avoid it altogether, I say.  Too messy.”

ME:  “I know you want to protect me, but I have to do this.  I have to look at the Big Scary Stuff now and I have to learn new ways to do things and I have to write about it.  It’s time.  I don’t want to keep living like this, I don’t want the Big Scary Stuff to control me and fuck things up and keep me from having what I most want and being who I really am.   Please move, please let me do this.”

ELEPHANT:  “I don’t think so.  You’ve said this before, and look what happened.  No, I think you’re better off avoiding it altogether.  You’re fine now, why change?”

ME:  “I’m not fine.  That is the point.  I’m not fine.  I’m very un-fine.  I am tired of repeating the same patterns over and over and over.  Nothing changes if nothing changes, right?  I’m alive. I’m surviving.  Sometimes I’m happy, but I am most definitely not fine.  And it’s not all hormones – some of it is, for sure.  And I’m working with a doctor to help with that.  I feel like everything (ok, most things) that are Big and Scary for me have been magnified and clarified for me in the last few weeks — in a very fucking uncomfortable and miserable way, but THANK GOD FOR CLARITY…. I know what I need to address, finally.  I really do.  And I am ready to do it now.  I really need you to work with me and help me do this, don’t stand in the way.  Don’t steer me away from what I have to do.  Don’t help me numb out, act out, do what I always do…. Help me change.  Please.”

ELEPHANT:  “No.  You’re not ready.  You know how I know you’re not ready?  You can’t even say what the Big Scary Stuff is out loud.  How do I know that you’ve gained some clarity when you can’t even say it?  Until you can say it, it’s dangerous to let you start working with it.  Like, tsunami of pain and shame and sad type of dangerous.”

ME:   “Fuck!”

ELEPHANT:  “That’s what I thought….”

ME:  (pulling myself back together and dusting off my shoulders)  “Fine.  Here’s what the Big Scary Stuff is — I am a huge black hole of needy insecurity.  I don’t even live in my body, I live in my head.  I don’t see what is going on around me because I’m so busy telling stories about it in my mind.  My mind can extrapolate the most amazing and negative stories that you will ever hear from virtually NO information.  [so I should be an AWESOME writer, right?] They are truly crazy and the best part about it is that I believe them….   And all of the stories involve me being unlovable, unloved, alone, doomed, ashamed, scared, useless, lazy, ugly, empty, dumb, a disappointment, failure, a mistake, an imposter and so on and so forth.  And because I believe all those things about myself, I don’t believe that anyone else could possibly value me.  And if they do somehow seem to value me, I question it and tear it apart and suck it dry.  And I don’t know how to give myself what I need, so I try to get it from other people (and, since I’m being painfully fucking honest, “people” = “men”, usually) — and I try to get it quickly because it’s an urgent need at this point — so I manipulate to get it and then don’t trust it when it comes, because of course I’ve manipulated it, so it isn’t real.  And when I can’t get what I think I desperately need exactly when I desperately need it – I can’t tolerate it.  I have to leave the relationship or keep escalating my attempts to get what I think I need and then I become bitchy and temper-tantrumish.  And if I DO get what I need?  I don’t really believe it, because deep down I am positive that I don’t deserve it and that somehow I was just so good at manipulating that I got it.  So I end up leaving the people who do love me, just as easily as I leave the people who don’t.  Because I can’t tell the difference.  Basically, I’m fucked up.  And exhausted.  And depressed.  And I want to learn how to be different.

ELEPHANT:   “Wow.  That’s big.  I know that was hard to figure out, much less admit out loud, sweet pea.  Do you see why I wanted to protect you?  I’m so proud of you.  I will go now, but I can’t promise not to come back.”

ME:  “I know.  Thank you.”

THE END

So.  There it is.  And here I am.  At least I’m writing.

xoxo

kim

p.s.  This was hard to write.  It’s hard to be vulnerable.  But it’s a process and I know it works for me to write/share.  But I’m not asking anyone out there to fix me, so don’t worry about that.  Support is great, though 🙂

p.s.s. or p.p.s. – whatever – Yes, I’m still doing the anti-antidepressant experiment, but am considering going back on them because this hole feels big and it snuck up on me and getting out of bed is hard.  Part of it is the heat.  I’m not kidding — if there isn’t a DSM for heat related depression, there should be.  This heat sucks the life out of me.

p.s.s.  It’s hot and I’ve been inside all day writing (writing!!!!!) – I’m heading to the beach now.  Somehow it always helps.  Look at this cool thing – from Pinterest.  I love Pinterest.

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p.s.s.s.  How is it the end of August?  Ugh.

p.s.s.s.s.  I’m playing with my wordpress theme again…. don’t worry, this isn’t the final choice 🙂

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Filed under My Big Book of Me, The Great Anti-Antidepressant Experiment of 2011, Uncategorized

Yes, this is a new blog theme. And yes, I’m a little cranky. Surprise.

(Note:  This post has nothing to do with Frida Kahlo (as far as I can tell…) but she looks cranky (I think it’s the eyebrows?) and I’m cranky, so the picture resonated with me and voila! here it is, on my blog, without permission from anyone.  I’m sorry.)

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this except that I just spent HOURS trying to find a new blog theme that worked better than the old blog theme and I finally found one I kind-of-sort-of like and I installed it and I feel like I should write a post acknowledging that yes, the blog looks different.

So.

Yes, the blog looks different.  I kinda like it.  I wanted to make it easier to navigate and easier to see the comments and also to leave comments.  Let me know your thoughts, por favor.

In other news:

UGH

There is no other news.

I’m a wee bit cranky, y’all.

For one thing, I think my body and brain are very confused about the fact that we don’t live where there are seasons anymore.  Colorado = 4 seasons.  Mexico (as far as I can tell) = 1 season + some rain sometimes… Last year was the first year I pretty much totally missed winter (except for a few weeks) and now I’ve also missed Spring and am missing Fall.

I hate missing Fall in Colorado.

The days are warm and the nights are cool.  There is excitement in the air.  The quality of the sunlight is different from any other time of year.  It’s completion, harvest, preparing for winter-time.  Fall has always been my favorite time of year.

So I’ve been a bit down about THAT and also just in general.  I mentioned to a friend that I was down and that I was not sure why and she was all “ummm, you’ve had a few losses recently…?”

Oh yes, loss.  Now my mood makes a little more sense.

In the “totally obvious” category is the loss of my artistic genius mommy (who had great hair!)(and who I miss every single damn day, damn damn damn damn) and then there are the other losses — my home, my career (yes, I hated it most of the time, but still, a career of 20 years is over and that is hard in it’s own way), my son (not dead THANK GOD but away at school and, because of the douchebag who stole all my shit, I got to spend virtually NO time with him before I had to come back to Mexico), my home was violated by a person who masqueraded as a friend, double-whammy, and then another friendship that meant a lot to me seems to be over for reasons unknown to me.

LOSS.

It hurts.

And I hate the conversations that go on in my head about this shit:

*****

Me:  “Mom died and I’m so sad.”

Asshole in my head:  “Everyone dies.  You knew she was sick, you had plenty of time to prepare for her death. She’s in a better place. Move on.”

******

Me:  “I miss my baby boy!  It’s like an ache that never goes away and I just want to see him.”

Asshole in my head:  “He’s 20.  He’s in college.  He’s fine.  Why are you living in Mexico if you’re dying to see him?  Kids grow up.  Get over it.”

******

Me:  “I can’t believe that pendejo pretended to be my friend and then systematically stole all my stuff and tried to rent my house to other people and still lied when I conronted him!  That hurts!  I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.  I feel violated.”

Asshole in my head:  “It’s your own fault, you idiot.  You should never have trusted the pendejo.  Everyone else knew he was a bad seed.  You deserve what you got.”

*****

Me:  “I miss my friend.  I’m sad.”

Asshole in my head:  “You have other friends.  If she were really your friend, she would tell you what is wrong.  You don’t need this drama. Move on.”

*****

You get the picture….

 

Here’s what I want to say to the asshole in my head (and anyone else who thinks like he/she does):

“What you say may be true, and it still hurts. It’s not the end of the world, my life isn’t over, I’m not spending every day lying in bed just waiting to fucking DIE, but it still hurts. So here’s what we’re going to do, you are going to shut up and I’m going to acknowledge the pain, wrap my arms around myself and tell myself everything will be ok, it’s just a little pain, and then I’m going to go the fuck on with my life and try to keep remembering that you are just an asshole voice in my head who clearly wasn’t loved enough as a child.”

🙂

And yes, I realize that I’m talking to no one but myself.

Is that weird?

xoxo

kim

p.s.  so, the pendejo is still “at large” but i finally received the electric bill that he racked up while living here (electricity is very expensive here) — $500 — so that sucks, but i’m glad to get it because once i pay that bill (ouch) the last of HIS damage will be accounted for and over.  expensive lesson.

p.p.s.  i haven’t been to the beach in AGES which makes no sense since that is why i wanted to live here.  i’ve got lots of reasons but none really make much sense.  not sure what is going on there….

p.p.p.s.  partially i haven’t been getting out much because it’s HOTTER THAN FUCK here.  but if i went to the beach it would be breezy and cooler, so that is dumb.

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Filed under grief, My Big Book of Me, Oh Mexico..., Writing and Not-Writing

Angels in the architecture. Also, Sons of Anarchy. Related topics? Probably not.

I’ve been thinking about angels lately.

Not necessarily in a religious way.

Or maybe that isn’t true, I mean is there any other way to think of angels?  But for religion, would there be angels?  I think not.

But it’s not something I want to analyze and argue about.

What does it matter what I believe to be true anyway?  Isn’t it only important to me?  Does it hurt anyone else if I do or do not believe in angels?

In any event, I think I do believe in them.

I believe in them in a woo-woo way and also in a flesh and blood way.

Or maybe I’m confusing things.

What I’m trying to say is that I can see that throughout my life I have often asked someone out there (God? Angels? The Universe?) for help and it almost always shows up in the form of a person.  Did God/Angels/the Universe send the person, or is the person God/An Angel/The Universe.

The answer is probably YES….

Anyway.

I see angels in the architecture of my life.

And I’m so very grateful for that.

(moment of silence…. thank you)

And this is coming up for me now because, if you’ve been following along, I’ve recently had a little trouble (read: total fucking nightmare situation triggering huge fear, shame, anger, vulnerability, panic…it’s bad) which comes on the heels of losing my artistic genius mommy (who had great hair) to stupid fucking cancer, like, just yesterday. (ok, she passed in December, but usually it feels like yesterday) and other related horribleness.

So, in the middle of some pretty intense darkness, some completely unexpected help arrived and blew my mind.

An angel.

I have no other way to describe it.

And this Angel came to me through my blog.

Which blows my mind on so many levels (I have a blog?  I write?  I write about intensely personal  and oftentimes super-uncomfortable shit and other people actually read it?  And they laugh at the same shit I laugh at? And they take time out of their day to actually write me back? And they aren’t offended by how often I use the term “fuck”?  And now they offer to help me without having ever met me in person???!!)

I’m humbled.

I’m grateful for all the angels who have appeared in the architecture of my life (but I’m afraid to start naming them out loud because what if I forget one and hurt their angelic feelings?)(and then what if they get super pissed and start using their powers for evil?)(I would be fucked.) and today I’m especially grateful for the sweet angel who is helping me out based solely on the fact that we found one another on the worldwide interweb and we share some awful experiences and she isn’t offended by my vulgar language, presumably.

Thank you.  Hand-on-heart thank you.

On a lighter note:

Is anyone else around here obsessed with Sons of Anarchy?

My sassy Virgo seester turned me onto the show and I CAN’T STOP WATCHING.

I’m on Season 4 now and I’m trying to pace my viewing so I can enjoy it for a little bit longer.

Ha.

Top Ten Things I Wanna Say About Sons of Anarchy:

1.  Jackson “Jax” Teller.  If you don’t know why that statement is number 1 on this list, do yourself a favor and take a peek at this dude.  (ok, if you’re a guy, you might not be as excited about this, depending on your sexual orientation)  He’s ridiculously good looking.  Not just that, he’s dead sexy.  Also, the actor who plays Jax is British (or something like that) trying to play a California biker dude — it’s interesting listening.  He mostly nails it, but some stuff is… off.

 

2.  I don’t even really like giant back tattoos, or blondes, or stringy hair or guys who wear lots of big rings (so they can cause more damage when they hit people….) and I would totally do Jax Teller.  In a heartbeat.  No questions asked.

3.  Did you know that if you ever get kicked out of a motorcycle club (read:  violent gang) they peel off your huge gang tattoo?  Or they just kill you.  Honestly it’s best to just not get kicked out.

4.  According to Sons of Anarchy, motorcycle gang dudes hug each other a lot.  Like, they are very loving to one another.  Sometimes they even kiss.

5.  It turns out you can’t just join a motorcycle gang — you’ve got to be, like, an apprentice for a seriously long time and then they might let you join, assuming you survived the apprenticeship.

6.  Motorcycle gang guys take their leather “cuts” very seriously.  Do not fuck with a biker guy’s leather jacket.  FYI.

7.  You should probably not ever touch one of their motorcycles either.

8.  Horrific violence is less horrific if there’s a great soundtrack going on while the violence is happening.  It’s weird.  It becomes more dreamlike and less patently offensive.  Bravo, Sons of Anarchy?

9.  Women who love motorcyle gang dudes are basically fucked.  These guys are constantly up to outlaw stuff, never call home and are surrounded by skanky chicks who wanna have sex with them all the time.  And you’re not really allowed to question anything they do….  Oh, and if they are in jail, you are totally allowed/expected to fuck one of the other motorcycle gang dudes.  I would suck at being an “old lady” to a biker dude.  At least I know that now…..

10.  If you’re gonna be a woman who loves a motorcycle gang dude, fall in love with the head honcho cuz then the other bitches have to show you respect…. Ha!

 

xoxo

kim

p.s.  yes i’m still in puerto morelos and NO, they haven’t arrested the asshole who stole all my shit…. the good news is that i haven’t seen him around town or heard from him so maybe he is really gone.

p.p.s.  my baby boy turned 20 this week.  WTF?

p.p.p.s.  oohhhhhhh, i experienced my first almost-hurricane (Ernesto) — yikes!  i was scared but everything was fine – lots of rain and wind but very manageable.  i am stocked up and ready for the next one though…..

 

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Filed under Oh Mexico..., The Caregiver with the Dragon Tattoo, Writing and Not-Writing

Hello, June 6th. (I’m sobby and stabby and shouldn’t be writing, FYI)

Well hello June 6th.

I’ve been dreading your arrival.

My mind has attached all sorts of meaning to you:

Six months since my sweet mommy died.  Six months of grieving.  Six months of limbo.  Time’s up.  Move on.

Here is what I have to say to my mind:

HA HA HA HA HA…… right.

I thought by now I would have come to terms with things.  I thought the worst would be over.  I thought I would have embraced my own life and pulled it all together.  I thought Mexico would have healed me.

Maybe it’s the PMS talking (ok, it’s more than likely the PMS)(or the Depression, which is an even bigger asshole than the PMS)(together they are a formidable duo of asshole-liar-overly-sensitive-ness) but the worst doesn’t seem to be over.  The worst seems to be right now.  And right now, nothing seems any better than it did six months ago when I kissed my sweet mommy for the last time and watched strangers take her body away and then tried to be the mommy to my own grieving son when all I really wanted was for someone to be the mommy to me.

Truth be told, I still just want someone to be the mommy to me sometimes.  Which is exactly how my mom felt when her mom died.  And then she got sick (way too soon, God) and voila!  I became the mommy to her.  As much as it sucked, I’m glad that she had someone to hold her when the fear and the pain were too much and to tell her everything was going to be ok, even when we both knew it wasn’t.  That is what mommies do.

I miss you mom.  Six months is like 3 minutes and 102 years all wrapped up into one thing.  I would give anything to lay my head on your shoulder and have you stroke my hair and tell me everything is going to be ok.

xoxo

kim

p.s.  If June 6th wanted to do something besides be an asshole-reminder-of-sadness it could give me a new niece/nephew today… JUST A SUGGESTION, JUNE 6TH.

p.p.s.  I’m sobby and stabby and I just want my mom, dammit.  But I guess you knew that….

p.p.p.s.  If you know someone who is being a caregiver, give them a hug and tell them everything is going to be ok.  🙂

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Filed under grief, The Caregiver with the Dragon Tattoo, Uncategorized, Writing and Not-Writing

Another place, another train. RIP MCA. Also, another list!

I am so saddened by the news that Adam Yauch – MCA of the Beastie Boys passed away.

He was my age.

FUCK YOU, CANCER

I’m not going to pretend that I’m any kind of authority or super-fan of the Beastie Boys or Adam Yauch – I’m not.  But some of their music forms the soundtrack of my youth and I still listen to it today when I want to remind myself of what it felt like to be young and vibrant and so alive.  “She’s Crafty” and “No Sleep til Brooklyn” are probably my favorite BB tunes and both rank high on my “most played” iTunes list, with “Intergalactic” close behind.

Heavy sigh.

Anyway.

What else?

Oh, it’s Cinco de Mayo!  Seems like a good time for a list!

FIRST ANNUAL CINCO DE MAYO LIST WRITTEN IN MEXICO, WHERE THEY DON’T REALLY CELEBRATE CINCO DE MAYO EXCEPT IN GRINGO BARS:

1.  It’s Cinco de Mayo and I’m in Mexico.  Which would be way more cool if Cinco de Mayo wasn’t a holiday that the Mexicans make fun of other people for celebrating.  Still.  It’s a holiday in my book….

2.  It’s eleventy-seven million degrees fahrenheit here today.  And it’s not a dry heat.  So instead of beach blogging, I’m bed-blogging with 2 massive fans pointed directly at me.  This is totally drying out my eyes, but making my hair fly around like I’m a supermodel at a photo-shoot, so that is cool.

3.  I could turn on the air conditioner, but then everyone would think I am a total wuss.  Air conditioning is a sensitive issue here, you guys.  For one thing, it’s expensive.  The electric utility here has some bizarre rate system that no one can explain to me, but basically it seems that once you hit a certain point of usage, the cost per unit of usage goes really, really high for the rest of the month.  To get around this, many houses are built with 2 or more electric meters, so that no individual meter hits the dreaded usage level.  My house has 2 meters.  The problem is that (a) I don’t know which meter corresponds with which part of the house (and therefore don’t know which air conditioning units are on which meter) and (b) I have no way of knowing what the dreaded usage level is by looking at the meters.  So that is confusing.

4.  But the real issue is that people judge you on whether or not you can stand the heat.  The thinking seems to be that people who can’t stand the heat are obviously inferior to those that can and also that if you can’t stand the heat, you should probably go the fuck back to where you came from and leave the whole “living in Mexico” thing to the professionals (and the Mexicans).  This seems a little harsh to me– a person who hasn’t adjusted to heat + humidity YET.

5.  Oh – I’m alive!  (No thanks to Typhoid Fever.)  About 5 days into the 10 days of antibiotics I started to feel like I just might make it and now I’m feeling enirely human again.  Yay.

6.  Big changes here at Casa de Colores — I’ve moved myself out of the big suite area in the back of the house and I now have a RENTER….  Weird, right?  It’s kind of a great spot for a renter, though.  It’s pretty much a studio apartment back there with a brand new refrigerator and microwave and a separate entrance, etc.  It’s weird to have someone in the house – especially when I’m used to running around half-nekkid in the god awful heat and to playing my music extremely loud when I’m showering, cleaning, cooking and/or writing.  Which pretty much covers everything I do in this house.  So there’s that.  But it also means that I’m getting a little bit of income to offset the cost of living here.

7.  Which is good, because I’ve decided to live here!

8.  Well, you know, KIND OF.  I’m having a hard time making any kind of firm committment to anything these days, but I’m mostly sure that I’m going to try to live here, like, for real.  At least for most of the year.  I have to go back to Colorado to take care of my stuff, my Mom’s stuff, etc. for at least a few months this summer and then I hope to come back in September/October and to stay through until at least next summer.

9.  I’m still trying to figure out exactly how I’m going to support myself here, but (SPOILER ALERT) it might involve (shhhhh) practicing law again.

10.  OMG – the monsters in my head are having a massive rally against the aforementioned (shhhhh) practicing law again, so I can’t really discuss it now, but YES, I think it is going to happen.

11.  The supporting of myself will also have to include some other stuff because, at least right now, the (shhhh) practicing law again is very, very part-time.  I think the other stuff may involve WRITING for MONEY – just not the kind of writing for money that I dreamed I would be doing, i.e., the best-selling novel kind of writing for money.  Oh no, this kind of writing is more the internet content and/or freelance article writing kind of writing.  Not nearly as glamorous, but more likely to pay actual money sometime before the year 2020.

12.  This is kind of a major announcement (Announcement!).  I probably shouldn’t have buried it in a Cinco de Mayo list.  Whatever.

13.  Have I mentioned that I’m about to be an Aunt again?!!!!  My brother and his wife are expecting their first child in early June!  I’m so excited and I’m also a little bit sad that our artistic genius Mom (with great hair) won’t be here to enjoy this new baby and his/her little tiny twinkle-toe feet.

14.  There’s more, but I can’t tell you about it right now.  Ha!

xoxoxo

kim

p.s.  sometimes i just feel like i’m writing you guys letters instead of “blogging” — is that wrong?  there’s also a lot of pressure (ok, it’s internal pressure, but still…) to be either (a) somewhat profound or (b) funny when i write and sometimes i can’t come up with either of those things.

p.p.s.  a baby!!!!

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Filed under Cancer sucks., Writing and Not-Writing

And now I have Typhoid Fever, practically.

And by “practically”, I mean that I don’t technically have Typhoid Fever, but for a day or two I was pretty sure I had Typhoid Fever and my symptoms are remarkably similar to Typhoid Fever (according to the world wide interweb) so really whether I technically have Typhoid Fever or not is not the point.  I practically have it.

Technically I have a kidney infection.

A really horribly bad kidney infection!  With fevers and chills and fatigue (oh my!) and muscle/joint pain and sick tummy.

I’ve had it for, ummmm, almost three weeks.  But I just went to the Doctor on Friday, naturally.

Why the delay in seeking medical attention?

On account of how I’m not that smart is the answer to that good question.

Let’s see.

Instead of going to the Doctor I spent weeks trying to figure out what was wrong with me by doing two things that are almost never helpful (a) talking (read: complaining) to friends about it and (b) researching medical stuff on the internet.

Here are the medical conditions that I tentatively diagnosed myself with over the past two weeks:

  • Cancer, obviously.
  • Fibromyalgia — the muscle/joint pain was truly horrific and I still might have this….
  • MS — because I’m from Colorado and everyone gets MS in Colorado plus I have some symptoms.
  • Chronic Fatigue Syndrome — I was really really tired.
  • Flu
  • Strep throat — I had a sore throat the first week into this.
  • Menopause — well, pre-menopause — I thought I had that menopause fog + extreme fatigue + I thought I was having hot flashes when it was just a deadly high fever…..  I’m not kidding.
  • Rheumatoid Arthritis — have I mentioned how much my muscles and joints hurt?  A lot.
  • Dengue Fever — actually a friend suggested that I might have this and, of course, after reading about it I was convinced that I totally had it.
  • Malaria — I have none of the symptoms, but it seemed possible since I live in a tropical place.
  • Drug Addiction — because I might have taken a few pain pills that were not prescribed to me.  I was taking them for menstrual cramps.  Which is like amputating your arm because of a scratch – overkill.  Anyway, then I stopped taking them and the horrible muscle/joint pain set in and I was all – Fuck!  Withdrawal symptoms!  Now I know exactly what heroin addicts must feel like when they try to stop!  Which, in hindsight is hilarious and sad.
  • Brain tumor — on account of the incredibly awful and unrelenting headache that lasted for fucking ever.  In fact, it’s back again today after a brief respite.  So the potential brain tumor is still on the table.
  • Depression — Ahhhh, my old friend Depression.  Here’s how I feel when I’m really depressed:  headachey + no energy + body aches and pains + foggy thinking.  And here’s how I’ve felt the past few weeks:  headachey + no energy + excruciating body pain + foggy thinking.  Oh and a HUGE FEVER – which should’ve tipped me off that I wasn’t just reaching a new low in my experience of Depression and it probably would have, if it had occurred to me that I was having a high fever, instead of occurring to me that I was having menopause-related hot flashes.  Also, I’m not even menopausal.
  • Lyme disease — turns out they don’t really have that in my part of Mexico.  STILL – the body pain?
  • Meningitis — the headache was really fucking bad.  And my neck hurt.  And I had a fever.
  • The Plague — don’t laugh.  You can still totally get it.  Just probably not here.

Anyway.

A friend finally got tired of listening to me moan and groan and insisted that I go see a Doctor fortheloveofGod.

And while I was at the Doctor’s office I remembered this little tidbit of (it turns out) crucially important information:  about 3 weeks ago I thought I had a bladder infection, so I took some antibiotics that my Aunt had given me (I know) for three days, after which I concluded that everything was fine…..

The smart Doctor (who appears to be 12, but tells me his son is celebrating his 15th birthday soon) suggests that we do some blood tests and a urinalysis.  And I say “what are you testing for?”  And he says “Dengue Fever, Typhoid Fever [and some other stuff]….”  And I’m all “What?  Typhoid?”  And he was all “Yes, your symptoms are consistent with Typhoid.”  So I went home and researched Typhoid Fever and became 1000000% convinced that I had it.

And I might have made a big deal about it and told my sister about it and made it sound all dramatic.  Not that I had to do much to make it sound dramatic, I mean, you don’t hear “I have Typhoid Fever” a lot.  And then I told some other people who I hoped would feel sorry for me and maybe feel bad that I had been suffering while they were just going about their lives and not calling or writing me.  And that kind of worked on everyone except my fucking sassy, Virgo sister who was all “shut up, you’re not dying right now….”  Which is what I love about her.  And also what pisses me off about her — sometimes I just want a little bit of loving attention.  Is that so wrong?

Imagine my surprise, then, when I went back to get the results of the lab tests and the smart Doctor says that I don’t, in fact, have an exotic tropical disease, but I do have a bad infection and it is most likely in my kidneys.  And also that it is the result of the bladder infection that I didn’t treat properly.  Oopsie.

Color me embarrassed.

And color my sassy, Virgo sister amused.

I started the antibiotics last night.  I can’t say that I feel amazingly better today, but things are looking up.

I haven’t been out of the house yet today, but by God I just wrote a blog post, didn’t I?  🙂

xoxo

kim

p.s.  i don’t really have a p.s., but it’s tradition, so……

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Filed under Uncategorized