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.

I’m having a relationship with an iguana who is pretending to be the Buddha. Or the Buddha is pretending to be the iguana. Either way, it’s weird.

This is the iguana who lives on the wall next to my Mom’s house in Puerto Morelos (a/k/a Casa de Colores).

More specifically, this is his head.

To be honest, I don’t actually know if it is a “he”.   Nor do I even know if  it is really an iguana.

But for now, I’m assuming it is a male iguana.

He’s a total peeping tom (see him staring into my living room window?) but I haven’t named him “Tom”.  In my head, his name is “Sue”.

Probably because when I look at him it seems like he might have a lot of issues, not unlike that guy in the Johnny Cash song “Boy named Sue” (“My name is Sue,  how do you do,  motherfucker….”)(OK, Johnny Cash doesn’t actually say ” motherfucker”, but it’s implied… he was super-pissed.)

He’s always like “yeah, I’m an iguana and this is my wall.  Fuck you, transient human beings.”

It’s totally his wall.

He’s been living there for several years.  Maybe a hundred years, I don’t know.  He seems ageless.

Nothing bothers him.  Nothing alarms him.  He doesn’t react to anything.

I can’t win a staring contest with him.

He’s totally focused.  Zenlike.

He meditates a lot.

It’s like he’s mocking my inability to meditate.

He’s all “Oh, look at that human being flailing around and reacting to shit while I just sit here on my wall in perfect, peaceful silence… clearly she has no spiritual life.”

He’s also some kind of ninja iguana.  I can watch him for HOURS and he doesn’t move a muscle, but then if I blink or look away and then look back all of the sudden he’s got like one little leg up in the air.  Just one little green front leg.  Just holding it there.  Acting as if it had always been that way.  No big deal.

Asshole.

He thinks he’s the Buddha for chrissakes.

I’m sure he’s here to teach me some spiritual lesson.

Because God knows I haven’t had any kind of challenges lately.

And of course he is an IGUANA.

Remember how I went to Portland last spring, to Rally! with Havi?   Havi teaches/talks about iguanas kind of a lot. 

In Havi-world, iguanas are the [stupid, crappy, annoying] things you don’t feel like doing.

I didn’t realize how perfect Havi’s metaphor was until I became more familiar with Sue (the iguana.  not my friend Sue, who I’ve never met in person, but who is totally lovely and not iguana-like at all…) 

Iguanas are prickly (and not in the cute hedgehog way, FYI) and scaly and ugh, not cuddly at all. (No offense to the iguana-lovers out there, if there are any, which I doubt….)  Moreover, they stare you down.  You try to go about your life — la di da — tra la la — and there they are, peeking in your windows, invading your privacy and staring you down.  My iguana, Sue, is not even that big, but I’m still totally intimidated by his unrelenting stare.

(Note:  I just opened my back bedroom door and there he is, staring at me from a new place on the wall…Ack!)

So.

To recap.

• I’ve projected a personality onto this thing that may or may not be an iguana.
• On one hand I feel he’s pretending to be the Buddha (or the Buddha is pretending to be him….see how that works?) and although I think he is kind of judgy in his Buddha-ness, I also think that I could probably learn a lot from him re: mindfulness.
• On the other hand, he represents all the shit I am avoiding (little things like my finances, my career, where I’m going to live…) and all the issues I don’t want to deal with, but can never get away from, because, ummm, they are mine.  So they sit out there and stare at me wherever I go, whatever I do.
• I’m not in therapy right now.

Hmmmm.

It seems the only good news here is that I’m ACTUALLY WRITING.

Woo-hoo!

xoxo

kim

p.s.  The non-memorial party for my sweet mommy was amazing.  I haven’t been able to write about it yet and I’m pretending that is because I haven’t received any of the pictures from the party to post to the blog, but that is probably bullshit.  Maybe I’m just not ready.

p.s.s.  In my defense (ha) I had a house full of guests from last Thursday to this past Thursday and all of that was wonderful and also pretty challenging for someone who recharges by being A-L-O-N-E.  I spent Friday completely cloistered in the casa (which was crazy because it was a ridiculously gorgeous day) and then ended up spending most of yesterday at a committee meeting (yes, there are committees here in paradise!) and then with friends, so this is really the first chunk of time I’ve had to write in awhile.

p.s.s.s.  Actually that is all true and also probably bullshit.  I’m sure I could’ve taken some time to write if I really wanted to.  I mean, if  I want my job to be “writer”, then it seems perfectly acceptable to say “hey, I need to go write for awhile” to guests/friends.  Maybe I don’t want my job to be “writer”?  Ugh and Heavy Sigh.

Antidepressants: Eleventyseven billion dollars. Cheap Sparkly Bangle Bracelets: Priceless.

 

This post has taken me forever to write.

 

Like, at least four hours yesterday and almost three today.  And I just scrapped my entire last draft.

 

All I’m trying to say is that, despite the fact that I’m terrified that I’m never going to earn actual “income” again, I frivolously spent $9.50 (+ tax) on sparkly bangle bracelets yesterday. 

 

A whole stack of them.  All for me. 

 

And I think they are beautiful.

 

Sparkly greens, sparkly pinks, sparkly oranges, shiny silk coral thread with gold sparklies and probably my favorite one is made entirely of moss green silk thread. 

 

And here’s the thing:

 

They make me happy.

These silly bangles are so sweet/shiny/sparkly/tiny and they sound all “tinkle-tinkle” when I move my arm (normally this would annoy the shit out of me, but not today!) and also they are all “Sparklesurprise!” when I happen to see them out of the corner of my eye.

I fucking love these sparkly bangles. 

I love the way the way they slip around on my forearm, playfully reminding me that I’m a girly-girl at heart. 

I love that they make me think (or maybe remember) that I can be the kind of girl who doesn’t think twice about wearing 14 cheap sparkly bangles on a regular-old-Tuesday in July. 

Mostly I love that looking at these sparkly bangles on my wrist reminds me that, at least for today, I am the kind of girl who (a) has some sparkle and, (b) is not afraid to show it.

Today I am celebrating every hint of sparkle that comes from me (via sparkly bangle or otherwise).  Each little sliver of sparkle reflects a part of me that had to fight like hell through the doom doom doom of depression to even find a little light to reflect.  

I’ve spent like eleventyseven billion dollars over the past 15 years on antidepressants and not one of them ever made me feel as good as these cheap sparkly bangle bracelets.

Alive.  Playful.  Amused.  Grateful.  Curious.  Confident.  Silly.  Sexy.  Girly.  Happy.

These sparkly bangles are priceless.

 

xoxoxoxoxo

kim

Sometimes I wish I were related to someone who knew something about art or design, so they could just design this fucking blog.

I know what you’re thinking…

“Who doesn’t wish they were related to someone who knew something about art and/or design, Kim?  No one, that’s who.”

Or, if you know me, you might be thinking:

“Ummmm, aren’t you always talking shit about your artistic genius mom (with great hair) who, like, uses her fancy MacBook to design amazing stuff all the time (when she isn’t actually painting stuff/making collages/making jewelry/bedazzling everything) and therefore is very familiar with design software and using it to make cool shit?

And you would be right! 

I am always talking shit about how creative and fabulous she is and it’s true that she uses design software in her sleep to create pictures and posters and prints and calendars and pretty much anything you can imagine.

Huh.

You might also be thinking:

“And aren’t you always going on and on, ad nauseum, about how your brother is rich and famous and a brilliant entrepreneur, but more importantly a kick-ass graphic designer who has tons of experience with website design and a finely tuned sense of knowing what it is that other people are going to think is cool long before the other people have any clue?”

Yes, I do that too!  He’s also an internationally famous kick-ass DJ, dontcha know.

Anyway.

All that is true.

And that makes me wonder why my blog design isn’t (a) done and (b) extremely cool and culturally relevant.

Oh sure, my Mom has that whole “ovarian cancer” excuse (also affectionately known as the “C-card”) to explain why she hasn’t been slaving away on creating some fabulous art for my blog and/or teaching me how to do stuff on the design software. 

And I guess my brother is just too insanely busy being the boss at his design firm* and/or hob-nobbing with celebrities and/or having a life, to create a fabulous online presence for me.

I don’t really know, because I haven’t actually asked either of them to help, directly. 

And, unfortunately,  I may have said something like “DON’T BOSS MY ART!” when my Mom “offered a suggestion” (read: told me that I doing something WRONG, according to her) on my first theme.  This, in hindsight, maybe wasn’t exactly the right response.  What I should have said is “DON’T BOSS MY ART, please” and “maybe you can show me how to use your fancy-pants graphics stuff on your computer some day and then you can be all gloaty about how superior your MacBook is and I can be all “I’m my own artist, thankyouverymuch.”

Win-win, mamacita.

When I started this post, I really just intended to address the elephant in the room, i.e., my ever-changing theme so you wouldn’t think one or both of these things (a) “Am I going nuts?  This theme was totally different 15 minutes ago.” or (b)  “Is Kim going (more) nuts?  This theme was totally different 15 minutes ago.”

And then it turned into wanting to reassure you that neither of us is (completely) nuts AND, I guess, to shame my Mom and brother into helping me.  I mean, you would think that they would be kind of embarrassed about the bad graphic design going on here. 

I know I am and I’ve never even come close to being an award-winning graphic designer, Jonas.

And that is when I realized that I’m passive-aggressive.  Sometimes.  Especially with the people I love the most and/or when the topic is something I’m feeling particularly vulnerable about.

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK.

I hate when I have uncomfortable epiphanies while doing something totally benign, like just trying to get SOMETHING posted on my blog, for the love of Gawd.

Insightfulness is not as easy as it looks, people.

xoxo

kim

p.s.  YES!  That “Don’t Boss My Art” picture is something my artistic genius mother (with fabulous hair) just doodled in her journal one day, while recovering from brain surgery. Art just oozes out of her when she isn’t even trying.  When she is trying, it shoots out like water out of a high-pressure firehose, except with more bling and bedazzle.  Anyway, her name is Marguerite, and she owns that art so don’t use it without her permission, or else.

*Ok, Mom says Factory is not some two-bit “design firm”, and she’s offended with how I’ve referred to it.  She’s right, of course,  Factory Design Labs is like a huge bazillion dollar a year full-service advertising agency that represents little brands like, oh, I don’t know, “The North Face” and “Audi” and “Oakley”, to name a few.  What Mom doesn’t understand, since she isn’t a famous blogger, is that I was trying to make it seems like all my brother does all the time is graphic design/web design/whatever it takes to make it seem like it would be super-easy for him to just fucking design this blog in his spare time.  That’s all.  I am fully aware that Factory is a big-ass deal.

 

 

 

My Depression has a first name…. it’s O-S-C-A-R.

If you have no idea why my headline is super-catchy, you aren’t old enough to be reading my blog and/or you’re anti-American.*

Anyway.

I’ve decided to get up close and personal with my Depression.  Turns out  it’s name is “Oscar”, and he is a beast.

A Dreadifuss Beast.

From now on all my monsters shall be known as Dreadifuss Beasties, unless they prove themselves to be something else entirely.  Which is unlikely, because they suck.

Oscar the Dreadifuss Beast and I are communing with nature this weekend.  Yes, we are on retreat!  At this very moment I am sitting in a yellow plastic Adirondack chair (except it is plastic, which means, by definition, it’s not an Adirondack chair…) approximately 4 feet away from the Big Thompson River and about a mile away from the entrance to the Rocky Mountain National Park.**  And I am blogging…. God I love wi-fi.  And the internet.

It is gorgeous here.  The river is running really high, which is a little scary, but that also means it’s really loud, which I love.  It almost drowns out Oscar’s voice-o-doom….

but not quite….

Oscar:  “I fucking hate nature.  I want to go back home and straight into our bedroom and under the covers.  Plus there are people here and they want to chat.  Let’s go home, can’t we just go home now?”

Me:  “I love it here, but you are totally welcome to leave at any time.  I don’t even understand how it is possible for you to exist when I’m in such a lovely, peaceful place.”

Oscar:  “Nice try.  I’m not leaving you now, or ever, for that matter.  You should know that by now.  If years of medication and therapy hasn’t worked to get rid of me, a little sunshine and communing with nature is sure as hell not going to motivate me to go anywhere.  That is just crazy thinking, Kim.  We need to go home.”

Me:  “How ironic that you accuse me of  “crazy thinking”….. You ARE crazy thinking!  AARRGGH!  I hate you.  I don’t want you to be part of me.  I hate everything about you.  You’ve stolen so much of my life that I can never get back, I’m not letting you steal this experience.  We’re staying.”

Oscar:  “Interesting.  If you had paid any attention to any of the obsessive reading you’ve been doing about depression, you would know that I am not just “crazy thinking”, I am an actual brain disorder, a physical problem with the structure of your actual brain and I would appreciate it if you would keep that in mind.  Furthermore,  I hate you too. 

 I haven’t stolen anything from you — what did you have to steal?  You’re fat and lazy and incompetent, a really bad mother (and sister and daughter, and auntie, and, sweet mother of JESUS, did you ever suck as a wife) you’re horrible with money, a slob (borderline hoarder) and I don’t know how you ever had a job or a relationship.  You’re a fraud.  You don’t even deserve to be here, in this beautiful place.  For one thing, you have no income. You can’t afford to “take a break” and you really don’t need one.   A break from what?  Unemployment?  A break from not taking care of the shit you should be taking care of?  A break from reality TV?  Maybe the world needs a break from you and your awfulness.”

Me:  “Wow.  You’re going easy on me today…”

Oscar:  “Well.  I don’t want people to think I”m a total dick.”

Me:  (snort/laugh) “Right.  It’s important to protect your image.  Obviously I don’t want people to think my mental illness sucks, because that would just reflect badly on me.”

Oscar:  “Exactly.  Just one more thing about you that sucks.  By the way,  have you noticed how old you look?”

Me:  “What?  Where did that come from?”

Oscar:  “Are you not seeing your reflection on the computer screen?  That old woman with the stupid hat on and multiple chins is you.  Gross!  We need to go inside immediately, I think you are scaring nature.”

Me:  “Oh.  I do see more than one chin.  Thanks for pointing it out, asshole….  Anyway – I doubt I am offending nature, Oscar.  Have you ever seen a platypus?  Or one of those monkeys with it’s butt hanging out all red and bare naked?  Nature loves that shit.”

Oscar:  “Yet you disgust her.  Let’s go go go go go away and save nature from your presence.”

Me:  “I’m starting to notice the incredible lengths you will go to in order to convince me that I’m awful and useless.  It’s kind of embarrassing when I see it in black and white on the page.  I think maybe I am not as bad as you say that I am.  I think maybe I’m starting to be done with you.  I would like to know what life could be like if you were properly managed.  I would love it if I could see what life would be like with a different — dare I say “healthy” — brain, but I don’t think my insurance will cover a brain transplant, plus, ewwwww.”

Oscar:  “You are awful and useless.  You say you want to “manage” me, but you’re  just going to stop taking the antidepressants?  AWESOME.  That gives me even more room to work my magic….  What an idiot.  Honestly.  Don’t you know that going off meds is crazy?  Are you smarter than your psychiatrist now?  What a joke.  What next?  Are you just going to sit by a river and expect that to “manage” me?  OH, maybe you’ll take up praying too.  That would be super-effective….NOT.”

Me:  “No.  I’m not going to just sit by a river and hope I get better.  I have A PLAN, Oscar.  And I’m not ruling out medication.  I’m just trying to see where my “baseline” is without it and I don’t think that is totally crazy.  I realize that is exactly what crazy people probably say when they stop taking meds, but still, I don’t think it’s that crazy for me.  I guess we will find out.  And guess what else, smarty-mcfuckpants…. I think I will take up praying (in some form that probably looks a lot like meditation or soul writing) and I think it just might help.  It can’t hurt.”

Oscar:  “If there is a “GOD”, which I doubt, why would he/she/it help you?  What have you ever done to deserve help from God?”

Me:  “I was born, Oscar.  Turns out that is enough.  I am worthy and deserving just the way I am, and I always have been.  Bet you never thought I would figure that out.”

Oscar:  (almost speechless with shock….)  “What?  Where did you hear that?  Someone is blowing sunshine up your ass, sweetheart.  You are the definition of “not worthy.”

Me:  “Yes.  You’re right.  Jesus has been blowing sunshine up my ass.  I was hoping no one would notice, but nothing gets past you, Oscar.”

Oscar:  “That’s disgusting.  And sacrilegious.  Now you are even more not worthy.”

Me:    “It was a joke, Oscar.  I would never let Jesus near my ass.“

And that is how things are going with Oscar and I today.  It’s super fun.

Time for a nap…. OUTSIDE.  In nature, dammit.

xoxo

kim

*  Or maybe you just didn’t grow up here.  Or maybe you grew up here, but didn’t have a TV or radio, which seems unlikely.  How could you not know the jingle “My bologna has a first name, it’s O-S-C-A-R, my bologna has a second name, it’s M-A-Y-E-R, I love to eat it every day and if you ask me why I’ll say…… cuz Oscar Mayer has a way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A.  🙂

**  I’m staying at “Idlewilde on the River” (www.idlewilde.net) outside Estes Park, otherwise known as heaven on earth.

On a lighter note, I’m an eccentric creative genius, probably.

One thing I do when I’m not doing anything because I’m so fucking depressed is roam around the world-wide interweb.

Mostly because I fancy myself  a brilliant researcher and, apparently, a Doctor. [Note:  I mean, technically, I am  – cuz I’m a  juris doctor, yo + I am pretty good at researching shit.]  So I’m pretty sure I can figure out what is wrong with me and then get the real doctors to fix me.  Granted, this has led me down a few rabbit holes.  For example, I’m kind of an expert on Cushing’s Disease now.  Turns out I don’t have it, but I can diagnose it in other people.  I know a lot about iodine deficiency (thank you, commenter!) and iron deficiency and adrenal exhaustion (which I totally have, fyi…) and early-onset dementia and Crohn’s disease and IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) and the Specific Carbohydrate Diet and mercury poisoning and autism and diabetes and Metabolic Syndrome and yeast issues and gluten intolerance and why I should probably be a vegetarian and stop drinking Diet Coke.

I know all of this because I really, really want there to be a reason for my depression that isn’t Mental Illness.  And there probably are some physical things contributing to my fatigue/exhaustion/inability to concentrate because, frankly, I haven’t taken care of myself.  (I’ve never been good at the self-care thing, but the past few years since Mom’s ovarian cancer diagnosis have been the worst)  But it’s all so circular — the physical problems contribute to depression and the depression makes it difficult to impossible for me to take care of myself, which leads to more physical problems, and, well, depression.  And guilt.  Because, of course, everyone knows things like “diet” and “exercise” and “leaving the house” are “healthy”, including me.

Anyway, I do a lot of research…. but I haven’t found a physical ailment that seems to explain away my depression.  Heavy sigh.

I realize that, objectively, I actually have good reason to be depressed –  I live with my brilliant artistic mother (with great hair) who is fighting ovarian cancer which means all that shit is coming up for me + I’m going to be an orphan, my grandma (who was like my best friend) died less than a year ago, my other grandma (who was like my Mom’s best friend) died right before my Mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, I have no job and rapidly diminishing funds and my son just graduated from high school — which is not depressing, but it is a major life change and therefore an issue.

But this isn’t my first depression-rodeo.

Consequently, I know that, while those things suck and are sad and scary, all of that is distinct from the depression with a capital “D” that drains the life force right out of me. [Note:  I’m feeling somewhat dramatic today.]  Depression with a capital “D” is not related to anything outside my brain, it just is.  And it has been here before.  Sometimes (when I’m depressed, of course) I think that depression is my “normal” state and that the times in my life when I’ve been stable and happy/content are the exception to the norm, and, therefore, something to be concerned about.

So, essentially, I’m like Eeyore with a law degree and PMS….

“Good morning, Pooh Bear,” said Eeyore gloomily. “If it is a good morning,” he said. “Which I doubt,” said he.

“Why, what’s the matter?” “Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can’t all, and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.”

“Can’t all what?” said Pooh, rubbing his nose. “Gaiety. Song-and-dance.  Here we go round the mulberry bush.”

Just kidding.  I don’t think Eeyore suffered from Depression.  I think he was a gloomy, sarcastic pessimist (with a pink bow on his tail!), but not clinically depressed.  More melancholy-ish.

So, I’m like Eeyore, except more Depressed.

Oh, joy.

On a lighter note, it is statistically likely that Eeyore and I are eccentric creative genius-es…

Yes.  The internet told me that there a remarkable correlation between depression/melancholy and Creative Genius.  There is a really high correlation between bi-polar disorder (which I may or may not have, depending on which doctor you speak to…) and super creative writers, artists, poets,  composers, etc.  But, really, any mental illness will work.  For example, it turns out schizophrenia is a good thing to have if you’re a mathematician. (Personally, I question who in their right mind would choose to even be a mathematician, but that is beside the point and, well, schizophrenics, apparently…)  And we can see what depression did for Michelangelo…(yep, totally depressed while painting the Sistine Chapel). 

Hemingway, Plath, Poe, Tolstoy, Vonnegut = super depressed.  Even Charles Schulz (Charlie Brown!) suffered from clinical depression.

I am not even going to try to summarize the scientific studies that have uncovered the link between Mental Illness and Creative Genius, but, basically, it has something to do with how our brains work  (“we” being human beings, not “we” Creative Genius-es) and how we process stimuli.  Non-linear thinking and emotional vulnerability.  Neurotransmitters.  Stuff like that…

So.  Maybe I haven’t really been avoiding my Brilliant Writing Career, I just haven’t been depressed enough to be inspired?

Well, watch out world, because this Depression is a doozy and might unleash my Creative Genius, finally. 🙂

It’s a theory.

xoxo,

kim

p.s.  I found out that “doozy” is a real word, weird, huh?

Book of Me: On Doom, Gloom and Utter Depression

I’ve had almost a full week of Doom, Gloom and Utter Depression.  I pulled out of it for an hour or two here and there, but mostly I’ve been right down in it.  Unfortunately this is not a rare occurrence for me.  I’ve struggled with anxiety/depression for as long as I can remember.  So, of course, my “story” is that I struggle with anxiety/depression…  I’m going to work on changing that story, but not today.  Today I want to write to the Me who is enmeshed in Doom, Gloom and Utter Depression.

Doomy, Gloomy and Utterly Depressed?  Read this!!

Oh sweet pea, I’m sorry you’re having a Hard Time.  If you’re reading this you’re probably just starting to feel the slide into the muck, or, maybe you are all the way in it.  I know it is hard and scary and exhausting and makes you feel hollow and horrible and that is before you start beating yourself up about feeling that way.

Here are some things to remember:

• No matter how horrible this feels today, it isn’t going to last forever.  I promise.  It just doesn’t work that way.  You will pull out of this and come out on the other side where things look a bit brighter.
• Beating yourself up for having these feelings seems “appropriate” (“Other people don’t have this problem, what is wrong with me?  Snap out of it!”) but totally isn’t.  Would you attack someone else who is struggling with depression/anxiety/whatever?  No, you wouldn’t.  Try to give yourself an ounce of the compassion that you give others.
• Sometimes this stuff is really just bio-chemical and sometimes it is really, truly emotional and it helps when you figure out what exactly is going on this time.  Because if it is just bio-chemical, you could look at whether something has changed in your medications/sleep schedule/environment that could be causing this Hard Time.  If it is truly emotional, though, no amount of medication/sleep/alcohol/sex/reading/internet use is going to “fix” anything.  You’re going to need to feel the feelings (I know, I know, it sucks….) before things will start to get better. 
• It is important to feel your feelings without judging yourself for having them.  What good does that do?  Really, drop the judgement and feel the feelings.  You have permission.
• If you still don’t think you have permission to feel your feelings, no matter what they are, then try giving yourself written permission – maybe on a popsicle stick or sticky note.
• If you are isolating (and I know you pretty well, so I’m guessing you are isolating yourself) consider not doing that.  Who could you hang out with safely?  Who do you know who wouldn’t judge you, tell you to snap out of it, make you explain yourself or be super perky?  Find that person.
• Honey, are you avoiding some Big, Bad Awful Thing that you Don’t Want To Do and/or Even Think About Because It Is Too Big Bad and Awful?  (And beating yourself up for avoiding it?) (Thereby making it Even Worse?)  This would not be unprecedented…If you think this might be what is going on, you might want to try to write about it, draw it in all of it’s ugliness and awfulness so you can get a handle on it, try to break it down into itty-bitty bite-sized pieces, imagine how you will feel when it is done already (!) and off your mind.  Things are rarely as Big, Bad and Awful as they seem to be.
• Remember this is Now, not Then.  What is different about Now?

These things sometime work to make things feel less awful:

• Seek out sunshine (are you taking your Vitamin D?)
• Listen to music that makes you happy.
• Cry.  Aggressively.
• Watch the Jessica videos (“I Like My Stuff!” and “You ok, you fine”)
• Take a bubble bath.
• Go for a walk.  Yes, I’m suggesting that you leave the house….
• Get the mail.
• Call your sassy, virgo sister.
• Scream and yell and cuss for a few minutes.
• Write.  I know you don’t feel like writing, write anyway.  Dude, it always helps.
• Do laundry.
• Take yourself to a movie.
• Read some Hafiz.
• Locate and consume chocolate.
• Take a nap.  For real.
• Do just one thing.

And, Kim, remember that it is okay.  It really is.  Everything is part of everything else, nothing is wasted.

THE END

Sooooooooooooooo, as I wrote this I realized that I have a multitude of things going on this week that might explain my Doom, Gloom and Utter Depression.  First, physical stuff:  Hormone Hell + no anti-depressant for 4 days + not sleeping.  Always a recipe for disaster.  Emotionally:  well, Mom is out of town, so I’m alone in my house which is both awesome and sad because it makes me think of a time when she won’t ever be around.  And I’m avoiding at least two Big Bad Awful Things that I really need to address, but can’t even bring myself to name here.  And my son is going to college soon….?  And Mom’s good friend Joan died.  Which is sad for all the regular reasons but also horrifying because Joan had cancer, then she went into remission, then this winter she got a brain tumor, had surgery, felt better and now she has passed away.  It’s all a little too close to home.  And Mom is so, so sad…. So, yes, I’m SAD, dammit!  And Mom has her MRI next week and I’m SCARED, dammit.  I’m afraid to make any plans whatsoever because I don’t know what is going to happen — either she has more brain mets and has to have Gamma Knife again (and then what?) or she doesn’t and she either gets into a Clinical Trial (long-shot) or goes back to chemotherapy (which makes her feel like shit.)  And, of course, there is the little issue of what I’m doing with my life….?  Oh, and our lease will be up here soon and we haven’t decided whether we are moving, so, basically, everything is up in the air.  And I hate moving.  Anyway.  It’s a lot.

I’m going on a mission for chocolate.

xoxo

kim

The Book of Me: Notes On When You Are All “What Should I Do?”

Remember when I went to Portland for the Rally (Rally!) in March and flailed around in unproductive whininess and self-pity and didn’t notice that I was, in fact, doing serious “work” on my “self” and then I came back and a few days later figured out my thing?

That was cool.

I learned a lot about a lot of stuff at Rally (Rally!) and, especially, a lot about what I don’t know a lot about.  Which, it turns out, is a LOT more than one would imagine given my advanced age and years of therapeutic interventions.

Except what I really learned is that most, if not all, of what I absolutely need to know is already here, inside me. 

The truth is that when I’m struggling to make the “right” decision about something — which generally involves all kinds of churning and worrying and angst-ing and more worry —  I’m wasting energy + increasing the risk of coming to the exact wrong decision.  The trick is clearing away all of the crap and noise that has accumulated over the years so I can get to, and hear, what I already know to be true for me.

The sucky thing is that I have “learned” this little trick over and over and over again and, when the need arises, I can totally tell someone else how to do it, and then I forget it again.  So, this time I’m putting some Important Notes About This in the Book of Me, in purple magic marker, and with glitter, for emphasis.

WHEN YOU ARE ALL “WHAT SHOULD I DO?”  READ THIS:

Oh, sweet pea…

Here you are again.  Struggling.

I have really good news for you!  You can stop struggling right this minute.  Yes, now.

Struggling and churning and angst-ing are only good for one thing:  Putting You On Notice.

It’s true.

When you are struggling, churning and/or angst-ing it’s a super-big clue that you are not listening for what is inside.  And what is inside is the answer.  The way to peace.

It’s not woo-woo, it is just the truth.

(and, therefore, woo-hoo!)

(sorry, couldn’t resist…)

Here are a few things to remember in times like these:

• There are no right answers, there are choices with different consequences.
• You’ve made a hundred-gazillion-plus choices in your life and the vast majority of them were good!
• The less-good, arguably bad, choices were learning experiences and you’re a pretty good learner.
• The more uncomfortable and angsty you are about a choice, the more likely it is that you absolutely know what to do.
• Almost nothing is black or white, this or that, now or never…. look for the compromise solution.
• Make absolutely sure that you are making choices based on things as they are Now and not confusing things with Then.
• Write about it!  Writing always helps.  Seriously.  Write already.
• Are you reacting or choosing??  Reacting = usually bad!  Choosing = usually good!
• If one thing doesn’t work out, another thing will.  It is the nature of things.
• Are you asking other people what you should do?  You are, aren’t you…  Just Stop.
• You are the expert on you.  Be still and listen.
• Sometimes it just won’t be clear, choose to do the next right thing and eventually the answer will come.
• Usually you know.  Remember “alignment” and “congruence” and trust yourself.

Also, it always helps to read this essay (or anything else)(but most of all this one) by Mark Nepo:

Each person is born with an unencumbered spot, free of expectation and regret, free of ambition and embarrassment, free of fear and worry; an umbilical spot of grace where we were each first touched by God. It is this spot of grace that issues peace. Psychologists call this spot the Psyche, Theologians call it the Soul, Jung calls it the Seat of the Unconscious, Hindu masters call it Atman, Buddhists call it Dharma, Rilke calls it Inwardness, Sufis call it Qalb, and Jesus calls it the Center of our Love.

To know this spot of Inwardness is to know who we are, not by surface markers of identity, not by where we work or what we wear or how we like to be addressed, but by feeling our place in relation to the Infinite and by inhabiting it. This is a hard lifelong task, for the nature of becoming is a constant filming over of where we begin, while the nature of being is a constant erosion of what is not essential. Each of us lives in the midst of this ongoing tension, growing tarnished or covered over, only to be worn back to that incorruptible spot of grace at our core.

(Emphasis added.)

See, sweetie, everyone lives in this tension.  You know you have this spot of grace.  You’ve been there.  The illusion you tend to believe is that you are disconnected from it and you have to look outside yourself to find it again.  Then you start to panic and churn, like a panicked diver waving frantically for help on a choppy surface.  Using all your energy fighting the surface when just below there is calmness and peace and quiet and strength.

You have what you need, Kim.  Stop struggling.  Listen for your answer.

xoxo,

kim

photo: http://www.flickr.com/x/t/0091009/photos/coyote23/4107287660/

very bad no good under the covers day(s)

I had a very bad no good hide under the covers day on Sunday.  Literally.  I came out from under the covers for about three hours in the middle of the day.  I had been looking forward to meeting a friend to see a movie, so I showered (woo-hoo!), went to get my glasses fixed, got some more bad news re: Mom, went directly to bed and cancelled the movie plans.

Monday wasn’t much better.  Maybe a smidge.  I got to raise my voice at a nice but naive and uninformed new Doctor and then fall apart in a spectacularly public way which resulted in me getting what I wanted, so I can’t say it was all bad.  It was just mostly bad.  The only thing that got me through the day was looking forward to crawling back under my covers as soon as I got home.

Yesterday my fabulous, genius, creative Mom with great hair (even after brain surgery) came home from the Dreaded Hospital which should’ve been cause for super-sparkly-celebration and it kind of was, but I was ready to get back to my hiding spot under the covers around 6:30 p.m. — maybe earlier.

In theory, hiding under the covers is a good idea — safe, alone, protected, warm.  Unless you are me and you have monsters. 

There is a Monster Rumpus under my covers.

It is anything but quiet under my covers.  The little beasts are screaming for attention and feeding off one another and probably eating a LOT of sugar and washing it down with espresso.  Their eyes are huge and panicked and some are actually crying.  They look like they haven’t slept in days, maybe weeks.  And, unfortunately, they are starting to smell.

It sounds a lot like this:

AARRGGHH! Mom can’t come home, how will you take care of her?  You’re all alone!  No one will help, they say they will but then they don’t and it will be just youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.  Why does anyone think you can do this?  Why do they think you are strong and brave?  You’re NOT.  You’ve never been those things, why should it start now?  And what about money??!!  If you take care of Mom you won’t be making money and then she will die and then where will you be?  Homelessssssssssssssss.  Homelessssssss!  Such a failure.  You had such potential….. Disappointment=you!  What if you get super annoyed by Mom and you are mean to her!  She’s dying and you are a horrible, selfish, bitch and everyone will know it.  This is just the beginning of the end and you will have NO LIFE until this dying thing is over and then what?  Then you still have no life because you will be depressed.  How can you even think about your silly life when Mom is going through all this?  Overwhelmed!  Sadness!  Nothing will be good ever again, or at least for such a long time that you will be super old AND probably get ovarian cancer, so it just won’t be good.  And do you think your one child is going to take care of you when you get sick?  He needs to have his life.  You don’t want to be a burden on him, but you will be an orphan and sick and all alone.  You will probably live in one of those homes where sad, sick, old people live and no one will remember you.  And you will still owe money for student loans!  LOSER!  Good thing you got married so many times before because you are never ever going to find anyone to love now.  Who would want to spend time with someone who is going through this nightmare with her mother, much less get involved?  And when this nightmare is over you will be even closer to (or god forbid over) 50, FIFTY!  You think you’re going to find love and companionship when you’re so old? You probably won’t even be able to find casual sex!  Sadness!  Fear!  Overwhelm! And don’t forget you probably have to move out of this house that Mom had to have and you have to do it all alone.  And the house is huge, you will never be able to get it done and where will you live?? Doom!  Doom!

Ya, it sounds like that, but much, much worse.

I’m not sure why it has taken me this long to realize that the monsters have all but ruined my under the covers experiences and, more importantly, that I have the power to reclaim the safety and protection of under the covers anytime I want.

Which is now.

Me:  (with bullhorn – the pink one) “QUIET!  I want to talk to the Loudest Monster right NOW.  Everyone else will be quiet.”

(lots of whispering and squealing and shoving and jockeying for position until an altogether beige and dreary looking, droopy monster with sad eyes makes it’s way to the front of the pack and says….)

Monster:  (heavy sigh) “What do you want?  I’m really very busy right now and would appreciate it if you could refrain from interrupting me when I’m working.”

Me:  (momentarily speechless…)  “Excuse me? You and your band of doom and gloom and all things awful are driving me CRAZY.  What is this all about?”

Monster:  “You are our person.  We are trying to protect you.  As usual…”

Me:  “By depriving me of a safe space and convincing me that I am useless, a disappointment and powerless and nothing ever works out?”

Monster:  “And reminding you that you are alone, you are just one person and this situation with your Mom is too much for you to handle.”

Me:  (chest feels heavy, sadness)  “I can see why, when I was much younger and things were truly out of my control, you believed that you had to protect me this way.  Thank you.  But that was Then and this is Now, I’ve changed and you haven’t.  It makes me sad to think about how long I’ve listened to you and believed you, even in the face of evidence that none of what you say is even true.”

Monster:   (defensive) “What do you mean it isn’t true?  Of course it is.  Look at your history.  I, we, love you, but you have made some bad decisions and you are, in fact, all alone.”

Me:  (again with the sad…)  “You guys really do only live in the Then, don’t you?  You must be really tired dealing with all of the crises that you create.  I think we need to come up with a better strategy.  I would like to just get rid of you altogether, but that would make you sad, plus it is totally unrealistic.  On some level you must be helpful, right?  Or maybe not.  I don’t know, but I do know that I just need you to quiet down.  What will it take to make that happen?

Monster:  “We are tired.  Maybe if you didn’t wait until you were under the covers to acknowledge our existence and we felt “heard” we could relax a bit.  Maybe even take a nap or have some quiet time.”

Me:  (indigant)  “I am pretty fucking good at acknowledging my fears – out loud – so I’m shocked when you say you don’t feel “heard” — do I have to be freaked out and overwhelmed and bawling before you feel heard?  That is bullshit.  Now I’m pissed. You don’t just want me to acknowledge you, you want me to buy into you.“

Monster:  “Of course we want you to buy into us, duh.  How else could we control — oops, I mean protect you.”

Me:  “This discussion is not going the way I had imagined.  I thought I needed to embrace you and try to acknowledge you and I was prepared to try to do that, but I don’t think you care about me at all, so why should I even bother with you?  I can handle some fear and sadness, I know they will always be part of my experience, but this whole monster-palooza in my head and taking over my life needs to be over.  The party is over.  Pack up your shit and get out.  This past few days of misery were your last hurrah.”

(monster panic ensues “nooooooo, you neeeeeed us!” and “but, but, but…!” and “you will never survive without us!” and squeaking and whining and crying and stomping of feet…)

Monster:  “Interesting.  You can make us leave, but we will be back.  You don’t even know how to do life without us.”

Me:  “Whatever.  I am totally onto you guys now.  You may be back, but you will never have the same power over me and your visits will be much shorter and less fucking painful.  Maybe you should re-evaluate your process and see if you can, in fact, find a way to be helpful and protective.”

Monster:  “Oh ya?  You’re still all alone.”

Me:  “Except for the fact that I’m not.” and “Fuck you.”

THE END

Wow.  That didn’t go the way I thought it would.  I’m a little riled up and pissed off at those monsters.  And at me for listening to them.  Oh well, live and learn, right?  I think they will be less of a problem from now on.

Mom is home and it isn’t as awful and scary and doom and gloom as I imagined it would be.  She is really happy to be here and is getting around really well, even tho our house is almost entirely stairs.  Thanks for all the support and love and telling me I’m not the worst person ever to walk the face of the earth.

xoxo

kim

 

 

 

 

The Book of Me: Notes on Hospitals and Horribleness

I love instruction manuals and user’s guides.  If a spatula came with an instruction manual, I would probably read it before attempting to use it.  I guess that is not really a surprise, since a spatula is kitchen-related and therefore alien to me. 

A better example:  In an attempt to trigger some creativity, I recently purchased some oil pastel crayon-thingies.  After analyzing every set of oil pastels that Hobby Lobby carries and asking a clerk to recommend a good starter set….  You would have thought I was buying a house, or maybe a vacuum cleaner, not amateur art supplies.  After completing my purchase, I rushed home so I could read the directions and, only after reading the directions carefully, I tentatively started to do something which can only be described as “coloring.”

Epiphany:  Oh. My. God.  I, Kim Tempel, am as anal and perfectionistic as they come.  Almost Virgo anal.

That noise you hear is all my Virgo friends shaking their heads and muttering, in horror, “She is nothing like Us, has she even heard of Consumer Reports?”

Relax.  I said almost Virgo anal.

The other noise you hear is lots of other people who know me, and/or had the pleasure of working with me saying “Duh” or, in the alternative, “She is the least perfectionist person I’ve ever met, is she on drugs?” — depending on what portion of my life they were exposed to.

But I digress, the point is that I love instruction manuals.

So, I’m wondering, why don’t I have one for the one thing that I am most familiar with (when I pay attention), i.e., ME?  I do keep journals (ok, sporadically) but I rarely go back through them to glean useful information.  And I don’t want to start doing that because I know that would change how and what I write, which would defeat the whole purpose of journalling.

But it would be nice to have a record of some ME information available for reference.  Havi Brooks, The Fluent Self, uses a “Book of Me” approach wherein you actually write stuff down, instead of thinking (as I do) the following: “This experience/lesson/event is so important/meaningful/awful in every way that I will never ever do it again/forget it.”  Until the next time, when I forget it/do it again.

Havi suggests putting in both the practical things, which for her are things like, “I feel better when I don’t eat sugar.” — kind of  “care and feeding” stuff — as well as bigger, emotional-type things “Dinner parties always sound fun.  They never are.  Don’t go.” 

I’m going to start one.  I think it will be useful to have more than a vague feeling of “hmmmm, this sounds good, but I have this feeling that it might be a mistake…” to guide myself.  When I’m feeling confused/pressured/unsure, I can look to the Book of Me for assistance.  “Oh, here it is, in writing, I’ve done this before and it was, in fact, a mistake.  I can take that option off the table. Whew.”

The Book of Me will always be evolving, so I think it would be best to use a 3-ring binder (a really fun 3-ring binder that I have to get to buy!) and, of course, fun paper and markers.  Maybe glitter glue.

If I had already started my Book of Me, I wouldn’t be crashed in bed today, unable to even think about the Hospital.

Yes.  I did what I said I would never do again the last time my Mom was deathly ill and in the hospital for a long time.  (Note:  1.5 years ago she had c.diff. — a “superbug” that you can only get at the hospital — right after her bladder surgery revealed the ovarian cancer.  Anyway, 3+ weeks in the hospital + rehab=nightmare.)  I burned myself out emotionally and physically and have totally  crashed.  It’s noon, I’m in my jammies, in bed, writing and feeling like I will never have the strength to do what I need to do, for example, shower and go back to the Hospital.

Here are some notes from Me to Me for the next time (and the rest of this time):

Topic:  Hospitals and Horribleness, things to remember:

1. You are not a nurse, sweetie.  Yes, you wanted to be one, and people think you would be a great nurse, but you are not a nurse.  You have a lot of patience, but not nurse level patience.  And that is perfectly fine!  You are not the nurse!
2. As much as you hate leaving the room when someone is in the hospital, you HAVE TO TAKE A BREAK.  Why?  Because you become weird and resentful (of other people who leave the room) and, eventually, you get to a point of freak-out.  Then you start believing that you will never be able to go back into the room.  It’s all bad from there.  Just take a break.
3. Breaks in the Hospital are good, but leaving the Hospital altogether is better.
4. Write down your questions for the Doctors and nurses.  You think you will remember and then you don’t.  Then you beat yourself up.  Write them down.
5. A little “comfort food” is fine when bad shit happens, but for prolonged bad shit, you really need to be mindful of what you are putting into your body.  Try to limit comfort food.  I know, just try…
6. This would be a really good time to get some exercise.  You know it is true.
7. Schedule time away from the Hospital and take it.  It is ok to check on the patient, but if you spend the entire time that you are away feeling guilty for being away and checking in, you have really just robbed yourself of the benefit of being away.  You haven’t restored yourself, which was the goal.  You must restore yourself or you will not be good for anyone else.
8. Ask for help.  People won’t help if you don’t ask them.  Sometimes they will say “no”.  Try to understand where they are coming from.  We all have our own strengths/weaknesses.
9. Try to stay on top of regular life things:  laundry, mail, bills, etc.  It is hard to do this in an emergency situation, but (believe me) if you get behind AND the bad shit goes on for a long time, it is really super hard to get caught up.  Knowing that stuff needs to be done/addressed weighs on you, even when it isn’t in the front of your mind.  Trust me on this.
10. You are a person who absolutely, positively needs a certain amount of solitude in order to even function in this world.  This doesn’t change because someone you love is in the Hospital/ill.  Other people may not understand this and may think you are “weak” or “flaky”.  You aren’t.  You are a person who recharges by being alone.  This is how you stay sane.  Trust yourself to know when you need to be alone and when you are ready to interact meaningfully.  It is ok if others don’t understand.  They don’t live in your head.
11. Don’t wash your hands with that foam awfulness and then touch your face!!!  Your skin always reacts and then you have to deal with that on top of everything else.
12. Always remember Now is not Then.  Let Now happen the way it is supposed to happen.

Wow.

This is good stuff!  Just writing this has made me feel better about today.  I need this time.  Feeling guilty about taking it is counter-productive + just plain mean.  Mom is fine.  She is in good hands.  She has family there for most of the day.  Getting up and dressed doesn’t mean I have to go to the hospital, I am allowed to take care of my own life even when Mom is sick.  She knows I am not abandoning her.  Next time I will plan better and make sure everyone knows when I will not be at the Hospital.  That will make me feel less anxious.

Am I the last to know about this Book of Me technique?

xoxo

kim

p.s.  thanks for all your support!  mom was moved into the rehab unit yesterday.  she stunned us all (and herself) by going from complete immobility in right arm/hand to picking up a pen and writing her name??!!  then she was able to put a magical cheeto in her mouth.  i heard a rumor that she moved her right leg today…. yay for progress!  one day at a time….