(Don’t be so approving, we’re clean out of money for alcohol and gas.  I had little choice but to play the school girl.)

Anyhow, it’s 11:45 and all is well.

The house is startlingly quiet, the cat is on my lap, and I just had a banana.

Oh, the thrill.

If it sounds like I’m changing my tune, like I am turning my back on the quiet, like I am eating all of my ’silence is to be revered’ jargon from last night, you’re wrong.  It’s just that my butt hurts.

Yes, again, my butt hurts.

I’ve been working on the Book n’ Boob main site for the past two hours and it has caused me great physical and psychological pain.  So, humor me, and check it out.  It’s far from being complete, but I haven’t given up on it yet.  I just need a logo and some money to sink into t-shirts and onesies, and, oh yeah, a real readership (not that you aren’t real, you are just small), and maybe some advertising dollars and– Voila!– I’ll be a millionaire.

Seriously, you should check out the site.  If you love me, you’ll post something on the forum.  (Yes, in other words, I’m begging you.)

So back to my butt ache.  I can’t fathom how people stand a desk job.  My eyes sting and my neck is about to crack off.  And, my butt. Seriously, it hurts.  It’s worse than traveling on an airplane.

But, I’ll take it.  I’ll tough it out.  I’ll brave the intense muscle aches if it means bringing you my voice.  I’m here.  For you.  Right now.

Enough of that.

In a recent post I said that I wanted to discuss my doctor visit.  I’d be happy to do that right now.

Basically, I went to see my general physician for my yearly touchy-feely and to discuss my labs and all that jazz.  Good news:  I’m in excellent (I mean really stellar and I’m not kidding) health.  Except for my metabolism which is a little sluggish.  Who knew?!?  But, that’s not what I wanted to discuss.

So, basically, we were discussing my current entourage of medications and my doctor was, well, appalled.  After my therapist and psychiatrist have spent a year and a half talking me into the idea that I am truly bipolar and I need my meds, I am now faced with a physician that doesn’t believe in the least bit that I am bipolar and believes that I drastically need to cut my meds.

This could be heaven or this could be hell.

(Excuse me a moment while I go get a pillow to sit on…  Okay, I’m back.  Ahhhhh.)

I don’t care about the label anymore.  I don’t care if I just have anxiety mixed with depression or if I have bipolar disorder.  But, I do care about the medication.  I’d rather not be on it.  I’d also rather not be feeling like shit all the time.

So, a dilemma ensues.

Do I go against my psychiatrist’s orders and cut back to one medication and see how things go?  Or, defy my general practitioner and continue on a truckload of meds that are riddled with possible side effects?

In the way I just typed that last sentence, I think you can tell which way I’m leaning.  I want to try it without the meds.  Correction: with less meds.
But I also don’t want to rock the boat.

Actually, what I really want, really, really, with a cherry on top, is not to have to make this decision in the first place.  I want normal.  Or at least content.

But, that’s not me.

Wait, let me take that back.

I am both normal and content.  It’s just that I don’t…  I don’t… what?  I was going to say that I don’t want the highs and lows.  But, that’s not true.

Of course, I don’t want to be locking myself in the bathroom with sobbing fits and morbid thoughts or believing that people are out to get me or having so much anxiety that I can’t feel my body parts.  But, I do want the highs and lows.  At least a little bit.  Because, according to this blog, I, long ago, dubbed my illness the “S.P.A.” (or smart person’s affliction) and I think it is, in part, the S.P.A., the ups and downs, that make me so creative.

And, I still have those ups and downs now.  Within reason.  In fact, I feel pretty damn good.

So, do I?  Do I rock the boat?

I don’t know.

I do know that I can’t sit any longer.  I just can’t.  But, I will be back tomorrow.

Think it over and get back to me.

Until tomorrow.  Thanks.

It was six weeks since the last rain and the garden was holding on by a thread.  The beans were still thriving.  And the tomatoes, the zucchini, the marigolds.  I had continued to water every chance I got despite the water restrictions, despite the potential $400 fine or the neighbors’ dirty looks.   I also continued to turn new earth, rubbing open old blisters and sowing seeds too late for planting.  The garden had become both my obsession and my lifeline.  It had become my only source of peace.

Most days, my husband would walk down the hill to my little plot and try to persuade me to come inside.  “It’s dinner,” he’d say.  “Gabe would probably like it if you could eat with us.”  More often than not, I would wave him away sometimes continuing to hoe, sometimes sinking to the ground, nose against the dirt just breathing.  The house had become something constricting.  An emotional tourniquet, squeezing the very life out of me.

You see, as goal driven, as (meticulous) as I had become outside, I had become equally indolent inside.  Our four small rooms had become filled with piles of laundry, of old magazines and scattered paperbacks, of plates, and spoons, and sippy cups that needed washing.  Many times, I would find myself staring, sometimes for a moment, sometimes for the better part of an hour too overwhelmed, too limp to attack the mess.

The more I stood, the more I stared, the more the laundry, the papers, the dishes began to represent my personal failures.   A few dirty socks might remind me that I wasn’t organized enough or loving enough to be a good mother.  A stack of dishes might indicate that I wasn’t disciplined enough to keep my weight down.  Half-written papers, half-read books would scream to me that I’d never amount to anything, that I would die without any real accomplishments.

Since our son was born, this had been my life.

Even with the solace of the garden, it had become impossible to ignore my depression.  To ignore the fact that making a grocery list had become a Herculean task or that touching my husband made me feel sick and damaged.  I had withdrawn from activities, kept the curtains drawn when I was inside, felt numb when I breastfeed my baby.

Oddly, I also suffered from intense anxieties.   One day I would be curled up on the couch like a salt-sprinkled slug unwilling, unable to talk with anyone.  The next day, I would be so flooded with plans and ideas that I could only pace around the house humming and mumbling to myself.  Amid these plans, these ideas, I also feared that a killer might be watching us.  Or, that I might accidentally drop a knife that would plunge through the heart of our son, killing him.   I would wander through the house void of feeling in my arms or my legs.

It was in that anxious state that I saw the child behind our clothes dryer.

I always chuckled at this little ha-ha because “I am not a dork” is my kind of affirmation. Along with:  I am not a loser.  I am not a cow.  And, I am not destined to be another slug popped and gutted under the iron heel of mediocrity.

When I try on phrases such as: I am hip.  I am sexy.  I am both intelligent and talented and am a virtual giant of creativity.  I just sound like a fraud.

(Yeah, I should also try on the phrase “Even though I’m a language arts teacher, I don’t know a good goddamn about grammar.”  Yes, that explains the odd jumble of colons and periods and the lack of quotation marks or whatever.)

But, you say, you are hip and you are sexy and you are both intelligent, talented, and supremely creative.

Well,  I thank you.  But still…

As of late, trying on new affirmations hasn’t been high on the priority list.

Instead I’ve been toying with a new strain of depression.  I’m not sure what to call it yet, except for “it fucking sucks”.  I cannot possibly imagine how people go through their lives living in this state of pathetic, miserable, zombie-hood.  When I’m not trying to keep a chin up for Silas, I’m sleeping or staring or sleeping and staring if that’s at all possible.

I really should take up TV.
Oh, but I can’t.  Instead I lie on the bed debating whether or not I should watch TV and trying to convince myself that I am not a loser… or a cow… or you get it.  (Even the 4th and final book in the Twilight saga isn’t doing it for me.)

Anyhow, we’re back home.  Silas and I.  I am feeling well enough to be typing this and I’m damn proud of it.  A few weeks ago, I thought I could bite the bullet and use this blog as a journal.  But, I don’t journal.  So, you’ll have to take me when you get me.  So much for fame and glory.

The kitchen isn’t finished but the debris has been removed and now Silas can run through it without any real risk of death and, hoo-rah, we have running water.

We’re desperately broke.

So broke it’s embarrassing.

But, somehow we’re forging on.  And, my parents offered to buy me a new set of tires.  (Thanks Pops.)

What else?  Hmmm…

What’s that?  I am journaling, you say.
Yes, I suppose I am.  Isn’t it dreadfully boring?

Oh yes, it is, you say.  Do you have anything more interesting to spout about?

Well, sure.

Recently, I was talking with a friend who described being the working parent of an 18-35 month old as having a heavy weight constantly pressing on your chest.  I can’t do her description justice because the essence of it was mostly in her physical expression– the strain and weariness of her face, the hopelessness of her hands.  And, while I know that not all parents struggle with this age, I knew exactly what she meant.  There is so little personal time– especially with no family nearby and with no kitchen and between marriage counseling sessions ya-ha-ha.

Still, her frankness really helped.  It made me realize that it’s not just my situation or my mental state or my inferiority that is the catalyst for this depression, this exhaustion, this weight.  On top of it all, parenting is really tough.  Beautiful, very beautiful, but very, very tough.

So, maybe I’m not a worthless parent, a selfish whiner, or a bitch.  Maybe I’m just tired and normal and not a dork.

To close, let me post a dear friend’s poem:  (as you can see smooth transitions are not my thing tonight, but I’m here, yeah, I’m here…)

Anyhow, my friend’s untitled masterpiece:
Each night

I haven’t got

rhythm

or good ideas

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down,

rockin’ down,

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

clean floors

dinner made

a bank account

that shows

I’ve got it made

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

the rockin’ down

the rockin’ down

I haven’t got

cold cuts,

lean meat,

tomato feet

cold cuts,

pickled beets,

tomato feet.

cold cuts,

wheat bread,

tomato red

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

a favorite spot

friends to call

books to write

on bedroom walls

long late nights

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

rockin’ down

– Melisa Ian Toothman (aka Slymillion)

A silent 34 days.

Enough time to lose one’s precious readership…

Sadly, I stopped posting just moments after declaring that I was ready to my to “take my blog to the next level.”

Some level.

Do I smell a bout of self-defeatism?  Or, just a mere pause?  A pathetic vomitous irony? Or a long, breathless moment designed to gather my thoughts?

(A big thanks to Tata who not only took my declaration seriously but offered up her advice.  I am sorry, sorry, sorry to disappoint.  But, am still grateful, grateful, grateful for the advice.)

I wish I could commit to end the ceasefire and just blast away– one heated post after the next.

But, truth be told, I’m tired.

I could rant on and on about why I’ve been tired.  Author a novella about a sick and increasingly obstinate 14-month-old (who blatantly refuses to walk!!!).  Concoct a cast of characters that include a TV-obsessed husband, a room full of pre-adolescent psychos, and a Jehovah woman that just won’t leave well enough alone.

But, I’m past all that.  Of course I am.  And one day, I’m going to be a real writer.

Until then– until that day when I see my beautiful, untainted name (meaning that I never altered my maiden name, not that I don’t have any smudges on my record) in bold, black, professional print– I know that somehow, in some way, I need to press on.

And, I plan on starting here.   At Book n’ Boob.  The web site that I never carried past first base.  One of my many hopeful bunts tapped right into the willing hands of the fearless catcher that I call life.

(Okay so I’m a big pathetic cheeseball.  So what?!?)

However, before I sign my name to this desperate, hasty love letter, I’d like to note that I have not just abandoned this blog.  I have lost almost complete contact with some of my dearest friends.  (Heather?  Jason?  Are you out there?)  I have spent nights sleeping on the day bed and have spent days in a fog of insane house cleaning.  I have had to face the ugly fact that I just muddled through another unattractive, bipolar cycle and am trying to convince myself that I am the better for it.  While many things have been sweet, so many other things have been sour.  I am not trying to complain as much as I am trying to convince myself that– hello!– I still have some emotional reckoning to do.

In the meantime, I am happy to be back for tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. Who knows?  Could be from this day forward, through sickness and health, richer or poorer, til death do us part.

I would also like to say that I sincerely hope that you, dear reader, had a bountiful, delicious, and indulgent Thanksgiving holiday and are looking forward to the chestnut-roasted, tinsel-topped, carol-laden gift-giving gluttony of Christmas (or Hannukah or Kwanzaa or Winter Solstice or Absolutely Nothing– whatever you choose to prefer).  I know that I did and I am.  (I will openly admit that I am a complete SUCKER for the winter holidays.)

I honestly hope that I will be writing here tomorrow and that my apology has been accepted.  I am going to excuse myself now to work on a short story that has been plaguing much of my mental white space–  poking a finger in my side while I drive, mimicking me while I try to sleep, and doing all the other annoying kid sister things that it can think of. So, before I squeeze this story’s cheeks together so that it has no choice but to stick it’s ugly pink tongue out at me, I better go.

Until tomorrow or the next day or the day after that,

Lots of love and luck.
–Me

So, in the spirit of all cosmic coincidences in which “you [might not] always get what you want… but, you get what you need”, I’d like to give a Hoo-Yah to toddlers heading to bed early and without a fuss, to patio furniture received for Mother’s Day, for Marigolds and a pumpkin patch that not only outlasted the drought but are vying to be prizewinners, and for cool, mild October temperatures and leaves just beginning to change. Oh yeah, and for Flying Dog Double Dog IPA. Ahhhhhh… A toast to my Calgon moment!

Tightrope walking aside, mothering and wifing and working is one hell of a death-defying balancing act. I’m still trying to find out just where I fit in. The fact that I am actually excited by my new morning routine– getting up at 5:15 so I can hit the gym and read magazines while on the elliptical machine before work– might be an indicator of where my own needs have been falling on the priority list. Yeah, I linger on the toilet so I can read the next chapter and pretend I need tampon so I can rush to the grocery store unhindered and lusciously alone. How did a just a spare friggin’ moment end up on my endangered species list?

(That last question was only a rhetorical one. I would imagine that the answer is more than obvious.)

Still, until duty calls you to juggle the tune of “my little potato” with a knife chopping dinner’s onions and a phone call from your mother about your grandmother’s intestinal surgery all the while throwing Annie’s Whole Wheat Bunnies into the open seal-like mouth of your feisty and impatient one-year-old while trying to sweep up the morning’s coffee grounds all before even taking your work shoes off, you can’t quite imagine the threat an innocent youngin’ can pose to your personal freedoms. I suppose that’s why evenings like this one– in which your husband is in the garage jamming out with guys and the baby’s in bed two hours earlier than normal and the sun hasn’t quite gone down yet– are so wickedly delightful. It is like Tolle states: there is no form without the formless. Yes, so there is no flippin’ peace and quiet without the domestic chaos.

(Have you noticed my gallant efforts at cleaning up my rhetoric? I have almost, nearly, sort-of stopped using the F-word since the moment last week when I noticed that my son stopped what he was doing to stare at me and quizzically contemplate my colorful reference to the stupid fucknut who almost rammed into me at the Main Street intersection. Oops.)

Anyhow, lately, this freedom thing has been more restricted than usual. I have been the only member of our quaint little household that hasn’t been spewing from both ends. And, since I imagine that alone is more information than you bargained for, I’ll stop there. However, I am sure you can imagine the exhausting toll that was placed on me because I didn’t get sick. It was definitely and without question a lose-lose situation.

Yet, brighter days are on the horizon. It’s Friday. It’s still a tad bit light out. And, I am actually soaking in the evening air and writing. Ahhhh…

And, you know, this little breather came at just the right time. While on most days I sail about as if everything is just peachy, often, underneath it all, I begin developing the habits of a domesticated rabbit. I hit a point where I’m
ready to gnaw my own paw off to get just a little taste of freedom.

What does this mean in human terms?

Well, for one, I’ve been having incredible urges to make contact with the villainous characters of my illustrious past. (Yeah, so, I spent one tipsy evening trying to scan Facebook profiles. That doesn’t make me a bad person!) And, I’ve been hitting the bottle a bit harder when the little one finally says “nighty-night”. And– okay, there’s just a bit more– I’ve been secretly buying curtains with my World Market credit card. (The shame!)

Does that sound outlandish to anyone? Because on my risk-o-meter, I’d only give these little setbacks a four. Honestly, they just seem to me like a slightly stronger than average bout of the old run-of-the-mill reaction to stress.

But, I’ve been cautioned– and I probably don’t need to tell you by whom– That’s Right, by the psychiatric powers-that-be that all these slightly less-than-wholesome responses to stress look a lot like “breakthrough symptoms” of my apparent bipolarity.

C’mon! Who isn’t curious about their former lovers no matter how loserly they may have become? And, shit, all of us Generation X’ers love to live above our means. Don’t we? It’s not like I sold my stake in Wal-mart to head off on a five day bender in Miami. (Except I don’t own stock in Wal-mart, or, for that matter, in any company large or small. And, I’d never go to Miami if I had an inclination towards a bender. I’m really more of a NOLA girl. But, you know what I mean.)

Okay, so, back to my thankfulness and the recollection of my inner peace. When I needed it most, the Universe took a turn in my direction and here I am breathing, typing, listening to the night-time insects. I don’t know who said it better– Jesus of Nazareth or Mick Jagger– but you do often get what you need.

(Is that the Flying Dog talking or am I really this much of a freak?)

Anyhow, breakthrough symptoms or no, the exhausting monotony of trying to make a living and trying to have energy to live out your ideals at home is down-right difficult. So, to all you other working mamas, may you ask for a quiet evening and receive it and may you know your immense worth.

Hoo-yah, Hoo-yah, Hoo-yah!

Until the next unexpected hour to myself… (or at least until the next time I sneak the lap top into the bathroom!)

Yours Truly,

Me