Chicken Butt

I'M SORRY!!!

A few weeks ago there was an accident in my condo that flooded my downstairs neighbor and both of our garages. This sucked big dick. My emotional, irrational response to this flood has been instructive and humiliating. I've been leading with my ego at every turn and acting like an ass. I think most people would say I'm a bitch, but I seem to shy away from this. I'm comfortable with labeling my behavior as bitchy, but hesitate to call myself a bitch. (Interesting, I don't show the same reserve in labeling others.)

While talking this over with a friend I realized that while I see myself as a kind person, the reality is not flattering. How many awful, selfish people are walking around thinking they are nice? Apparently, I'm only nice when it doesn't cost me anything or put me at risk. My gut reaction to any threat to my ego/security is angry tantrums, name calling and yelling. Very loud yelling into the telephone; which I then called back to apologize for, but that just led to more argument. Which begat an apology letter that was difficult to compose. I am sorry I yelled, and the apology was required, but in my head everything came out, "I'm sorry, but you..." If I hadn't self-edited that out of every line I could have been trapped in an escalating spiral of abuse.

So yeah, it is humiliating. I've made progress towards adulthood, but not nearly so much as I thought before my sink overflowed. Who the fuck puts a wet bar in a closet?

I'll never join an improv group

Role playing in therapy makes me very uncomfortable. Holy cow! Like I'd rather peal my face off with my fingernails, stop or I'll cry uncomfortable. Bewildering.

Dr. L was 40 minutes late for our appointment. Then we talked for 90 minutes (scheduled for 60). I'm trying to process the info right now. Not going to go into it here. (This post isn't going in the TMI category.)

This shit is hard work.

More thoughts on writing versus Writer

I thought about my sporadic urge to be a writer quite a bit this weekend.

I also want to work on the production crew of a major movie some time. I want to do a job to get my names in the credits, like Assistant to the Assistant PA or set building. I’d love to see what it is really like to make a movie. But I'm not going to move to LA or Montreal and try to break into the movie business. I want Oprah to grant me a wish so I can take a six month sabbatical from my real life and be a movie production grunt for a while. I think I want to be a writer in the same way. "Poof!" I'm a writer, I'll just pound out this novella and wrap it all up nice and tidy in a few months, get published and then, "Poof!" back to real life. Which is ridiculous, of course it is. I’m not even sure the published part is really important. I’m always drawn to the NaNoWriMo event, and that isn’t about publishing, it is about finishing a novel. I know this, but I love reading so much, I want to participate in the whole scene, not just the audience role.

One thing that attracts me to writing is the process of critique and discussion of the craft. I get excited about writing workshops and stories about mentors. It makes me homesick for the good parts of being a painting major. Chatting with a teacher at the studios about broad concepts and specific techniques was lovely. Critiques were great if I had finished my piece and wasn’t ashamed of myself for extreme procrastination. It would be so cool to go back to that environment now, with better discipline and an appreciation for that freedom and opportunity.

That might be the key: nostalgia. I read a lot of blogs by writers about writing. I read a lot of craft blogs too, but haven’t found many artists’ blogs. Actually, I have a lot of artist blogs bookmarked, but isn’t much activity on them or they are badly written or boring to me. Maybe I’ve glommed onto writers because they are there, active, well-spoken and entertaining.

I want to be a writer (Or Navel-gazing again)

I read a lot about writing today. The Morning News has an essay by a student of Annie Dillard and two related links in the links in the Weekend Edition of Headlines:

1. Annie Dillard and the Writing Life by Alexander Chee
2. Becoming a Writer by Junot Diaz
3. Why I Write by Stephen Elliott

When I read essays like these I want to be a writer. I want to learn to craft words that change how people perceive their world. There are so many things wrong with that ambition I’m not sure where to start:

• I don’t know much about technicalities of writing. I looked up gerunds while reading the Chee piece. I have to think twice about what adverbs are and cannot diagram a sentence. I remember my sixth grade English classroom and taking my turn at the board to make marks around sentences. I even remember that it wasn’t very difficult. I just don’t remember what any of it means. I could fix this. I could read some books about it.
• Writers write. Usually from an early age writers write out their hopes and fears. Writers write no matter what. It is a persistence compulsion. This is not me. I wish this was me.
• When I read about technical business of writing (narrative voice, structure, moving time) I lose enjoyment of reading.
• When I try to think of a story I’m blank. Maybe I could write non-fiction. I like to research things. I’m not very good at follow-through. I’ve started to write out details and results from my hunts for assorted information. Most of those posts never make it past draft status. Does anyone want to know what I learned about making pettiskirts (with source links)? Maybe when I get some pictures of my attempts I’ll fill it out with that info.

I think my craving to “be a writer” is just another way I’m looking for complements.  I have sometimes been casually praised for my writing and I want more. I want to turn a slight talent into a gift, into genius. Freshman year my teacher Peter told me he liked one little swirl on a painted sketch for a project in Drawing 101. I became a painting major on the strength of the one complement. (This is a slight exaggeration, but still true. I was disillusioned by Graphic Design and the Photography department was a political nightmare. There was also no portfolio was required to become a painting major. They took anyone.)

What I want is to be a great writer without putting in the work that must be done to get there. Once again reality puts the damper on desire. THPTPTH!*

So where does that leave me? Same place I started but with a belly-lint filled post on writing.  I’ll continue to live vicariously through Karen (You rock star!) and write here on Chicken Butt and live my life. I know my writing has improved since I started this blog. I don’t think I slip into a writerly voice anymore. I could still use a better editor than myself but who couldn't?

Oh, and go read the linked essays above if you haven’t done so. Especially the first and third.

*This is a Bill The Cat style razzberry. Calvin & Hobbes style adds a B: THBPBPTHPT!

What hump?

It is not snowing today. It is certainly not snowing so hard I can't see across the street. Nor will five inches accumulate today. I know this because it is March and I've had enough snow this year. Period.

I have an ultrasound of my thyroid scheduled for tomorrow, Saturday at 1pm. I'm doing a decent job of focusing on other things. I haven't even told many people face to face. I'm trying to avoid my typical drama queen role. I'm scared, but there is nothing I can do. I won't know anything until sometime next week. Even then I could know nothing more except that they want to do more tests.

The new threat

At the risk of sound like an age-ist I feel compelled to point out a troubling trend. It could be strictly a local phenomenon, but I suspect it is wide-spread.

Over the last two weeks I've noticed a growing number of elderly drivers in SUVs. I'm talking late seventies and up. The same people who pull out in front of me and drive 15 mph under the speed limit. The same people who turn on their turn signal and start braking two blocks before their intended turn. The same little old ladies who can barely see above the steering wheel. Those bald, sun damaged old men with coke-bottle smudged glasses who never took a driving test because when they learned to drive it they didn't need a license. These drivers, timid, blind, overconfident and under trained are driving massive vehicles.

My theory is that their mammoth old Cadillacs, Buicks and Towncars are finally conking out. When they go out to buy a new vehicle they choose the ones that have been intimidating them for a decade.

I fear these newly empowered drivers. When my Grandfather totaled his trusty Volvo he didn't want to spend the money on a new Volvo. Instead he bought a new Ford Taurus, the one I now own. By this time my Grandfather was a pretty bad driver. Timid, nervous and irritated by the fast pace around him. It made me nervous to ride with him but he was not yet ready to let his Granddaughter drive him.

The first time I rode with him in the Taurus he almost killed me. I was sitting in the rear passenger seat. He was in the left turn lane at one of the busiest intersections in Carpentersville. He waited and waited and missed a few opportunities I would have taken. Suddenly he decided to go, he just stomped on the gas and shot into the intersection. Luckily the oncoming driver had fast reflexes or he would have plowed into me. My Grandfather didn't even notice, he said, "This car sure has a lot of pep!"

This is the memory that returns each time I see another Octogenarian behind the wheel of an SUV. All these horrid drivers discovering the "pep" of their new 8-cylinder monsters. They scare me even more than soccer moms in Expeditions.

Anti-sleeping pills and hope

Last night I finally picked up my new prescription for sleeping pills. I forget the name. It is the newest thing. I am an insomniac. I can't get to sleep unassisted in under an hour and I wake up a lot. The best sleep I've had for a long time was on the first pills Dr. L gave me, Ambien. But Ambien isn't for long term use and can be habit forming. So Dr. L gave me something else, but it makes me groggy in the morning and I've had a lot of trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Long story short, I didn't sleep a single minute last night on the new drug.

At first I was pleased with the pill, I was sleepy after taking it and was looking forward to a good nights sleep. But my mind refused to obey. Around 4am I started feeling really odd. Like my body was falling asleep, but my mind was still awake. It felt like my breathing was becoming shallower and then my fingers got tingle-y like they were falling asleep. I panicked a bit. This is a really new drug. I went to get the pharmacy warnings. It was pretty vague but did say that it could cause hallucinations. It also said not to take the medicine if you have sleep apnea. I don't think I do because I've been told I don't snore, but we never did the sleep study Dr. L wanted to do when I first went to him.

I tried to sleep again but couldn't stop thinking. I was worried I'd go to sleep and never wake up. That pissed me off. I have worked so hard this year to get my shit together. That pill may not work for me as a sleep aid, but it made me realize that I truly do not want to die. I realize that for most people this isn't a news flash, but for me it is quite something.

I've been clinically depressed since sixth grade. I went through several major depressions in high school and college where I was seriously suicidal. I was never treated for this. I can't remember if I even told people. I did sort of once in high school, it freaked my parents out and I had an emergency session with my therapist. This was pre-Prozac and she wasn't a psychiatrist so nothing was done.

Anyway, one of the most depressing days of my life was the day I realized that I could never commit suicide. I cared too much for my family and friends. I valued the lives of the people I loved more than I valued myself, so there was no way out for me. This was truly depressing. Since that revelation in 1993, I have existed, trudging through the days but not really caring if I didn't wake up in the morning. I've been unconsciously trying to kill myself passively with food. At some point this year my feelings about life changed, I just didn't notice.

So today, although I am groggy with lack of sleep, is a very good day. I do not want to die. I have things I want to do and see. I have hope, not just for others, but for myself.

Worst case scenario

Living in Illinois, I have no fear of huricanes, earthquakes, floods, mudslides or most other disaster scenarios. Tornados hit, but usually not in my town. I didn't make any emergency preparations for Y2K. I read articles about emergency kits, but I have trouble envisioning needing most of the items. I tried to think of scenarios where I'd need a stockpile of food, water, medical supplies. It seems overkill for where I live.

You know what has me freaked? Avian flu. It doesn't help that this information on the CDC website was last updated in August. I've only just found this flu wiki and need to read more, but it is disturbing:

"Once the virus spreads easily from human to human and becomes a pandemic (many disease experts say when, not if), we will be confronting a worldwide public health emergency with hundreds of millions of people infected."

"In the case of a pandemic, as many as 30% of your neighbors and co-workers may become ill (yes, that many), so you need to plan accordingly. If you’re used to having low inventories of perishable goods or daily deliveries at your home, you may need to adjust your routine (the delivery service may become unavailable for example)."

Maybe I'm freaking out a little because of Doomsday, an excellent book by Connie Willis set partly at the beginning of the Black Plague in the 14th century. Anyway, I plan to read as much as I can on this potential pandemic. My family would say I'm overreacting, but I think it's clear we can't rely on the government protect us or even know what to do.

I'm not saying I'm going to start stockpiling, but I think it's important to know as much as I can about this potential threat and what to do if it comes to pass.

 

Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?

I’m watching the season premiere of West Wing while I write this. The intro was kind of tricky, it came really close to revealing the next president’s identity, then didn’t. Drat. I just got back from my Sunday OA meeting. It was good. I was so happy to see everyone. I haven’t eaten sweets since Monday. On my seventh day of avoiding sugar (yes, including ketchup, must go to Whole Foods to get some without sugar in it) I’m obsessing about Diet Coke and anything with white flour. I’m not sure which one to give up next. I have to keep going with this, but right now the thought of giving up either one makes me feel grumpy.

Someone told me after the meeting that they could see a difference in me when I walked in the room. She called it the OA glow. I think I’m starting to understand what that means. I’ve learned so much about myself since I walked into my first meeting in February. For the last few months I was a bit perturbed at all the things I was expected to “give up” to recover from compulsive overeating.

It was obvious that I would have to change a lot about my relationship to food, but when I learned that I would need to change my relationship with myself and how I relate to others it just too much. Yes, I’ll give up sugar, I thought, but what does gossiping have to do with it? I have a fairly dark sense of humor. Sarcasm is one of my favorite forms of expression. Will I have to change my whole self to recover from this disease? To put it mildly, I was pissed. I was settled nice and comfy on my own little pity potty.

Yesterday while getting my haircut, I made a remark. It was meant to be humorous, but the second it left my mouth I knew it wasn’t funny. It was mean spirited and petty. I felt diminished. Tonight heard several phrases that made me giggle inside. One was “pity potty,” another was “mental masturbation.” When someone said they had “medical problems up the wazoo” I thought, “ooh, no one wants problems up there.”

Driving home I realized that my sense of humor doesn’t need to change. As I work to become the best me I’m capable of being, I’m subtracting negative factors in my life. If I remove the negative, my humor is still intact. I’ll continue to laugh at dirty jokes, bad puns and the ironic; I just won’t use humor as a weapon anymore. Even against myself.

You can even eat the dishes

I am a sugar addict. It’s not just sugar, I can binge on anything, but sugar is the big one.  Over the past few weeks I’ve been slowly accepting that I need to find a way to live without sugar. It is impacting my depression and the effectiveness of my meds to control depression. I’ve been binging. My pants are getting a little tighter. I’m avoiding people because I binge in secret. I’m cycling back into a bad depression that I can’t afford to be in. I’ve already taken the maximum short-term leave from work. I was out for 12 weeks this spring to work on this issue. The meds were really starting to work.

My life coach thinks I’m drinking way too much diet soda. She had no idea how much I was drinking. There is now significant evidence that aspartame can cause depression all on its own. I typically drink a 20 ounce bottle in the morning when I get to work, then at least two large glasses at lunch. Sometimes I drink another bottle in the afternoon. Sometimes I start out my day with a 42 ounce Diet Coke from McDonalds because they have the best Diet Coke around. I know aspartame is poison. I once gave up Diet Coke because my mom asked me too. But then I slowly added it back into my diet. When I gave up sugar this spring I held on to the Diet Coke as a crutch. I said I would give it up once I was more capable of maintaining the no-sugar part. Now I believe I need to give them both up.

As an addict this is really scary. I need it. I crave it. I think about when I’m going to get some. I love sugar and I obsess about it to the exclusion of everything else. I’ve sacrificed my health for it. So, to get well I need to give up sugar (and diet soda). But from past experience I know that it takes me two weeks to get through sugar withdrawal. I know I will feel like I have the flu. I’ll be tired, cranky, headachy, and sleepy. I will have excess mucus, I will break out and I will be even more depressed than usual. I will also be vulnerable emotionally. I’ve been eating my feeling since I was a kid and have not developed normal emotional tools as a result. Is it any wonder I keep putting it off?

Then there are decisions about cold-turkey versus gradual. Both have good and bad elements. Historically I’ve done better cold-turkey, but the symptoms are more drastic. I can’t afford any sick days right now, I’m already in the red. I looked for info on easing symptoms of sugar withdrawal via Google, but mostly find general comments on sugar withdrawal, and lists of its symptoms, but no good input about easing it. Maybe there is no real way. Just need to get through it. Some sites even say to use “natural sugar” or syrup. Those people are clueless and dangerous.

So, for today, I will not eat sweets. I’m not going to worry about white bread or simple starches today. I will not eat sweets or anything that has sugar in the first five ingredients. I’ve already had Diet Coke today. I’ll probably drink it tomorrow too. I also know from past experience that the first couple days are easier than the third and fourth days. At that point the crazy thinking kicks in. I try to justify, rationalize or trick myself into eating sugar.

Instead I will write, I will call people from OA, I will drink more water than I usually do, but I will not eat sugar today. It starts now. I will never be ready to quit, there will never be enough sugar to satisfy me, and so I just have do it. Arrrr!