...like the daffodils that have been poking up in the warmest spot in my central upstate New York yard: over the septic tank. This sounds like some kind of optimist/Erma Bombeck joke, but I'll take it.
Yesterday was the first full-sun, clear-sky , mild-temperature day we've had since...hell, I don't remember anymore. Everyone stumbled into the light, squinting and smiling goofily at strangers.
Why does anyone live in this passive-aggressive climate?? What kind of self-loathing makes us groan and struggle through the winter so we can claw our way, grovelling and whimpering in appreciation, into a plain-vanilla, ho-hum Nice Day? I wasn't a bit surprised to wake this morning to the grim grey that devolved into rain. Of course. Would I expect two sunny days in a row? Yeah, no. What am I, stupid?
So while March slinks out like a wet dog, here's a trip down classic SNL memory lane. To life!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMZFpf-1wp0
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Monday, March 18, 2013
Keep on keepin' on
Haven't posted in too long...three weeks? I've felt like hell. I can blame it on a too-grey February (the Longest Month masquerading as the shortest), on fatigue from scraping though another winter in the Northeast or being worn-out trying not to slip on the ice (the Prosthetic Defense). But it comes down to depression.
I try to write eloquently about living with depression, panic, despair and all the myriad flavors of post-traumatic stress disorder, but when it comes down to it, it just sucks. It's ugly. It stalks me down, seizes me between its teeth and worries me like a terrier with a bone.
Lately I've have good days and bad days; more good since the end of last week, for some reason. My new doctor, not understanding the depth of my PTSD, cut my meds slightly at the wrong time. Thought I'd be OK but after a week or so I wasn't. Barely able to get up mornings. Some days unable to work--or to think--and barely able to function.
In the past I've had stretches where I felt panic drop like a net and leave me curled in a fetal position in bed. I learned to treat it like a migraine: cancel all plans, free up my schedule, assure myself there was nothing I couldn't skip, literally NOTHING. Almost everything in life is a choice. If you disagree, you've never found yourself bedridden. Or in traction.
The last time I felt this bad this long was about fourteen years ago, during a long grey March and April. And I know that while I tell myself now I would feel better if I only had two legs and a better financial base, I had them then. They didn't help. I did work out of it, and I did achieve what I felt I needed.
Of course that doesn't help much now. The way I've been feeling is ugly. Inconvenient. It's the emotional equivalent of having your water break at the airport a thousand miles from home. I wanted to post clever, thought-provoking blog posts for Atheist Week. Sorry. Too bad, so sad. Want to call your dad? He might be mad.
But in a way I guess this is appropriate for Atheist Week. Because my fucked-up ugly brain is the souvenir of my religious upbringing. People, and even close friends, see my above-knee amputation and say Wow! (and/or shudder.) Well, my leg got off easy compared to my brain.
Think of me as being pegged on Overwhelm. Think about asking a child to do something impossible--literally (and I never use this word lightly) impossible: to usher in her own spiritual healing of the bone disease that ate at her leg for most of a year. Assure her it's rational to expect healing and possible to miraculously wake up perfect. When she survives to limp on a battered limb, let her know that Perfect Healing is still...within...reach...if she tries harder...a little longer...
It's going on forty years I've tried to cope with this mind of mine. It's still snarling to be left alone to concentrate. It's willing to exist indefinitely in a heightened state of pain-endurance with the inside-out logic of Christian Science that This is not happening! A deity can be bigger than this...heal this....
This is how I got to be an atheist. Please don't try this at home.
I try to write eloquently about living with depression, panic, despair and all the myriad flavors of post-traumatic stress disorder, but when it comes down to it, it just sucks. It's ugly. It stalks me down, seizes me between its teeth and worries me like a terrier with a bone.
Lately I've have good days and bad days; more good since the end of last week, for some reason. My new doctor, not understanding the depth of my PTSD, cut my meds slightly at the wrong time. Thought I'd be OK but after a week or so I wasn't. Barely able to get up mornings. Some days unable to work--or to think--and barely able to function.
In the past I've had stretches where I felt panic drop like a net and leave me curled in a fetal position in bed. I learned to treat it like a migraine: cancel all plans, free up my schedule, assure myself there was nothing I couldn't skip, literally NOTHING. Almost everything in life is a choice. If you disagree, you've never found yourself bedridden. Or in traction.
The last time I felt this bad this long was about fourteen years ago, during a long grey March and April. And I know that while I tell myself now I would feel better if I only had two legs and a better financial base, I had them then. They didn't help. I did work out of it, and I did achieve what I felt I needed. Of course that doesn't help much now. The way I've been feeling is ugly. Inconvenient. It's the emotional equivalent of having your water break at the airport a thousand miles from home. I wanted to post clever, thought-provoking blog posts for Atheist Week. Sorry. Too bad, so sad. Want to call your dad? He might be mad.
But in a way I guess this is appropriate for Atheist Week. Because my fucked-up ugly brain is the souvenir of my religious upbringing. People, and even close friends, see my above-knee amputation and say Wow! (and/or shudder.) Well, my leg got off easy compared to my brain.
Think of me as being pegged on Overwhelm. Think about asking a child to do something impossible--literally (and I never use this word lightly) impossible: to usher in her own spiritual healing of the bone disease that ate at her leg for most of a year. Assure her it's rational to expect healing and possible to miraculously wake up perfect. When she survives to limp on a battered limb, let her know that Perfect Healing is still...within...reach...if she tries harder...a little longer...
It's going on forty years I've tried to cope with this mind of mine. It's still snarling to be left alone to concentrate. It's willing to exist indefinitely in a heightened state of pain-endurance with the inside-out logic of Christian Science that This is not happening! A deity can be bigger than this...heal this....
This is how I got to be an atheist. Please don't try this at home.
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