Weddings Make Me Nauseous & My Busy Week(s)

Busy doesn't even begin to cover it. I have been at my max lately. I've had a long to-do list to get done. I'm almost there. I'm leaving to visit D. for a week on Sunday morning. I would have left a lot sooner to take advantage of the three day weekend when he's off work, but a friend of mine decided to schedule her wedding for smack dab in the middle of the Memorial Day weekend -- Saturday, May 27th. Thanks, no really, thanks a lot.

I won't even go into how painful it has been to endure the land of the fembots when it came to the Bridal shower. Mercifully, I skipped the bachlorette party tonight. I just had to. I am exhausted from running errands, and I couldn't bear another night of normal people's idea of revelry. In the course of all the wedding brouhaha, I have come to realize that this lovely young woman may very well be my most conventional friend. Thank God I don't have too many of them, as this sort of thing really makes me ill. One of the fembots in her wedding party is already crowing about how she can't wait for the baby shower. Oh please shoot me now. I had to make wedding favors with this twit all night. She regaled me with tales of her happy family, and her plans for her own wedding and subsequent pregnancy (mind you, the girl is only 21, is dumb as a doornail, and doesn't have a damn thing to offer a kid). Not to mention, she's not even engaged yet. The poor guy, he'll never see it coming. He's got no more chance than a rabbit bludgeoned with a rock in the middle of the night while it sleeps. She's been with the same guy since they were 15 years old, and she's probably been wearing him down erosion style, chipping away at him, little by little so that he doesn't even notice until one day, he wakes up without balls. She's one of those girls that has her whole happy little Norman Rockwell life all planned out for herself, and everyone else will just function as props to bring her dreams into being. How sad for them all.

Yes, I know you think I am crusty, bitter curmudgeon, and heck, you might be partly right, but currently, I'm in love with a great guy that I'd love to spend the rest of my life with, but I'm not planning my wedding in my head. I know I may be odd, but I'm actually investing in the relationship with him as a person, and not using him as the means to try to have some fairy tale event which will be meaningless to the rest of our lives or making a marriage work. I would love to end up with him, because he's freaking awesome and I am very happy with him, but one day at a time, ya know. Also, I'm not preparing the baby shute for assembly line operation. The way this girl talked I thought she'd have been much better off getting an easy bake oven, and popping out some mini-muffins instead. Oh right, they wouldn't look like her, hence depriving her of her infantile narcissistic thrill, silly me. Yes, this sort of invective is what results from having to listen to swill like hers until three in the morning while I'm bleary-eyed from making cutesy favors for a wedding. Something snaps in my mind, and this is what comes out later to purge me of it.

Anyway, on a wholly bileless note, I can't wait to see my boyfriend again. We'll get to spend a whole week together. It will be so nice. Plus, after all the work I've had to do the last few weeks to keep many things in my life running (including my health insurance and my car -- 2 biggies) it will be lovely to simply relax and have no chores, errands or stress for one week, and be with my wonderful beau just enjoying life together. See, I am a closet sap when it comes right down to it, I'm just in it for the love, not the societal trappings. I dearly hope I will be married someday (and I really hope it will be to him) but I want that for every single day I will get to spend with him after the one day of ceremony, which I will want to get through so I can get to the good part: sharing my life with the one I love. That and all the kinky sex. Heck yea people, I've got my priorities straight!

A City Works its Magic: New York

As always, click the picture for larger size image. This one has some minute details, and small lettering, so you might need to view larger.

Tagged

Slideways

The Fronts: The backs: Some are meant to be pins,

some pendants and some are both

(thanks to dual pin/hoop backing).

a recent collage of mine

on the mend

Just in case I worried any of my readers, i.e. my friends (although perhaps there are some lurking strangers reading as well) I just wanted to say that the medicine kicked in today (well, Thursday, but I'm posting this late at night) and I am feeling like some kind of organism resembling a human being. I mean that in a good way. Heh.

Having a spate of insomnia this week, but besides that, I'm doing better.

A soothing heartfelt talk with my D. did wonders to lift my spirits even beyond where they were at the end of a pretty good day. I cherish him. As cheesy as that sounds. I just appreciate him for who he is so much. I don't for a second take him for granted. His love for me is astonishing. I am still in awe of his heart, and how he makes me feel. I am so blessed.

(un)holy moodswing batgirl!

I feel so fucking alone, and I don't even know why. I know that maybe it's the fact that I ran out of one of my meds, and thus was off it for 3 days. I know that when I start to get weepy, and desolate feeling, it could mean I'm crashing. I'm just never sure, and my mind plays tricks on me. Starts to tell me I'm too fucked up and will never be okay. That all the love in the world can't fix my scars (nor do I expect it to, because I know this reckoning is something apart from that). If anything I have become convinced that real love reveals myself to be exactly what I am; all of who I am is thrown into sharp relief. Real love is a mirror. I see much of what I am, and much of what I lack, and many of my scars raised to the surface. I see my strength, my weakness, my tenderness, my pain, my core. I know for sure that this relationship is my teacher, but perhaps not my healer. Although I do think that there is some healing to be had with each other, the ultimate healing comes from God, and takes place within both of us. Our love can only be a catalyst, a conveyence, a spark, a channel, an initiator, and a docking station to rest between our bouts with ourselves and with the world.

As for other forms of healing, I know for sure that none of the so-called "mental health" treatment I'm getting is helping. My recent foray into therapy has paired me with a well-meaning girl who is far younger than me, and also has very little clue of what would actually help me, and is into things like treatment plans with external objective goals, like doing things that are productive and positive, and while that is all very well and good, and I am doing the things I need to do, I am still feeling shitty a lot of the time despite having my dishes done or some shit. What I need is someone who will challenge the hell out of me, and call me on my shit, and delve into the raw places where my myriad forms of pain are still running the show. I need someone to get into my nerve center and facilitate me changing my operating systems. I had a good psychiatrist at least, but after three visits, she left the clinic, and I was given a total bozo who I met with today for the first time. I left with less than zero confidence in his ability to help me. To say that he was inappropriate, unprofessional and incompetent is just the tip of the dickwad iceberg.

D. called tonight when he got home from work (like he does every night) and he was very tired because it had been a very long day for him, he got up early to do errands, and then worked his 3-Midnight shift, so by 1am, he was crashing, and while I didn't take it personally when he needed to go to bed early tonight, I did feel like I didn't quite connect with him like I usually do, and that began the alone feeling that built up through the night. Now it's 5am, and I haven't been doing the vampire hours thing for a while now, and so, it's significant. I know something is "off" with me. It may just pass when I get my dosage of the one antidepressant I missed back up to the right level in my system, but for right now, I feel so deep within myself that I could be at the bottom of a well. I'm alone with myself, and although I am used to that, this time the echo in the emptiness is louder than before. I know that even the emptiness is made up of something, perhaps something I need to embrace, or recognize. I know that even nothingness can be a teacher. I just don't know what the lesson is yet.

(addendum: I followed a link on Post Secret and ended up on the depression and suicide prevention page and was reading their list of symptoms of depression, and persistent feelings of emptiness was one of them, so, maybe trying to be philosophical about how bad I feel is not the way to go. I just keep trying to see some point to my existence, and try to believe I can gain something through facing my feelings, and trying to learn from even unpleasant emotions, but perhaps some of this stuff just plain sucks, and there is no point to it. Sometimes I wish all the commercials for anti-depressants were true, where smiling, happy people "get back to their lives" after taking these miraculous little pills - but it hasn't happened for me yet, and I've been on all kinds of this shit since I was 23. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel okay).

Idle workshop, devil's hands

I am almost convinced that God is punishing me for some wrongdoing. Why do I say this you ask? (OK, I pretend that you ask, I mean, heck, I pretend you care, tra la la) Well, here is my cross to bear -- I have had three odious songs stuck in my head for the entire day, on and off.

1. "Isn't it Ironic?" by Alanis Morissette, wherein she proves that she did not even look up "Ironic" in the dictionary. This maddening piece of drivel has tormented me all day and all night; intermittently anyway (thank God for small mercies).
2. "Start me up" by The Rolling Stones. I almost don't have to comment. I can't even find the words. Revile is not a strong enough word to even approximate what I feel regarding this song, and by extension, the stones over all. I can barely stand to listen to some of their slightly better songs, but this one is beneath the bottom of the barrel, it's more like the crap encrusted dirt underneath the barrel.
3. There was another tune of torment which I have mercilessly forgotten. I know it was some schmaltzy middle of the road A.O.R. love song. Bleech!
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In other news: what a train wreck of a week. My family was in rare form. Considering they are certifiably insane on a good day, this is saying something.

For those just joining us out there in TVland, a recap -- my Mother, a tortured soul with her own story (which will not be recounted at this time) is no longer of this earth, as of 1998. My Father is 74 years old and it would be kind to say the man is eccentric, unfortunately, due to lack of business savvy, yet an abundance of design genius, his work is revered by those in the know, but he is too poor to be deemed eccentric, and is just a consumate weirdo. Though, I have to say, he does rise above the garden variety whackjob. In insanity, he makes up in originality what he lacks in funds. I give the old man credit where credit is due.

Now, onto my brother - where does one begin? Hairtrigger temper, extreme O.C.D., controlling doesn't even begin to cover it, has the constitution of a finch on crack. Verbally and emotionally abusive to everyone who tries to love him, and even those who have given up on trying anymore. Don't get too close, he will peck your eyes out with his sharp merciless beak if you are not careful.

I am often dragged, kicking and screaming, in between these two overgrown boys and their pissing contest. Lucky me. As logic would dictate, this means I get pissed on quite a lot, despite my best attempts to stay under my little black umbrella, very quietly not bothering anyone. This week, I was their urinal.

Add to this cast of characters the fact that my 5 year old niece was in the hospital this week with dehydration, after a stomach virus that took too much of a toll on her. My 3 year old niece was hysterical seeing her sister getting hurt by the hospital staff attempting to insert a line for an IV nine times (completely unsuccessfully) and the 5 year old screaming bloody murder and crying too. Oy. Poor girls. Their mother is sick too. Their father is my brother the finch. Lucky them. Forget savings bonds or a college fund, I really need to start saving up for therapy gift certificates for their eighteenth birthdays.

Then...it gets better - my dad calls me and leaves chicken little type messages of urgency on my answering machine. When I finally see him in person as he begs me to do, nothing out of the ordinary is wrong with him. He has had yet another fight with my brother and wishes to bitch about to me. Fer crying out loud! Have you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf dad? Please, look it up. My shredding sanity thanks you in advance.

Then, as my luck would have it, being that I am the poster child for Murphy's law, I go to the local Target to pick up my perscription for 800 mg. Motrin, which I'm supposed to start taking three times a day for my pain, and whilst in the lobby perusing the circular on the wall display, who comes up to me but mon frere. My brother is there to get something the girls need. He proceeds to commence his rant about my dad (mind you I just got done being subjected to my dad's rant about him). [Yea, I know, I have a gift - for the absurd, improbable, and un-fucking-lucky, but still, a gift]. I tell my bro that my back is out, can we at least sit down in the Starbucks in Target so I can get off my feet. No, he assures me he will just be a minute more, and there I stand for over a half an hour, on my feet, leaning on the cart, because my back can't take anymore. Next time, I will say "Hey, if you want to talk to me, I'm going to the cafe to get a cup of coffee and sit down, you can talk till you're blue in the face as long as my ass is cradled lovingly in a psuedo-arty StarFucks chair".

Then, the next day, another lovely message from the pater familias waiting for me when I wake: "I've had a heart attack...I didn't go to the hospital or call the ambulance, I just sat here very quietly and prayed...I'm weak as a puppy...please call me as soon as possible when you get this message". Now, I'm all for the power of prayer folks, but not as a sole course of action when you may need to be somewhere that life-saving measures can be performed. Why did he not go to the hospital I asked? - "Oh, I didn't feel like sitting in the emergency room for five hours". Wow, the logic is astonishing. Why else didn't he go I inquired? - "I only have Medicare, I let my supplemental insurance lapse, and it would cost me thousands of dollars out of pocket". Why did you let your insurance lapse dad? No answer given.

Into every life some rain must fall, in my case, it's acid rain.

I want to move far away. Out of state. Out of range. Out of my cage.

I am so tired of all of the drama queening, grandstanding, vicious cycles they self-perpetuate, and most of all, the acute need they seem to have to drag me into their colossal messes every single time they make them, like children proud of their shit painting on a white wall, who call the family in to admire their masterpiece.
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Some good news for the weary reader: I have lost 17 pounds. I am going to visit my boyfriend D. at the end of May-through the beginning of June. I will be with him for a week. Wonderful bliss, and a much needed escape from ma famille at just the right time.

Other good news: I've been fairly creative lately. Have worked on some art, finished a knitting project, and made some jewelry.

I have also been organizing and implementing new storage areas for all my stuff to maximize my space, and have things in places where they can be accessed more easily. The biggest thing I did in this regard was take all my books off a bookshelf that was tucked away too far into a corner to allow easy access to my books, and transfer them to a cool set of black wire linked cubes in my living room. Now they line a wall right next to my couch and I can see everything and take books off the shelf and reshelve them with ease. I now have at my fingertips a lot of my books on all kinds of mixed media art creation, and altered art forms. I also have many artists books/artists journals/mixed media art books to inspire me. I also have a cube for my DVD's, one for my magazines, with a pull out bin, and one cube for yarn, with a purple fabric drawer, so I can get to my good yarn readily. My B grade stash can stay elsewhere. I will just keep my current yarns and projects on hand in the living room.

I know this sounds strange, but all this really satisfies me. I am making a home for myself. I am teaching myself much needed lessons in getting my shit together, be it via interior design, or interior self-transformation. I'm breaking old patterns and bad habits. I am becoming someone else besides my Father's daughter, my Mother's martyr, and my Brother's punching bag. I am becoming exactly who I really am. And nothing and no one can stop me, or thwart my destiny, because I am determined to be the one who breaks the cycle, the black sheep that becomes a black stallion, the one who gets away, the one who rises above, the phoenix.

Bad Blogger, Bad Bad!

OK, I know. I have been incommunicado.

So, who wants to spank me?

(Note: rolled up newspaper not preferred implement of contrition).