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Try Again

July 26, 2023 //
1

This morning has fail sauce drizzled generously all over it. At least I’ve got a decent cup of coffee for washing down that bitter pill. lol

My Traveling Partner woke me because my snoring was keeping him from sleeping. That’s just real. I’ve got an appointment to do a sleep study in a couple weeks, but let’s keep on with the real-real; my partner has been waiting on this to be sorted out for the whole of our time together. Rough. I woke abruptly, and I woke triggered by his frustrated tone. No blame there, no criticism. I 100% get why he’s frustrated and unhappy to experience degraded sleep. That shit is unhealthy! I’ve got sleep challenges of my own quite separate from the challenge that results from my Traveling Partner’s reaction to my snoring. I definitely understand the critical importance of good quality restful sleep. Hell, I averaged less than 3 hours a night of real sleep for an entire decade of my first marriage, and was almost a zombie version of myself as a result. Sleep fucking matters.

As contented and generally happy together as we are, this sort of crap “tests us” hard. It’s vexing and frustrating, and maddening (by which I mean to say that as our sleep quality deteriorates, so does our sanity). There were harsh words, and raised voices, and frankly at that beastly early hour none of that is helpful, necessary, nor provides any kind of useful change – it’s just ugly on top of unhealthy wrapped in miserable. It’s been a difficult morning, so far. It’ll likely be a difficult day.

Drenched in my own frustration (with being wakened from too-brief sound sleep), my reaction was to immediately dress and leave for work (at 4:00 a.m., for real??). It’s a day in the city, in the office, and hitting the road early means “no traffic” and just maybe a chance for my Traveling Partner to get some sleep. (I’d forgotten about the night-paving going on, just outside of town. I’m so damned glad I saw the signs, really saw them, because that flagger was just on the other side of a blind curve.) I’m still bleary-eyed and groggy, hours later, but I made it safely up the highway. There was no traffic, and paradoxically this slowed me down and made me much more patient with myself and the journey. No rushing. Driving the speed limit. Making a point to get gas before I got on the highway. Eyes on the road. It was an ideal commute in all respects – other than my drowsiness. I got into the city just in time for BigNameChainCoffee to open, so I at least have this coffee that I’m slurping on rather mindlessly. I’m just doing it for the caffeine and hoping for the best. It would not matter if it were the best or worst coffee I’d ever had; I barely notice that it is even coffee, at all.

…It’s a fucking work day…

I groan softly to myself. I’ll be alone in the office awhile longer (about 2 hours more, I think) before other people show up. I’m a bit light-headed and dizzy with the persistent drowsiness. Fuck I wish it were easier for my Traveling Partner to wake me or ask me to rollover without actually also triggering me. It’s just no good for either of us (it’s not his fault, it’s just a limitation we’re facing together). I bet it’s hard to “wake me gently”, because I often sleep so very lightly in the first place, and it’s not at all rare for that light sleep to be in a state of hypervigilance. CPTSD – the “gift” that lasts a lifetime. 😦

Sunlight begins to pour in through the office windows. The tearful drive up the road to the office wasn’t any fun, and I’m so tired… but…the sunshine seems vaguely promising of new beginnings and fresh starts. I haven’t heard from my Traveling Partner for a couple hours, so I’m hopeful that he was able to get to sleep and get some rest. Later I’ll call the sleep doctor and plead for any interim solution that will make better sleep possible for my partner under these trying circumstances. I’m at a point where offsetting the timing of our sleep seems like a reasonable solution – even though I’m not doing shift work these days. I mean, if I go straight to bed after work and sleep for 4-6 hours, then get up about when my partner goes to bed, we at least both have an opportunity to get enough sleep to function. This shit? My Traveling Partner isn’t wrong; it’s unhealthy, and not sustainable. Neither of us can do our best work as our sleep slowly degrades, and it’s taking a toll on our personalities and ability to interact with other people pleasantly (including each other). That shit this morning was just not okay. Understandable, but not ideal. Things have to change – for both of us.

…I’m so tired…

Today I’ll focus on the work in front of me and do my best to ensure I take all my medications on time, get to my handful of meetings, and also don’t forget to refresh the parking meter. I arrived in the city before the parking garage opened, before valet parking hours for this building, and so I parked on the street. So many little things to remember. (Call the sleep doctor!)(Get the video for the work project shot!)(Check on the Farmer’s Market)(Shit! Don’t forget the post-pandemic I9 re-verification for work!)(File PACT Act paperwork!)(Get take-out on the way home!) I’ll try to refrain from biting my nails and tearing at my cuticles. Today I am painfully aware that I am entirely made of human.

I look at my work calendar. I’m pleased to see that it is such a light day, generally. Quiet project work, very few meetings. I look over this bit of writing and count up the spelling errors identified by the spell-check feature. Huh. 42. Seriously? Yeah… fatigue gets the blame; my spelling is generally quite good (or at least used to be). I correct the errors, knowing I’ll for sure miss something. I nearly always do.

Well, shit. I guess it’s time to begin again? Unavoidable, in any case.

Time to find new perspective on old problems.
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Categories Allegories, anger, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, Despair, forgiveness, Free Will, Frustration, health, Healthy Living, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, more than a little bit of bitching, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Sleepless Nights, Summer, The Art of Being

It’s Not Like I Know

July 9, 2023 //
0

I’m relaxing on a Sunday afternoon. It’s been a lovely day, and a great weekend. Oh, nothing unusual or strange, just a thoroughly pleasant weekend, filled with love and laughter. It’s been quite nice.

I went to my imaging appointment Friday. It also seemed quite routine, and entirely lacking in any stress or drama. I’ll probably have results tomorrow, the next day? Something like that. It hasn’t been on my mind since the appointment ended; I’ve been enjoying the here and now. The weekend.

I’ve got a few quite minutes to play with. I decide to write. I sat down thinking perhaps I had a thought worth sharing. I ended up watching videos of squirrels, guinea pigs, kittens, and… belly dancing. I know, weird assortment. I wasn’t looking to kill time, but managed to do so anyway. lol

Here’s a thing to know… I don’t know “everything”. Honestly, I know a fair few things, but I don’t put a lot of emotional investment into feelings of certainty anymore. It’s a waste of time to feel “certain” about most stuff; circumstances change, use cases change, recollections change, understandings change, hell – according to physics, it’s likely even reality itself changes. So… what the fuck do I know?? Damned little, when compared to the set of “all knowledge”, frankly. Why mention it? Because – my results vary. Yours will, too. Taking advice from random weirdos or “experts” on the internet isn’t reliably the best option if one is seeking knowledge. I’m just saying; read the fine print. Ask discerning questions. Listen to the answers to your questions. Practice non-attachment. Trust your gut feelings. Also be skeptical of things you “feel sure of” – those are also suspect. It’s a weird puzzle, this funny journey that is one human life. You can select some other human from all the available humans around and follow them… or… you can walk your own path. No map. Be your own cartographer. Test interesting practices yourself, and make your own decisions. It is an option. It’s potentially even your best option… depending on… a lot of things, including what sort of raw materials you’re working with intelligence-wise, emotional intelligence-wise (which may be more important that just “smarts”, by far), education-wise… and so many other resources and experiences that went into the you that you became over time. Can you trust yourself to be your own best friend, and also wise, compassionate, and willing to think critically? It’s a lot to ask, I know.

It’s easy to follow someone else. If they lead you astray, you don’t even have to take the blame for where you end up, eh? Soooo easy. On the other hand… there is so much freedom, and agency, and creativity, and opportunity, in walking your own path! …You just don’t know where you’re going to arrive, when you reach your destination. How could you? The journey is the destination. But, hey… would you have known, anyway? Maybe not. Not really – just a guess, or accepting someone else’s word for it.

Walking my own path has been (is) scary sometimes. No, I didn’t “get here” alone – there are other travelers walking their own hard mile, on their own journey, who happen to share some portion of my path as I walk. It’s good to have company, now and then. Perspective. The tales of travelers are often quite interesting – if not always 100% true. Walking my own path hasn’t amounted to solitude in any particular sense, it’s just a walk, a path, navigated largely on my own decision-making, but often in the company of others. I don’t ask them to follow me. I’m not following anyone else in any specific way. I often seek advice, sometimes I take it. Sometimes I don’t.

It’s a lovely Sunday to reflect on how far I’ve come in a decade. A worthy journey, indeed, and time to begin again. 😀

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Categories Allegories, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, inspiration, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Summer, The Art of Being, turning 60

Mind-Altering Drugs

July 6, 2023 //
0

It’s been a week since my airport misadventure with food-poisoning. I’m home. The holiday weekend is behind me. The work trip to Palm Springs is a handful of memories and photographs. I’m finally back on all the various medications I currently take, and back to my proper timing on those. I’m fully hydrated. I’m getting back into the gym starting tomorrow morning. Life is good.

…Why am I so fucking grumpy and cross with the world, today?? I feel like I’m taking all the right steps… all the right medications… I smile, sipping my afternoon cup of (decaf) coffee. It’s that, isn’t it? It’s the medications. I’m literally “on drugs” and it does actually take a day or two to settle down into that routine all over again, even after a minor disruption. It’s something we often don’t give much thought to. Mind-altering drugs? That’s all the damned drugs, people. Yes, and the coffee. And the Tylenol. All of it. All. Of. It. Changing your chemistry has the potential to change your mood – and your mind. So.

Take another sip of coffee. I breathe, exhale, relax. I look at the clock. The work day is nearing an end. My Traveling Partner rather sweetly made afternoon/evening plans to make room for me to just deal with my own bullshit without it becoming our bullshit. I feel loved. Understood.

It’s time to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, anger, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, Mindfulness, Moments, more than a little bit of bitching, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Summer, The Art of Being

My Results Vary, and The Map is not The World

July 3, 2023 //
2

I got home around 0230 a.m. on Saturday morning, although my itinerary and planning had put me arriving home closer to 10:00 p.m. on Friday. Flight delay? Mmm… Not exactly. Sort of. Real life got real, is all.

I had awakened brutally early for the day’s plan on Friday, and upon exiting my hotel room and facing what felt like a furnace blast of heat when I expected the cool of morning, I sort of just folded up the idea of one last elegant French-inspired breakfast and dropped it in the waste bin in favor of a purposeful (and early) trip directly to the airport. Waiting for my flight sounded better at that point than lingering anywhere, for any reason. I didn’t have any particular thoughts on why that might be, I just went with it.

Once I arrived at the airport, I went through security relatively quickly; there was no line. It was that early. I got a cup of coffee and commenced waiting for my flight, which would not depart until hours later. I was fine with it. I pulled out my book and started reading. When it came time to board, I quickly did so, and resumed reading my book. Short flight, and it seemed like we were on the ground in no time at all. (For which I was most grateful, since the passenger ahead of me had some pretty severe and seriously noxious flatulence throughout the flight that was literally making passengers – including me – actually gag outloud. It was quite horrible.)

We arrived at the airport in Las Vegas for a planned layover of about 5 hours. It’s a lively, busy, exciting airport, as airports go, and I expected to easily find a meal, and suitable time-passing entertainment, just strolling around the terminal. Funny thing, though, I disembarked feeling a bit… off. Queasy. Uncomfortable. Vaguely ill-at-ease. I bought a soft drink hoping the bubbles would bring some relief. I’d soon regret that choice…

…Very soon…

TW: gross human biological functions and discussion of same in the next paragraph. You’ve been warned.

Looking out the window from a seat near my departure gate.

Less than half an hour after arriving in Las Vegas, and certainly before I made any move in the direction of “entertainment”, I found myself feeling quite ill. That feeling quickly became diarrhea and vomiting, and I didn’t know it yet, but that was going to persist – a lot – for several hours to come. Probably food poisoning. Possibly the ceviche at dinner the night before. I ultimately had to reschedule my departure for a later flight; no way I could have flown in the shape I was in. I even had to ask for medical attention (and the EMT that was sent to the terminal ended up giving me IV fluids). The restroom attendant took pity on me and marked one stall of the insanely busy women’s bathroom between Gates 5 and 16 “out of order” for me, allowing me to reliably have access to the plumbing without having to wait in line. All my clothes were in my checked bag – which had already gone ahead to PDX, with my earlier planned flight. I was limited in how far I could get from that restroom by the severity of my symptoms, so walking to any retail space where I might be able to purchase a change of clothes wasn’t a serious option. I basically spent 10 hours in that airport, mostly in that restroom, shitting myself stupid (literally becoming stupider as I became more dehydrated, no foolin’) and puking up whatever remained in my guts until nothing did, and a bit even after that. It was… horrible. I couldn’t keep anything down, and initially that included all my medications (replacements for which were in my checked bag, along with all my clothes), and even the Pepto-Bismol I initially thought might ease my symptoms. (It didn’t, it just came back up a grotesque Barbie pink.) The Imodium my Traveling Partner recommended didn’t do any better, at least not right away, but I persisted with it, following the directions for additional doses, and refraining from adding to future potential misery (initially) by not drinking more water and definitely not eating anything. Eventually, about an hour before my rescheduled later flight was expected to depart, my symptoms seemed to have subsided. I was distrustful, and remained fairly near to that restroom until it was time to board, and took advantage of pre-boarding protocols to get the front aisle seat, just in case I found myself faced with an urgent need to get to the restroom, again. The flight itself was mostly routine, and I made it to PDX.

…I even found a taxi willing to take me all the way home – a drive of more than one hour, even at that time of night…

Home. G’damn it was so good to be home. I was still too sick to spend much time with my Traveling Partner and after a shower (that I very much needed), I went directly to bed. I think I slept for the better part of the next 10 hours, mostly unable to actually wake up completely at any intermediate point. I woke only briefly to pee again, or to drink water when my partner woke me to offer it, immediately going back to sleep. I lost pretty much the entirety of Saturday to resting from the exhausting airport ordeal, even after I woke up. Sunday was a taking it easy day, and I felt like I’d been in a terrible fist fight, but managed to stay awake and even got a few things done. I got back on track on all my medication, too. Not much of a weekend, honestly, and nothing like I had expected, planned, or dreamed of…. with one delightful exception; my Traveling Partner’s love.

My partner kept me company via text message all day Friday, while I was so sick, helping prevent me from really losing my mind over it. He helped me decide to ask for medical attention, helped me figure out that delaying my flight would be the best course of action. Reminded me to cancel the car service originally scheduled to pick me up and deliver me home, because they would not be able to just wait another 4-5 hours for me to get to PDX. All day Saturday – a day he’d expected to be spent on (perhaps) lovemaking and (definitely) work in the shop – he cared for me, making certain I drank adequate water, took my medications properly, and both rested, and also got up and moved around some. He took care of meals. He took care of chores. He handled everything, and helped me get well. Yesterday? Feeling some better, I got a couple things done with the day, slowly, and he was there making a point to encourage me to go slowly, while also being a steady aware presence, available to help or to offer care when it looked like I could use some. That evening, we cooked dinner together in the kitchen, and it was delightful.

…It was a little hard bouncing back to the work routine this morning. I feel a bit as if I “didn’t get a weekend”. I’m not bitching, just facing the circumstances from a position of relative privilege; there are a ton of people who don’t get enough leisure time, and that doesn’t describe me, outside this limited situation. I can get past that without whining about it (much), but I am feeling it. Short week, though; tomorrow is a holiday. 😀

I breathe, exhale, relax, and count myself fortunate. It could be that in another era, the illness that came over me Friday could have ended this mortal adventure rather definitively. Instead, I paid too much for an over-the-counter remedy, and sat around too long in an uncomfortable environment (for what I was going through). I still got home. I’m still alive to enjoy that experience. I still get a chance to begin again. 😀

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Categories Allegories, Brain Injury, breathe, gratitude, health, Mindfulness, Moments, more than a little bit of bitching, Perspective, Practices, Relationships, Sleepless Nights, Summer

Getting Real About the Real-Real

March 18, 2023 //
0

It’s an okay morning. Saturday. Good cup of coffee. Had a pleasant frosty-morning walk through bare wintry vineyards as the sun rose, this morning. Returned home once my Traveling Partner pinged me that he was awake and starting his day. Could be that was a mistake (in timing)… I rushed home rather eagerly, to enjoy the day with my partner, and I may have been working from expectations and assumptions that were a poor fit to the reality of the morning.

I got home and he was just making his first cup of coffee, immersed in the emotional experience of being angry about the condition in which parts had arrived, and the likelihood that the parts he had ordered are not in any way actually usable for the order he is working on. His anger over the situation seems reasonable. He shares his feelings. He shows me the parts. His anger is evident, and he is actively working through it. (The way out is through…and…we become what we practice. Hold that thought.)

…I have difficulties with anger, particularly the expressed anger of male human beings with whom I am in a relationship (it feels uniquely terrifying and threatening even when only expressed verbally), and it makes it sometimes very difficult to endure the experience of being in proximity to that visceral emotional experience in the moment… It could be that this alone makes me potentially unsuitable for long-term partnership. I find myself thinking about that today. Today, my partner explicitly challenged my overall value as his partner due to my “lack of ability to be emotionally supportive”.

My sense of things is that I listened with consideration, compassion, and care for some length of time while he vented his feelings (my watch suggests about 40 minutes, but I don’t think that matters as much as that he didn’t feel supported). Maybe I don’t really understand what my partner needs from me when he’s angry about something? Listening doesn’t seem to be it. Even listening deeply and offering support, or asking how I can be helpful (if I can at all), doesn’t seem to meet the need. Commiserating with his position doesn’t seem to meet the need, and often seems to prolong the intensity of the emotional storm. Attempting to “be helpful” or offer any “troubleshooting” perspective is usually unwelcome (and most of the time I don’t have the specific expertise to offer that in the first place). It’s often been my experience that eventually, however supportive I am seeking to be, one common outcome is that at some point, the anger that is “not about me”… becomes about me. Terrifying, even in a relationship where there has never been any violence. The anger feels threatening. This is a byproduct of violence-related trauma in prior relationships. Decades later, I’m still struggling with this. It seems unfair to my current (or future) partner(s).

When a person with PTSD embarks on making a relationship with another human being who also has PTSD (or similar concerns), there are some additional complications that sometimes make living well and harmoniously together more than a little difficult to do successfully – and it’s less than ideally easy, no matter how much we may love each other. Sometimes love is not enough. Maybe that seems obvious? It probably should be obvious. I sit with that thought for a few minutes, uncertain what it is really telling me. Maybe nothing new. I mean… I know, right? It’s hard sometimes. (“This too will pass.”)

…Resilience is a measure of our ability to “bounce back” from stress…

Using meditation and mindfulness practices is one means of building improved resilience. Resilience lets me “bounce back” from stress more easily, and allows for greater “ease” in dealing with stress in the moment. Resilience supports improved intimacy. Resilience along with non-attachment is a good means of learning not to take things personally. Resilience makes some practices produce better results – “listening deeply” can be incredibly difficult and emotionally draining without resilience, for example. Resilience is like a glass of water, though; once the glass is emptied, no amounting of drinking from it will result in slaking thirst. I’ve got to refill the glass. (It’s a wise practice to keep it “topped off”, too; that’s where self-care comes in.)

G’damn, I really need some time away to invest in my own wellness and resilience. Quiet time taking care of the woman in the mirror for a few days, without any other agenda or competing workload. My resilience is depleted. Even “doing my best” is not enough right now – I feel comfortable acknowledging that. Can’t efficiently move forward from one place to another if I don’t recognize where I am right now – and start there. In this particular instance, it is less about physical fatigue than emotional and cognitive fatigue. I’m “brain tired”. I’ve been lax about my meditation practice, and it’s clear how much that does matter. I’ve taken on too much, and can’t seem to dig out in order to get to the practices and experiences that support my wellness; I’m scrambling just to get “all the other shit” done, that seems to have been given a higher priority than my emotional wellness or mental health. I can’t blame anyone else; it’s called “self-care” for a reason. I’ve been giving 100% of what I have to offer to work, to the household, to my partner, and not leaving much “left over” to take care of myself.

I find myself wondering if I would do well to leave for the coast a day earlier. It would probably be good for me. Probably not good for my partner who has been missing me, and potentially feeling un-cared for and lacking an adequate portion of my undivided attention and emotional support. I’ve only got the same 24 hours in a day that everyone else has – and figuring out how to parcel that out is sometimes difficult. I could do better. Seems like everyone needs a piece of me… and the only person who seems ready to yield what they feel is their “due” is… me. Fuck. That’s how I get into this quagmire of cognitive fatigue and emotional fragility in the first place, though. Taking care of myself really needs to be a non-negotiable – at work, at home, and in life, generally. I could do better.

…When I take better care of myself, not only is there “more in my glass” to share with others, the glass even gets bigger and holds still more… and I know this…

We become what we practice. When I practice calm, I become calmer. When I practice good self-care, I become cared-for, resilient, and confident in my worth. When I practice deep listening, I become a better listener more able to “be there” for others. Understanding this is important. It is true of unpleasant emotions, too. If I “practice” losing my shit in a time of stress, I become more prone to being volatile. If I “practice” anger by way of confrontation, venting, or tantrums, I become an angrier person less able to manage that intense emotion appropriately. True for all of us; we become what we practice. How do I become the woman – the person – I most want to be? Sounds like I need to practice being her …and when I fall short? I need to begin again.

I finish my coffee. Breathe. Exhale. Relax. Begin planning the packing and tasks needed to prepare for my trip to the coast. I remind myself to take time to meditate, to check my blood pressure, to stay on time with my medications. It’s a lot to keep track of some days, but the pay off is worth it; I feel better, enjoy my life more, and I am more able to be there for my partner when he needs me. I’ve just got to do the verbs.

Time to begin again. Again. It’s slow going, sometimes, but I do become what I practice.

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Categories Allegories, anger, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, Frustration, health, Healthy Living, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, more than a little bit of bitching, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, winter, women
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