Archives for category: pain

It’s a Saturday morning. The habit of a lifetime of employment tends to get me up most mornings sometime around the same time of morning that I wake all week long. Work changes life. I am sipping my coffee, made with great care, and savoring the morning; it will not lead me to the office. This, right here, is life being lived. What follows are words…resentful words, contentious words, discontented words, and yes – angry words. In short – ranting. You don’t have to read it; figured I’d give you an easy out and let you know in advance.

Our harvest has much to do with what we planted, and how we tended our garden.

Our harvest has much to do with what we planted, and how we tended our garden.

There is so much to read about ‘work-life balance’, for and against, pro and con, is it realistic, is it worthy, is it necessary, is it valued… and I think my own musings took me along a path that opened my eyes to something relevant – a detail I don’t often see openly discussed in a comfortable way; it matters what we do for employment (work) whether work and life are out of balance in the first place. If I am working too hard, feeling under-compensated, exploited, taken for granted, and find myself compromising my own needs for my employer, then work and life are most assuredly out of balance… but…what if my passion is for the work that I do? Perhaps then the experience is quite different? If we are trying to have a discussion about work and life and balance, it’s probably important to be mindful of the nature of the work, and the nature of the life, and the needs of the individual humans discussing it relevant to their own experiences. It is a conversation with many voices.

It's my own perspective, and like so many things it may look different from some other point of view.

This is my own perspective, and like so many things it may look different from some other point of view.

For me, there is nothing whatever about the work I do that is ‘important’ to me, to the world, to humanity, to the future of our survival, to our day to day health as a society, or progress as a specie. I play a role that comes down to enhancing the revenue generating potential of other human beings engaged in task completion for our employer’s agenda. I gain nothing from the greater success, myself, when my employer does. This is likely the common experience of employment for a great many people. This sort of employment is rarely physically difficult, but it is mind-numbingly tedious – and for an artist, for a writer, for a poet, for a human being, this amounts to nothing more or less than a conversion of life-force to currency that can be used to further my own ends, and to live my life more easily (it’s hard to paint if the power is turned off, or I have no funds for canvas!). It makes the concerns over ‘is the compensation sufficient’ incredibly important, very relevant, and a key deciding factor on whether any one job is worth doing, at all, whether employers like the fact that people decide on employment based on pay, or not. (I find myself surprised every time a business leader expresses reluctance to hire or promote someone who ‘is only doing it for more money’, because… why else would they?)

Seriously? Why else would I be working, if not for money?

Seriously? Why else would I be working, if not for money?

I imagine that employment at some endeavor that is enriching, fulfilling, important to society, people, or life, or work that moves humanity forward in some fashion is less likely to feel as though one is being exploited without regard for one’s own needs in life. The closest I have come to work of that kind was being a soldier at an age when ethics and morality seemed pretty black and white to me, the world seemed simpler with clearly defined good guys and bad guys – and I was mere years from a serious brain injury; I understood myself to be ‘one of the good guys’. My understanding of my role – and my worth – was limited. The most fulfilling work I’ve ever done was in construction, working on paving jobs. Ever after I have driven those roads with wonder and delight, observing that I had a part to play in the quality of the work, and the usefulness of the outcome. It’s a very good feeling. Builders, makers, creators, discoverers, designers, inventors, explorers, doctors, teachers, healers, philosophers,… there are jobs that seem more ‘worthy’ than others, the list goes on. No one ever looked into their parents eyes as a child, earnest about the future, and said ‘Mommy, I want to be trapped in middle management supporting the revenue goals of a large faceless corporation focused on gross margin and exploiting my fellow man for corporate gains I’ll never benefit from myself!”

I feel discontent this morning, in spite of my tasty coffee; I slept restlessly dreaming of work and struggling to let it go and enjoy my time, and my life. Don’t misunderstand me – I’ve got a good job, working for a skilled boss that I respect, for a company that provides a service. The office is clean. The people are human. The environment is generally fairly humane and cheerful. It’s still someone else’s agenda, and I still resent it when the business leans into my time for more than what I have agreed to provide. We’ve built a culture that emphasizes productivity at the expense of the productive; boundary setting by the exploited is negatively reinforced and actively discouraged. The business goal in most businesses seems first and foremost to limit cost as much as possible by hiring fewer, and paying them less, with little regard for cost of living, or whether survival on those wages is even feasible. We rather glibly and without compassion argue in meetings and for publication about what one job or another is ‘worth’ – from a payroll, labor cost, and gross margin perspective, without considering at all what the job is worth from the perspective of what it will cost a human being to give up their life time to do itPeople become an expense, a resource, a commodity… and we’re really not, at all. We’re living beings, with souls, needs, desires of our own – and a limited mortal life to achieve our own ends, and have our own experience. Our lives always have more value than our ‘work’ unless the work we choose to do is something we are truly invested in as a human being, have a passion for, and feel is worthy. There are choices involved – but the game is rigged, and the choice sometimes appears to be ‘work and survive, or don’t and go fuck yourself’.

Adding insult to injury in all this, the very people being exploited sometimes argue against their own benefit, refusing to even consider that perhaps their lives are worth more than they are being offered – and they got there being told all their lives that they have no additional value, by the people who would hire them when they become adults. It’s pretty ugly. Hell yes, technology has the potential to replace people in the workplace – that should be a good thing! Go HOME – live your life! Do great things – because there is greatness within you! YES – the ‘minimum wage’ should be as high as it possibly can be and the expense should come out of the profit margin! Profiting by stealing the life force of others by under-valuing them seems corrupt, immoral, and a willful theft. Standing on a bigger pile of money by paying those we employ so little that they must also get support from the government, move into horrific living conditions, or assemble communally with friends and extended family just to make ends meet seems shameful. I find these common things about work culture actually intensely offensive, myself, and I’m just going to say so. I have yet to see any data that shows a CEO is of more actual productive value than a laborer, or technician, or customer service representative – but they are certainly paid a great deal more to answer their email.

I’m frustrated by being ‘gainfully employed’ at 52. I have – no kidding, I’m serious here – better things to do with my time. Unfortunately, most of them come at a cost that requires some amount of currency just to achieve the day-to-day basics of food & water, shelter, power, electricity…so I make choices to convert some portion of my own life force, and limited mortal lifetime, to the currency I need to manage those details. What I ask in return is to be left the fuck alone by my employer on my time. Yes, I said it – and being salaried, saying so is tantamount to revolt, but it’s a boundary – and it’s my life, and I’ve only agreed to giving up 40 hours each week.

Now if I can just get my own brain to cooperate, to fight through the lifetime of ‘good worker’ programming – because my idea of ‘work-life balance’, is to ensure that my life is always the more important element of my experience, invested in with the entirety of my will and intent, living it engaged in the moment, and filled with joy, love – and growth. There are choices involved, and some of them are mine. “Now” is mine. There is nothing more important that I could do with this moment than live it, on my own terms, with my own goals in mind, meeting my own needs and having my own experience.

See what I’m saying though? Here it is, a lovely relaxed Saturday morning, and resentment over work still has its hooks in me – more than 1500 words worth!!

Moving on to living life.

Moving on to living life.

Today is a good day to let that go, and enjoy the day as a human being. Today is a good day to value myself more than the dollars my efforts represent. Today is a good day to look into the eyes of other human beings, and value them as human beings too – whether they are the barista at a coffee shop, the person pumping gas at the service station, the postal worker dropping off the mail, the handy man in the community, the technical support person on the other end of the phone… each and every one of us, human, each and every one of us worth more than the job we do for the currency we need.

I had a lovely dinner with my traveling partner, after a very productive and thought-provoking appointment with my therapist. “Effective” is a good word. Maybe follow that one with “important” and “relevant”, maybe add “needful”… now I am alone. Alone is hard right now.  I don’t even know why I’m crying, right now… It is a measure of progress that I know it won’t last and that trying to stop the tears has other, sometimes profoundly negative, consequences. The tears themselves serve a purpose, the science says, and will reduce my (apparently high) cortisol levels faster than most other things might.

The a/c is on, and the house is cool. The day has been very hot. I got home with a headache from the heat, and more than a little noise-sensitive, uncertain if I might be ‘dealing with the appointment’ – there is often a delay between the appointment dialogue itself, and ‘when it hits me’ later. Often. More often than not.

It passes. I remind myself that it will. I breathe. I let the tears fall. I feel grateful that I didn’t get to this place while hanging out with my traveling partner – he is supportive on a supremely deep and connected level, but I know that going through these things with me is hard on him, too. It is, frankly, one of the reasons I moved into my own place – some of this is ‘easier’ to face alone. Sometimes is just harder, in general, to face it at all.

I have all the usual choices in front of me. All the practiced practices supporting my emotional resilience – much improved over the past two years – and I feel equipped to take care of me, even now – but fuck it’s harder than I want it to be. I think back to the morning’s contentment and ease. There is another morning tomorrow, and surely I will not still be weeping. I don’t understand why I am weeping now…unless it is simply that some stuff really is worth crying over – at least once – and some of it I just never got to that part at that time. I was too busy enduring, surviving, overcoming, managing, withstanding, and holding on to whatever fragments of self I could maintain in the chaos. The damage piled up, and now I am crying. So. Okay. Now what?

A bit like squinting at fruit I can't reach, with the sun in my eyes.

A bit like squinting at fruit I can’t reach, with the sun in my eyes.

A few more deep breaths. A big drink of water – it’s a hot day and the headache itself is enough to make me weep. A cooling shower…comfy clothes…yoga…meditation…medication (medical cannabis, I’m looking your way on this one!)…and being gentle with this fragile vessel and the tender hurt thing resting within it. We’ll be okay, this woman in the mirror and I; we’re making this journey together – and we aren’t traveling alone; I’m never far from my traveling partner’s thoughts. I could call, right now, and he would answer.

Hell…incremental progress over time is – and in fewer than 500 words, harder already seems a bit easier. I wonder for just a moment whether posting this is “necessary” and realize…maybe that isn’t about me, at all. It wouldn’t be a very complete narrative if I just take the bits I don’t find comfortable out of it. Isn’t that part of what hasn’t worked for me before? It seemed ‘too easy’ – and not relevant to the very real ups and downs. The failures. The struggles. How much harder it sometimes seems…the tears. I get back up. I start again. I let it pass.

It rained the other day, quite a lot. It isn't raining now.

It rained the other day, quite a lot. It isn’t raining now.

I woke ahead of the alarm, and almost immediately my thoughts turned in a dark direction, filling with negativity, doubt, imagined hurts – all in the seconds after waking, before my broken brain really has a chance to boot up and fight the demons in the darkness. With a sigh I flip on the light – and reach for the alarm clock. No way to I want to hear it go off – my internal alarm bells were already clanging away.

I took my morning medication and went straight for the music – “Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe” for openers, first thing, and loud enough to hear in the shower. In this case, the ‘bitch’ in question is the woman in the mirror – and I sing along, right to her face, all through my shower and getting dressed for the day. Seriously? Acknowledging the power of my own freedom to choose, and the potential it has to color my experience, means on a morning when my own brain attempts a sneak attack – it’s totally okay to call me on my bullshit, myself. By the time my coffee is ready, I expect to be past the difficult waking moment, without using up the emotional reserves necessary to deep dive the chaos and damage; it’s enough to recognize that I have more than my share, and understand that it can make for some challenges now and then. (At least, that’s definitely enough at 4:30 am on a work morning, before I am even completely awake!)

By the time my coffee is ready – I’ve recovered my now-utterly-routine peaceful leisurely morning. I celebrate with my favorite bounce back anthem. Dancing from the kitchen with my coffee, singing along as I cross the room with a wink and a smile at the woman in the mirror – that crazy bitch knows I am not taking her bullshit today! lol [Reminder: there are no literal voices in my head, and I am just this one person right here – but I do find it handy to face the woman in the mirror on terms that allow me to communicate more easily with myself across the chasm of this injury and the vast piles of chaos and damage left behind from other experiences with other people.]

It’s a morning for music, I guess. I am moved.  Listening to “Love Sex Magic” when it comes up in the playlist, I grin and feel the residual heat and fervor of my love for my traveling partner…and on some other level, my pure delight and animal enthusiasm for healthy adult play, generally. Few things chase the demons back into the darkness like a really good playlist. 🙂

Aside from the complicated moments immediately after waking, it’s a lovely morning. My coffee is tasty, smooth, hot – and I managed it without spilling boiling water on the counter when I moistened the filter, or getting dust from ground coffee all over the floor – I often do both. It’s okay; I’m learning not to take my own humanity personally, or treat small such ‘mistakes’ as any reflection on my worth as a human being, a partner, a lover, artist, writer, or woman – hell, it’s not even “about” having a brain injury. Every human, everywhere, has moments of clumsiness, makes mistakes, causes a mess by mistake, or falls short of their own vision of who they can be on some occasion. Perfect? It’s not a thing in real life. I’m over that. I haven’t lost anything but some needless heartache to let go of emotionally brutalizing myself over ever action or outcome that could be viewed as a mistake – and with good reason, frankly; too many of them turn out to be, if not utterly necessary in some unanticipated fashion, just not a big deal at all, and definitely unworthy of the drama, turmoil, and hurt. I figure, over time, continuing to treat myself well in this fashion will also result in having the reaction, itself, come up far less often. That tends to be how incremental change over time works out.

My arthritis is hurting a lot this week. Dancing helps – hurts, but it does help, and the easiest way to overcome the inertia of pain is to find movement irresistible – that’s dance, right there, isn’t it?  Turning on the music this morning was a good call for my body, as well as my heart and mind. My playlist is mostly dance tracks, hip hop, crunk, and couple of other favorites that ‘don’t really belong here’ (Santana, Billy Idol, Skrillex) … only… this is my playlist, and they do ‘belong’. How much easier would so much of life be with practices that made the practicing itself irresistible? There’s often a real thrill or moment of gratification associated with experiences in life that present the greatest risks of negative outcome… sex… money… rage… That’s more than a little bit inconvenient for a woman with a dis-inhibiting brain injury, trust me. I’m glad I can yield to the urge to dance without concern for adverse consequences. 🙂

A summer day, a journey that continues.

A summer day, a journey that continues.

The point this morning, as much as anything, is that I am often in my own way more than anything else is. Injuries do happen. Pain is part of the human experience. The constant struggling is a choice. Learning to make my choices differently is a process. Today is a good day to practice the practices that are working best for me. It’s a good day to remind the woman in the mirror I won’t be taking her shit, either; we need each other, but I won’t be allowing her chaos and damage to call the shots, when I can avoid it with other choices. Today is a good day to enjoy the journey.

This morning my arthritis pain is…well, it is. But it isn’t as much so as yesterday, and the improvement is the foundation on which my smile is built, this morning. My coffee is hot and tasty, and the morning is chilly – this seems a pleasant combination, and tends to reinforce the smile. On my way to make coffee, I spotted my rather shy clown pleco (Panaqolus maccus) scooting out of view and I grin from ear to ear to have seen him at all. He has his favorite hiding spots and generally only ‘comes out’ when he’s pretty sure no one is watching.

The only picture I've gotten of my clown pleco since I moved.

The only picture I’ve gotten of my clown pleco since I moved.

So far, a basically pleasant morning, filled with small things to smile about, and some arthritis pain. I start to think ‘not bad for a Monday’ and catch myself rolling my eyes rather dismissively; there’s nothing ‘wrong with’ Mondays – and setting those expectations, even in a back-handed way, is no way to treat myself, particularly on an actual Monday. I find my thoughts wandering to ‘how did we find our way to a place where Mondays are given such a poor reputation?’ We can get pretty worked up about how shitty Monday’s might be (or tend to be, or seem to tend to be, or are rumored to seem to tend to be), but in practice, are Mondays actually any worse than any other days? Maybe Mondays are worse for people coming off a weekend bender and having to drag themselves through an ugly commute into the office to commit acts of servitude in corporate purgatory…but even that…I feel kinda bad for poor Monday having to listen to people talk shit on her all the time. Pretty good that she’s not a person.

This particular Monday seems to be starting well, at least for me. I am not reading the news – even the articles linked by friends on Facebook get no attention from me this morning. They’ll be there on Tuesday, no doubt. I am enjoying my coffee, my yoga, my meditation, my writing. I am enjoying an email from a dear friend. I am enjoying a pedicure, and a foot rub – oh sure, I know as well as anyone else that a foot rub I give myself doesn’t feel ‘as good’ as a foot rub given to me by someone else…but living alone doesn’t mean I simply go without everything that feels good. lol. That would suck, wouldn’t it? (I assure you, a foot rub I give myself still feels pretty damned good.) I woke a little ahead of the alarm this morning, and feeling well-rested, I got up. There’s more time in my morning, and on a Monday I suppose I could go to work early…but damn, what does the job ever do for me that I didn’t straight up earn in the first place? Nothing. I do verbs of a variety of sorts, for a variety of purposes and persons, all the time, and certainly I am worthy of investing in my own needs and pleasure on a Monday morning; the job will still be there at the usual time. I choose to put my time and my effort where it will be most appreciated this morning – in myself, and meeting my own needs.

The sun rises noticeably later each Monday. It is still summer, but this morning is not a hot one, and I am pleased to wear something less…sleeveless, for a change. The morning is comfortably cool. I smile, noticing the time; it’s only now the time I usually wake up, a leisurely Monday morning, indeed – with plenty of smiles.

I spent much of the weekend, in spite of pain, puttering around the apartment continuing to ‘move in’ – smaller tasks, now, but the details are part of what makes this place “home” for me. In the rush of having to move ahead of schedule (my safety is more important than financial concerns, honestly), details that I would have handled quite differently got…’managed’ hastily and without much forethought: paperwork stuffed into drawers, unrelated items packed into boxes that were not well-labeled, and on moving in some cupboards were stuffed with things that “don’t really go there”, just to reduce visual clutter enough to create a sense of order, and momentum to continue unpacking.  I love creating order from chaos. I love the sorting process of figuring out where things most ideally go for both storage and use. I love creating this space that “feels like I live here”. The small details of moving in delight me – my comfort, built on my choices. It’s lovely to have this autonomy after so many years of conversations resulting in me compromising what works for me so that someone else can have what works for them. I guess that sounds pretty selfish… for now I am okay with that. I have lived a lot of years making do in living arrangements not well-suited to the issues I have, or set up such that daily life is an impediment to therapy, or rehabilitating this injury. I’m overdue to enjoy things “my way” for a while. (First, I’ve had to figure out what that is…) 🙂

Monday? It’s a good day to spend time with the woman in the mirror. It’s a good day to take a ‘no compromise’ approach to treating myself well. It’s a good day for simple pleasures, and for bringing a smile into the office – and into the world.

I hurt this morning. I slept well, and with few interruptions. I guess I am “at an age” where I can commonly expect to wake in the night, sometimes more than once, just to pee. It’s not even annoying anymore, and I barely wake up. I know the layout here at home so well now that there is no need to turn on a light for something so routine, and I tumble back into bed still quite comfortable; the hot water here is hot straight away, so I am not awakened by cold water, or cold hands.

I started my coffee at about the same time as I started a “conversation” with my traveling partner, online. I enjoy those moments greatly, particularly when we are both in enough pain to wonder if it is worth it to pursue the plans we made earlier in the week. The connected dialogue feels intimate and real, and often satisfies most needs to feel visible, to be heard, to feel the power and strength of the connection we share… the missing pieces (touch, scent, hugs, kisses, sex) aren’t ‘everything’ – although I am admittedly quite late in life arriving at that conclusion, and definitely miss those things when we are apart.

I’m in enough pain with my arthritis this morning that yoga is the first thing on my mind – but not yet actually ‘do-able’. I am so stiff that gentle changes in posture, for now, are enough to hurt – and ease the stiffness somewhat – and it will be possibly an hour or more before doing yoga is a thing. So, I enjoy my morning coffee and a few minutes of conversation with my dear love, and start the day quite gently.

I stepped into my living room this morning and felt something new… as if I were really welcoming myself home for the very first time. I spent quite a bit of the afternoon yesterday tackling small tasks leftover from moving: sorting papers that had been stuffed into small drawers, tidying cables and cords, taking the wall-mount hardware off the back of the t.v. and reattaching the stand, placing the t.v. in its new location, rearranging some objects and making choices about precisely which paintings will hang precisely where on the long west wall now that I could see it with the t.v. in its place. I didn’t think much about the outcome when I had finished, aside from feeling content and satisfied. This morning I wasn’t thinking about those changes, or the living room, at all – and when I stepped out of the hallway (no kidding, the builder managed to wedge a hallway into this tiny apartment) into the living room, I paused, startled – it felt like a homecoming after a long time away, a combination of welcoming relief, and delight.

Enough.

Enough.

This morning I am delightfully aware of some things I really love about my home, and my life. I take time to appreciate them.

  • Cool morning air currents chilling my bare toes as I sit, sipping my coffee, watching the morning sky lighten through the partially open vertical blinds on the open patio door.
  • The sparkle of sequins on the floor cushion by the window, where I often sit and meditate gazing out across the lawn, watching the birds, squirrels, and cats go about their own lives.
  • The plentiful hot water; I am ever-grateful for indoor plumbing, and the convenience of hot running water in good supply. The water pressure, and the ready hot water here at Number 27 are especially nice.
  • A big bathtub. The bath here is not ‘over-sized’ in any notable way – but it is of an era when ‘efficiency’ sized tubs for apartments weren’t a thing, and ‘water-saving’ tubs were not common. It is spacious, and deep enough to soak. It is enameled cast iron, too, instead of fiberglass, and retains warmth. After more than two years enduring a plastic ‘water-saving’ tub barely big enough for a child, and unreliable hot water, this tub seems lavish and I do love the hot water. 🙂
  • The aesthetic – this place looks like a place I would live; it is decorated with books (everywhere), art (mine, mostly), and comfort in mind. It is an easy place to relax, to find stillness, to enjoy solitude – or to hang out with friends (although for now, seating is limited). It is a drama-free zone.
  • I love that my breakables are on display, and have no concern that they may be damaged or mishandled; having them on display means I not only see them, and enjoy them aesthetically – they are near at hand for use! Hand made swizzle sticks, rare porcelain demi-tasse cups, lovely lampwork paperweights, antique sherbet dishes, and first edition books – out, and on display because this is my life, my home – and this is my way.
  • Every detail here is managed to provide as much comfort and ease in my own experience as I can make possible.
  • The counters are orderly and uncluttered. It’s a small kitchen, and space is in high demand – in spite of the luxury it represents, I choose to put things away in a fashion that leaves the counters mostly quite bare unless in use. The only appliances that remain out all the time are for making coffee: the burr grinder, the goose-neck kettle, the air-tight containers holding the coffee beans, and the filters. I love the smooth expanse of clean counters.

These are things that appeal to me. This is my own life. I don’t imagine for a moment that these things are necessary for your comfort; you are having your own experience. There are other ways. Other lives. Other choices. I’ve spent a lifetime compromising my aesthetic, and my comfort, for other people – often simply to pacify them, or make something more convenient in their experience – and done so at the expense of far more than my ‘convenience’ in some cases. I’ve managed to over-compromise to the point of doing myself real damage in some relationships, unwilling to say ‘um…go fuck your convenience, because this is actually something I need to heal, and to thrive.’ I didn’t have the words – and in some relationships, wouldn’t have been heard anyway. Some people only ever hear their own voice.

I think I am sharing this, today, not because you need the details of what pleases me, but to give perspective on what details may really matter – and how small those can be for any one of us. You too. It’s no trivial thing for me to have my breakables on display – it’s actually a very big deal, although in the simplest of sentences it seems a fairly small thing; it’s heart breaking for me when they are all boxed up and put away ‘for safe keeping’. Same with having my art hanging – in a building in which I reside, seeing bare walls causes me real emotional pain, and leaves me feeling frankly disrespected, devalued – and unloved. Having to double-down on that insult by seeing common ‘production decor’ hanging in my environment day to day instead of original art of some kind, by any actual artist, is… offensive. You are a different person, but certainly there are ‘small things’ in your own experience that don’t feel so small to you. Those matter. It’s okay that they matter. Taking care of you may mean giving those details more attention, and greater prominence, for no other reason than that they matter to you.

It’s taken awhile getting here…but, yeah, I matter enough to matter to me. Finally. It’s a nice feeling to wake up to, even when I hurt. No one knows me like I do – and no one can take care of me as well as I can, or show me greater consideration… but there are verbs involved, and intent, and will.  For far too long I allowed my ‘won’t’ to take the lead in my life.

I hurt today, rather a lot. It’s okay though; I’m at home. I have what I need, here, to take the very best care of me. Today, this is enough. 🙂