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Pits and Pitfalls

October 10, 2015 //
3

This morning is a very different morning than I had expected. I find myself sorely regretting allowing myself expectations, at all. I am struggling with this moment right here, when all evidence indicates that this moment right here isn’t a bad one taken in the context of nothing more than this moment.

I made a hash of the lovely morning I expected to be having with my partner. It’s that simple; a handful of insensitive words, poorly timed, and the whole thing goes sideways. Complicated fancy fucking monkeys. I feel frustrated with myself. Disappointed with the situation, and still struggling just to get a grip on the sudden spilling over of needlessly intense emotions into every damned thing. My demons dance happily in my tears; today they won. Now my head aches, and I can’t seem to stop these loathsome tears from falling. I am angry with myself for lacking ‘control’ – as if forcing myself to feel specific emotions, or display them quite correctly based on some set of rules, is the point of this whole mess. (It isn’t.) I am disappointed to have hurt my partner’s feelings – and being a fucking primate, I am admittedly even more disappointed to have blown my chances at having sex today. (We’re really good at it together, and I like it just about more than anything else, and it has become a rare thing for a number of reasons, not the least of which are simply geographical distance and calendar conflicts.) I am filled with regret and sorrow – which is a completely shitty emotional experience.

At least for the moment, I have lost touch with my sense of purpose or of progress. I feel stalled. I feel overwhelmed.

Getting it wrong first thing can be hard to take, but there is still a whole day ahead to work with. Choose.

Getting it wrong first thing can be hard to take, but there is still a whole day ahead to work with. Choose.

…We didn’t even finish our coffees together; the realization launches a flood of new tears, and they cascade down my cheeks, hot, plentiful, and resented. I cry more when I notice that I forgot to ask him to help me put on my locket; my fingers haven’t successfully worked the clasp for two days now, and I ache with a strange subtle hurt every time I notice I am not wearing it.

He didn’t leave me alone like this willingly. I sent him away. I write those words through even more tears. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t feel any sense of the progress made over time. I seem unable to connect with how good I have felt lately, or how well-loved. I feel cut off from intimacy – and it’s self-inflicted, a byproduct of the combination of my chaos and damage, and an injury so old I don’t understand why am still dealing with it now.  I am child-like with my misery, weeping unreservedly until I’m all cried out.

Sometimes it's hard to focus on the distant horizon when the shadows and silhouettes of the chaos and damage seem so near.

Sometimes it’s hard to focus on the distant horizon when the shadows and silhouettes of the chaos and damage seem so near.

The phone rings. He reaches out to tell me it wasn’t all me, and it’s a message I need to hear. I don’t understand it as a given that when we interact we’re both in it, both involved, both using verbs – and words. We both forget about my injury – and the unfortunate resulting lack of impulse control, and the peculiar communication challenges that are much more significant when I am first waking up. He’s gentle with me over the phone, reassuring, reminding me that love is, and that he loves me; this is a shared journey, as much as any journey can be. I still have this headache. It will pass. I will be okay – I am, in fact, actually okay in this moment right here. I make a point of expressing appreciation that I am able to [emotionally] safely and comfortably ask him to go when I need to take care of me – that’s not something everyone has in their relationships. I still feel like a dick for being insensitive and hurting his feelings; it is irrelevant to feeling hurt whether that hurt was delivered willfully or cluelessly. Hurting hurts.

So. Here I am, alone, and mostly feeling pretty crappy with an entire autumn weekend stretching before me, nothing on my calendar, no plans, nothing that much gets my attention to do with my time; this is not a weekend to be running away from me with entertaining distractions. I’ve logged off of Facebook. Logged off of my social media accounts. No announcement or vaguebooking statement required; I am just taking some time for quiet and stillness. There are very few things that help with this particular shit storm of emotional disregulation; meditation is the most powerful tool in my arsenal, alongside cannabis. My Love arrived before I had time for either, and before my prescription Rx for my pain management, or my thyroid condition had time to be effective. The timing of his visit was itself enough to increase the risk that something would go wrong. We both know a lot about my limitations in that first 90 minutes or so after I wake; we made choices based on how much we miss each other, how much we want each other, and the convenience of opportunity. 😦

I am still working on me.

I am still working on me.

I’m not writing all this down to evoke pity or sympathy – if you find yourself feeling either, I thank you for your good nature, and your concern. I’m okay – well, I feel pretty ick right now, but I will be okay. I am taking the time to share this for two reasons: the most important and first reason is that ‘using my words’ is a perspective-providing tool that tends to most efficiently help me dial down the ferocity of my emotions. I make an effort to be quite clear, and reasonable, and careful to be truthful, accurate, and fair to other people when I write a blog post. When I write in my private journal, I am more prone to spiraling negative self-talk, or skewed perspective that can be punishing, or accusatory – neither is helpful, and both have the potential to build damaging narrative that fuels drama. The second reason to take the time to write about the hard stuff, the bullshit, the hurting, and the chaos is also about perspective; it’s not easy to cope with and rehabilitate a brain injury, and it’s not easy working through the hurting of PTSD.  There are verbs involved. My results vary. Change and growth over time are incremental…and sometimes the increments are fucking small. It can be very discouraging, and I think there is value in being real about the work involved. It won’t always be easy – it may not ever be easy – but there is value in trudging through, practicing the practices, and beginning again when I falter. (You, too.)

I’m fortunate to have such a strong partnership with someone who really does love me supporting me emotionally through all this, and realistically I can’t help but be aware that there is some risk this love won’t survive my struggles; at some point it may really just be too much to ask. That’s part of what hurts so much; there’s no knowing with certainty when that point has been reached, until I get there. Scary.

Begin again.

Begin again.

Today is a good day to take care of this fragile vessel, and to take another step on this journey; the steps add up. Today is a good day to begin again.

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Categories Anxiety, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, grief, Love, medical marijuana, Mindfulness, more than a little bit of bitching, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5, Words

Things I Expect, Things I Allow

October 8, 2015 //
0

I’m tired tonight. Brain-tired. I put a lot into the work day, today, and although the day ended with a considerable sense of achievement and positive perspective, getting there wasn’t a given, and there were definitely verbs involved…and something else.

Today I really put some will and effort into approaching stressful circumstances without expectations of the outcome. I allowed myself to be open to making different choices – in language, in approach, in point of view, in goal-setting, even time management. I made a point of giving myself a break when new things weren’t an immediate success; skill-building is incremental change over time, and requires actual time, and of course…practice. I recognized how allowing change is just about as important to changing, and to growth, as wanting change. I’d prefer to have a hand in my own transformation, rather than allowing events to mold me; becoming aware of the important of allowing change – whether my own, or someone else’s – is useful.

Small details, and incremental change over time.

Small details, and incremental change over time.

I’m tired tonight. It’s a lovely evening, though. I almost didn’t write at all, but realized that I am teetering on the edge of a bad bit (a few days have gone by), and I can sense the creeping disorder at the edges leftover from having the windows replaced. Why do these small disruptions screw with my head so much? I smile; why doesn’t matter. I know to take care of me. Tonight that means sticking with good self-care practices, getting the rest I need, and beginning again tomorrow.

I end the evening thinking of my traveling partner; he’s ‘there for me’ unexpectedly in the most reliable way. It’s a quality he has. I pause, thinking about all the ways he shows his love, and reflecting on how best to ‘return the favor’; I value reciprocity in my relationships, I value his partnership and his affection, and well…seriously? Loving is as wonderful as being loved.

 

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Categories autumn, Brain Injury, Healthy Living, Love, Menopause, Metaphors, Mindfulness, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

Exploring Mixed Feelings

October 1, 2015 //
3

I’m human. Have you met me? Maybe not…but you’re probably human, too, if you are reading this (or I am seriously behind the times on animal science, or the arrival of alien neighbors from the stars). Doubt is part of this human experience. Uncertainty, too, probably more so than certainty. Too often I find my fears or insecurity are calling my shots, instead of making careful, thoughtful choices. It’s very human, and I am pretty sure that when emotion and reason step out for an evening together, emotion is leading the way most of the time…that’s my own experience, anyway. Reason whispers, emotion shouts.

Tonight I am relaxing, having a cup of chamomile tea, and considering things as evening becomes night. I spent a couple lovely hours with my traveling partner. An evening of connected time, hanging out, and enjoying conversation would generally find me feeling something more like… euphoric. Tonight…something different. No reason I can specifically point to…I find I am exploring mixed feelings.

What does the expression ‘mixed feelings’ really mean, anyway? I take it to mean that I have an assortment of emotions going on at once that may not seem a pleasant mix, or easily understood. I most often use an expression like ‘mixed feelings’ specifically when some portion of the feelings are very much enjoyed, desired, or found to be pleasurable, but some other portion contrasts those, rending the experience more complicated by having to sort pleasant from less pleasant, or figure out quite what it is I do feel…and maybe ‘in response to what?’ becomes a question worth answering. For now, I am simply sipping tea, considering things, and exploring mixed feelings.

Love.

Love.

A phone call interrupts my reverie; my traveling partner letting me know he arrived home safely. I am still smiling, although the phone call was a short one. It matters to me that the time we share is of good quality, meaningful, valued…well…obviously, right? (Or is that so obvious?) I see, too, the text he sent shortly before, thanking me for the lovely evening. My fingers linger on the lovely locket I wear every day since he gave it to me. Mixed feelings? Well, sure – it’s a very human thing, but making assumptions about what feelings exist in that mix without asking would be both rude, and rather foolish. I’ve lived a number of decades rich in experiences and although I have some challenges, I am experienced and may even have some small measure of insight, now and then. However childlike I may sometimes seem I’m no child, and I experience an extraordinary and subtle range and variety of powerful emotions. Worthy, beautiful, amazing emotions. Sometimes…they get mixed up. Sometimes the mix up is complicated by my disinhibiting brain injury; my emotions are generally just right out there, obvious and sometimes rather unfortunately seemingly unstoppable. “Mixed feelings” are damned awkward sometimes…I continue to practice a variety of practices that build emotional resilience; the hope is that I will learn to ‘bounce back’ with sufficient speed to counter the lack of inhibition more significantly. I’m making progress. Incremental change over time is a thing.

So, sure, mixed emotions tonight, but I don’t run from my feelings these days. I am polite and considerate about something as powerful as emotion; I save what I can to consider later (since I’m not sure what’s up with me), and simply enjoy my evening with my partner. Totally worth it. We had a great time, and feelings are no more real than we make them; investing too heavily in emotions at the expense of reason is generally a poor choice. I try to keep my ‘observer’ in the driver’s seat, let reason ride shotgun and do the navigating – but the map is not the journey, and my heart sometimes insists on the scenic route, or some crazy detour. Emotions are worthy of my consideration, and they’re part of the experience. I wouldn’t cut off my hands because I can’t play piano without learning how – why would I seek to cut off my emotions simply because I have not learned all I can about their worth, how to make best use of them, what they do or don’t mean…? That doesn’t make sense. What makes sense, to me, for now, is to explore my mixed feelings and understand them in context, maybe look at them from some other perspective, and to simply breathe and be and let them sort themselves out their own way. It’s okay to feel – it’s part of the experience. Isn’t that enough?

…And I’m still smiling. That’s definitely enough.

 

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Categories autumn, Brain Injury, Free Will, Logic & Reason, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women

Always With the Perspective

September 16, 2015 //
2

It’s a chilly morning. I woke a bit ahead of the alarm clock, and somehow the shower didn’t warm me up much. My head is stuffy, as if in sympathy to my traveling partner, home sick at his place. I miss him greatly, but it matters more that he take care of himself and be well – besides, I don’t really want to be sick, myself, and I am content to wait to see him for some better time.

I find myself thinking about perspective, again. I know that because I’d like to be in my traveling partner’s arms so very much, it would be super easy to dive into misery, frustration, and annoyance that we are not together, and then for that to become a springboard to all sorts of doubt, insecurity, hurt, and anger spreading out in all directions from that one small thing; I miss him. Emotions are intense, and can easily overwhelm reason, and then… then what? Then I am unhappy, riled up, agitated, miserable, lonely, angry, frustrated, and filled with negative self-talk and thinking so distorted that all those feelings start fueling some sort of ‘blame machine’ that generates more distorted thinking, and rationalizes treating others poorly on the basis of that distorted thinking. This morning I am appreciative that I am not in that place. (Perspective is a lovely way to defuse those emotional bombs.)

Anyway, how would I really measure life's 'spilled milk'?

Someone else said it first; there’s no use crying over spilled milk.

Life isn’t ‘about’ my losses. Sure the losses exist, but they don’t exist isolated from the joys, the gifts, the delights, the wonders, and the cherished moments. Life is also not about keeping score; when I am focused on this moment, my moment, engaged, present, and mindful, the bullshit fades away, and I’m not filled with self-made poison. I was thinking about this while I soaked in the bath last night, too; if I measure my life by my losses, how could I not find myself wounded, tearful, and overwhelmed with doubt and sorrow? It’s 52 years worth of ups and downs – there are some losses in all that experience.

I could measure my life by my gains, if I choose. Things look different stacked up as an assortment of wins, gains, achievements, successes…and that too is misleading; I don’t learn much from the easy wins, and the emotional highs are far less intense, lacking depth and value, without the perspective offered by what has been lost, and what hurt, and what didn’t work so easily. Then, too, if I measure my life by all the things I have done or achieved that are awesome, I don’t leave much room to be vulnerable, to connect, to appreciate what is soft and tender within myself, and to value myself when I am not winning, gaining, achieving, or succeeding, and I may also need to spend a great deal of mental bandwidth defining those successes, to avoid becoming frustrated by shortcomings that might negatively affect measuring the wins. Hell, I’m only thinking about it, and I feel myself becoming a little anxious!

...and how exactly is 'success' truly defined, and measured...and who decides that?

…and how exactly is ‘success’ truly defined, and measured…and who decides that?

It’s the measuring, itself, that I find myself thinking about critically. I don’t personally prefer life to be a competition, and the measuring of successes, the score keeping, the comparing of this person to that person, the perception that there are ‘necessary’ achievements one is expected to make in life (marriage, children, car, house, career…) – I have come to view all of those as bullshit distractions, choices, simply details we can add to who we are – or not. I’m choosing ‘not’, generally, and re-evaluating where all of those things really fit in with who I am, myself. It’s been a process. Part of asking that ‘who am I?’ question, I guess…. (I’m sure not telling you what you should or must find important, yourself.) I’m just observing that holding an attachment to goals that aren’t really my own, imposed on me by expectations of one sort or another, is one very elaborate way to be miserable.

Why am I on about score keeping and measuring and comparing one to another? Because I miss my traveling partner, of course! See what I mean by how quickly powerful emotions can overwhelm reason? How are those even connected? They are connected in only the loosest way, by time itself, and by the measuring of time, and the score keeping of moments. I don’t spend as much time with him as I’d like, which has the potential to nudge me toward contemplating the time he spends with others, and to become resentful and hurt over it. It’s silliness – because love isn’t about score keeping (or time keeping), or measuring, or counting. I’ve come a long way from allowing my powerful emotions to sneak attack me on something so small, most of the time. 🙂 That feels pretty good over my morning coffee, and instead of fussing irritably about why my traveling partner isn’t in my arms (he’s sick, seriously?) I am simply enjoying a lovely morning, in this moment here, content that there are other moments to enjoy in other times, and that love exists, regardless – it’s certainly not worth stress, or agitation, or grinding my mental gears over if/when/why. That kind of mental busy work poisons my experience now, in part because my brain injury impedes my ability to regulate emotions stirred up by thoughts (they feel every bit as real, and intense, as emotions that occur in response to circumstances), and in part because I am human.

It's a journey - there are some detours.

It’s a journey – there are some detours.

That’s been another lovely bit of awakening, recently. I’ve struggled so long with sorrows over what is ‘wrong’ with me, due to my TBI, and what my injury has (may have?) taken from me… Sometime between last Friday and yesterday morning walking to work, something clicked… Whether my injury is anything to do with whatever may be ‘wrong’ with me – it is most assuredly the source of a great many things that are very right with me, that I enjoy and count on daily. Perspective.

...Life these days feels more like a construction site than a disaster area. :-)

…Life these days feels more like a construction site than a disaster area. Progress. 🙂

So…this morning…a lovely morning that could have been experienced very differently not so very long ago. Perspective matters. Practicing good practices for building emotional self-sufficiency, and resilience, matters. Remembering to include the woman in the mirror in the set of ‘all the people I love’ matters. Contentment, gratitude, and enjoying what is more than I mourn what is not, matter too. It’s a chilly autumn morning, and I am enjoying it wrapped in a warm sweater – and wrapped in love. (I’m not all certain which provides the greater comfort – I suspect it is the love, and I am awed that it comes from within.)

Today is a good day to be love.

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Categories autumn, Brain Injury, Epsom salts, Free Will, Healthy Living, Logic & Reason, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

Comfortably Me

September 6, 2015 //
7

I am sipping my coffee slowly; it’s too hot to drink comfortably. I’ve got my favorite playlist on, and it’s late enough in the morning that it is unlikely to disturb the neighbors, but I’ve got it turned down a little lower than I might later today; it’s the more comfortable choice for me, right now. It is a weekend morning, and I spent yesterday painting. I have plans to do so today, and I am finding it interesting that I feel no urgency or pressure to cram as much creative work as possible into these days and hours. I could as easily choose other things to do today, without any sense of being deprived or disappointed.

My home, my rules, my way - my time.

My home, my rules, my way – my time.

This is my place. I’ve set it all up for maximum personal comfort, personal convenience, and in celebration of my own aesthetic, ensuring my sense of emotional comfort, too. No more having to contemplate how and when I will get everything cleaned up and put away – before I even get started painting. I can live with the work in progress easily – and comfortably. This is new and wonderful.

I got close last October, when we all decided I could move upstairs to the loft (no, not really, and it didn’t happen)… or at least paint up there quite comfortably (well, for about three months, until the work space was rather unexpectedly filled up with things out of the attic on the assurance that an attic project would be committed to and wrapped up promptly… it wasn’t). I’d never gotten closer to real space to paint than those promises…until now. My previous experience has always been that my work, while valued, was in the way (“Oh, hey, I really like that one – when are you going to be cleaned up?”). My paints, canvases, my easel, the room it takes for canvases to dry…to hang…all very much in the way of everyday life – for everyone else. I got into the habit of scheduling time in advance, cleaning up quickly, and apologizing frequently for the inconvenience, and pretending not to notice when others lacked time or interest in viewing and celebrating new work with me. Every relationship offered some version of substantial limitation-setting on my freedom to work creatively. It hurt, and over time it slowly became a big deal; being an artist is a substantial part of who I am. After decades of it, I really needed something very different…and one of those things I needed turned out to be taking myself more seriously, and making my needs my own high priority.

There are moments when I really feel how much living alone lacks the intimacy and warmth of living with love…I definitely miss easy access to sex every day (and yes, at 52 I still very much want sex every day)…and hugs. I miss hugs a lot. I miss shared laughter, and touch. I miss kisses good-night, and good-bye, and welcome home. I miss someone being there for me when I’ve had a nightmare. But…there are things I don’t miss at all. I don’t miss being treated as an inconvenience. I don’t miss starting something beautiful artistically and having it completely derailed over OPD (other people’s drama), or some bit of household stress, or someone else’s needs of the moment. I don’t miss being interrupted for some mundane something or other while I am painting (or writing). I don’t miss not being able to play the music I love when I am painting (without also listening to a lot of bitching). I don’t miss living with bare walls, and paintings stacked everywhere begging to be hung (I don’t even get how that’s a thing, honestly). I don’t miss having to plan around everyone else and hoping that inspiration holds out until it is convenient for them for me to be painting. I love this space – I am wrapped in pure inspiration, undiluted by stress, drama or game-playing. I feel…artistically fearless. It’s lovely. (I still miss hugs.)

Enough.

Enough.

This morning, I slept in, woke easily and exchanged a few pleasant words with my traveling partner regarding the possibility of getting together at some point this weekend. I can comfortably finish my coffee, and pick up a paint brush…or not. Whether I paint is now dependent more on whether I am inspired than any one other factor. I am comfortably at home with myself, and with my work. It feels a little bit amazing…and for just a moment an icy sensation of fear and insecurity cuts through my soft easy mood…I look over my shoulder at the completed installation on the west wall; the sight of 17 paintings hung along an artistic progression in theme and color, inspired by my love of flowers, and the way light plays with color are enough to put those feeble demons to rest this morning. I smile as my gaze sweeps across the newly hung paintings and I think of love, too, and smile as I recall how much a few observations made by my traveling partner untangled my vision for that space. There are few things as powerful as a good partnership.

"Communion" 24" x 36" acrylic on canvas w/ceramic and glow. 2011

“Communion” 24″ x 36″ acrylic on canvas w/ceramic and glow. 2011

So little of life is truly an entirely solo effort – even when I paint, I am often ‘walking hand in hand’ with a love or trusted friend, in the depths of my heart, in the corners of my thoughts. (More than any other, my traveling partner is my artistic muse.) I am inspired by people – by the experience of being human – but that has often also been quite uncomfortable, as inspiration goes. Having a place of my own to work out the challenges, to linger in the arms of inspiration, to deep dive what is hidden within the shadows in my soul… it makes so much sense to live alone, in so many practical ways, as both a writer and a painter; these are not easily shared experiences.

Shared experience or not, I had a big hurdle to clear to get here, to this beautiful place. I needed to put me at the top of my list, and I needed to stop compromising my long-term needs for the convenience of others. It’s hard sometimes, even now. Living alone nudges me into first place on my agenda day-to-day, and that does make it much more difficult to undercut my own needs with needy bullshit sourcing deep in the chaos and damage. I still catch myself trying now and then. Incremental change over time requires both time – and practice. I am getting plenty of both, living alone. I miss the hugs, though… and sometimes it feels as if I miss them enough to give up painting and writing… only… that’s not at all the true truth. I would suffer greatly if I made that kind of choice. (Been there, tried that.)

"Sunset Meadow" acrylic on canvas w/pen&ink, gold, and glow 11" x 14" 2015

“Sunset Meadow” acrylic on canvas w/pen&ink, gold, and glow 11″ x 14″ 2015

I am still a beginner. I am a student of life, with more questions than answers (by far). This is my journey, and I am my own cartographer… the point, though, is this; aren’t we all? Isn’t today a good day to make the choice that makes the difference? Isn’t today a good day to invest fully in the best within? Isn’t today a good day to change the world?

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Categories Anxiety, Art, art and the artist, autumn, Brain Injury, Free Will, Healthy Living, Love, Mindfulness, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5
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