driving in dreams

Last night I had a bad dream.

In this dream, I was driving this huge 4WD - it was awkward to handle, and hard to move - I was completely out of my depth.  And then I tried to park it, and I had to park it in this tiny spot, amongst the nicer cars of people who didn't like me.  And as I was trying to correct my parking, I ended up smashing into all these cars, causing a huge mess and uproar.  I didn't know what I was doing, and people were angry with me.  In the dream, I also drove this car in dark, unfamiliar streets and I felt scared, and alone.

In reality as I drove to work this morning, I thought about what the contents of this dream might mean.  If I transferred the belief that driving in dreams is supposed to indicate how you are 'driving' in life - then, that would mean that loosely I currently find myself in uncharted territory, driving ideas and feelings I don't know how to manoeuvre. Which is true.

Yesterday I turned 31.  The lovely moon decided to eclipse and turn red (only my favourite colour, since forever!), which I thought was a superb present, thank you moon and sun - although I couldn't appreciate it, being that I'm in Western Australia and us folks didn't have the greatest view.  It didn't matter though, I knew something special was happening somewhere, and I was happy enough.  After fare-welling visitors, inside I came to find a lovely butterfly sitting on the kitchen cupboards.  A proper daytime butterfly with deep black wings, speckled with white dots. Once I got over the shock (almost mistaking it for a horrible moth - eek!) it felt like a present, just for me.

I'm managing a saga of a migraine headache at present, an almost unrelenting ping of pain from my neck into my head, and an insatiable appetite for sleep.  And I'm just trying to do it all, while juggling thoughts about accepting myself in my 31st year, wondering if someone will think I'm worth their time, effort, love. And more importantly, whether I could ever think that of myself.

My two year old niece is in her 'abracadabra' stage - she twirls her finger and while shouting the word declares she has turned me into a frog!  Today, I went to buy her a little toy wand, so she could practice her magic for real.

Remember being a child, and thinking anything was possible?

a thought, a venture forgotten & found

Like a classical tune looping in your head; its name and origin unknown, but still it is ingrained in you like a habit, like the blinking of your eyes - it just is. This feeling, it just is. It is a melody I have neither practiced nor played but I know it as if I was its composer.

fear & loathing

Life has been 'interesting' lately. After my aforementioned meltdown I gathered some distance from things, and from Google. At this point in the monologue, it might be worthwhile saying that the long weekend helped too.

The journey of this condition is so varied, so complicated.  It's as if all the sufferers are snowflakes in a giant blizzard - or perhaps plastic pieces locked in a tacky snow-globe together, but each in the path of their own fall. Alone.

Hmmm... coincidence my Santorini snow-globe fell and smashed the other day? I think not. Alas, I digress.

I have been forced to take one day at a time, because that is all I can manage. I'm learning not to fear the aches, but to respond to them as they come knocking. The most difficult, embarrassing component is what some call 'fibro fog' - which seems to be a blanket term for general mental fuzziness, used to explain poor concentration, memory loss (particularly short term) and word finding difficulties.  Word finding is the bane of my existence, particularly on days when I am short on restful sleep - to feel this word, this word I know, dodging and weaving my grasp, so that I am left wordless, open mouthed, mortified... is hideous.  I'm not one for talking too much, so I like to think when I do open my mouth my brain might have the courtesy to back me up a little.

I'm trying to keep things under my hat - but in the long run, I'm not sure it's going to work for me.  Trying to maintain a full time job, act 'together' when I just really want to fall in a heap on the ground.  Still answering the "how are you"'s with not bad thanks when I really want to scream, fucking awful actually.  Part of me still has something to prove. That maybe I'm ok, that maybe I'll be different... that maybe I won't have to reveal my dirty little secret to co-workers, so I can avoid 'those' looks, 'those' judgements.

I want to become informed, become strong, be smart and confident enough to say "ok, that's enough for today". But it's hard.  My parents know, but I still don't think they fully understand.  I'm operating in the shadows, and sneaking rest where I can - but it's not enough.  It's not enough, and I don't know how to say it without disappointing others - without disappointing myself.

"Fear is the cheapest room in the house - I would like to see you living in better conditions."  - Hafiz

rhetoric

I'm walking this invisible line of who I am, what I want, how I feel and it keeps moving.  I'm so tired of asking myself what's it all about, what's it supposed to mean, how do I make things better?

I'm trying to live an enlightened existence, one where my footprints don't leave dents in the dirt, where I can do no harm, but still be able to etch "I was here" into the bark of a couple of trees along the way.

I have decided living generally requires courage.  In case people hadn't noticed, shit is kinda fucked, but in spite of that, you have to roll out of that bed and face each new day, because if you don't, well what's the point?

I don't think I'm in the vicinity of a point here - but I just think, amongst the shit, you've got to find something to hold onto, even if it's just your other hand, and that quiet internal coward uttering maybe you are OK?

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." 
- Hunter S. Thompson

go away, come back

If a persons surroundings are a reflection of themselves, then I might be in some trouble.  For this means I am dusty and unkempt, down and disorderly.  A place for almost everything, but everything not in it's place.

It's official - I'm struggling.  I don't know whether it's the change in meds, or something else.  Something I'd thrown to the back of the cupboard, thinking it would stay there.  But, I suppose if you throw enough items into the closet, it will eventually burst open, and those things once hidden will roll out at your feet - whether you want them to, or not.

I don't feel well, in body or mind.  I feel like a stone, suffocating in moss.  My head is foggy with emptiness.  I'm not inclined to move much at all - in fact, I am inclined to cease battling at all, to not roll out of bed, to stay within this dream state - keeping the curtains closed to the light outside.  Like I did today.

I'm supposed to give this a name - I'm supposed to have answers for the people around me.  They are unrelenting with their questions.  It's annoying.  How can I have answers for them when I have none for myself? I'm just trying to do what I can, to make it from moment to moment.  Why do they ask more of me?

I hate feeling stagnant.  Purposeless.  Alone.  People might reach their hands through the hole in the wall to grab at me, but I am still alone.

In a few short hours, I have my first appointment with a counsellor.  I thought in my head it would be all routine blah, blah - this is how I feel. Now, I fear it might be more of 'please help me find myself.'

Drowning Girl

'Drowning Girl' - Roy Lichtenstein

I am tired of this fever. Tonight, my repertoire of emotion is limited to anger and frustration.  I have a cold that won't go away - my head is heavy with fatigue. Add to that, I am seemingly physically incapable of creating GHD curls and that just fucking pisses me off, no end.

I see the GP tomorrow, where I plan to talk about the meds issue.  Perfect timing, as always.

May peace be with you at least.

SB

a holy tussle

mydeadpony

I want to be the hand of a painter, as it brushes the canvas in a free stroke, mixing colours, making lines - making a mark.

A bird in flight - feeling the cool wind on my face - faster, faster through the clouds. Never alone, never far away from anywhere.  Able to leave when I so desire, on my own steam.

I want to be a delicate ballerina, floating on notes, dancing in the air - light as a feather that falls. Pretty as a picture - all tulle and pink and ribbon silk.

To be a flower to grace the hair, that falls across the face of beauty.

The light from a star. An ocean spray. The shadow of a tree. Defined, but free.

Perhaps in the next life I could choose to be me, again, but this time be a different version of myself.  Say 'yes' where I once said 'no' - 'maybe' where I once said 'yes' and 'never' every time some one, or some thing - real or no, tried to put me down - even if it is myself. Freedom isn't so easy - to have opportunity to strive for anything you want, but be incapable of deciding where to take aim is cruelty of the highest order. This is my defining trait. This is my struggle.

SB

the sun also rises

I felt so defeated at work today that I wanted to scream and cry. Isn't anybody paying attention around here? I want to let all the things that upset me, spill from my mouth and hurt others, the way these things hurt me.  I'm so tired; exhausted from being on guard all the time.  Like a soldier, crouched in the trenches, anticipating attack, but not knowing when it will come - and maybe it won't.  What are we fighting for?

And the thoughts. These fucking thoughts. Who is to know what is real? Is what I'm feeling real - are these true accounts of what is happening here and now - or does my perception taint the transmission? Maybe I'm the one not paying attention? Thoughts may not be fact, but they feel true - to me.

I can't talk about these things with anyone. Who would care to listen? It's like trying to explain a private universe to people that have never been.  And the truth is, we all have our own.  Nothing makes mine worse than somebody elses - it's just my personal pain that makes it feel bad - for me. The point of view of the outsider, looking from above is always simplified. It must be a regular 'Days of our lives' to God, if he sits up there watching us.

Knowing what I do - that nothing is perfect - should I "suck it up" or "harden up", "keep calm and stop carrying on".  If I'm not carrying on, am I giving in? Will I have lost myself?

Yes, the sun sets - but it also rises. If this all continues to consume me, what a mess I'll be. Yes, it is scary not knowing what to do, not having a feeling of ownership or pride, feeling misplaced.  But perhaps I need to embrace the uncertainty, because maybe someday I won't have the luxury to decide who I want to be. People don't always get the choice.  So, maybe I need to start making some wild decisions and see where they lead me.

I've always been obsessed with what I don't want.  Maybe to start at the simple 'wants' is the best thought yet.

SB

Angry bird

This weekend I have experienced absolute moments of fury - they seed from apparent non-issues. The sound of someone as they walk the hallway; a menial request of my time. Am I hormonal? Do I have some horrible brain tumour which is eating away at my central nervous system?

I can't describe it. Tonight, I sat down to practise my drawing, I felt I wasn't really in the mood but I persisted because I plucked a flower this evening from its bush and to not make use of it tonight would be wasteful, as no doubt it would wither by tomorrow. It was a waste anyway; I couldn't concentrate, the lines weren't making sense - I know what I see but I am incapable of replicating it.

I tried a study of the colours. This beautiful flower, not one colour, but many. Many mismatched hues that when blended by the magic of mother nature produced this amazing thing. Magenta, red, orange, yellow, white, pink... I tried to blend my pastels. It was a very poor imitation.

Why does everything always have to feel like such an effort? Why do things feel so hard all of the time? I feel like some tragic female version of George Costanza - not real tragedy, just a rather comedic result of lameness after lameness. Endless lame; pathetic, yet also seemingly a physical disability on my part to just reach anything good. Fucky mcfuck, if it weren't so hurtful, it would be funny to me.

Anger meets with disappointment and then tears, but I will not cry.

I've been feeling like this whole 'focus on me' thing has been positive for me - improving myself, but these moments pass so quickly, and all I'm usually left with is remorse for the same diversions in the road, replaying. Groundhog day. I always turn down the same track, I always realise only when I'm part way through, that I made the wrong choice. This leads to the big ones - why am I me, why am I here, why can't I just be somebody else?

I wish I was the moon, I wish I were a written word on a page - part of something, purposeful. I wish I was a bird, that I could fly away - soar on the breeze.

God, it's all so melodramatic isn't it? I hate coming here and crying about how awful everything is. Perhaps the real problem is that I am labouring under a misapprehension. All this time thinking that at some point, in this musical drama that is my life, that I will be due my tap dance solo at some point. Maybe that doesn't really happen at all? Or maybe it happens in select cases - like with movies stars and child geniuses.

I feel like a loose feather trapped in a room. No breeze to uplift and set me free. Confined to live out my days in an environment not made for me. The swishing feet of a passerby gives rise to a short lived flight, but too soon I am once again wedged. Waiting for something to move, for the earth to shake me free.

Oh, I don't know?

SB xx

she's so hard

What is it that defines who I am?
- the way I look
- the things I do
- the things I don't do
- the people I know
- the people I don't know
- the way I treat people
- the way that people treat me
- my hopes/dreams/desires
- the things I own

The list is impossibly long and confusing. But of all the things listed... and not listed, do I really just equate to what I think about myself? If I do, I think that's a scary alternative.

Wise people say that "if you don't love yourself, how can you expect others to love you?" Yep - that's a real pearl of wisdom, and no doubt true... but what do you do if you don't 'like' yourself very much?

A feature on burnout I read recently asked "do you feel insignificant?" In my head - the answer was 'yes, sometimes' and then 'sometimes I think other people think I am insignificant'. Ouch.

So, really what is the answer? Ask myself enough rhetorical questions until I work myself back to the start? When does one find the time for personal reflection - I thought that's what dreams were about - letting your head sort out the tough stuff floating around in your subconscious. Come on subconscious - do your job for crying out loud!?

My whole life - I've been my biggest critic... saw myself in the reflection of other peoples eyes, because that version must be true. Perhaps this is the missing part of the equation; why things just don't fit for me - because I don't believe in myself enough to deliver the real me, or know when I'm really being me. See - it's so confusing. Getting to know myself, when I've been dodging that person for so long.

It's a tough act.

SB xx

(Oh, and while I'm being honest - I'm being quirky/cute/funny and I guess semi-flirty in emails to John lately, and for that I hate myself. I should have more respect for myself! Oh, the shame....gahhhhh! Somebody STOP me.)

letting it ride

Today I got asked the god-awful question every woman hates being asked... "so, how's your love life?" ARRGGHH! Woah, how did we go from awkward silence to that?! I felt my face flood red "non-existent" I squeaked. Geez. Thankfully there were only four of us in the room at the time. I hate that question. Makes me feel so inadequate. What do people think? Oh, she's too fat, that's why she doesn't have a boyfriend... maybe she doesn't like men....maybe she's just a freak.. what's wrong with her... what's right with her?

Since trying to turn over a new leaf, I have been challenged in more ways than one. But - I survived the last few days. Yesterday I wasn't sure - I'd been at work 24 minutes when I reached boiling point. I'm afraid when I get to that stage, the situation is serious and hard for me to come down from. I don't hide it very well once I'm there. It must be the crazy Sicilian blood pulsing in my veins.

Realising without my rose coloured glasses on, that John does not care for me beyond being worthy of a 'morning' and a 'goodbye'. And it has to be ok that way. The John boat might've pulled into harbour StrangeBird briefly, but the visit was fleeting and the opportunity to board has passed. Our interactions are awkward and inconsistent, and I think that's what prolongs the trauma. But I'm moving on.

SB xx