Self Image

An afternoon of casual clothes shopping at Target resulting in an unsuccessful attempt to locate a flattering sweater, top, or bra has left me feeling that one of two things is utterly broken: 1) my grown-up ability to buy clothing that fits my body, or 2) my body.

On a sidenote, it is surprisingly difficult to cry silently in a dressing room.

F*ck retail. Time for some fro-yo therapy.



This weekend was Intense and I am exhausted. I think I have an “I Love the World ” hangover.
I have been drunk on vibrant colors and high on personal space. I entertained, amused, comforted, authorized, picked up every stray ball of silence and conversational lull and gracefully popped it back into the air.

Look at Spaz, they said. Life of the party, they said. She should do stand-up, they said. I assured them I would only be funny and charming for another week and a half at max, and that kind of window would make for one hell of a touring schedule. I absolutely killed.

Today has been a much-needed day of rest with no people interaction. I had plans for the morning, but Operation Rebalance Sanity is a worthy cause. I might even read.

I Love the World

Aren’t upswings awesome? I love the world. Last week I wanted to dropkick the universe off the face of the planet, as I customarily feel during my cyclical downswing. In approximately four weeks I’ll have my combat boots on again. But today, I wholly embrace the sunshine with joy, the green grass with ecstasy, and the complete dickery of so much of the world with a tolerance and love that rivals that of Mother Theresa. Well, perhaps she wasn’t feeling this kind of love.

Because I think I could totally love some complete dickery right now, too.

Aren’t upswings awesome? I’m already eating and sleeping less; it’s been twenty-four hours since the downswing broke, but there’s so much blogging to do. My sluggish brain has just turned back on and the colors just turned back up. My therapist, in preparation for last week, was coaching me on how to pad my life with things that normally bring me excessive joy, things that are extra special; to go through the motions of keeping/using/wearing/eating/listening to them anyway. The concerted effort, like making a house ready for a hurricane, actually buffered the fall a bit. It wasn’t so horrendous; I wasn’t as miserable in my own skin.

But I find now that I don’t have a tether. What can I pad myself with as a reminder that what goes up really MUST come down, and that it would be wise to stop throwing care/caution/time/obligation/myself into the air?

Aren’t upswings awesome? Aren’t they? Eddie Izzard has a discourse on the gross overuse of that word, citing in particular how “awesome” an event like the lunar landing was versus how “awesome” we’ll label our tasty hotdog. But bigger than the burden of an empty word is the burden of a word that bears extra sardonicism.




Spaz and the Moving Pictures

Spotty internet connection + scattered thoughts = very little blogging activity.

I have read several posts that my slow and stubborn interwebs haven’t allowed me to comment on, and created many a draft this past week that haven’t made it past the cutting room floor.

Hopefully I’ll be able to articulate the happenings of my week soon enough. Everything is free-flowing liquid pictures in my mind; very little has congealed into words; like trying to describe a movie while it’s happening.

Guess I just need more time.

Spaz and the Spider

A Recital Piece – at this time, please picture me in a lacy white cotillion gown, combat boots, and afro.


Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet
Eating her curds and whey
Along came a spider who sat down beside her
And she spazzed out in traffic trying to kill that mother fucker
Because she was driving
And he was IN HER CAR!


The end. Thank you.

{Curtesy} At this time, please throw flowers.

Spaz the Domestic

I have never been adept at housecleaning. I think it relates to my inclination toward hoarding. Clutter feels safer; parting with things I might need – my unborn children might need, unborn children on another continent might need – is painful and frightening. Since childhood, whenever I am faced with the generic assignment to tidy a room I grow over-focused and overwhelmed; eventually spinning myself into a frenzied circular pattern of picking up and putting down, opening and closing, getting nothing done.

I have a houseguest for the week. I spent Friday morning cleaning like a mad woman (no pun intended) to create a space in my apartment hospitable for another human lifeform. A switch flipped, and with the motivation of impending company I think I did quite well – constant stream of music, positive self-talk, switching rooms every hour, eating at regular intervals. The place wasn’t perfect, but there were huge improvements and I worked around previous hang-ups to accomplish my goals.

By the time of my guest’s arrival Saturday evening, the only room not passable was the kitchen. I was okay with that; I figured my guest could occupy herself in a less hostile area long enough for me suit up and de-escalate the kitchen from defcon HAZMAT. The truly magical part is, with just the added element of another person there, I conquered dishes I’ve been avoiding for…ahem, well, let’s just say there are multiple reasons Spaz wears gloves to do the dishes. I faced them with no fear or anxiety; my attack was systematic and completely devoid of dread.

This entire experience gives me insight on how to take care of myself with regards to home maintenance in the future. Perhaps instead of waiting for that moment of bright and shiny to throw a shindig, I’ll set a date and use that as momentum. Perhaps I also could stand to be a teeeeeeny bit more transparent and ask for someone to sit and chat with me whilst I do the dishes.

Spaz in the Water

A small but growing part of me is convinced that I am secretly meant to be alone and, God hasn’t had the heart to tell me yet. That I’m just a little too…or a little not enough…or the wrong kind of crazy to have a life compatible with anyone else’s.

I’m proud of my life. But it’s taken me so long to get to a place of function, and now that I’m here it takes all of my effort not to slide back into oblivion. I’m not moving forward. In the ocean of life, my epic odyssey is a doggie paddle to keep head above water.



I can’t help but be envious of the team rowers and the synchronized swimmers who don’t seem fazed by wind or wave. That’s right, in this analogy we’re all in the ocean. And I’m the one who is not-drowning.

You know that kid, right? That one who is swimming ok until she unexpectedly splashes water into her own face and assumes she is drowning. She will flail against her own flailing until she realizes she has never been in danger, and announces more to herself than the unconcerned crowd that she is ok. She’ll scan the horizon for one expression of relief to connect with – one SOUL who cares that she is alive – one SOUL to be her MATE – because she believes that is EXACTLY what a spark of eye contact on the damp surface of her unstable existence would indicate. She’ll find the horizon empty every time.


That’s me.

Spaz in the water.