Intense

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.

Aren’t.

Upswings.

Awesome.

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.

Not.

Sexy.

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.

Her.

That’s me.

Spaz in the water.

Doomed.

Spaz in the Grass

I’m kind of in a funk today. Been under a cloud for days. It scares me a little. I keep checking the grass. That was always my litmus test, the grass. When it loses its green, when the roadside flowers fade, when all of God’s colors turn to grey like ash after even the hard heat of fire dies…then I’m in trouble. I fight back tears in public and superfluous sleep at home, but the reds and the blues and – God bless them – the greens maintain their integrity.

And so I tell myself it’s just a funk, and I make plans to clean my apartment when I know that planning is just postponing.

I make lists of the things I hate to remind myself that I can hate; and lists of the people who love to hear from me; and lists of the things and activities that keep my life running smoothly so I will continue to do some of them some of the time until the funk passes. 

I need to keep caring. I NEED to hold onto that spark of give-a-damn. It’s slipping. And I know, next goes the grass.

Spaz does dishes…?

The morning’s saga of de-HAZMAT-ing my too long neglected kitchen:

9:00 am – Praying for fortitude.

9:01-9:15 am – Lying on the sofa pretending God doesn’t speak English, and that my prayer for motivation with the dishes is as good as unanswered.

9:15 am – Praying again.

9:16 am – Getting up, adding Janelle Monae to my OneRepublic Pandora station, and promptly sitting back down to read celebrity gossip news online. Megan Fox’s life is REALLY interesting.

9:56 am – Feeling the music, yes! Lighting incense cuz it’s GO time! Running water in the sink for the ready dishes and a bucket for the stubborn ones.

10:10 am – Washing dishes! Woo!

10:15 am – Rinsing my right glove and patting it dry to give a “thumbs up” to the awesome song that’s playing.

10:17 am – Washing dishes! Woo!

10:25 am – Rinsing my right glove and patting it dry so I can give a “thumbs up” to the awesome song that’s playing…as well as two other awesome songs five songs back.

10:27 am – Washing dishes! Woo!

10:32 am – Rinsing my right glove and patting it dry so I can give a “thumbs DOWN” to the random song killing my groove.

10:34 am – Washing dishes! Woo!

10:45 am – washing dishes. woo. Except without the groove. The groove is gone; it’s dead; it is NOT in the house. My back is hurting, I swear the dirty dishes are multiplying, and as the dishwasher is approaching full it is creeping over me that I have NO clue where my forks are. How can it be that I have no cutlery? Taking quick inventory I’m finding plates, pots, pans, a new and newly soiled blender, two sets of crappy should-be-sharp knives, and somehow no spoons, forks, or butter knives? Worse still the question persisting is how long have they been missing?

10:50 am – Continuing to load each tiny heavy dish one by one in the kitchen that time forgot.

11:01 am – Emptying sink, emptying bucket, filling Brita water pitcher, restoring the groove to my Pandora station, slumping over oj, wishing the oj was a mimosa.

First round done.