Brainucopia

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 03:37:00 +0000

I stand corrected. Sometimes troubling things do come to light.

Sometimes, irony is evil

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 04:12:00 +0000

On Sunday, two massive bomb attacks killed 170 people in Bagdhad and wounded hundreds of others. Those are hard numbers to comprehend, let alone think of on an individual-by-individual basis. What does that look like? Who were those people? It was so far away, does it matter?

In the United States, war tends not to meet us on a personal level at all unless it is one of our own who dies--specifically, a soldier. In those cases, we get the full press treatment all the way from family reaction to funeral.

Well, yesterday, one of my own met the war head on and did not survive. You won’t read about it in the news and you certainly won’t hear the story singled out on television. That doesn’t make this loss any less significant. The war has a face and it is the face of Hadiya Ali.

Hadiya came here with her family in March, 2007. She was part of my life on a daily basis for almost a year until she was ready to enroll in school. She also took a free English class on Saturday mornings, a class that had been set up for refugee women living in on the east side of town.

Her participation in both classes is what brought her to be one of the first four women who became the core of the refugee women’s empowerment group. Hadiya was our champion. She not only learned the concepts faster than the others, she taught newly arrived women why it was good for them to be part of the group. She cried when she had her first speaking engagement, and then she asked me to help her write about the experience.

Hadiya was a one-woman public relations machine for women’s empowerment, and she was never subtle about it. She wanted everyone to know about the work we were doing, even after she left us to speak on behalf of Iraqi women and refugee causes.

Hadiya made friends everywhere she went. She met the Mayor and the Governor; she did two public radio interviews and she was the subject of at least two newspaper articles. She knew almost everyone it seemed, as well as a hundred more beyond that. She loved Barack Obama, books (and she read them in English), education, empowerment for women, and being as social as possible. She cooked many excellent meals for Frank because she felt sorry for him, knowing that I was too busy to cook for him myself.

Hadiya used to love to sit and talk. We would talk for hours sometimes. She knew when I was hiding something, and she gave me a hard time about a lot of things. Sometimes she was a major manipulative pain in the ass and when that was true, we didn’t get along at all; of course, it was probably just because we were both hard-headed and opinionated.

Hadiya loved to travel, and her sons made it possible for her to go overseas to visit her other family members. On this trip, she said she would go to Germany and then to Jordan. She stayed far longer than she had said she would, and many of us were wondering if she was planning to come home at all.

Unbeknownst to her family, Hadiya sneaked into Iraq late last week. She was so close and the temptation was too great to ignore. She had some unfinished emotional business she needed to take care of. Hadiya’s elderly father was murdered while Hadiya and her family were in exile in Jordan. The crime was unrelated to the war and it remained a cold case. Hadiya never had closure—she had no way to say goodbye to her father, and she was always pained that he didn’t have a proper funeral. As his only child, she felt his loss keenly. She often spoke of the day she could return to Iraq to visit her father’s grave and to say goodbye properly.

When Hadiya called her husband to say she was with relatives in Baghdad, he was furious. He told her to get out of the country immediately. Who knows what Hadiya was thinking. Perhaps she thought the conflict had eased to the point that it really was safe enough to visit. Apparently, it wasn’t.

Ironically, Hadiya was at the travel agent’s office making arrangements to return to the U.S. when the bombings occurred. Her relatives who survived the blast called her husband, Majeed, to tell him that his wife had been killed.

Hadiya was outgoing, creative, tenacious, stubborn, witty, amazing, and full of personality—probably enough for several people. She had many friends and many fans. It was easy to be impressed with Hadiya.

All who knew her and who have heard the news are mourning. Frankly, most are heartbroken. We work with refugees and we understand more than most what the true cost of war really is. We know why refugees aren't supposed to go home during an active conflict, and we know that for many, never going home again is the deepest wound of all.

Hadiya had said numerous times that when she died, she wished to be buried in her homeland, a country she loved and missed deeply. Unintentionally, she has truly gone home to stay.

Hadiya was buried in Baghdad yesterday, in a grave alongside her father’s.

Must be October

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 01:49:00 +0000

Medication realities

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 22:07:00 +0000

You're losing all your highs and lows,

Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?

--Desperado

The Eagles, D. Henley/G. Frey

Let the games begin

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 05:21:00 +0000

Tomorrow: Physical therapy and then an appointment with the ear-nose-throat doctor.

Next week: Dr. G and more PT.

The week after that: Even more PT and a trip to the neurologist.

Later that week: The brain MRI. I want framed copies.

Sometime after that: Quality time with the bariatric endocrinologist mystery illness wellness lady MD PhD overachiever.

I remember when I used to spend my money on shoes and makeup.

brrr

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 02:30:00 +0000

OK, seriously. This freezing cold weather in not-quite-mid-October is tweaking my nerves. I hate cold weather. Hate it. We had a little snow this weekend, for chrissake. Grrrrr. I ordered a jacket from Land's End (one that will actually close and cover my ass) but it hasn't arrived yet. It can't be this cold--I don't have a jacket that fits.

The only way I can keep it together during the season change is to have the light adjustment first, and the temperature change later. The meteorologic gods really need to listen up: May cannot survive shitty winter weather if it's going to start in the first half of October and grind on through April. It is for this reason I do not live in the far north or Mid-Atlantic East.

Perhaps this is nature's plan for me. Survival of the fittest, elimination of the SADdest.

Holy crap! That HURT!

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 01:45:00 +0000

Things happen to me that don't happen to other people. My luck is strange, both good and bad. Today was...bad.

I woke up 35 minutes late and had to rush to get to work. I came out of the parking garage, walked a half-block, crossed a side street, took four steps along the sidewalk, and suddenly felt a horrible crunching sensation on the sole of my foot. And then it felt like I was standing on a lit charcoal briquette for just a second. I took a deep breath and attempted to resume my stride.

As soon as my foot hit the sidewalk, my situation became clear: Something was broken. I limped my way the remaining three blocks to the office. I hoped I could make it across the six-lane street with the 20-second walk signal.

At 12:30, I limped my way to physical therapy. Oddly enough, Monday is not my regular day, but there was a schedule glitch for this week, so I was moved to a different slot. Good timing. Toni took a look at my feet and let me know that my right foot was not broken, but torn. I tore the small tendon that connects muscle just behind the first metatarsal. Its proper name is the flexor hallucis brevis tendon.

Ouch. Walking. I was simply walking and while wearing good shoes, as a matter of fact.

I should be on crutches or wearing a boot-style walking cast, but since I feel like such a dork already, I refuse to add to that problem. Yes, that's right. I am eschewing medical treatment in the name of vanity.

There goes my dance career.

A whole new direction

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 05:15:00 +0000

What if everything you thought was troubling you turned out to be attributed to the wrong cause? Vague symptoms evolve until they meet the criteria for a diagnosis. Medicine, practiced by process of elimination, yields few good answers. Very strange hoof beats go unheard.

Although my life history shows a predisposition for playing in risky neurological traffic, I hadn't had a full-blown bipolar episode until I was in my forties. A condition like that doesn't usually just jump out from behind the behavioral bushes more than four decades into a life, but in my case, it did. Why?

Systemic disorders with no definitive diagnostic tools such as IBS, allergies, post-herpetic neuralgia, migraines, crashing chronic fatigue, vertigo, vision focus problems, pelvic pain syndrome (encompassing at least five other symptoms), random rashes with no apparent cause, and insomnia, all torment me. Nobody has been able to tell me why.

I have always felt inextricably wed to Western medicine. It's not that I reject other medical beliefs on principle, it's just that I like to know how the answers came about. Where is the empirical data? How were the research studies carried out? How much data is there? From Reiki to homeopathy, I remain skeptical without vetted, peer-reviewed data.

There is a fungus among us
This brings me to Candida. No, not the yeast infection everyone knows. Systemic Candida found in the intestines could be the key to everything. Apparently, Candida run amok is sending Americans' health into ruins. We're all going down in blobs of wheat and dairy products, fermented with heaps of sugar. Heaven help us all.

Did I mention there is no definitive test for Candida? It's all a trial-and-error hunch. Hmmm. This sounds a lot like getting to a diagnosis of Bipolar disorder. Leap of faith. Have I mentioned how desperately I want to discontinue medication? It's making life better for the people around me, but frankly, things are not so fabulous from the inside out. But if this Candida thing turns out to be the real deal, maybe I won't need any medication for anything ever again.

If this turns out to be true and I endure some truly unpleasant months treating the condition, then I will be cured. Period. Just...cured. Cured from the brain to the toes. Cured of everything.

Here is just some of what yeast is supposedly doing to our bodies:
Genito-urinary infections, food and chemical allergies, chronic skin infections, rashes or itching, recurrent hives, cravings for sugar, breads, or alcoholic beverages, unusual or severe fatigue, spaciness, lethargy, mental fog, depression, poor memory, ADD, numbness, tingling, burning, insomnia, muscle aches, weakness, joint pain, swelling, dry mouth or throat, bad breath, nasal congestion, post-nasal drip, nasal itching, recurrent cough, wheezing, bronchitis, itching inside ears, ear infections, earaches, abdominal pain and cramps, bloating, gas, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, heartburn, mucus in stools, loss of libido, endometriosis, PMS, anxiety, depression, irritability, cold extremities, drowsiness, low body temperature, uncoordination, mood swings, headaches, dizziness, body odor not relieved by washing, excessive sweating, cancer, heart disease, MS, hypoglycemia, asthma, breast cancer, and arthritis, among others. Or so I've heard.

If I had known it was yeast that was making me so miserable, I would have tried to fix things long ago.

In the medical community, Candida has a nickname: The Disease that Doesn't Exist. I think that this diagnosis was made up to placate people like me who say, "You can see the symptoms, but why, oh why, can't you find the cause?" They could say it was gremlins or the effects of post-alien-abduction stress, but that wouldn't sound quite as plausible. You can always say a diagnostic tool is getting closer when talking about yeast, but you can't really get anyone to believe you when you say that about gremlins.

I feel miserable and have for so long that I will clap my hands and try to believe. Whatever it takes.

This thought was put into my head by the fine medical professionals who have been treating me with limited success. Even they are looking for some other avenue to pursue. We're all frustrated, but at least they are getting paid.

After doing lots of research online, I decided to buy a book: Complete Candida Yeast Guidebook, Revised 2nd Edition, by Jeanne Marie Martin and Zoltan P. Rona, M.D. This book says what all of the Internet information said, except it gives more in-depth explanations of the syndrome and it includes 200 recipes you can make out of wishes, brown rice and spinach--that's about all you can eat on the Candida diet.

Just for the record, I haven't had a vaginal yeast infection since 1988. I have never had thrush or any candida goo in my esophagus or mouth. I don't think I've ever had a fungal nail infection. I have, however, had topical (external) yeast infections of the skin across the throat area of my neck the past few summers. Just so you understand how confounding this is.

Candida is controlled entirely by diet and stress reduction. Meditation, yoga, and regular exercise are recommended. I think there's a rule out there somewhere that requires the stress-reduction-meditation-yoga-exercise clause be attached to any treatment for any illness, including leprosy.

You need to see the food list, or lack of food list, to really appreciate Albicans treatment. This includes: no caffeine, no sugar at all in any form ever, no wheat, no dairy, no gluten, no condiments, no peanut butter, no grapes, no (most) fruit, no juice, no mushrooms (no loss), carrots, alcohol, coffee, tea, cheese of any kind, no potatoes, no grains (most), no cereal, no legumes, no packaged foods, and nothing that contains any kind of yeast at all. I am a lazy typist, so this list is far from exhaustive.

The idea is to starve the yeast. I believe the real idea is to starve the patient and then make her so fucking miserable, she will never again complain about any symptoms because she will have something much worse to use as a reference on the misery index.

I am going to do this, but I'll bet I still don't lose weight. I'm pretty sure I am still immune to that.

Thanks, Jolie

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 05:14:00 +0000

Thanks, Jolie, for letting me pull so deeply from our correspondence so that I can test-drive my thoughts pre-blogging. --MV

May needs a hobby

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 04:02:00 +0000

If I am to believe what I read, social isolation and a lack of interest in activities are key indicators of an unhealthy mind. Just raising the mere suspicion of being a mental outlier can find you sitting shoeless under the watchful eye of an armed guard when you least suspect it.

I haven't made any strides at all in allowing relationships into my life; in fact, I've put more effort into keeping people away from me. A hobby is in order. I don't want the thought police to use my lifestyle against me. OK, I already have a hobby--jewelrymaking--but lately I enjoy buying beads far more than I enjoy sitting still and focusing the way making jewelry requires.

Sunday is soapmaking day. I signed up for a class and it cost enough that I can't decide not to go. the truth is, I signed up for two classes in two different places. tomorrow is "cooked" soap, and at the end of the month there will be a class on cold-process soap.

If I really like this and I have an aptitude for it, maybe I'll start a business: “Soaps for the Psyche: We're crazy about soap.” My soaps will be infused with herbs, botanicals, and maybe a few leftover meds that lend unusual therapeutic qualities or, at least, inspire good names that imply those qualities:

Inner Calm Cakes
Bipolar Bubbles
OCD Enabler
Serotonin Suds
The Soap, Not the Rope!
Mood Lifter Lather
Cog-Fog Cleaner
Soooap—It’s-About-Time-You-Worked-Up-The-Enthusiasm-To-Take-A-Shower-And-Change-Your-Clothes
Slippery Slope Soap (Cleans up emotional baggage)
Better Than Therapy Bar
Showers of Happiness
A Whiff of Hope Soap
Mania Mender (sold in bulk); and,
Depression Circling the Drain.

I'm going to need a bigger crock pot.

fall

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 04:00:00 +0000

When the going gets tough, May gets busy trying not to think so much, and certainly not to feel so much. That leaves me in a visual world, so I get my camera out and try only to see.

a good reason to call it a night

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 05:11:00 +0000

I had a terrible day. Terrible. Things kept going wrong. I can survive that, but I'm not so good at survivng the things that happen as a direct result of someone intending to make me feel bad.

Two of those in one day. Three, really.

Why do I insist on surviving? Not even I know the answer.

In all of my 500+ posts, I've never come out and said what my plan is if I decide to call it a life. Apparently, if you articulate something like that, you can go to jail. Ha! I would claim it was an artistic expression of creative writing.

My plan requires certain conditions. See, I wouldn't want to die in my house or in my car because that would be unpleasant for Frank. I wouldn't ever wreck the car because that would be a waste of a perfectly good car. I would never jump in front of a car because I couldn't possibly risk damage to someone's vehicle or safety. Why make the day miserable for someone who was innocently driving along?

I hate guns and I won't have one in my home, so that's out. I don't want to look gruesome, and my goal these days is to get out of pain, so no hanging, shooting, or cutting.

This is what I came up with. It would need to be very, very cold outside. I would deeply sedate myself to the point of overdose and then go outside and lie down on the ground. I would probably spread out a plastic tarp and lie on top of that so I wouldn't stick to the ground and it would be a lot easier to move my body after the fact.

Giving this further thought, I would probably tape a note to the door telling Frank not to come outside, but to just call the police.

The cold weather and cold ground are key to this plan. Use medication to slow the heart rate, and then utilize nature to induce hypothermia. Use a tarp, don't make a mess, be considerate.

No need to squirm. It's going to be 85 degrees tomorrow.

That's so Frank

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 00:14:00 +0000

Frank is the greatest admirer of his own home improvement projects. His latest might push me over the edge.

Our house has an internal bathroom--it's located in the exact center of the house. The room is extremely small, a condition made more obvious because the location means it is windowless and dark if the light isn't switched on. The bathroom itself was hideously ugly when we bought the house. The ceramic tile on the walls was a mustard-gold speckle on an off-white background. The toilet was gold and had a plastic tank. The sink was old, faux ceramic with glittery gold streaks blended among brown swirls. The vanity was stapled together and listing to one side. The walls may have been white at one time, and they were embellished with a pink floral Victorian-themed wallpaper border along the top edge. The floor was covered with roll-out vinyl faux tile that had become torn and curled up at the edges of the room. Apparently, no one had remembered to buy the adhesive. (That is not our bathroom in the picture, although the glow looks familiar.)

I designed an extensive makeover that included soft gold paint on the walls, a new, nearly silent fan, new light fixture, new power-flush toilet, a gorgeous wood vanity with a sink that sort of swoops forward, and the floor is 12-inch travertine marble tiles. We couldn't afford to swap out the wall tile, the shower surround or the gold tub, but once the room was painted and we installed a sage-green shower curtain, a green painted cabinet, and sage green towels, everything worked together incredibly well. The room is sophisticated and attractive despite its small size. But it's dark.

Maybe what happened next is really my fault. I commented that I wished there were a way to brighten up the shower area because it was really too dark for activities like leg shaving (which I only need to do about five times a year, anyway). I said, "Wouldn't it be awesome to have a skylight in here?"

This put in motion a four-year odyssey of Frank relentlessly researching skylights and calcuating the ways one could be installed, given several structural challenges. Eventually, we decided that a sun tunnel would be the way to go. Of course, which one to buy required another two years of research. Frank debated the pros and cons of different sizes and tube finishes--merely silvery or full-on mirrored?

I weighed in with my opinion: "Buy the biggest one that will fit between the ceiling joists." And so he did, but only after concluding that the skylight would fit only over the tub, above the end opposite the faucet. It would be like having an overhead light in the otherwise dimly lit shower.

Eight or nine months after all of the components were purchased, Frank finally installed the skylight. It is pretty fabulous. The entire room is illuminated and bathed in a soft, sunny glow. In the tub itself, there is actual sun glare on the porcelain. Of course, Frank scrubbed the tub after finishing the installation specifically to garner this result. He's very proud of his work, I can tell. I keep finding him in the bathroom, just standing there, looking up at the ceiling and admiring the installation.

For five years, I have always made a point of closing the shower curtain before leaving the bathroom in the morning. When I lived alone, this wasn't a big issue for me, but Frank likes the way it looks, and he really is his mother's son in so many ways. I have learned to conform to the shower curtain arrangement.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I found the shower curtain pushed into the center of the rod every time I entered the bathroom. I push it the length of the rod, I come back and it's clumped at the center. It's like living with a defiant ghost who has fixated on sage green crinkly satin.

"Frank, what's up with the shower curtain? Are you still gluing or something in there?"

Frank looked at me and blinked. "Nooo. The curtain is too dark. It hides the light. Maybe we should get glass doors instead."

His words struck fear into my heart. I grew up with sliding glass shower doors in a house that had water so hard it would knock on your head when you took a shower. Glass doors were a nightmare to clean, and although cleaning chemicals have evolved since then, I can't imagine cleaning the glass is that much easier. Minerals are an economic anchor in this state and that is reflected in the water.

I glanced in the bathroom. The door was not only wide open, but pushed as far open as the laws of physics would allow. The hallway was bathed in the soft light spilling from the bathroom. "Frank, the shower curtain is not inhibiting the light. It's like a sunny day in there. You could tan or get caught up on your daily dose of vitamin D just by going in there to pee. Stop it with the shower curtain."

Today I noticed the Bed, Bath & Beyond flyer was opened on the kitchen counter. Shower curtains. Pale, floaty fabric shower curtains. They do not match the color scheme. They do not afford much privacy.

Frank. The skylight is lovely and the bathroom is great just the way it is. Back away from the 20% off coupon. Now.

It's that time

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 00:08:00 +0000

Now entering the danger zone known as fall. Cooling weather, shorter days, more work, fitful sleep, and dark, dark mornings.

Every year, I am sure I won't survive it. This year is no exception. I've been told I'm resilient.

Maybe so. Time will tell.

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 23:59:00 +0000

Me duelen los pies. Pasé diez horas en pie después de una semana de dias de trabajo de 12 o 14 horas.

Necesito una copa de vino y un día de sueño.

No title

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 05:33:00 +0000

Longing for something
Wishing to see true beauty
My eyes need a rest.

My thoughts exactly

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 05:18:00 +0000

Dear God
Hope you got the letter and...
I pray you can make it better down here
I don't mean a big reduction in the price of beer
But all the people that you made in your image
See them starving on their feet
Cause they don't get enough to eat
From God

I can't believe in you

Dear God
Sorry to disturb you but...
I feel that I should be heard loud and clear
We all need a big reduction
In the amount of tears
And all the people that you made in your image
See them fighting in the street
Cause they can't make opinions meet about God

I can't believe in you

Did you make disease
and the diamond blue?
Did you make mankind
after we made you?
And the devil too?

Dear God,
Don't know if you noticed but...
Your name is on a lot of quotes in this book
And as crazy humans wrote it
you should take a look
And all the people that you made in your image
Still believeing that junk is true
Well I know it ain't and so do you, dear God

I can't believe in
I don't believe in
I won't believe in heaven and hell
no saints no sinners no devil as well
no pearly gate no thorny crown
you're always letting us humans down
the wars you bring
the babes you drown
those lost at sea and never found
and it's all the same the whole world round
the hurt I see helps to compound
That Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
is just somebody's unholy hoax
And if you're up there you'd perceive
That my heart's here upon my sleeve

If there's one thing I don't believe in...
It's you, dear God.

--Andy Partridge, XTC

Clarity at post #500

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 06:46:00 +0000

It came to me in the car. Suddenly, the future was no longer dark and hazy. What I needed to do seemed so clear and so doable. I just needed a plan--a real one, not a collection of abstract thoughts and possibilities.

The plan formulated itself in my brain before I finished my commute. Clarity. The plan, the things I need to do, no longer overwhelm me.

Before I can achieve true freedom, there is some work to be done, some personal housekeeping. I can do it. I will do it.

My options will have no barriers.

Focus.

Destiny.

Release.

I can see it so clearly.

I am ready now.

It's not shiny--it's brilliant!

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 02:44:00 +0000

This is jewelry I would buy, but then I'd have to explain it to people who wouldn't understand anyway. But it is pretty awesome!

It's the Seratonin necklace from the Molecule Jewelry Collection.

Click here to see the full details.

But, but, but...

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Wherein May screams...

WHAT THE FUCK?

When I forgo niceties so I can shell out $200 for a pair of tickets to a show I waited months to see, I expect to see the show in its entirety, not with the last half-hour (of a two-hour performance) omitted. ESPECIALLY WITHOUT EXPLANATION OR APOLOGY.

I thought Frank was going to cry, I really did. I can't remember the last time he looked so sad. The parts he had specifically wanted to see never happened.

Wow. Wow. Wow.

AAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

And that's all I can say without revealing too much about myself.

Whining email to Jolie

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Many, many thoughts rolling around in my head. I'm coming to terms with some things, and that kind of transition is never easy.

I will never feel better. This is as good as it's going to get emotionally and physically. This is a disappointing substitution for wellness.
I am apparently incapable of experiencing happiness (although I still can appreciate some humor).
I struggle to be who I need to be.
I lead a painfully boring life, but I have neither the energy nor the means to change it.
My best work is behind me.
My best ideas have already come and gone.
My best days have passed.
I've done whatever it is I was going to do
My sense of compassion is shrinking a little more each day. It was my last redeeming personal trait.
I rarely do anything right or as well as it should be done.
I don't have much to offer anymore--I think I passed my "use by" date.

So, what I have left is the hard work of maintaining the appearance of worth. I have to work to pay off my debts and that means being cordial or possibly even pleasant toward people I can't stand. I need to sort through the physical clutter in my world so I can put my past away for good. Photos, boxes of papers, cards, notes, junk and all of the other things taking up space in my world need to be managed. I should really sell my bikes. Frank has waited long enough for me to come to terms with that part of my life.

My disengagement and need to clean up are the same at work as at home.

Sometimes I imagine leaving--just leaving--but not starting over. Not starting something new. It's more like wanting to downsize. Just me, bare necessities, living someplace isolated and needing only enough money to keep the car running and to have some food in the very small house. (I would call it a cottage, but that sounds pretentious.) Nobody would be able to find me or contact me. I think this is what my life needs to be.

If I can live in a situation where I have no expectations and no one has any expectations of me, that would be ideal (unless it's prison).

ready to pop

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 03:17:00 +0000

So many thoughts...the Brainucopia is bloated but without the ability to push those thoughts into well-formed phrases. It's uncomfortable. Mental constipation.

Aaahhh

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 00:16:00 +0000

My mom has been safely delivered to the airport. Now it's all up to American Airlines to see her safely to Florida.

My husband said he is starting to understand a lot about my life before he met me. It wasn't that he didn't believe me; it was just that what I have described has been so foreign to him, it was too abstract for him to be able get any real grasp.

Yeah.

I blog, therefore I am...what??

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 04:48:00 +0000

The joy of working in an old building is, well, there is no joy in that. Living in an old building may net you some charm factor, but old commercial buildings tend to crumble around you and let you watch the entropic dissolution.

One thing that happens when your building has high historical significance is that a charitable foundation will step up every now and then to pay for some restoration work. They started a few years ago by patching the roof and upgrading the electric. This summer's project felt like a big, shiny gift, wrapped up in yellow-and-black caution tape and meant just for me.

The world's oldest restrooms finally failed to the point that they couldn't pass any public code in any developed country.

I have bathroom issues. I must have peace and quiet. I must have cleanliness. I must have functioning toilets. Without access to these things, I cannot tend to my own functions, and things being the way they are with my body, that's courting disaster. Imagine my delight upon walking into the ladies room only to see no stalls, no toilets, no sinks. Paper towel dispensers were still in place. Oddly, they had been replaced first, last winter, but the high-tech, motion-activated units looked woefully out of place among the vintage porcelain and under the light of the bare light bulb meant to illuminate the space.

About two weeks ago, the restroom was re-opened (what I did in the meantime is a whole different post). It is bright, it is pristine, it is modern, and it was wroth the wait. The room still holds the smell of ivory-colored oil based paint in the air. The new stalls align properly with the doors, and the doors lock.

One week ago, I walked into a stall and was horrified to see that someone had boldly and broadly tagged the stall wall with a fat-tip marker. It wasn't even a proper tag, just a three-foot wide scrawled, jagged line. A custodian had tried to remove the marker, but the stall's paint was damaged in the process.

I took this affront to decency and respect for property personally. Who would dare to do this? What would make someone come into the building (it is open to the public), use the restroom, and think, "You know, this clean and lovely space really needs to be defiled."

I do not understand vandalism. Graffiti is one thing--in some cases, it passes as art. But tagging? Tagging is intended only to mar something for no practical or justifiable reason. Want to make your mark? Get a tattoo.

My inner older-person-Republican reared her indignant head about this in the staff meeting room. A colleague--a social worker--said, "Taggers do that to show they're here." I wondered... if they wanted attention, why not dye their hair pink?

My colleague, we'll call her Cheyenne, said, "No, it's about identity. It's like, it's like people who have blogs." She had my attention, albeit through narrowed eyes. I didn't like where this was going. I asked her to elaborate.

Cheyenne said, "Yeah, people who keep blogs, what's that about? It's about being heard. It's about saying, 'hey, look at me--I exist, even if you don't care.' Bloggers do that because that's their platform for attention."

"No, Cheyenne. Here's why it's not like that. I maintain four blogs and although each serves a different purpose, none serves to damage anything. Yes, I blog in a public forum, but nobody is forced to participate in my process. Tagging is a toddler's unfiltered rage channeled through a permanent marker in the hands of a belligerent adolescent. There is no meaningful expression, especially if the scrawl is illegible."

Cheyenne looked...surprised. She tried again. "I mean, check it out, check it out, OK? Taggers want to be seen, they want to feel they have an identity. They're trying to establish self-esteem. Bloggers will write about anything they feel when they feel it because they want a reaction. The reaction gives them self-worth."

"No, no. It is not a parallel expression. I have kept a journal since I was about 14. Three years ago, I put it online because I thought that sharing my words--or at least making them available--seemed like a way to maybe broaden the conversation going on in my head. It was never important to me to have anyone else read my blog. People do read it, though, and we sometimes have thoughtful discussions about the subject matter. I have to tell you, Cheyenne, I don't think any one of us is establishing our self-esteem or reveling in our identity--especially since we all use fake names. If you want to compare, writing requires thought; tagging does not. Blogging requires commitment; tagging requires a magic marker and a muscle spasm. Blogging may lead to thoughtful or thought-provoking discussion and building of community; tagging? I don't think so. And seriously, how god-awful small does someone need to be to gain self-esteem from destroying property and scrawling an unintelligible streak with a magic marker?"

Cheyenne thought about that, and said, "Well, the people who do that are expressing themselves through rebellion."

I had to get back to work and I spent the rest of the day still pretty sure that Cheyenne didn't understand my point any more than I had understood hers. I was also pretty sure that blogging didn't make me feel any more or less invisible than I felt before I started doing it.

I think; therefore, I get a head full of thoughts. I think many thoughts, therefore I blog. There are not enough magic markers in the world to express everything that is spilling out of my head. When I think, I write. I write a blog. I write a blog and I don't deface anything in the process.

Blogging doesn't reassure me of who I am; it helps me understand why I am who I am so I can do better next time.

I blog; therefore, I evolve.

And I know I'm here, even if nobody ever reads a word I write.

Random

noreply@blogger.com (May Voirrey) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 23:26:00 +0000

My mother is here. So far, low drama. She can barely walk and she has been scratching her shins bloody. I explained that she has sciatica because she lives almost constantly seated. The itching in her legs is a form of parasthesia caused by slow circulation. It is a vein problem--she knows that--but the best way to treat it is not a second surgery--it is movement.

When I mentioned that walking around her housing complex once a day or doing some very easy stretches, she won't feel the tickling itch that drives her to gouge at her skin. She said she has no interest in stretching.

If you could see the carnage, you'd understand my concern. While she's here, I plan to do my best to convince her that she is a staph disaster waiting to happen.

Otherwise, we need to figure out some activities that don't require lots of walking or any shopping. As long as my mother doesn't work my nerves too much between now and Tuesday 5:00 p.m., we'll get through this OK. Here's hoping.