Goodbye, 2024

It's been.... a long, long year. Was it terrible? I do not know. I think it was primarily the aftermath of 2023 that bled so much into 2024, that made the year so very difficult.

Let us hope that 2025 is kind, and peaceful. 

Side Effect

 Herself speaks.

One of the... side effects, I suppose one could call it, of antidepressants, is that now that I am not numb with grief and obligation, there is more time to reflect on Things. (Or maybe, there's more Thinking in general, instead of just being mired in the Abyss.) Sometimes, it's Good. Other times, long-hidden Sadnesses and Traumas swim up and present themselves for processing. 

(I know that the word trauma tends to be overused these days. I don't use it lightly. While I have generally lived a very good life, there are events, conversations, and ongoing patterns that have been quite difficult. These have shaped me in ways -- often negative -- that ultimately need to be addressed and understood, so that I can move past them and do better, for myself and for the people I love.) 

Processing is slow, and tiring. But necessary. 

I keep wanting to explain myself. This is why I react so strongly to this particular scenario. This is why the way a sentence is phrased is so important to me. This is why I work so hard to ensure someone's personal space is respected. This is why it is so necessary to choose the right time and place to say certain things. This is why I always give my full attention to health issues, however minor, and treat them as ordinary occurrences rather than as some kind of moral failing. This is why I always listen to other people describing their dreams. This is why I feel abandoned when certain things happen. 

But do people want to know why? No. No one cares about motivations. No one wants to know why I am the Odd Duck that I am. In all likelihood, they just want me to conform to social norms and be low maintenance. I try. I don't ask for much, so I do consider myself low maintenance.  As for social norms? Well, that's hit or miss, as always. 

Ultimately, people are mostly concerned with themselves: they just want to be heard, to be seen, and to feel understood. So I make that my primary mission. Perhaps, if I try hard enough, people will do the same for me. 

I know that's pipe dream. But, I can still dream. 

West Texas Wind

 Today's earworm: West Texas Wind, by NEEDTOBREATHE. 

One day (and with luck, not a day soon), when I am no longer tethered to this earth -- when the sun has set and the breeze comes up from the desert and you can smell the creosote in the air -- you can listen to this song, and think of me.

My blood and my bones

My heart and my hands

They try to hold all of this in

But I'm running to you like a west Texas wind

Singing God I need you, oh how I need you

God I need you again

The Ant Wife

 In Aesop's fable of the Grasshopper and the Ant, the Grasshopper enjoys the summer sun, singing merrily without a care in the world, while the Ant toils, taking care of today's work and putting away food stores for the winter. And at the end of the fable, when the cold weather begins, Ant is well-prepared, while Grasshopper suffers. (Most re-tellings have Ant closing the door in Grasshopper's face after scolding Grasshopper for not preparing adequately. It is a bit cruel. But most fables and fairy-tales of old are.) Moral as old as time: work hard and plan for eventualities and possibilities. Don't put off what should be done; take care of business before pleasure. 

This has been my modus operandi for as long as I can remember. Do the Things. Take care of Stuff. Business before Pleasure. Always -- as a student, as an employee, and in relationships, too. 

I am an Ant Wife. 

I have always done what is best for the Family. I am the Wife that the Offspring need as a mother. I am the Wife that changed careers entirely (including The Task) for the benefit of the family unit. I am the Wife that maintains the household, pays the bills, buys the groceries, takes the pets to the vet, tends to all the 100 little tasks of every day life, so that my little Family can live their best possible lives with as few worries as possible. 

I am not a Grasshopper Wife who can travel easily or set aside all of my Ant Wife obligations quickly to go out without a bit of planning (this was especially true when the Offspring were younger and still at home). Nevertheless, the good news is, with a bit of foresight and assistance, all the Ant Tasks can be addressed so that it is possible to take an Ant Wife on Grasshopper experiences.  (And I can say, an Ant Wife does enjoy a Grasshopper Moment, especially with the knowledge that all the Ant Tasks are momentarily not her obligation.)

On the other hand, the converse cannot be said of Grasshoppers; they cannot be easily trained to function as Ants. To be an Ant requires perseverance, patience, commitment -- not qualities that Grasshoppers have in abundance. Hard to wait and tend to mundane aspects of life when you are a Grasshopper springing without forethought from moment to moment.

So, let us raise a toast to the Ant Wives. Forever in the background, making sure that the world runs smoothly for the people we love, so that they can have their Grasshopper Moments. And, hopefully, teaching them quietly the ways of being an Ant, too, so that they will be well prepared for their lives ahead. 

Asking

Do not make me ask for things.

-----

Any time I hear "If you need help, just let me know" or "do you need help with that?" you can be absolutely certain that I will not respond with "yes, I need help please" or "yes please". I cannot ask. Why? Because I can do 99.9% of all the things by myself. Will I be uncomfortable or annoyed or have difficulty doing the things by myself? Possibly. Maybe even probably. But technically, I can do things without assistance. So I do. I will not ask for help. 

Would I like help? Why, yes. Yes, I would. Very much. But will I ask? No. For life has taught me that asking comes with a Price, and that Price is not one that I am willing to pay. 

The same goes for questions or comments punctuated by, "if you want" or "whatever you want".  While at first blush these may seem like generous statements -- allowing me to have exactly what I choose -- they are, in fact, hidden requirements that I ask for things. It is not just picking between A and B (which is a palatable option, because it implies that the other person finds both A and B to be acceptable and I am just weighing in), but instead, these questions necessitate providing my complete input on the field of whatever, which requires the weighing of all of the choices and selecting one that will somehow magically be OK for everyone involved. No thank you. That's too much risk. And there will be a Price.

-----

I am a fully fledged Adult, with a great many Responsibilities. I am so very tired. 

Imagine my relief when someone else steps up and doesn't require me to put myself in the vulnerable position of asking for Help; when they make choices so that I do not have to do so; when they take action that makes me feel as if they notice and care enough to Do Things that tend to my wellbeing. What a comfort, to be loved in that way. 

-----

Ironically, to me, it doesn't seem like a lot to ask. It does require a certain kind of communication, though, and differently-chosen words. 

Perhaps I am hindered by semantics. It is hard for me to look beyond the spoken word into intent. Certain words mean certain things to me, and may mean different things to different people. I cannot read minds. Then again, other people cannot read my mind, either. 

Despite all my efforts to harness the precision of the English language, I still cannot get to what I need. 

And this is why I have given up Asking, and just Do by myself. 

Lizard Brain

The superego, mature, responsible part of my brain is doing its best to go about its business, get work done, fulfill its responsibilities, think lofty meaningful thoughts. 

The id, primitive, most basic part of my brain has its face pressed to the windows of its enclosure, steaming up the glass with its breath, waiting for someone to pick it up and hold it. It wants love, and security. 

Poor baby. I'm doing my best to build it a safe habitat. I wish I could fulfill all its needs by myself. 

Poster Girl

 Herself speaks.

It's the most ordinary of things that make us overthink sometimes.

I went in for a routine dental cleaning earlier this week. We always begin with the briefest of health updates: the hygienist takes my blood pressure (which was good -- pop quiz passed!), and asks, "any surgeries since the last visit? Any new medications?"

No surgeries, thank goodness. New medications: eight hundred thousand thoughts, in a millisecond, before responding. 

Yes, antidepressant is a new medication since my last visit. BUT, the hygienist is related to someone I work with, who does not know that I take antidepressants. I would tell my coworker about the antidepressants if it came up in conversation, but I do not want them to find out through the grapevine. The hygienist is bound by HIPAA, so technically she should not discuss it outside of the dental office, but you never know. Also, the dental office is open enough that the people in the cubicles next door will be able to listen, so other patients may hear what I say and I don't particularly want strangers to know. Because Stigma. How relevant is antidepressant use to dental health? I know some people in the depths of depression have trouble maintaining oral health, but that particular issue doesn't apply to me. So, is it irrelevant in this situation? Do I want to be the Poster Girl for being upfront about mental health issues and just mention it casually, as if it were no different from thyroid meds or other routine meds? No. No, I do not. Not today. 

"No new meds," I said.

-----

I feel a little bit as if I am doing a disservice to the mental health community by not being forward about my own personal struggle.  At the same time, it is my own personal struggle.  I don't want to talk about it a lot of the time. Nor should I feel obligated to do so, if it does not affect my health care. I have good days. I have bad days. A lot of times, I have days where there are good moments and bad moments. I am doing better. But not so much better that I can be an open representative of Better Mental Health Through Pharmaceuticals. 

I do want to help other people who might be struggling similarly. But right now, I'm putting my own oxygen mask on first. And that means that I might not say anything publicly.

That's OK.

King of Poop

Mr. Mustache refuses to poop properly, so we visited the vet again. He is doing OK, but even stricter diet and continued medication is in order. 

He was very well behaved. And so cute. Good boy. And for the love of lettuce, poop better.

Twenty-Six

Herself speaks.

I spent yesterday afternoon tidying up Offspring the Third's abode: cleaning out the fridge and freezer, running the dishwasher, mopping the floor, gathering all the laundry (which I brought back to my house, since my washing machine is bigger).  I put up the Christmas tree, put the wreath on the mantel. I'll pick up some fresh food and drop it off before he gets there, freshen the litter boxes for the kitties and drop them off, too. 

He's been away for work but will be home soon. His job has been horrifically difficult, and I want him to be able to just come home and relax and not think about things for a few days. His own familiar space, comfort foods, peace and quiet. 

-----

Offspring the Third turns twenty-six today. He is a lovely human being: so kind-hearted, so thoughtful. He works extremely hard and tries his very best, every day. Life is not always easy or kind to him, but he gets up and tries again, every time. I am immeasurably proud of him. 

Happy birthday, Offspring the Third. We love you so much. We wish good things for you, always. 

Chronic Chronicles

 Herself speaks.

I had an appointment yesterday to follow up with the neurologist. At this point, I'm paying more than $50/minute copay to speak with the doctor in order to have my prescriptions refilled; this time, I did get the added benefit of having a particular assistant in the office assigned the task of helping me to navigate the rejection of the pre-authorization of the one and only medication that has been effective in stopping an incipient migraine from turning into a full-blown horror show for me. Let's hope she and I together are successful in convincing the insurance company that no, I'm not just overusing over-the-counter NSAIDs, but I do in fact have chronic and fairly terrible migraine that needs this particular medication. 

The neurologist seems to regularly have freshly minted doctors doing a rotation through her office -- this was the second or third time in the past couple of years that I've had a wet-behind-the-ears MD doing my intake information. It's always an interesting exercise because they ask more questions than the neurologist does at this point: how many days of headache? How many hours per day? On a scale of 1-10, how severe is the pain? How many days of migraine?  

As I responded to the questions, I realized that my point of view on what level of pain constitutes an acceptable level, is forever skewed: three days of headache a week, not even bothering to take an NSAID unless the pain was a 4 or more, pain lasting for a few hours on each occasion, and about 3 migraines a month -- that, in  my eyes, is a VAST IMPROVEMENT over where I started. I'm willing to live like this. It's better. It's tolerable.  Let's keep the current medication regimen and not try anything new, because I don't want to rock the boat and risk making things worse from where they are now.

That's pretty horrifying, looking at it from the outside. But it's the life I live. I don't even mention the headache/migraine unless it's interfering with something that I need to do for someone else. I just power through.

It's taking a lot of readjusting of my mindset as to what I can realistically do. Some days, the best I can do is... nothing. Lie on the couch. Do a little bit of DuoLingo. Surf through TikTok. Feed the pets. Order pet supply pickup. Order grocery delivery.  Contemplate what days I can move my pending household tasks to. Do whatever I can do to minimize wear and tear on myself. 

The task at hand is to Get Through. Tending to the pain is enough. 

(And, perhaps, I would do well to remember that some days, tending to existential pain is also enough, too.) 

It's frustrating. In this world of Multitasking and Monetize Your Hobbies and Constant Social Media Input, it's hard not to feel self-critical about not doing all the time. 

But: managing pain IS doing. Surviving IS doing. 

There will be better days. (And worse days.) We take one day at a time. And we do our best not to criticize ourselves for the days when even boiling water seems like a lot. Because some days, it IS a lot. 

On we go. 

Crush

Once more, the memes have it. 

The Heart Tries

The Awkward Yeti nails it, yet again. 

Legacy

 Herself speaks.

My lovely Daddy left me a small amount of money. It was thoughtful, and kind, and helpful - just like Daddy.  

Because of the way the money was left, I need to take out a little bit of it every year from where it is, and move it elsewhere. It's up to me to figure out what to do with the slice of the money each time. That's surprisingly harder than one might think. Right now, it has very much been on my mind since the end of the year (and money-withdrawal-time) is nigh. 

One the one hand, the sensible thing to do would be to pay off a few debts. Or invest it in another place to save for retirement. Practical. 

On the other hand, though: it's an unexpected gift. I did not have this money in mind when accepting responsibility for debt or for building my retirement plan, so it's somehow free money, if that makes sense. I would like so much to take this gift, to use it in a way to make a difference somewhere, somehow. It's not enough to make a dramatic difference -- we're not remotely talking Bill or Melinda Gates here -- but I could perhaps make a teeny impact for the people who are important to me. 

Daddy was always so generous, and so quiet about it. I only learned in passing about all the ways he financially helped other people, because he never mentioned it. It was always someone else who brought it up -- someone to whom money was more important, or who felt it was necessary to give Daddy  recognition for his acts -- and Daddy always deflected, changed the subject, moved the spotlight elsewhere.

When I think of him, I am reminded of Kahlil Gibran's On Giving: 

There are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

I remember Daddy, and I want to carry his legacy on, in this small but meaningful way, however I can.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.

Jewel: My Father's Daughter.

Moss Meme

Fragile Flower

 Mr. Moustache continues to be a Fragile Flower. Just when we think his gut issues are under control, he starts... pooping funny all over again, and it's back to capturing him twice a day, wrapping him into an Angry Rabbit Burrito, and stuffing meds into his gullet. Poor baby. It's for the best, but he does not enjoy it. (And neither do I.). But I do love him, so I do what's best for him, even though he doesn't appreciate it in the slightest. 

He sure is cute, though. 

Holidays Past

 For the first time, none of the Offspring will be home for Thanksgiving. It's like the end of an era. 

-----

I so miss having company in the kitchen.  Offspring the Third particularly enjoyed cooking; Offspring the First and Offspring the Second also joined in on occasion, though it was more their presence than their participation that was there (and presence was just as welcome).  There were a few years when Cherished Friend would be facilitate cooking, too. It was lovely. 

Now, we do not even hold Thanksgiving at our house - although I suppose that is just as well this year, because we have not yet recovered and repaired from The Flood. At any rate, this year all the Offspring (and Cherished Friend, too, for that matter) are hundreds and hundreds of miles away. I miss all their faces more than I can say. 

I don't know where to put up a Christmas tree: there is nowhere to do so, given the Flood-related Disarray. My house, my brain, and my heart are all disheveled. 

-----

I miss simple pleasures. A little Christmas music, the tree, the festive linens on the dining room table. Finding just the right gift for someone. The undivided attention of a kitchen compatriot. A chihuahua, looking for crumbs. One of the offspring, feet up on the couch, providing commentary. The Peanuts Christmas special. 

What do I want? 

I want to wedge myself on the couch right next to someone, just to sit, maybe even to read, to watch a movie. Casual physical proximity, with love. But alas, I am out of chihuahuas and the bunnies are not inclined. The cats, when they are here, want either to stuff themselves up my nose, or to perch on the windowsill and stare longingly at birds outside the window. Beloved Husband is busy, and everyone else is too far away. 

Alas. 

Someone hold me. My heart aches for what has been and will never be again.

Mienteme

 Today's earworm: Mienteme (Orville Peck and Tess Bu Cuaron). 

I heard it for the first time as I drove back home after being away from this desert land recently, and the catchy Spanish lyrics and the tune promptly wedged themselves into my brain, there to stay for the indeterminate future. 

Miente, querida, que viva, baby
Hurt me, I'm yours tonight
Miénteme, vida, úsame
Venga, güey, come tell me lies
Amor no correspondido es tiempo perdido
Pero miente, querida, por vida, miénteme

Kitty Maintenance

While Offspring the Third is so busy working, I have taken on the responsibility for maintenance of his kitty friends. We went for rabies vaccines and annual licenses this week. One kitty quietly gave everyone the stink eye, but the other made herself right at home and conversed loudly with everyone she met.

Good girls. 

Let Us Try

Every time I have one of those infrequent opportunities to spend concentrated leisure time with one of my Important People, I am very conscious of the rarity both of the moment, and of the feeling of peace that accompanies the occasion. It is not at all often that my brain, so constantly full of Work and Volunteer Commitments and Ordinary Obligations, is able to relax and unwind enough to feel unhurried and at peace. I am so grateful to have had one such opportunity this past weekend, and it was Lovely.

Now, as I sit in limbo in an airport in the pre-dawn hours, I am trying to adjust to the inevitability of re-entering the hustle and bustle of my Ordinary Life, while simultaneously holding on to  the Intangible Joy of the time of the past weekend. I am trying, too, not to let Grief creep in - although I know that is inevitable.  As Kahlil Gibran reminds us in The Prophet, Joy and Sorrow are inseparable:

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

They are, in fact, opposite sides of the same coin:

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

The hardest part, is knowing that Sorrow is necessary, in order to have Joy.

-----

I'll do my best to focus on the mundane for now. I'll go get an overpriced airport snack, continue my DuoLingo streak, and then I'll be boarding the plane back to my desert homeland soon. I will be glad to be back there. Even though I leave a piece of myself behind here. 

We will do our best to move forward, day by day. 

As the French say: Essayons. 

You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place. ― Miriam Adeney

Meds and Greens

 Mr. Mustache the bun is a fragile flower. He and I spent some quality time with the vet, trying to figure out why his poop looks so funny. He was not quite in statis, but definitely Not Right. 

Many, many meds later, and a new strict diet (that, alas, does not include his favorite bananas), and he is doing a bit better. 

I'm doing the best I can for him. There will be no Death on my watch, if I can help it. 

Bunny burrito, 

all squashed and ready to be stuffed with meds.

Allllllll the meds.

Special greens mix. Tasty.

Hang in there, Mr. Mustache. Smudge loves you, and Poppy and Cookie love to annoy you, and you have a very special place in my heart. <3

Unthinkable, and yet Unsurprising

 You all know the results of last week's election. 

I... just CANNOT.

The despair, and hopelessness, and rage -- all the things that we had momentarily left behind -- are back in full force. Our only consolation is that it's unlikely he can change the Constitution in a way that would allow him another term beyond this one. 

Even if he is 'just a figurehead' for the Republican Party -- even assuming, arguendo, that he will be somehow Harmless and that the Republican Party will be running things for the next four years, this is what we know:

It was NOT a dealbreaker to over HALF of American citizens, that the figurehead of the Republican Party is a racist, misogynistic, sexist, sexually-assaulting, convicted felon; anti-immigrant, anti-intellectual, anti-environment, isolationist; an individual who mocks disabled people, who repeats lies ("alternative facts") and misinformation and ridiculous nonsensical statements ("They're eating the dogs! They're eating the cats!"); who simulates fellatio on a microphone stand at a public event; and who is crass, vulgar, and insulting to anyone who does not immediately agree with him. 

OK, then. 

Trust no one. 

Put On Your Own Oxygen Mask First

 Herself speaks.

Whoops, it's been a bit.

The other morning I was standing in the kitchen, trying to do the usual 500 things for various people, and I realized I hadn't taken my morning meds yet (thyroid, antihistamine, antidepressant). It took a moment to pause, but I purposefully prioritized myself for the 60 seconds it took to fetch my pills.  And as I did so, I was reminded of the admonition by flight attendants as they recite the safety rules on every aircraft: if the oxygen masks descend from the ceiling, put on your own mask first before helping others.

I can't do for others, if I don't do for myself first.

-----

It's been QUITE A LOT the past couple of weeks. First, there was Beloved Husband's 40th high school reunion, which was a series of events necessitating Getting Dressed Up And Being Social With Strangers over several days in a row (for which I valiantly put on my best Appropriate Outfits and Game Face). They are on the whole very lovely people, so it was just fine, though it was a whole lot of activities in a short period of time (I generally prefer to spread out my socializing). 

Next, was The Deluge: a little-used bathroom on the second floor of the house sprang a leak. There was Water. Lots of it. Nothing of tremendous value was lost, thank goodness, but the house is now partially gutted, both on the second floor and the first floor and in the garage, too. And I am gutted too, because I feel sad for my house, and there is work to be done, and repairs, and rearranging, and my poor house is in disarray and nothing is where it belongs and that is all somewhat terrible. 

Carpet gone, wall gone. Alas.

Insurance will pay for much of the repairs, thank goodness. But still. It is all a bit awful.

Then, I had to make a Duty Travel Trip. Not much to be said about that, except it took me away from home when I would have preferred to be at home with my injured house, and the trip itself was a bit stressful and lonely, and I would have loved nothing more than to have someone with me who could have firmly hugged the tension right out of me at the end of each day -- but alas, it was a solo journey, as so many of my journeys are, and so I soldiered on by myself, as usual. 

At least on the trip, I got to see some very lovely fall colors and shuffle through some leaves. Nice. 

And after my return, one of my much-loved and aloof rabbits has decided to look slightly... peaked. I am keeping a tight eye on him, lest he need to see the vet. I do not enjoy when my pets are ill. I do not have time to worry or to spend an entire day at the vet's office, fretting and calming a hysterical furball. Alas. 

Now we come today: election day here in the United States. I don't have much to say about that right now. I feel nauseated. When I voted early last week, I stood there in the voting booth with my ballot for a while just wanting to cry. Hope is hard to find. 

So that's what is transpiring, and why I have been missing in action here. I am putting one foot in front of the other, needing more than anything for someone to put their arms around me and tell me it will all be OK. 

One day at a time. 

La Llorona

Today's earworm: La Llorona (Carmen Goett). 

It's almost Dia de los Muertos.

One of these years, I might set up an ofrenda.

Progress

I feel like I may not be accomplishing much these days, but at least I am continuing my Duolingo streak. Tres bien!

Oh, Deer

It's deer season at the park! Lovely.

 

Belonging

Herself speaks.

Sometimes, I wonder what it is like to feel like one Belongs.

-----

I have never fully felt integrated into the Group. Any Group -- Classmates (from grade school through college, to professional school); fellow Campers at summer Camp; the Mom groups; Colleagues; other categorically-similar professionals (same gender/societal position - "Women Professional Blahblahs"); and so forth. For over twenty years, I worked in a profession that straddled fields -- as neither scientist nor true other-professional, I was neither one nor the other. And as a long-time telecommuter, I was nearly invisible on the whole for the entire time. 

As a transplant to this desert land, I have not been (nor will I ever be) a Native. I'm a non-Spanish-speaker in a population that is 80% Hispanic. I'm a woman disinterested in stereotypical 'girly' things -- makeup/nail art/wine/home decor -- that make for female small talk. Even online, I'm a bystander in the social groups. Forever peripheral. Sometimes, that's OK -- I'm an introvert in a sea of extroverts.  All the same, though, it means that I'm never fully part of the whole. I'm a hanger-on, an extra, someone who can be easily shed, who does not count. 

Communication: so difficult. I'm a person with a need for precise vocabulary usage, in a land of people who are annoyed by oddly-specific language choices. I try to say what I mean, and am forever stymied by people who talk around what they intend or insinuate secondary meaning where I cannot see it in their own words (or worse, where I do not intend it to be in mine). Forever needing to watch my word choice, to ensure my face is doing the right things and my tone is modulated, to ask reciprocal questions (I tend to forget to do so, because I am concentrating on All The Other Things). Who has time to settle in and Belong, when just Being in the Group is so much work? 

Imagine what it would be like, to be comfortable in a room full of people. To just feel that they like you, accept you for who you are, are glad you are there -- and not just because you can do something for them, but because of who you are as a person. 

Wouldn't that be lovely? 

Heartrending Earworms

 Herself speaks.

I have this song stuck in my head. I need to listen to it, and yet it pains me: it's like an itch that must be scratched, even though it hurts.  Back At Your Door, Orville Peck and Debbii Dawson. It is unbearably sad. I cannot turn away. 

Have a listen. I am not sure you will enjoy, necessarily. But it will enrich your life. And perhaps, it will be stuck in your head, too, and then I will not have to suffer alone. 

Niche Interests

 Herself speaks.

Sometimes, the only thing to do after a long day of work, is to disassociate while scrolling through TikTok. (I know there are more fruitful things that could be done. But right now, I am allowing myself leeway to just... not think for a little while, when needed. And TikTok helps.) 

It's interesting, the way the algorithm picks what it thinks it should show next. I haven't quite figured it out yet. Most of it is predictable and in keeping with my interests and inclinations; my feed most often provides videos relating to animal rescue/LGBTQ+-support/science content/autism information/recreational vehicle tours. I also get a certain amount of Harry Potter content, although that is much less likely, now that I do not "like" or interact with those videos as often (I do not support the author, who has taken on her own Voldemort-like status, she-who-must-not-be-named, for her TERF attitudes and generally hostile and snarky social media content.)

Given my love of our favorite masked country singer Orville Peck, though, and a passing interest in the group Sleep Token (who have a song that is being heavily featured along with clips of Death Eaters at the Harry Potter Experience, and who are also masked), it seems inevitable that TikTok should drop me into what is apparently known as #MaskTok. 

MaskTok probably goes a lot farther (and more... MORE) than I've ended up -- like #BookTok, there are sections of TikTok that are much more R-Rated, feral and explicit and beyond what this unimaginative middle-aged woman can conjure. The corner that I have found is primarily a set of cosplayers from Call of Duty (COD), who make short videos in their cosplay costumes, occasionally hold live TikTok sessions in which they sit and banter with one another, and so forth.  

So now I've learned about Call of Duty. A game which I've never played. It's a weird topic for a person like me. But truth be told, I am so glad that I am interested in something, rather than absolutely nothing as I was for so long, that I'm allowing myself to sit and learn a little bit. 

The COD cosplay community on TikTok is surprisingly sweet. They all seem very supportive of one another; they've built a little community based on their love of cosplay, and post kind and thoughtful words back and forth to one another. Like all online communities, there does appear to be a bit of Drama here and there (though I haven't seen much), but overall, it's nice to witness. Like being in a room full of cheerful, supportive friends. I'll never be one of them, but I get to sit in the atmosphere of the room, and that's good enough for me. 

Most of the creators in the community require age-checks for interaction (MDNI - Minors Do Not Interact), which is wise since there's a certain amount of adult flirtation and Language.  For me, though, that is the moment when it's frankly horrifying to be such an Old Person online. I'm sure my presence/commentary is questionable at first, particularly because my TikTok name is gender neutral (though my gender is listed in my profile) -- who wants a 57-year old who-knows-what lurking with the youngsters in cosplay? I don't say or do much besides post an occasional supportive statement or 'like'; until I'm proven to be harmless, I don't want to come across as a creepy creeper. 

A side note: approximately 80% of the COD cosplayers I am currently following on TikTok, are women cosplaying as male COD characters. Nice. I really admire that, for reasons I can't quite parse. It seems like something I would do, though, if I were younger and a physical shape that could pull off a male cosplay. In my next lifetime, perhaps. 

And also, there's the masks. We know I like masked singers. We're extending that to masked people in general now. I find the fact that most of the videos focus on the creators' eye expressions, to be SO HELPFUL.  Learning what eyes say, and being able to look at eyes safely, is really an unexpected bonus of this corner TikTok. 

(This is a point when I wonder whether there's overlap between autism TikTok and MaskTok, because Great Learning Tools in both places. Things to Think About.)

At any rate, so that's where we are now. We'll see how long and how far it goes. I'm just glad that for now, something has captured my interest a tiny bit. Perhaps that's a sign that things are just a little bit better.

I'll take it. 

Awkward Calls

 Herself speaks.

It's the beginning of the month, and so I do my lovely-Daddy-related tasks: I take care of Mom's regular bills, and I check Daddy's emails to be sure no unusual bills or other correspondence have come through. These are quiet little tasks that do not take long, but allow me to ensure that lovely Daddy rests in peace. Don't worry, Daddy, I'm taking care of things. You can rest easy. 

This month, he had a reminder about a doctor's appointment. (It's not as unusual as one might think for this to happen; this was for a routine appointment that would have been made far in advance.) Out of courtesy to the doctor, I made That Call, to let them know that Daddy wouldn't make the appointment. Or any other appointments, ever. 

People are always so very kind when I tell them that Daddy is Gone. As awkward as it is to have to be the bearer of sad news, it is always a moment when strangers appear to be genuinely sympathetic. 

In this hard world, I'll take those few seconds of compassion. Even though it invariably, momentarily, softens the walls I have built to protect myself. 

I miss you, Daddy.  

Fuzzbutt

Miss Poppy is such a... LARGE and fuzzy bun. 

Question, and Answer

 Herself speaks.

One of the things I miss most about my lovely Daddy, is how, every now and then, when we had that ever-so-rare moment to ourselves, he would ask, "How are you doing?" 

I would always be caught off guard by the question. It's as if he somehow knew that there was something else, something deeper and perhaps more painful, behind the deliberately bland/benignly cheerful/otherwise quiet persona that I carry around with me. 

I was never completely honest with him. Primarily because I didn't want him to worry. (Or secondarily, to share anything too private with anything else.) And what could he do, anyway, if I told him that I was Tired or burnt out or worried about all the small things? 

Perhaps I was doing him a disservice by not letting him in. He would have gladly helped me to carry my burden -- whatever it was -- for a little while, if it could have brought me some peace. This I know.

I wonder if I could be more honest now, if he were still alive. Or perhaps, it is the freedom of knowing that he is both Nowhere and Everywhere all at once, that I can at last talk to him in my head instead, and tell him the Truth. 

Perhaps that is why I miss the question: because I am finally ready to answer. 

And that is just one reason why I miss my lovely Daddy: because he is the only one who ever asked the question.  

Find the Happy Ending

(Bianca Sparacino, again)

Good Enough

When you are not feeling good enough, remember that sometimes the root of feeling not good enough comes from holding yourself to someone else’s ideal rather than your own. Remember that you are the only person who gets to decide if you are good enough. You are the only person qualified enough to determine your value.

― Bianca Sparacino, A Gentle Reminder

Identifying As An Anchovy

Jiggedy-Jig

 Herself speaks.

The past two weeks were a whirlwind of travel, for volunteering things and Offspring-social-related-things, and it was all good and motivating and very intensive and holy cow, my brain and my feet and my capacity for interaction with other human beings are all so tired. I want to just sit in the quiet of my house. But work is Oh So Busy and Life Continues Apace, so I march forward, one day at a time, trying to get things done. 

I am also trying not to read the news, because the news continues to be just SO TERRIBLE (not to mention occasionally ridiculous). I can only focus on so much at once -- full-on, self-protective mode, here we are. 

Yesterday at the end of the business lunch, my fortune cookie was vaguely ominous. It could be interpreted as positive, but all I could think was, Please, NO, Universe, I have learned enough lessons for now, I do not need any more. 

On we go. One step at a time. 

More Travels

Monday Meme-day

The Beauty in Small Things

Chemical Sunset

 And on the opposite side of pre-dawn driving music, we have another song from Orville Peck's new album:  Chemical Sunset.

This would be my current audio stim. Excellent. 

I hope you enjoy.

Midnight Ride

 Recently, I found myself driving back from the airport in the very small hours of the morning -- I had just delivered Offspring the Third, off on a work-related adventure (best of luck, my lovely young man, I hope it is a fantastic journey!), and was returning home along the nearly empty highway. 

I'd forgotten the small pleasure of solitary highway driving in the pre-dawn hours. 

The moment was made complete by one of the songs from Orville Peck's new album: Midnight Ride.

Nice.

For that one brief moment, everything was OK.

Well, Well, Well... Wellbutrin

Herself speaks.

I've been a bit quiet, because I've been thinking about something that needed my full inner attention. Something small, and yet big. A tiny thing, and yet a Big Thing. A miniscule request, with potentially rippling consequences (some potentially negative, many potentially positive). I thought, and thought, and then decided. 

I looked out over the past six years, all the way back to The Task (since that was monumental enough to be a solid landmark in time), and then looked forward again, and made myself a list of all the Happenings in that interval that were difficult, or required some form of life adjustment or adaptation, or needed a period of time of a month (or more) to get used to/get over/come to terms with the event or change. And I stopped adding to the list after I could reliably identify twenty-five different items -- and none of them were even ordinary daily items like Work or Chronic Migraine or Ordinary Stuff. 

All of them were varying levels of Big: the loss of the Tiniest and Fiercest of Warriors, of my very fine fur friend Mr. Uncle Tio, and of the very fine New Old Dog; the Divergence; minor surgeries and medical events of various levels of annoyance; the loss of my lovely father in law, and of my lovely Daddy (which, in addition to being heartrending, also came with a new set of responsibilities, which I undertook with love to honor my Daddy); the Pandemic and how terrible People behaved, and having COVID -- twice! -- with virtually no support system to help me during that time; the Inflection Point and the arduous recovery from it; and other events of similar degrees of size and shape. 

(I have not included specific mention in the listing here, of events that belong primarily to the Offspring or to Beloved Husband, in which I was a tangential player, for those are their stories; nevertheless, I play a supporting character in their lives, and what affects them, impacts me in certain ways, too.)

As we can see, though, there has been rather a lot. 

I'm Tired. Tired through and through, to the very core of my soul.  And you can read it, too, if you look through the Blog. 

This level of Tired means that my own personal wellbeing became such a low priority, that I could see that I wasn't really taking adequate care of myself -- not finding the time to exercise, not putting in the effort to ensure I was following the best migraine-free diet, not finding activities to do that I enjoyed. Because I enjoyed nothing. There has been no joy. Only Obligation, Numbness, and marching forward, doing the things that must be done. With a little despair thrown in here and there. 

So I gathered all of this, held it all carefully in my hands, and when I went to my annual physical yesterday, said to my lovely doctor: 

Let's talk about anti-depressants, please. 

And she was ever so kind about it. 

We ran through the standard depression and anxiety questionnaires. I inwardly chuckled a bit at the depression questionnaire because the timeframe it asks about is, "In the past two weeks...." Two weeks?! Hell, I can do ANYTHING for two weeks. For two months. For two years, even. And she also asked me what the biggest stressors were, and I told her a few of the twenty-five things, and though I couldn't quite look at her when I mentioned the worst of them, it was pretty clear that what I said was somehow clearly... enough for one person to be dealing with. 

I passed (failed?) the depression questionnaire, though I have virtually no anxiety -- which does not surprise me. Things are going to happen, whether I worry about them or not; at this point, I just hitch up my pants and do what needs doing next.  We agreed on which antidepressant I should try, and it's one that is least likely to have weight gain as a side effect, since one of my side goals is to lose weight. (I probably will, if I can feel my feelings rather than eat them.) The prescription was called into the pharmacy even before the end of the visit. She gave me a hug before I left, and I felt embarrassed that someone actually cares. And her assistant told me, when she walked me to the exit, that it would get better. 

I want to believe that they were being genuine and kind. I am unused to spontaneous kindness from other people. Especially people who don't want something from me. 

It was a tough choice to decide to ask for help.  I spent a lot of time thinking about the ramifications of what it would mean to have a diagnosis of clinical depression in my medical records. Will medical professionals take me less seriously in the future? "Oh, your symptoms are because you're depressed."  Well, it's possible I'll get that. But is that any worse than "It's because you're fat"?  Because we all know that's a standard "diagnosis" for women, too. 

Maybe, with the antidepressant, I'll eventually be able to be less fat, because I'll have the wherewithal to take better care of myself. Really, that's my goal: a few store-bought neurotransmitters, to take the edge off of the level of Terrible, so I can do better for myself.  Someone needs to take care of me. I am that Someone. 

I'm trying not to look at the whole situation as a personal failure. I can only Power Through so much. When I can no longer reach my own bootstraps to power through everything, though, it's time to get some assistance. Even though I would rather chew off my own leg than ask for help, it was definitely Time. 

I debated for a long time about whether I would write here about this issue. The stigma associated with Depression is, as always, very high, and I realize it's a risk to say certain things out loud. (Though I do want to give Kudos to the younger generations for being much more open about mental health and wellness than my generation and older generations.) But perhaps, that's all the more reason to say something. 

If there's a chance that, by reading my story, you can look at your own life and say to yourself, "I have plenty of Terrible and would like something to take the edge off, too", and you can then go ask your own doctor for help, then this is a story well told. 

I will -- either literally, or metaphorically -- be there to hold your hand while you ask for help, too. 

Forever A Favorite

Let Us Pray

Outside of work today. Neat!

33 and Sushi

Beloved Husband and I went out for sushi to celebrate our 33rd anniversary. 

Here's to the next 33 years. 

Lay Me Down

 Today's earworm: Lay Me Down, by Sam Smith.

Find any performance. (Preferably a duet, in which he harmonizes.) Listen carefully. 

Just lovely. 

I Snorted Out Loud

Well, THAT is much more accurate, Facebook ads. 

Animal Crossing Birthday

It's very sweet. A nice way to end the day

. 

Well, That's... A Little Hurtful

Facebook Ads: ouch. 

Banananas

Banana-chocolate chip muffins, including a couple of heart-shaped ones, made with the last part of the batter that wouldn't fit into the muffin tins. 

Mmmmm, muffins. 

I Dreamed A Dream

 Last night, I dreamt that I was reunited with someone I had not seen in ages. In the dream, I held their face in my hands, and even now that I am awake, I can remember the feel of their skin under my fingers. 

Ah, the things we wish we could hold, literally and metaphorically, forever. 

Do Unto Others

For the past week, I've been trying to get back into the habit of paying better attention to what I am doing for others.  I've been Very Migraine-y, and as a result, have been mired in Myself -- physically and mentally, and I was hoping that by looking outside of myself, I would feel better.

I made an extra effort to make sure that my Mom's birthday had gifts she would like and multiple texts and bits of communications here and there -- I know that all festivities both large and small are very different for her now, without Daddy, and it is more important than ever that we make her feel special, without him here to do so.  

I ordered some small gifts for coworkers who are moving on from the office soon. I don't actually work directly with either of them, but we interact on occasion and have been employed at the same place for quite some time now. They should know that they have been an important part of the collective team, and that they will be missed. 

I sent additional birthday wishes to people whom I don't see in person any more (it is apparently a popular week for birthdays), but of whom I am fond and to whom I don't reach out nearly often enough. This was part of my new/ongoing effort to make sure people know that they are important: even when they might feel as if they are out-of-sight, they are not out-of-mind. And I sent a messenger message to an artist Facebook friend, to thank her once more for the piece of art I have of hers in my office at work, for the same reason. 

It helped a bit. I felt a little less isolated and mired in my own literal/metaphorical pain of the moment. The truth is, I know a lot of lovely people. The part I struggle with the most is, reaching out. And, unfortunately, so do the people I know. I should be very empathetic. 

-----

One of the hardest parts of chronic pain such as migraine, is how isolating it is. My ability to be social, to reach out, to be cheerful, is so constrained. I have so few spoons. And it's also exhausting -- embarrassing even -- to tell the people near to me that I'm unwell, yet again. Nobody likes to be seen as weak in any way. So I don't mention it much any more. 

And when I do, I have apparently reached the point where those closest to me don't even react a lot of the time. They are so used to me plowing through as best I can despite everything, that it no longer even occurs to them to do anything other than perhaps say, that's too bad. Sometimes it requires prompting to get that sentence.  And if I don't prompt, sometimes they don't even say that any more -- I told someone close to me yesterday that I was on day three of Migraine, and there was not even a "that sounds painful".  At least the conversation continued, though. I'm not fully abandoned. 

When there is so little acknowledgment of what I am experiencing, I quickly become embarrassed that I've even mentioned it. I so easily devolve into a little ball of ouch and self-consciousness, horrified that there is that part of me that wants someone to say, well, that sounds terrible, to acknowledge my pain. It takes all my strength not to go down the path of, what would it be like if someone tried to help -- to ask if they should bring any meds, or a snack or some water, should I go lie down, what would work to make things better, they will take care of X or Y or Z so I do not have to do it, don't worry about a thing. 

I have to remind myself: it is up to me to take care of me. Or to ask for what I want. (And ask with the full knowledge that asking may still not yield what I want.) 

I have to bootstrap myself to do the former, if I cannot bring myself to do the latter. 

One day at a time.

Old Hobbies

I made a few tiny zucchini muffins today. (Banana for scale.) 

It was nice to return to old hobbies. 

Questionable Utility

Not sure this is a phrase I will need, Duolingo. 

Preemptive Strike

 Herself speaks.

The other day, I was (gently) called out in a way that made me think quite a bit. 

It was pointed out to me, that my holding on to and remembering the specific hurtful words of another person from a particular moment (let us call them 'Those Hurtful Words'), was in effect choosing to continue to inflict harm upon myself. 

Let's contemplate that for a little bit.

On the one hand: yes.  By continuing to recall Those Hurtful Words, I suppose I am revisiting the moment of pain of those words. Re-suffering. 

On the other hand: well, the initial moment of Those Hurtful Words, I did not fully grasp their impact. Rather like stubbing your toe -- there is that initial BONK OW, and numbness, and only later, when you try to walk on that toe, does it hurt, and only when you look at it, do you realize that it is bruised, and when you try to put tighter shoes on, do you realize it is swollen. The act of going through life using that toe just naturally calls to mind the initial incident. That's not a deliberate choosing to re-injure yourself. That's recognizing the level of injury that has been experienced. 

Also: there's a sense of injustice in Those Hurtful Words, particularly when an Utterer of such words does not even recall them fully. Does the person who flips you off while driving in traffic, remember fully the incident? Unlikely. They go about their business, having forgotten their annoyance entirely, and you are left feeling aggrieved. How is it that you are left unjustly wronged, and they have no memory of their role? How can they move through life so freely, after having wronged someone else? 

In the end, though, what good does recalling Those Hurtful Words serve?  Especially when we come to understand that Those Hurtful Words were nothing more than uttered frustration or self-protection or some other self-centered moment? 

I submit: recalling Those Hurtful Words is, ultimately, a shield. 

If I can hurt my own feelings by recalling Those Hurtful Words, I can protect myself from someone else doing so with those same Hurtful Words. I anticipate. I build up tolerance. 

Really, I am just trying to save myself from being stabbed by Those Hurtful Words again.

So if I recall them, or cannot let them go yet, it is because I am not ready to face the world again knowing that that kind of weapon is out there. I need to train myself first. 

Perhaps someday, I will be ready. Until then, though, I'm wearing shoes to protect my toes. I'm driving extra carefully and taking alternate routes to avoid the traffic. And I am recalling Those Hurtful Words. Until I am ready to let them go and step out into the world again. 

Have Some Lettuce

Duolingo Truths

Though, to be honest: who has a wired phone any more?

Santa Fe

Herself speaks.

It's remarkable how it seems as though it takes the entire workweek, to prepare to take one work day off.  

Last week, Monday through Thursday were extremely busy, so that Friday could be spent out of the office. Beloved Husband and I took that day off, and took a leisurely drive from our usual corner of this desert southwest, to Santa Fe, New Mexico. (We went to Santa Fe at around this time last year as well -- we are looking to make it an annual pilgrimage, in honor of our anniversary which is in a few weeks.) 

It's such an interesting place: so many contrasts. Rich and poor, desert and oasis, art and mundane. We looked in all the expensive tourist-y shops; had several very fine meals at very fine restaurants; perused Art in various galleries; saw a ballet performance at the lovely little theatre. It was quite nice. 

There are some parts of Santa Fe that give me pause.  There is a lot of art in the galleries that depicts idealized Native Americans: beautiful maidens wrapped in furs or skins, waiting expectantly; stoic warriors in full regalia or war paint, staring defiantly; plump children contentedly gazing at  small carved toys, and such. I would be very surprised if any of these works were created by actual First Peoples artists.  It feels a little bit like Indian pornography -- exploitative, false, glossing over the ultimately terrible history of Native Peoples in the area (and throughout the United States). And there are the indigenous street vendors selling their wares on the weekends, on numbered spaces on the sidewalk by the center square -- there is the same vaguely uncomfortable feeling of exploitation and discomfort there, too. Is it just me? I don't think so. 

 There is also the conservative politics of some people of the region, that we strenuously avoid (particularly with the apparent assassination attempt on July 14, while we were in Santa Fe). The present state of the nation, of women's rights, of the Supreme Court decisions and other current events, fills me with such despair that I can no longer read the news. It's hard not to think about what's happening. But that's a discussion for another day.

We took the scenic way back to our corner of the desert, which was a very nice drive. Long freight trains, wind turbines, cows, a few pronghorns, and stretches of dry landscape as far as the eye could see.  It was a refreshing nothingness. I could spend forever in that interim.

Alas, we are now Back to Business As Usual.

It was a good trip, though.  We'll do it again next year. 

Getaway

Little Frog

My lovely sister sent me The Little Frog's Guide To Self-Care, and it might be very On Point right about now. 

One day at a time.