January: Manteca Nightmares

 I experienced a charming \sarcasm font\ bit of shaming a couple of days ago. 

I had a routine annual appointment with the cardiologist. I was not particularly worried about the appointment; he's (normally) a very kind man, everything usually goes smoothly. I had my lab results from the end of October of 2025 -- and according to my primary care physician (who had already reviewed them with me in November), everything was fine.

Dr. Cardiologist had different thoughts, though.  He breezed in with a student doctor, whom I welcomed (I'm always a fan of student doctors learning on the job) and commented right off the bat that he was concerned about my triglycerides. (Which, admittedly, are a bit high, though my primary care doctor was not concerned.)

He turned from the computer where the numbers were displayed, looked at me, and asked, "Did you eat a lot of grease over the holidays?" 

Well, Jesus H. Christ riding a bicycle. 

I got stuck momentarily in figuring out how to answer because 1) my labs were from before the holidays and 2) no, I don't normally eat a lot of fatty foods (I do tend to eat simple/processed sugars, especially when migraine-y, and that too can raise triglycerides). Was I supposed to answer either of those things? Probably not.  

I resorted to, "Well, I ate a lot of feelings over the holidays."  Which, putting you on notice that LIFE IS F*CKING HARD RIGHT NOW, SIR, PERHAPS A MODICUM OF TACT MIGHT GET YOU FURTHER. 

I wonder what the student doctor thought? Or if he noticed how horrified I was? Dr. Cardiologist did not, or if he did, pretended not to. 

Dr. Cardiologist instead glossed over my response and followed up his condescending question by asking if I'd ever had a stress test. Which, no.  We went over the whys and hows and whens of a stress test (there was more ick in that discussion, but I was still stuck on the grease).  He concluded with, if the stress test was fine, we'd just have to make sure I ATE LESS GREASE, and walked me out to the scheduling cubicles.  

The whole thing took maybe 3 minutes. 

I am still stunned. 

Horrified.

What does he think, that I'm just sitting in a corner with my spoon and a tub of manteca? And is making his point that way, really the best way to do it? In front of a student doctor? What was he teaching them, exactly? 

Whatever his intentions, he succeeded at one thing. I have felt shame about every single food item I have put in my mouth since then, and it has in fact resulted in my eating less. Well done, Doctor - you have turned slightly disordered overeating into vague orthorexia, just through the use of the word grease.

The stress test will be fine. And it'll be good to have a baseline and to address any concerns. 

In the meantime, I will chew on my shame. 

Girl Crush

 Herself speaks.

I try to avoid certain types of movies/songs/media, because they are just... a bit much for me. I don't watch rom-coms; I don't read books in which the love interests don't end up together; don't listen to lovelorn music. Especially now, when the world is a flaming dumpster fire, and Depression still sits quietly in the passenger seat of my car and stares at me from the corners of my room at night.

Once in a while, though, I accidentally come across something, and -- almost against my will -- it catches my attention.  I heard a snippet of a song on TikTok the other day, and now it is stuck in my brain. I feel compelled to listen to it, even though it brings up Feelings that I do not enjoy and would like not to experience. (Empathy: currently the worst kind of curse.)

I wish I knew what to do with Feelings that are Too Much. Feeling them by myself is acutely painful; all the same, there is no one in front of whom I would be comfortable feeling them. Yet one can only squash down feelings for so long, before they coalesce into the living, breathing Depression that is my secretive companion. I would not wish that on anyone. 

At any rate, here is the earworm that is plaguing me. Girl Crush, sung by Harry Styles. Suffer with me. Perhaps, if we suffer together, we can get through. 

I want to taste her lips
Yeah, 'cause they taste like you
I want to drown myself
In a bottle of her perfume
I want her long blond hair
I want her magic touch
Yeah, 'cause maybe then
You'd want me just as much
I've got a girl crush

All Squares are Rectangles (But Not All Rectangles Are Squares)

 Do you remember the expression: all squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares? It's such a great turn of phrase. I like it for its literal correctness -- few things more satisfying than a specific mirror-image definition like this. 

It occurred to me today that it could also potentially be used metaphorically. (Yes, I'm slow sometimes.)  I contemplated this morning, how it could be applied. (I was doing so, to avoid thinking about current events. Because they are all horrible. THE HORROR. Ironically, it was through mulling over current events that I ultimately came up with a situation that is analogous.) It goes like this:

When someone hurts another person through actions, an apology made through words can help.  But when an injury is caused by words, an attempt to make reparations through actions is not always successful. Even when actions are intended to show remorse or repentance or a change of heart, there will always be those previous words lingering in the background, and the thought that they may resurface again. Words can only be negated by words, not by deeds. 

Perhaps only I place so much emphasis on the value and import of words. (And perhaps that is why I spend so much time trying to explain myself with a hundred billion words.) Am I alone here? Give me the words, peoples. 

But perhaps not. Surely I am not the only person horrified by the words being used in public arenas right now. When our current President says the VERY TERRIBLE things he says, so flippantly, so carelessly, it is shocking and appalling and I cannot watch because the words stick in my head and I immediately want to argue and yet I cannot, because what good would that serve? What kind of terrible timeline are we living in, that the leader of our nation spews forth such cruel and crass verbal garbage? And it's not just him, either.  But surely I am not alone in my horror. 

Could amends be made through actions at this point? No. Absolutely not. The words need to be denounced. Better words need to be put forth. Only with Good Words, can we truly move forward. 

I Don't Know

I came across a meme the other day, and it sparked a tiny memory from a hundred thousand years ago. 

I am not sure how old I was, but I was somewhere in my preteen years.  My weird little homely self was overwhelmed by something, to the point of tears, and my poor beleaguered mother, attempting to discern what was happening (no doubt wondering what is her problem THIS time, as I was -- once upon a time -- a tearful little creature), asked me what was wrong. I responded, "I don't know," because I genuinely did NOT know. Something was wrong, but I could not put words to it. Things were just not right, somehow. I did not have adequate means to describe. It wasn't a Thing That Had Happened, it wasn't a Crisis, it was just... I don't know. 

"That's not an answer," she told me, exasperated. "Maybe when you're a teenager, that might be an answer. But not now." This confused me, but also stopped me from crying: both because apparently I did not have a reason to cry, so I was supposed to stop; and also, because I had to think about what it meant that teenagers were allowed to have some kind of complex feeling that could not be put in to words but still afforded them the opportunity to cry openly -- but that I, a mere grade schooler, was not allowed to do so. 

Ultimately, I eventually (painstakingly) learned that people are not at all comfortable with any form of upset feelings or with crying, so it's best to keep that to oneself and out of view of other people; and that being a teenager does NOT, in fact, allow one to cry openly, regardless of whether one has an actual 'reason' or not. 

I do still have times when I do not understand why I feel the way I do; it is so hard to identify feelings right as they are happening.  I wish they came with a little sign: "this is sadness because X" or "this is anxiousness because Y" or "this is overwhelm because A and B and C all happened in short order". 

Feelings: so much work. 

No wonder I'm tired. 

Find Me A Zookeeper

 Herself speaks.

As I have alluded before, one of the side effects of antidepressants has been more time to Think, and  also, to Feel. Parsing regular Feelings from depression is tricky. But when I sit back and look objectively at the whole picture, I understand that a regular person in my shoes would feel these Feelings. That's natural and expected. Life ebbs and flows. 

Right now, I am at a stage of midlife Grief that is hard to process: face to face with the realizations that there are things that I want, that will never come to pass; that my needs will not always be met; that the Universe requires each of us to find our own way in solitude, to prepare us for the possibility that those nearest to our hearts will not be there at a time when we yearn for them. 

Sometimes I want to say, No Thank You. This grief is so much. But if I can walk through this fire and come through the other side, there will be peace to be found. I just need to get there. 

-----

I had an annual visit with the cardiologist yesterday. He's a lovely tiny little man, so cheerful, so upbeat.  My heart is in good health, and he'll see me in a year. 

And I think to myself, it's broken, but it works just fine. 

-----

Between feeling the Feelings, and my many Responsibilities, though, I am having trouble accomplishing Routine Self-Maintenance. Things like exercising and eating right and looking after myself. I just... can't. It's the very last priority and completely uninteresting. 

This is why I need a Zookeeper. 

I need someone who will treat me like a cranky, middle-aged, slightly overweight, uncertain rescue chihuahua: provide me with a warm place to sleep, offer me nutritious meals to slowly slim me down to the right shape, take me for walks, make sure I have a spot to hide when I feel overwhelmed. Sit on the couch with me and watch TV, and partake in other forms of quiet enrichment together. Stuff me in a crate and take me to the vet when I need to go. Praise me when I do something right. And be happy to see me.

Maybe this is why I adopt medically needy/elderly pets: I want to give them the life I would like to have. 

-----

The challenge, of course, is to be my own Zookeeper. Can I do it? 

I can try. Can I? 

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.

The Heart Tries

The Awkward Yeti nails it, yet again. 

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. 

Feel All The Things

 This morning I had a conversation with someone about Feeling the Feelings.

So many of us, trained from youth, to avoid, suppress, tamp down, all the Feeling of the Feelings. Especially negative Feelings (except Anger, especially in Men. Men are taught that it's OK to be Angry -- but nothing else.)  

How else can we be fully human, though, if not through Feeling All The Things? 

What is the worst thing that will happen, if we Feel A Feeling? 

-----

What we should all really do, is learn to be comfortable with sitting with other peoples' Feelings. Because sometimes, Feelings are most safely Felt, when in the company of others. 

Today's task, which I assign all of us:

Feel a Feeling. 

How is it? Are you comfortable? Uncomfortable? What does the Feeling tell you? What have you learned about the Feeling, and about yourself?

Do you need company in your Feeling?

If so, I am here for you. And your Feeling. 

Neurotypical Crystal Ball

 Herself speaks.

As we approach the anniversary of my lovely Daddy's passing from this earth, I find myself spending time thinking about my last visits with him and my mother. Sometimes, little snatches of conversation come back to me, and enlighten me in new ways. 

One evening, for example, we were talking about the various restaurants in the complex in which they live, and Daddy commented that the shuttle bus that makes circuits around the complex is a convenient way to get to some of the farther away ones (especially now that he was having some difficulty navigating the long corridors due to fatigue).  My mother interpreted his comment on the shuttle bus as a passive-aggressive statement about what needed to be done; I interpreted it as solely a factual statement about the available amenities. There had to be more discussion about the bus-the dinner places-the means of locomotion before things were ironed out. I professed my personal need to take statements at face value, and not be reading into statements because I was not a mind reader. 

It was a small moment. I am sure that it was a time that was hard for everyone -- for Daddy, who wanted more than anything not to be a burden on anyone; for Mom, who was extremely anxious about Daddy's declining health; and for me, too, as I was trying to balance their needs while also navigating being away from my own children and husband over the holidays for the first time ever. The smallest statements had the potential to inadvertently set nerves on edge. Best to speak plainly, was my modus operandi. Avoid misunderstanding. 

The insight I learned, in retrospect: some people impart information, and some people read in to information, and some people expect others to do the reading in to the information that they impart. 

------

I am a slow thinker. 

I am absolutely terrible at reading in to information. Subtlety escapes me, every single time. (It's like sarcasm: it just FLIES RIGHT OVER my head.) It takes me forever to ascertain someone's point, and I need time, and contemplative space, and the absence of other distractions, in order to arrive at a conclusion that would take a typical person mere moments. I might never get there -- I might blissfully skip off into my own world, having missed some critical suggestion entirely. 

This is why I value words so highly. 

And why I use too many of them whenever I try to explain myself: let there be no misunderstanding. Let me repeat myself in a hundred different ways, upside down and backwards and forwards, until you can See Me clearly, in all my words. 

------

I think that I might need to make Speak Plainly, my standard modus operandi.  After careful deliberation and contemplation, I would like to stop trying to read in to what other people say.  It is not in my skill set, and when I do it, I do so with poor results. No thank you. I turn in my neurotypical crystal ball for reading in to what everyone says. I'm not sure it has ever worked properly. I resign.

This will require certain changes to my behavior, no doubt. It will require more questions, for starters -- because I am not guessing what is happening or what I should be reading in to a particular situation any more, I will have to ask if it seems like there is a subtext that I need to be aware of. It will also require not taking responsibility for things other people do not tell me. For example: it's not my fault if I do not do something, if I didn't know it needed to be done because someone did not tell me so, and I did not think to guess or ask. I cannot go through life trying to imagine all possible permutations of every possible situation, in order to try to capture every conceivable scenario and read in to what is happening at every moment. Can you imagine the exhaustion? 

The hardest part will be trusting that others will provide explicitly, what they tried to suggest implicitly.

I cannot fix, what I don't know about. Can I absolve myself for the unknown?

I will try. 

Bonfire of the Vanities

A bonfire of the vanities (Italian: falò delle vanità) is a burning of objects condemned by religious authorities as occasions of sin.

This will be vague, because the details are not worth sharing. Yet, I think (hope) that I will feel better if I write about it. 

Once upon a time, there was a thing (an ongoing activity) that I always aspired to do. I tried very hard, I thought, to do that. And I thought that I did a good job. Despite hardships, obstacles, I continued to give it what I thought were my best efforts. I was self-satisfied. I didn't talk about my success at this effort, because it was a private effort, but I was nevertheless, secretly proud of myself. Ah, vanity. 

Pride: one of the seven deadly sins. 

Pride goes before a fall.

I learned recently that, although I thought I was being successful at doing the thing (according to my standards), I had not, in fact, met standards that were in fact critical to the job at hand. I had been painting with primarily two colors, and had been expected to paint consistently with three colors. There was an entire part of the rubric that I had not realized was important; my work-product, so to speak, was disappointingly inadequate. And had been, for ages. And I had smugly, vainly, continued to do a shoddy, incomplete and unsatisfactory job, for ages. I did not know. No one told me, until now. 

It was an earth-shattering, terrible realization. 

I have tried to move forward since then. It has been hard. Everything rings hollow. I continue to paint with my two colors, but the motions seem fruitless and insufficient now. I add the third color here and there, as I have done on occasion, and I resent that third color's importance and am bitter about my lack of knowledge about its importance before it seemed Too Late. I do not trust my own instincts any more. I am almost unbearably sad. 

Vanity number two: thinking that I was strong enough, self-sufficient enough, that nothing could break my heart. 

-----

It all seems quite melodramatic as I type it out like this. I don't mean for it to be that way. It is hard, as an adult, to move through life with so little positive feedback -- we don't get gold stars for accomplishing things any more -- and simultaneously try to tackle private failures while mustering a public brave face. 

Time heals all wounds. Or, at least, attenuates the impact of a blow enough so that we can correct our course and move forward again. 

At this point, all I really want is to feel as though I have managed to be a good human being.  A good mother, a good wife, a good friend, a good sister, a good daughter. I am doing the best I can.  Will it be enough, in the end?  

My epitaph should read: I tried. 

Remind Me

Found my current theme song:  Remind Me (Meghan Trainor).

Lost
Where'd my powers go? Hmm (go, go)
It's like I've forgotten all the good I've done before

And my thoughts stay running, running (running)

The heartbreaks keep coming, coming (coming)
Oh, oh, oh somebody tell me that I'll be okay

Come and find me (find me)
Help me put all this behind me (behind me)
'Cause all that I need is inside me (inside me)
Only your love can remind me (remind me)
Remind me (remind me)
Come and hold me (hold me)
All my emotions unfolding (unfolding)
Tell me you'll always stand by me (stand by me)
I need you to remind me, remind me

Remind me I'm pretty
Remind me I'm loved
Remind me that I am way more than enough
And take all this pain, throw it away
Remind me that I'm gonna sparkle again

Come and find me (find me)
Help me put all this behind me (behind me)
'Cause all that I need is inside me (inside me)
Only your love can remind me (remind me)

Remind me (remind me)
Come and hold me (hold me)
All my emotions unfolding (unfolding)
Tell me you'll always stand by me (stand by me)
I need you to remind me, remind me

The Safety Box and the Switch

 Herself speaks.

Sometimes, I feel sorry for my car.

I have many things to do. House things, volunteer work things, family things, work things. I do a fair amount of running around. One of the few times that I have a moment to myself, is when I am moving from Point A to Point B during my day: in other words, when I am in the car. It's a rare time of reflection, when I can contemplate the thoughts or feelings that I have suppressed due to lack of opportunity to allow them the proper space for air. And unfortunately, the thoughts and feelings that surface are, inevitably, the hard ones. Especially if the drive is long and the road is quiet. 

There are the ones that make tears come to my eyes. Or -- thinking of you, bar exam -- rip a scream from my throat. Or drag a wordless wail of sorrow from the depths of my soul: the pain of loss, the grief of knowing that I cannot have simple things that I long for. Only in the confines of the four walls of my car, alone, with the buffer of the wind surrounding me and the highway rushing past, am I safe to let go. 

My car has heard so much. I am sorry, car. No one should have to listen to that kind of human noise.

Inevitably, I arrive at my destination, and my moment to myself ends. There are likely People at my destination, and obligations, and things to do. 

Time to flip the switch. Turn off the Feelings. Dry my face, leave the safety of the box, and enter the world once more. Composed. Ready. 

We do what we have to do.

Forever Mood

Portal

Portal, please.

Polite

I have several upcoming meetings in the next couple of months. Events with a multitude of people, with accompanying Social Occasions, Mostly, I just have to turn up on time, look thoughtful, and take notes (all of which I can do).  What will be most concerning, I think -- other than the looming spectre of increased responsibility on my plate associated with tasks/outcomes for the meetings -- will be the PEOPLE-ING aspects. 

I have honed my Small Talk abilities fairly well (though they did become a tad rusty during the Pandemic). I can Exchange Pleasantries, and Ask Questions, and Chat. That's not the issue. 

The concern is: will anyone actually want to interact with me? 

What will happen when I'm in a roomful of people whom I don't really know well -- will any take the time to speak with me? Will the onus be entirely on me to initiate conversation? Will I end up alone in a corner with my drink, while cliques of people who already know one another smirk together and roll their eyeballs at me? 

I think about moments in my adult life when someone actually deliberately pulled up a chair to sit and converse with me, and those interactions have been so very rare that I can not only count them on one hand, but I can call each one to mind in detail and recollect my surprise and delight as well as my panicked need to remain casual, as if it was an ordinary occurrence and not a miracle. 

And I inevitably snowball, because I spend probably more time than the average human being, wondering what would happen if I stopped reaching out to the other people in my life: would they notice? Would they reach out to me? Would I... just not hear from them? Would I just be even more Solitary than I am now? 

-----

I'm embarrassed, frankly, by my level of worry about this. What I can see, though, is that it's all part and parcel of the Abandonment that follows me around. I've contemplated my Abandonment more of late, and the Truth is, I know why it is with me now. I don't want to talk about it in detail, because I do not want to implicate other people who are, after all, just doing the best they can in  their own lives -- and I need to take responsibility for my own reactions rather than to place blame where it may not belong. Suffice it to say: there are a multitude of reasons for Abandonment to take hold in one's life, and those reasons are borne of circumstance and of temperament, fed (often inadvertently) by habits and characteristics of the surrounding people as well as by one's own choices and decisions. All I can do now, is to acknowledge its existence, and then walk with it until it stops whispering in my ear. 

Ultimately, does it matter if I am not part of of the Collective? Why do I want that so badly? Why do I want the love, admiration, appreciation of other people?  What if I am always an Other, an Outsider? I'm still me, regardless of what other people think (or don't think at all) about me. 

And I'm OK. So that will have to be good enough. 

The Ick

 I've been trying various movies and television shows for entertainment while using the treadmill. It's all a little hit or miss -- some things are worth watching all the way through, and some things do not capture my interest for long. I feel a bit as though I have the attention span of a gnat these days, which does not help in the choosing of shows. I keep searching. 

I watched Extraction 2.  (Action movies are generally safe - no unrequited love subplots, which I generally avoid; generally a satisfactory resolution by the end; nothing too political or serious.) It was well done, I think -- a little gory for my tastes, but otherwise paced well, with solid action sequences. 

By the time it was over, though, I realized that I need to add another type of movie to the genres I avoid: I will not be watching movies that have as a subplot, some kind of "rescue". There are a lot of them out there, as it's a common theme -- the daughter/wife/female relative of the male protagonist (or of someone important to the protagonist) is kidnapped/missing/lost, and the protagonist must go save/rescue her as part of his overall inherently 'rescue-y' persona (or, in more complex movies, as part of his emotional redemptive arc). 

No thank you. This gives me The Ick. 

I think that at this stage in my life, I am All Done with certain Fairy Tales, and the Knight In Shining Armor Fairy Tale is one of them. That just doesn't happen anywhere except in stories. This is not to negate or detract from the actual existence of Very Good Men -- I know several of them in Real Life. Good Men, Solid Men, Hardworking Men. They are real people, though, and not mythical knights.  

The reality is that we need to be our own Knights. 

We must learn to save ourselves.

Be Well

I'd been looking forward to the Orville Peck concert next month, but it is not to be: he's cancelled his tour. 

I'm disappointed, no doubt. Getting those tickets was one of the few things I've done specifically for myself in the past few months -- a reward, of sorts, for having powered through the worst parts of the initial loss of my lovely father (I ordered the tickets the day they went on sale, which was the day before Daddy's memorial service itself). I even purchased a new dress to wear for the occasion. Alas. 

My feelings are unimportant right now, though: it's much more important that Orville Peck take the time he needs to take care of himself. 

It must be exhausting to be in the public eye all the time. Performing and traveling. The expectations of the public and the fans; the need to be constantly "on"; the press, the tabloids, everything. The wear and tear is no doubt tremendous. Kudos to him for recognizing that it was time to pause and breathe. As I struggle with my own quiet and invisible, personal version of burnout, I feel tremendous empathy for him. 

Be well, Orville. I hope that someday, when you feel ready to go back onstage, I'll get to see you perform again. 

Valued

Herself speaks.

Yesterday evening at work, a coworker (let's call them One) was running out the door, late for an off-site event; One let me know that I and a third co-worker (let's call them Three) -- with whom One had just finished a meeting -- would be the last ones in the building, and One stated emphatically as they left, Thank God for Three. (Three had just taken on another project with One.) 

I agree. Three is smart, hardworking, a definitive asset to the team. I'm glad Three is there. One is clearly glad to have Three on board. And I think Three is glad to be there. Everyone wins. 

And I'm going to have just a tiny Moment for myself, to wonder: does it ever happen, that another person looks at me or my work product or something I've done, and says so emphatically out loud, Thank God? 

It might be embarrassingly petty to have that thought.

Or: perhaps it's a sign that at the moment, I feel underappreciated, overwhelmed. Undervalued. 

Underloved. And Underloved goes hand-in-hand with Abandoned, because Abandonment is my perpetual companion. It is quiet and unobtrusive most of the time, yet it is always there. We nod courteously from where we sit across the aisle from one another as we travel. And occasionally, we stand together. And we hold one another's hands. 

These are just feelings. And they may, or may not, have anything to do with actuality. But they are my feelings nevertheless. 

I don't know what to do when my feeling of Abandonment runs so high. The proper thing to do would be to tell my important people, I am feeling Abandoned for Reasons that I do not understand, and need reassurance right now. Yet that is absolutely the very last thing that I want to do, when I feel this way. 

So I say nothing. And I know that is the wrong thing to do. 

Maybe one day, I'll eventually summon enough Bravery to say Something. 

And someone will say, I didn't know. Now I do. Thank you for telling me. 

And maybe, even, Oh Thank God, for you. 

Responsibility

 Herself speaks.

With the passing of my lovely father, the responsibility for Family Paperwork has fallen to me. I'm slowly gathering all of the Important Papers - bills, tax-related documents, credit card statements, and so forth - and organizing them as best as possible, trying to ensure that everything is orderly and complete, making sure that Mom doesn't have to deal with anything difficult, ensuring that the well-oiled machine Daddy set up during his lifetime continues. 

Honoring his memory through Paperwork. It's a little odd, I know, but it's what I'm doing. It's all I can do for him now, and it's my privilege to be able to do so. 

With this new responsibility, though, comes a few Feelings. And those Feelings are surfacing in strange ways, about tiny things. 

For example: there's a weird piece of trash in front of the house now. It appeared there -- Thursday? I think? -- and I did not pick it up on my way in to the house, because I spotted it on my way in after work and was carrying my briefcase, purse, lunch bag, Beloved Husband's lunch bag, and my laptop bag (it goes back and forth to the office on days when I have Estate Matters to handle during business hours too), so I had no hands free. I could have gone back out to collect that piece of trash after I'd put my things down inside the house, but I did not. I reasoned: other people live here too. That piece of trash does not have to be my sole responsibility. 

And now I am waiting for someone else to pick it up. Will someone do it? Will it take my asking, would you please get that? for it to happen? 

Once upon a time, the feeling that people relied on me to take care of all things both big and small was a warm fuzzy feeling: it meant that people found me reliable, necessary, needed. Being needed meant so much to me. Such confidence in being the Responsible Person, on whom people relied.

Now in the heart of middle age, being needed sometimes is a too-warm coat: oppressive, exhausting. And being the Responsible-Person-on-whom-people-rely, feels a lot like being-taken-for-granted. 

Not to be needed is frightening, though. What if people don't need me any more? Do I have value if I am not needed? 

Philosophically, I can answer emphatically, of course I do. I would tell any human being who might be struggling, that they have intrinsic value regardless of what they are contributing at the moment. That would include myself. 

But in reality, it feels a little different. If I am not needed, would people communicate with me? Want to spend time with me? Reach out to me at all? 

What if I am the one who needs? Would people support that need? Or would they find me oppressive and exhausting?

The thoughts are too big, and I am tired. 

Maybe I will just go pick up that piece of trash, and go for a walk.