T. Mama’s Neighborhood

....what would happen if I walked away from it all? Started over? Gave up the structure I have built, the nest, the necessity, and took to the Road as I always dreamed of doing when I was younger and stronger. I don't lie to myself: I think the time of my physical strength is gone. I might recoup some of it, no doubt, but these bones whisper to me: all the fire from my blood and bones and joints now lives in my mind, in my soul, and they will always be strongest. I have tried to kill my taste for most of the sensual pleasures in order to prevent excess; I am still working on making my pleasures specific. It works better that way.

...how do I use the will more effectively, more efficiently? I need to be taught: silence; wisdom; discipline; strength; precision; caution; patience. Some of these things I already know: I need either a refresher or advanced training.

...teach me to sing, O Muse, and teach me to overcome. Rage until the fires are like water and run clear, so that I might be a more worthy vessel of the World, the Word, and the songs that thread through all existence, lines of light and sound that ring and put forth blossoms and leaves...

...this is the lesson to learn: to sing.

....I think about....if you ever will be mine, I will never ever let you down...

There's not enough of this kind of music in the world, you know? Sure, it's Swedish pop that's been used in a Volvo commercial, but that doesn't change that it's a sweet, simple song - free of sex, bitterness, anger, darkness, despair. It's full of hope and love. And I'm not so cynical that it can't touch me. In fact, I've got it on repeat on my iTouch as I type this, letting it flow over me and around me, wishing the world was more full of these spring-time sentiments...

...how this can be so hard for me when it shouldn't be...

I can't figure out if I'm lonely or restless or just tired. I oscillate between "lonely" and "desperate to be alone." I can't sort it out. If I let myself feel it, there's a tremendous feeling of ~tired~ underneath the surface, but I don't want to feel it. I want to forget it's there, keep pushing on...it seems rather straight-forward, not feeling the tired, but it's not so easy. Ignoring it is as taxing as the fatigue itself. But I have to ignore it; ignoring me helps me feel normal, feel more like myself before fibro.

....let me say it if you don't mind....

I'm unfocused today, unfocused and throbbing, hungry to be home, to be Home, and wishing the thousands of dreams in my skull would either come to some kind of fruition, or just leave me alone...go away...disappear. The World will always tax us, it will always make demands of us - we can hardly escape that. But when the Inner World makes as many demands, well...it's easy to see the morning star as a harbinger to frustration, to see the moon pulsing in the sun, and to want to disconnect from the World, in order to answer the calls of the Inner World.

That's probably my problem - I've not really hearkened to the Inner World for a long while, and perhaps I've neglected it, to be honest. So I'm feeding it music, to make up for that. I'm watching BSG to feed it distilled humanity. I'm committing myself to solitude to encourage my mind. I'm writing letters to vent the furnaces of the heart. I'm...trying.

....till you're bleeding...

I missed Mardi Gras this year, because I had/have bronchitis and a viral infection. It is hard to express how deep my disappointment is -- I've been going to Mardi Gras my whole life. I've missed, now, only two seasons. I go every year - it's as much a family tradition as it is an individual pilgrimage. Yes, it is a pilgrimage, in its own way holy: I go to celebrate the City; to celebrate human nature before the holy season of Lent; to celebrate the senses, the sensual; to thrive, for a short while, without too much guilt and too much mindfulness; to live, for a short while, the life I've dreamed and idealized for most of my conscious life. It's not about excess for me - it's about living the fantasy, about reveling in a construct founded half in reality and half in the imagination.

But Mardi Gras is also a guaranteed trip Home during the year, and I missed my fix. Miss my fix. I need New Orleans like I need food, air, water, love, music, and understanding: these are the building blocks of my survival and continued existence. Without something like regular trips to New Orleans, I go through withdrawal, depression, deep and abiding longing.

I'm realistic enough to know that life doesn't always run the way we'd like. But surely, at this point in my life, I have enough resources and wherewithal to accomplish trips Home, to sustain my own soul, since no one else is going to help me accomplish trips Home. I have to make them happen, have to enable them.

....which raises the question: if I have the power, why don't I make it happen more often? I think the answer is simple: self-protection. If I went more often, I'd function less. The hunger, the restlessness would be fed more regularly, but it would be like oxygen to a flame: it would sharpen, enhance, gorge the hunger. The more I fed it, the greater the flame, the greater the restlessness, the hunger.

I'm keenly aware of my self, my desires. I'm not sure how that keen awareness serves me, other than being able to understand my own motivations and clearly examine my actions with something resembling objectivity. It also allows me to more easily justify and rationalize my actions and non-actions (e.g., reasonable reasons for not going to New Orleans more often) in such a way that is productive and self-protective.

...but it makes me angry sometimes that I am able to restrain myself so well. That discipline - that great and terrible discipline - serves me so well as it thwarts me. Perhaps that it is another function of self-awareness: thwarting lower impulses and self-destructive behavior; in a few words, the survival instinct enhanced to deal with my intellectualism and soul-hungers.

But it means that so rarely do I let my guard down, so rarely do I let myself enjoy things, so rarely do I thrive in the normal, every day, day-to-day environs. And I have to thrive - mine is a nature meant to create, meant to love, meant to seek understanding and learning, meant to reach out into the world and clarify. How can I do that if I can't exactly reach out?

It goes without saying that if I don't get my former supervisor's job, I'm going to be heartbroken.

And I will probably start looking for jobs outside of Monroe, i.e., down South. New Orleans, here I come? Maybe? That certainly would be wonderful. I don't love Monroe, but I don't hate it, either. If I got my supervisor's job, we would probably buy a house here in Monroe, and I could certainly cope with living here (and not in New Orleans) a little better.

I'm torn - I want to leave Monroe, just because I know this isn't where I belong, but I also want my supervisor's job. I need something new. I've technically been working reference for the last eleven years (longer than I've been married, longer than I've been with the Captain); I need something new.

But I also need my City.

We'll see.

...it's only because I'm feeling overwhelmed and unsure of myself that I'm depressed.

It's also probably because my body has betrayed me again. No doubt I've played my part in its failure, but it still...dismays me. It still...frustrates me. And then again, I might have developed non-alcoholic fatty liver disease (NAFLD) via genetics, which means I would develop it one way or the other, regardless of my lifestyle and choices. But it still depresses me.

It depresses me that I'm still craving fried chicken, though, honestly, I shouldn't have it. I should go to Subway and have a nice 6-inch veg sub. But it's not what I want. And all I've had today has been one Pam-friend egg; some carrot sticks; and some string cheese. I feel like I have "room" for some Cane's. But I shouldn't have it.

And I wish to God that people would quit trying to tell me how to lose weight. That's why He created nutritionists, and that's why I've contacted one. I know that in order to lose weight and manage the NAFLD I'm going to have to change my habits and my attitude towards food. This NAFLD is a lifelong thing; in the long run, just dropping the weight isn't enough. I need to manage for the rest of my life. In order to do that, I need help - hence, the nutritionist.

I'm tired. So tired. They finally posted my old supervisor's job, and I've just finished emailing the required documents for application. I should be encouraged, I should be excited. Instead, I'm just...apprehensive and sick. Convinced that there's no chance.

I want to run away. I am tired. My soul is tired, my mind is tired, and my flesh...well, I just feel kinda self-destructive again.

Been sick, and been in Baton Rouge for a conference.

I have a sinus infection. I did go to the doctor. They decided to run bloodwork, decided it was time to check my liver enzymes again. Results? My liver enzymes are extremely elevated. They're sending me to a gastroenterologist, they're concerned something might be wrong. I've been panicking since then, doing the wrong thing - checking MedlinePlus for possible explanations. Of course, I'm not medical doctor, have no medical training (except for the stuff I get by osmosis from my sister, brother-in-law, and cousins). My doctor won't say one way or the other what it could be, which is smart on her part. But it leaves me with the ability to self-diagnose and panic. I've settled on autoimmune hepatitis or some type of thyroid disorder. Of course, I'm probably way off base, there's actually an alien living in my liver, but you know me - I'm a librarian, I have at my disposal certain resources. I'm dangerous.

So: my boss was offered and accepted the assistant dean position. I'm waiting for the next step - for them to announce her position open so I can apply for it.

Anyway, this will be my last post for a while. There's too much on my plate right now, and, quite frankly, I'm not dealing with it well (just ask the Captain). The only thing I know to do is loosen the straps and lighten the load. As much as I enjoy reading all my friends' posts and peaking into their lives, I have to cut out certain things in order to focus. I'll be back after the end of October, when almost everything is said and done.

You guys have a lovely day, and be sweet!

...heaven knows, and Lord, it shows, when I'm away...

Day after tomorrow will find me and beloved cohorts on the road to the Holy City. I'm looking forward to it, greatly. Not only will I be with friends; having a good time; and being on the Road....I'll be Home. That's enough to sing, enough to shout, enough to forget, for a little while, how much I hurt, how much I grieve, how many shadows have their anchors in me right now. Knowing I'm going Home gives me a strange clarity: it's as though I can see November and the fruits of my hard work. I can see a sun shining cold and gold, and, turning my face to it, finally see through the trees.

I'm in a lot of pain today - a lot of pain. Nothing like when I was first diagnosed - either my pain threshold has risen, or I'm simply used to it. But it doesn't change the fact that the pain is quite intense and so widespread.

I've learned to live with it, in most circumstances. But there are days - like today - when nearly every inch of me hurts (and that's only a minor exaggeration), and I don't understand how I'm able to function at all.

I guess it's a good thing that I still want to live, even though I live and breathe pain some days. My will is still intact, my desire to live still vibrant and robust. Here, on the rise of the manic wave, from the seemingly solid valley of cerulean depression, I feel the rush up towards the crest, where my heart can only sing.

It's a false kind of happiness, I know, the manic high. I am grateful for the manic high; it distills things so well, brings such clarity and verve. No holds barred longings and the means by which to address anything that addresses me.

...high upon a golden horse, out upon the sea...

...out there where the wild wind blows, oh, the soul is free...

Shining....shine for me....how do you formulate the words that become the cracks in the dirt, where the clear water bubbles up, turning the ground into a lush swamp of feeling and reality? How do you find the edge of the world and stand on its precipice, swinging and singing, while the voice of the world rushes up into your face, through your air, and out into the waiting sky?

Sometimes the world frightens me - and sometimes I can't escape that keen awareness of mortality - of people that I love, of self, of all organic things. That awareness has been singeing my heart since I was a child, unfortunately. Eight-year-olds shouldn't dwell on death; they should be riding bikes and rollerskating and playing with dolls and Play-Doh, not pondering the mysteries of the universe. But that's what I was doing then; it's what I do now. As though pondering the little black pearls make life any easier, or give my life meaning. It's like writing poetry - I just do it because I feel compelled. And nothing seems to switch it off. When I'm depressed, it's worse.

My brain chemistry is determined to make me depressed right now, which is understandable. I'm stressed out, and it's...irritating. Usually I handle stress well - mainly by avoiding it, i.e., doing what I'm supposed to do when I'm supposed to do it so things don't pile up. But when crap comes down the pipes at rates that I can't control, well, then, the stress becomes harder to manage. Like right now - so much happening. So much going on. So many sudden and different demands, crawling out of the woodwork...

...it looks like it's going to be a wild day today, weather-wise, and between that promise and a little Blind Faith ("Can't Find My Way Home"), the restlessness has a stronger taste, and the fear vibrates at a higher rate...but the thing is, I'm intellectually aware of the futility of asking the questions, or worrying. I'm consciously aware of the pointlessness of ruminating on the world, and the needlessness of fear. I know that my fear is natural, however unreasonable it is.

But knowing all this does me no good. I'm still afraid, still weak, still terrified, still lonely, still...fierce and mad and reluctant to open up and *be* with other people...

...and I need you to recover, because I can't make it on my own...

I sent my fav ex-boyfriend - the only one I'm actually anything like friends with - an email the other day. I miss him a great deal...his wife doesn't like me, for whatever reason, so needless to say, we're not close. I don't hold that against him; it's not his fault she doesn't like me, and I respect him for respecting her desires, however unreasonable I hold them to be. I haven't heard from him, though I kind of expected to hear from him. He's never let me down, and I guess...I guess I should say I'm not let down in this case. I'm realistic. I'm not disappointed. I'm not surprised. I just...wish he would email me back and tell me it's okay. Tell me we're still friends and that I still matter to him.

I'm being silly this morning. I told the husband on Friday, when I finally found myself in a valley between the crests of the manic waves, that I wanted to curl up and die. I'm not suicidal, and I told him as much. I even told him that I knew I was being silly, and that fundamentally, I didn't really want to curl up and die. I just...wanted the world to go away for a while, to leave me alone for a while. How mature, right? How reasonable and stable and rational. *sigh* I can't help how I feel.

I'm going Home this weekend, for a concert, with the Captain and some friends, one of whom is my soul-sister. I know that she empathizes with me; knowing that eases the loneliness. Knowing that I have the Captain eases the soul-shuddering misery, the fear. I know that I am loved; that I am valued; that I am not alone. I *know* those things as well as I know the familiar heartbeat and bonepain. Knowing that I am going Home is a comfort, too - perhaps being there will give me something of those things which go missing in me from time to time.

There....are things I want, which I should not want. There are....things I want, which are natural to want. There are things which I cannot explain which would be so much easier if I could explain. Why can't we always say the things we want to say, or do the things we want to do? Even if they seem counterintuitive, counterproductive, or against all that we hold dear? That certainly does not make them any less real or meaningful.

The Holy City still stands. What else can I say? She still stands, and is not overwhelmed like before. She still stands. She is safe, and we are safe, and I am eternally grateful to the Powers-That-Be, both of the world and not, that She is safe, and we are safe.

What else need I say? SHE STILL STANDS.

...please, not again. It's enough to be reminded that tomorrow is the anniversary of Katrina's landfall on New Orleans. It's enough to be reminded of what happened. Like 9/11, Katrina still goes to the heart of me, and the thought of what the City and Her people endured - of what all the victims of natural disasters endure  - still and always will bring me to tears.

It happened; we can't change that, only recover, and pray for providence and solace. We can recover, and prepare. We couldn't have stopped Katrina. We could have done something about the levees, yes, but not the storm itself. It was bad enough, before the levees.

I went down there, you know, December 2005, mere months after it happened. We went into the Ninth Ward, to the very spot where the levees failed. I saw Her, the City, ravaged, raped, gasping, and I thought, This will be the death of me. New Orleans is as much a part of my identity as my parents, my siblings, my friends, my education - anything that has shaped me into the person I am. I rejoiced that She still lived...but would she make it through the night?

She did, she has, as far as I'm concerned. I went to Mardi Gras 2006, and I knew Her soul had not flown. The City thrived in spirit, if not in flesh. I went to Mardi Gras 2007 and 2008; I take regular trips down there in between Mardi Gras seasons (luckily my job requires my presence in southern Louisiana frequently). I have family down there. I don't care what the natives say who say that She is not recovered - they're looking for a normalcy that will never return, for a presence that can never been regained. New Orleans will never be the same - but She has recovered.

...so the thought of Her being hit again is unbearable and soul-wracking.

It's like this: in February 1997 my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She lost one breast and had to undergo chemo therapy. It was a devastating experience, but she recovered. She was declared free of cancer.

In April 2001 my mother was again diagnosed with breast cancer - a different cancer, not the same cancer as before, an entirely different cancer - in her remaining breast, which she subsequently lost, as well as undergoing chemo again. Though we'd been through this before, and knew what to expect, and could plan better and understood better....it was no less devastating to see her suffering and sick and in pain. It was no less devastating and heartbreaking and difficult to have to endure it again. She missed out on going to Europe as a family (she was determined that we go on, especially since my dad had never been, and she had); to be there for my engagement (which she insisted take place as it had been planned) in London.

Even if you've lived through something before, and know what to expect, it's no less painful and heartrending to live through it again.