The Rising Tide

    I can feel it approaching, gradually, but as inevitable as a rising tide. I feel it touching the corner of my mind as sea water laps at toes. It slides in closely, but not quite touching, then slips away leaving me safe and dry for the moment. But then it is back, and closer. Soon I know it will touch, then deepen and threaten to engulf me. But it is not the tide. It is not something I can simply back away from as I would the seafoam on the beach. It is dark and grim, lurking just under the surface, waiting for a vulnerable moment to swoop in and latch on.
    Curiously, I don't fear the next bout of depression. There was a time when I would crumble before the mere thought of the encroaching gloom. That time is past, mostly. Now I try to prepare, as I would prepare for any of Mother Nature's inevitable calamaties. Prepping my mind and body as I would prep my house for a hurricane. Bring in supplies; food, water, first aid, emergency lighting, extra ammo. Batten down the hatches, board up the windows. Put on the facade of well-being, as you might put security signs up to prevent looters. Cocoon myself in the safety of my home, surround myself with my animals and projects, and just wait it out. There is nothing else to do, you can't fight Nature, you can't fight the rising tide.
    I will admit, my main concern is for friends and family. Just as it would be in the face of a natural disaster. Are they prepared and able to cope with the coming storm? I wish I could go to their homes and get their preparations in order so that they too have no need to be concerned over the inevitable. Are they ready to deal with downed lines of communication? Ready to cope with my isolation? I doubt it. I sincerely doubt it. If you have never survived a hurricane, how can you really know what it takes to live through it? You will surely underestimate the power behind the onslaught.
    I am ready for the storm, ready for rising tides. I hope. As long as it doesn't exceed predicted power, and will hopefully be only a mild summer storm instead of a winter storm of epic proportions that will lash the beaches until the sand is gone and the trees are torn out by their roots. Deep breath.
   

if it walks like a duck...

    I'm going to call a spade a spade: I am an antisocial malcontent. This may come as a shock to some. Friends and family that see me as a gregarious, helpful optimist would be disinclined to see me for what I really am. Antisocial Malcontent. I do like the way it rolls off the tongue. I like the power behind the words. I accept the truth behind the words.
    I know I will have to defend my self-diagnosis against naysayers and non-believers. Just a few of the more obvious symptoms of the antisocial aspect include: avoidance of social situations unless absolutely essential; phone phobia; a compulsive desire to never leave my home; prefering my dogs' company to that of humans; a slew of excuses to to miss parties; panic at the thought of having to enter a group; a perverse desire to always buck the system; intentional isolation; and declining offers to "join".
    And malcontent? I have discovered that I am rarely ever content. I feel as if I constantly compromise my hopes and dreams and "settle" for something less. Or that by choosing one path I must sacrifice something else. To make a career change to a fulfilling job I will likely lose access to my sport and hobby. Too many rejections in my chosen career have made me switch to seeking lesser desired, lower paying positions. I love my solitude, but cannot afford to live alone. And so in creeps the malcontent. I know that even if my current irons in the fire produce results, the success will be bitter-sweet. Is it wrong to want it all? Career, money, success, play, love, privacy, fulfillment. Apparently it is too much to ask. I think I will be lucky to get 2 out of 6. And this makes me bitter.
    So you see, Antisocial Malcontent. And this is really just scratching the surface. I am okay with the truth of my self-diagnosis, but will not resist if life finally decides that I am allowed to have it all, not just a few scraps.

To Have, or Have Not

    I am seeing more and more the gap between the Haves and the Have-Nots. Unfortunately, I fall into the second category. Merely driving to and from work I see the descrepencies: new Beemers and Mercedes seem abundant as do beat-up POS vehicles like my grubby, rattling, brake-squealing, shimmying van. More houses are sitting vacant, and yet McMansions continue to be built and inhabited. Mansions bought and sold, people living on the streets. 5 Star dining, dumpster diving. Louboutin shoes with sexy red soles, worn out sneakers with holes in their soles. The gap widens. The old adage proves true: "The Rich get Richer, the Poor get Poorer." I am frightened for Oregon, America, The World, and Myself. I can't help but dwell on the depression erroneously called a recession. Dwell on the continual grim economic news that seems to get grimmer by the day. I am frightened. Fear wears me out and makes me angry.
    Within my own small corner of the world I watch in dismay as prices on my staples rise higher and higher. I will stand and ponder a pound of cheese for a full 5 minutes, trying to decide if it fits within my budget. At the thriftstore I find a great pair of shoes for $8 but I can only afford them today because they are half off. $4 is in the budget, $8 is not. I am angry that my life continues to constrict around me like a hungry Burmese Python eager to convert me to a tidy, dry oblong of snake poo. I have reached the point where the success of others makes me bitter and hostile, not really my normal state... but these are not normal times. Acquaintences crow over acceptance into a Master's program, or mortgage approval, or new sexy shoes, and all I can feel is the cold ash of envy. My life does not allow for college, a home of my own or sexy shoes (okay, on that score, a new pair of Doc Martin's please). This is partly due to the struggle of a single income household in a depressed economy with inflation taking it's pound of flesh, and partly due to my ever shrinking paycheck as wages and hours are whittled away. Making less money when the cost of living is soaring is not good fiscal sense.
    I know that all I can do is keep trying to make small steps forward, one step at a time. But the chronic state of Have-Not is wearing down my reserves. I try to retain pride in my naturally frugal way of life, I despise conspicuous consumption and waste, but I would like to at least have enough... not too much, but enough. Enough of what? Anything. Anything other then Self Pity, I have plenty of that these days.
    I know, I know, I need to remember to be thankful for what I do have. And I am. Every day I think of my healthy kids, my own health, a roof over my head, a landlord that doesn't bother me, my solitude, my creative skills, and I am thankful. I know it could be worse. There is so much suffering out in the world that I am somewhat sheltered from. I am thankful, truely. But I could really use a break.
    Last night, as my head hit the pillow I did make a vow to myself, to continue bucking the trend, to once again lift myself above the quagmire of financial doom and make every effort to find peace in my life. For now I have decided that I can continue with the Starving Artist asthetic. I will retreat to my little house, clean up the dregs of weeks of ennui, brush cobwebs from corners and from my mind, vaccuum, polish, hang new art, put up the twinkling Skeleton Lights and Scary Eyeball Lights, maybe buy a new houseplant, redecorate the Turtle's domicile, sweep pet hair out from under the couch, reorganize paints and fabrics, and generally try to get back to the business of being a creative, eccentric artist. So I say, "Money be damned! I don't need your fucking Capitalist Pig money! I am a Free Spirit, a Muse, an Artist and Writer and your Earthly Possessions, Titles and Accolades are nothing but corporeal baggage. I have Myself, I need nothing else."

Asylum Attendant or Inmate? The Jury is Still Out.

    I am beginning to think that I have slipped into an alternate reality. Both personal and professional aspects of my life have suddenly become paths pitted with potholes of inappropriate responses to the most casual of comments. Gone is my mundane job sitting at my desk, answering phones, purchasing, receiving, customer service. My job in this alternate reality is that of an attendant in a psych ward, or possibly just the least insane of the inmates. Am I therapist or patient? The line has blurred. It is possible that I have been lab-ratted into an experiment designed to test my patience, adaptability and coping skills. Testing me. Testing my mettle. Pushing buttons. Pulling strings. Seeing how far I can be strained before I snap or capitulate.
    Today has felt like mid-term exams. Just how crazy can the surroundings become and still allow my brain and psyche to function at some level of normalcy? It has been repeatedly shown to me today (as with most days, but today is an extreme) that even the most banal statement can cause a concussion of deranged responses, leading further down the path of lunacy, deeper into the rabbit hole. I mention an amusing anecdote and it rapidly erodes into a discussion of corporal punishment. I don't want to know how it degraded to that point, or how it happened with such speed and ease, but it did. And this has seemed to be the case in so many situations. The random discussion (not started by me and in which I was a reluctant sounding board) about child pornography, teenagers sexting, who is the criminal (he says the girl who starts it), and how it shouldn't be a crime to receive unwanted and unasked for porn. Why do I want to hear this? Why am I being told? Is there a deeper reasoning? An unsolicited confession/defense? I don't want to know, and don't want to play any more.
    Everywhere I turn, I am being bombarded by bizarre statements, announcements, accusations and declarations. I am the lab rat, surrealism the test drug, my life the maze. But I say "Game Over, man. Game OVER!"

Stress, Breakdowns and Emotional Callouses

    Working late on an over-grandious project last night, back muscle crying, scalp peeling away from my skull with tension, hands cramping from over-use, and eyeballs dessicated and burning, I was struck with the overwhelming realization that there is no aspect of my life that doesn't cause me stress. Work, I will barely mention, is an ongoing stress-fest. But even outside of work it seems the best I can achieve is a balancing act; stress in, stress out. Maybe that is all I can ever hope for? That for all the stress loaded upon my shoulders, I have to hope that I can manage an equal reduction of stress?
    I will say, my animals offer an equal balance. For all the garbage raids, squabbles, damaged furniture, barking at the neighbor, 3am pesterings, and random escapes there is the counterbalance of unconditional love, near psychic understanding of my bleak moods, and sheer comic relief.
    My art is another near-equal balance. I love the creative flow, studying, designing, scheming, planning, colors, words, lines, and esthetics but find myself stressed and burdened by time frames, self-expectations, ocd perfectionism, too much to do and too little time.
    But both my animals and my art are essential aspects of who I am. They are the reason I chose to struggle through the depths of bleakness instead of numbing myself with chemicals, so as to be able to feel the elation, life and love that streams through me through my companions and my creativity. I would rather live in a world of rollercoaster emotions, than to plod through scenery painted in shades of grey.
    Stress, though it causes me countless sleepless nights, anxiety attacks, inexplicable cravings for chocolate and carbs, anger, frustration and uncountable aches and pains, it is still a driving force behind so much that I do. I plan ahead for ways to release my daily pent up stress that follows me home from work like an annoying insect. I walk the dogs, lift weights, beat on a heavy bag, yoga, dance, music, writing, and on rare ocassions I clean like a freak. Stress, though it makes me unhappy is still a part of what makes me who I am, just as my animals and art define me, so does my stress. Though stress will make me breakdown under the weight, it makes me come back stronger. Mentally, emotionally and physically stronger. I am building callouses on my mind and soul to help deflect the needling anguish that pecks away at my psyche with the tenacity of a termite. With each meltdown comes a rebuilding. Each rebuilding using modified blueprints, earthquake resistant tie-downs, tsunami worthy fasteners, and an ever deeper, sturdier foundation.
    The day will come when external stress no longer has the ability to wreak havoc. It will become as insignificant as ripples in a puddle, lapping at my toes.

The Invisible Woman

"I must be invisible, no one knows me. I have crawled down dead end streets, on my hands and knees." Eric Clapton, guitar god. For a decade now this has been a theme song of mine. Yes, my life is filled with theme songs, playing in my head, accompanying my existance. Different songs for different moods. Songs that fit a mood, songs to pull me out of a mood. This song has played as a background to my life for a solid ten years. I don't view it as a negative, or depressing song, merely a song that expresses how I feel I fit in with society and the people around me. Some may say this is not a very optimistic approach to life, I don't agree. I think it is a realist view of my wish to find the Island of Misfit Toys, an escape from a social network that is more entrapping and confining than social (think of the word "social network" I see NET, a trap, a snare... in the words of colonol Akbar "IT'S A TRAP!").
Back to theme songs and invisibility. I have found that songs can either accompany my mood, or elevate it. I usually use music to elevate my mood, relieve stress, dance away the day's frustrations and boost my endorphins. Some days I just want a song that reflects my feelings, on these days it is often Lonely Stranger by the aforementioned Guitar God, it is a song that most often is a true reflection of the inner me. This brings back the Invisibilty aspect. I often feel that I am looked through or past by so many who say they know me. Are they afraid to truely look at me? To see me for who I am? To acknowledge my existance? Why am I overlooked? I have no idea. But maybe this is why I root for the underdog, literally. Why I prefer dogs that are homely mongrels passed by, overlooked and ignored by people hoping for perfection, beauty and regal lineage? I love the dogs with thinning hair, scaly skin, funky smell and character out the wazoo. They are Ugly Duckling to Swan. Sow's Ear to Silk Purse. Diamond in the Rough. They are the outcasts, the neglected, forgotten, abandoned, abused. They are my Tribe, my Pack, my Family. It is why I willingly spend so much time at home, alone except for the companionship of my beloved, dutiful, loyal dogs because they see me. They see me from the moment the sun lights the room enough to wake them, they dance with joy when they see I am finally awake. They watch, sadly, as I leave for work, watching through the window until I am out of sight (okay, maybe they do that so they can get into mischief as soon as they know I am truely gone). But the first thing I see when I pull into my driveway after a day of dealing with the annoying, indecisive, vapid sheeple is a furry face alert to my approach. My dogs see me, and know me, as no human will ever even attempt.
So, although I may remain invisible to the majority of those who profess to be my friends and aquaintences, I know that I am seen with adoring eyes. Eyes that are adept at seeing into men's souls and judging the good or evil they see there. Eyes that see me, love me, and know me for who I am. And even seeing me as myself, love me unconditionally, without restraint, and never judging. My Tribe. The Clan of The Invisibles.

My Rollercoaster

    The Rollercoaster of a manic-depressive personality can be a wild and sometimes awesome ride. But more often it is terrifying, grim and bleak. This year has been the ride of all rides, with a lot more underground tunnels in the track than cloud kissing heights. I don't know if it is a combination of chemicals and hormone imbalance this year that is fueling the ride, or just all of the external factors that keep pressing me down with G forces equal to the bone crushing weight of a high grav planet. Or both. Or neither.
    This is the first time in a decade that I have seriously considered going back on medication, but my naturopathic personality rebels against the thought of adding chemicals to my already out of whack system, I will say, the drowse of Prozac would be a welcome shelter these days. But I keep hoping the dark times have left for Spring. I don't know why I should think that, they didn't leave last year with the return of the sun, and this winter was far more traumatizing than last year.
    I do get tired of crying. But at least that has lessened from several times daily to once every few days. Though this week has brought them back to the surface where they lurk just waiting for the next little nudge from the world that seems so hell-bent on my personal misery. This week has seen the return of cocooning in my bed with a book to shut out the world in an attempt to regain balance, however tenuous.
    I am keeping up with my workouts and healthy eating, which I know helps and lessens any self-flagellation I might be inclined to commit upon my delicate self.
    I know this is cyclical. And there have been a few of those track elevations, though maybe not exactly cloud-kissing and ethereal, but at least high enough for a panoramic view. I have to cling to the memories of those panoramas, hold them tight in my mind as I enter a tunnel long enough that no light is visible from the exit. I cling to images of the light to shield my fragile brain from the terrors of the dark.
    There is light. I know there is, because I have seen it with my own two eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on my skin. Memories can be deceptive. But when the memory is all I have, I have to believe in it.