Posts Tagged ‘control’

depression

It didn’t happen all at once.

The pieces seemed small and unrelated–a quilt that hadn’t yet been sewn to make a cohesive thing.

I couldn’t leave the house without makeup.

I didn’t know it was one thing. I chalked it up to the move, to my new job, to my sudden weight gain and physical discomfort.

I watched the scale tip slowly toward a number I’d never seen before, packed bags of too-small shorts for the thrift store, ordered secret clothes online and hid them in my closet.

It seemed like a myriad of things–a response to stressful life circumstances.

I cringed at the bling sound of texts, the flood of my inbox, looking at my calendar would send my stomach into knots and my heart racing.

It never occurred to me to call it something. It never dawned on me that my behavior was becoming distant, dissonant, even to me. My sense of identity, of belonging, my sense of self.

I would fantasize about cancelling engagements, come up with lies to get out of meals, shows, dinners, walks, trips. I didn’t want to see or be seen.

It didn’t manifest in a day–it slowly came over me, covering me like a heavy quilt until I felt cradled by it, enveloped by it, identified with it, as it.

I’d talk about wanting to get better but sink into self-doubt and confusion trying to name what I needed to get better from.

Friends started commenting on my inability to sit still–a paper was misplaced and needed to be straightened, a crumb was in sight and needed to be swept.

I stayed up at night–every creak of our old house sent shivers down my spine. I knew it was an intruder. I scanned the room for objects that could be used as weapons. I slept with the bathroom light on.

It never occurred to me that my growing social anxiety and paranoia could be related. That my low self-esteem and my desire to binge-watch t.v. could be interconnected. Pain masked by habit, fear disregarded as a side-effect.

I knew people with depression. That wasn’t me.

I’m a normal person. I exist in this world with the same number of problems as anyone else, probably less. I’ve got a great partner, a wonderful kid, a job I like.

 

packing is like…

  • Being in school–there’s always more homework, even after you think you’re done.
  • Starving yourself to death–slow and painful.
  • Eating a wretched 12-course meal–it just keeps coming and it’s all terrible.
  • Planning a wedding–with the invites and the rentals and the in-laws and the dress…
  • The worst thing ever.

 

how do you choose

One life from another? One path, one career, one place to call home?

I’ve never been one for metaphors. I’m sort of a you-get-what-you-see kind of a gal. I’m all easy-to-understand colloquialisms. Direct. Simple, even. Literal. I lack mystery, I lack intrigue. I don’t write poetically, I don’t even know how to. I end sentences with prepositions. And start them with conjunctions. I’m not eloquent and that’s okay.

Moving back to my hometown is so bittersweet. On the one hand, it’s exactly what I want and I can’t imagine a better life than the one I can lead there. On the other hand, leaving New York somehow feels like some intense failure. Leaving New York without having accomplished…I don’t even know–some level of success, fame, fortune, something!

I have not lived in my hometown as an adult. Ever. So, realistically I have no idea what to expect. It’s possible that we will be earth-shatteringly, ridiculously, unbelievably happy there (I hope!). But, it’s just as possible that we will get there and be like, wait what? What the fuck is this?

You weigh these giant things (housing, transportation, family, education) and make pros and cons lists and try to imagine where you and your family will be happy and inspired. And, then you just jump. You stop thinking about the lists, you stop concerning yourself with all the things you’ll leave behind and focus, instead, on all the things you have to look forward to.

Then, in a state of total confusion and anxiety, you remind yourself that it is not wise to focus solely on what will be better or else you doom yourself to disappointment and depression. For, it is true that you will be overjoyed by the ease of grocery shopping. But, you will be equally dismayed by the non-co-op prices that will keep you from ever buying spices or fancy cheeses again.

And, so. Life. Life at its very best and its very worst. Present becomes past and future becomes present. And, past becomes present in my case. If you get what I mean. Oh, it’s all so confusing and a jumble of emotions. And soooo muCH STRESS! Just gobs and gobs of it. No matter how much you plan ahead. No matter how far in advance you begin the process of packing up your life and purging your past. No matter how many outings you make in preparation for the big goodbye. No matter how many farewells you amass. It will never be enough and it will always feel like too much.

And, so. You can’t win. Or, if you look at it in a different light: you can’t lose. If it will never be enough, stop trying to make it so. And, then magically, the stress sort of falls away. We will be back in New York–this is not the last time we will be in this city. And, in fact, coming back as a tourist allows much more room to do all of the things you want to do when you are stressed out and working too hard and overburdened by a crazy life. Tourists have all the time in the world. Nowhere to go and everyone to see. So, tea at The Plaza a la Eloise will have to wait. The famous Brooklyn Pizza off the J street Q train can happen next year. Whatever. It’s fine.

For now, it’s all about getting out and enjoying the process (as much as is humanly possible). And, let’s not kill each other in the process, husband. Okay? Because wow, people aren’t kidding when they say moving is tough on a marriage. All those big decisions and two people–each with their own attachments and ways of dealing with stress, each with their own expectations and ways of communicating. And, wow. It’s not easy. It is, in fact, quite difficult.

 

oh, boy

so, i’m having one of those days. you know the kind. maybe i’m having one of those weeks, even. where punctuation just seems superfluous and getting dressed feels like an overwhelming task. forget showers. and, who needs makeup these days? i don’t know exactly why. moving stress. pressure to see people and do things. keeping track of way too many things in my brain: moving van, packing materials, medical records, refilling prescriptions, selling this dresser, giving this shelf away, bringing these four bags to the thrift store, bringing this box to the used book store, scheduling dental appointments, finishing up work tasks, doing all those last-minute new york city must-do things! it’s just too much. and, we’re trying to be all on top of shit by packing early but really we just keep spending time with our friends because…when will we see them again?! and, you know, we’re not cooking enough and we may have gotten rid of our plates a tad too early and we can’t replace the grapeseed oil because how can we go through a bottle in 3 weeks but also HOW WILL I MAKE POPCORN?!

so, i think it’s safe to say that the stress has officially gotten to me.

i’m not sleeping, i’m eating a lot of chocolate and my belly has that constant butterfly feeling like i’m about to get onstage and perform.

we got a tree. i thought it would make me feel all, in-the-spirit and festive. i just keep looking at that thing with total animosity. it’s got a real attitude problem, let me tell you. it’s just sitting in the corner of our livingroom being all beautiful and put together, staring into our chaos and judging. it’s a judgy little fucker, i mean it. tall, perfectly “tree”-shaped (some might say a bit too perfect, really. i mean, come on. show off), it’s all sparkly and calm and it just stands around. doesn’t offer to help out or pick up. it’s not doing any of the cooking and that bitch can drink! i mean, we are filling her bucket up at least once a day.

so between my judgy tree and the million tasks i’m attempting to stay on top of and still working full-time and a toddler who is becoming less and less comfortable with her dwindling book collection…things are about to get real. like, life is changing in a huge way ‘real’. like, everything you have known and everything you thought you wanted is about to be in your past ‘real’. like, the place you ran from, the place you thought you would never return to is about to be your future ‘real.’ and, truthfully it all sounds a bit terrifying. wonderful and filled with potential. exciting and exhilarating. and also gut-wrenchingly terrifying.

the shadow

It comes out of nowhere, oozing edges from the depths of my insides and just sticks–to the underside of my skull and the inner membrane of my ears. To the back of my throat and the tips of my lungs. It stays, takes up residence for a while–turning blue skies into deep seas. Stretched out, creeping into all that lies ahead and consuming all that is left behind. And then it’s gone. I hardly even remember how it got there–how long it stayed or exactly how I felt being in the dark for so long. Then the cloud comes briefly overhead, blocking out the sun, just for a moment. Long enough to remind me that I cannot control the weather–not the direction of the wind, the depth of the snow or the fullness of the moon. That in fact, I am helpless to shadows. And so, I welcome them back like an old friend. Come on in, I say. Won’t you stay for tea?

in a parallel universe

I recognized it immediately–the gentle, familiar nudges and consoling words whispered in her ear. The way he held tightly to her arm and corralled her in the right direction. The way he looked up pleadingly, embarrassed, overwhelmed. The way she pulled away from him–dark, hollow eyes, seeing but not seeing, knowing only that she must flea–from what or whom she’s not sure, just that she must get away, from him, from herself from this confusion, from this dark, smelly place. Where am I? She must have thought, hearing the screech of the Q train in the distant tunnel. Who are these people? She must have wondered, feeling the staring faces of nervous strangers on her.

Did you ever see Defending Your Life? It’s a film about this guy who has never done a particularly good or brave thing in his entire existence. Therefore, he has to prove that he deserves entry into heaven. I think of that movie often. The way they played scenes from his childhood like it was a TV show. Intimate moments, fights, embarrassments. All if it caught on film. Well, the collective pearly gate “film reel”–for purposes of standing on trial to determine where you belong in the afterlife.

I thought about that movie today when I held a strangers’ baby while she battled her stroller, when I helped a woman get through the turnstile with her giant bags and scooter, when I co-carried a woman’s stroller up three flights of stairs, when I looked on and did nothing for the old man struggling to get his wife off the subway platform.

Couples kissing, homeless men shuffling, men in suits texting, mothers with children held tightly to their chests, but no one, not one single offer of help. Standing on the downtown platform I wavered. Run up the stairs and over to the uptown side, ask if they need help? Risk spiraling into my own darkness, risk offending, risk an empty offer if I can’t actually help to physically carry her out? As my train screeched to a halt, I watched the couple disappear. He’d managed to calm her, they sat side by side on the bottom of a dirty stairwell. Bodies piled alongside them, figures moving, but unmoved, seeing but not seeing.

What will those strangers’ movies look like when they’re defending their lives? Will they be reminded of the time they left two elderly humans to struggle on their own, two helpless, frightened people to fend for themselves? Or, will this play out only in my own reel? Because, I alone saw, I knew what I was seeing. And, yet, I boarded my train, I sipped my coffee, I got to work on time and lived my life.

the time-suck of perfectionism

I have seen so many good and capable and smart people in my life do so little due to the petrifying possibility of perceived failure. Failure in the sense that the end-product did not live up to their impossibly high standards. I consider myself somewhat of a perfectionist–I’m detail-oriented, organized, controlling. Some of those to healthy degrees and some to not-so-healthy obsession levels, depending on the project. But, when push comes to shove, I will half-ass the hell out of something to meet a deadline. I may not feel good about it and there might be a whole lot of whining about how it could have been better–but I will get ‘er done. I may be consistently, dependably late to social functions but I am not late to work. I may be capable of many long sleepless nights but I’ve yet to meet a deadline I didn’t, um, meet.

I think it’s about seeing the big picture. I just threw this ridiculous Halloween party. I was thinking about it and planning it out in my brain for months. I had all these ideas for really specific details and got super excited about making decorations and just going all out. Which, isn’t really typically my deal. I mean, I can throw together a pretty sweet cheese plate but I’m never up for hostess-of-the-year, or month, or anything. So, I’m thinking it all comes down to inspiration. If you’re inspired and excited by something then planning and prepping and crafting and whatever-ing is fun. It doesn’t feel like work, right? And, if you start far enough in advance it isn’t even stressful. Make a few tissue paper flowers here, cut some foam doorknobs there, bake in advance (throw it in the freezer), rope in some friends (craft night!), and keep the big stuff simple. Wow, I love how I just got totally preachy, like I actually know what I’m talking about. I most definitely do not know what I’m talking about. This is probably the first successful party I’ve ever thrown. And, I’m not sure anyone actually had any fun. But, at least shit looked pretty.

Anyhow, I diverge from my point. Minutiae. This is what I wanted to talk about. And, how some folks get so focused on the teeny, tiny details that they just can’t let go and relax if a line isn’t straight or a flower isn’t puffed just so. It drives me crazy. Let it go and move on. It will look fine amongst the fifty other flowers. Who cares if that one isn’t perfect? But, that’s the thing. Those of us who obsess can’t just tell that little voice to shut up. It is a very loud and very obnoxious voice. Like, that fucking parrot from Aladdin mixed with Fran Drescher in The Nanny. But, amplified by the dudes from Spinal Tap, so, you know, up to eleven. So, yeah, that would be hard to ignore. And, here’s the thing of it. It’s a real problem. I don’t mean it’s a significant one. I mean, it’s a genuine issue that a lot of people struggle with. The tablecloth has to be the exact shade of blue and it doesn’t matter if it takes five online shopping hours and an entire afternoon driving around. We will find the right tablecloths or we will not move on to the next item on the list.

It is infuriating. It is mind-boggling. Because, I would have grabbed the first tablecloth that was mostly right and moved on to the cutlery. Ugh, first world problems, am-i-right? But, for real. We’re talking about actual, real issues here. Like, an inability to surrender a single ounce of control–an unwillingness to let go of one small section of your vision. It’s exhausting is what it is. And, then you do things like cancel your wedding reception because you can’t handle the stress of finding matching tablecloths. That’s maybe when you realize you need help.

I mean, this is not just something you can talk people out of. And, in some ways I look at that level of attention–that commitment to a pure vision–and I kind of envy it. I am baffled by it and it makes my feet annoyed and my toes get all squiggly and I bite my lower lip a lot and pick at my fingernails and have to take long, controlled breaths so I don’t scream–but I’m also kind of impressed by the level of dedication. Like an artist being unwaveringly true to her craft–taking no shortcuts, refusing any substitutes. Maybe folks who struggle with this issue are just artists whose canvas is life. Aquamarine blue! Not sky blue, not ocean blue, definitely not blue-green, but aquamarine blue. I mean, I bet Picasso didn’t let just anyone mix his paints…

Deep thoughts tonight, guys. Look out.

 

musical indoctrination

At dinner last night my daughter requested “Harry” which meant that she wanted to listen to Harry Nilsson. Of course I obliged —  he is, after all, one of my all-time favorite musicians. She recognized “Me and my Arrow” as being from The Point. She got particularly excited during the “Coconut” song, “That’s a funny song, Mama,” she kept saying. And, lost interest by “Without Her.” Which, I can’t blame her for. You really can’t dance to that one.

She then requested, “the corn song” which is code for Arthur Russel’s “Close My Eyes.” We listened to that song and a few others off the same record. We then moved on to Tusk, one of my favorite (underrated) Fleetwood Mac albums. Which, she adored. “Who’s this, Mama?” she kept asking.

“It’s Fleetwood Mac. Stevie Nicks is singing. She’s a really good singer, huh?”

“Mmm hmmm. Yep,” she’d say while vigorously shaking her head.

As a kid, I had zero exposure to my parents musical preferences, and no musical education. My life and the adults lives were kept totally separate. Separate bedrooms, separate dining rooms, separate kitchen areas. Separate worlds.

My dad fancied himself a humble and humorous person. And with those false conceptions of self, asked for a Birthday Roast for his 50th. I was nine years old. I didn’t hate him yet. I feared him. And, I didn’t understand him. But, I still craved his attention and love.

My sister and I decided to put together a little play for the party. Our “roast” of sorts. We came up with this skit in which we dressed up like flies and flew around touching things and making them “dirty, tainted, unclean, poison!”

“HP, HP!” we shouted. “Someone get the hydrogen peroxide and clean this! My daughter has touched it and now it is unclean!” we screamed in unison, flapping our arms wearing huge grins.

We thought it was hilarious. We didn’t quite understand the depths of just how twisted the whole thing was. His friends, community members, sat wide-eyed, jaws slackened. They could not believe what we were doing. Perhaps they were surprised and embarrassed that we had noticed how they treated us. Perhaps it highlighted for them just how messed up the dynamic between kids and adults was. Or, perhaps they were just struck by how sad it all seemed.

My kid got too close to my food, so now I can’t eat it. My child touched my hand so now I must wash it. My son sat in my chair and now it must be cleansed. My daughter entered the dining room, the door knob must be disinfected. My children dared pass the “invisible line” into the kitchen. They must be punished.

It took me years and years and years to feel comfortable going into anyone’s kitchen. And, when I did, I would wash my hands profusely before touching anything. I would get permission before opening the fridge or rummaging for a glass in the cabinet. I would linger, just at the edge of the kitchen and innocently ask for things. Like a wounded pet, begging for sustenance.

My mother’s hands were always red and rough. The skin on her knuckles would flake and peel and she had permanent callouses partly from the housework, but, mostly from how frequently she washed her hands.

We kept a bottle of hydrogen peroxide at the sink to spray on our bare hands every time we washed them. Dishes had to be separated by “mouth” and “stove” so that pots and pans were washed separately from things that had touched the human mouth. There were two separate dirty dish counters. One for kids and one for adults. Dishes had to be cleaned three times. Once, scrubbed in burning hot water and soap. Twice dipped in a bleach and hot water solution. And, thrice, run through the dishwasher on the longest and hottest setting.

Lettuce was triple-washed. Vegetables were grown only in our garden. No meat. No dairy. No processed goods. We baked our own bread. We ground our own flour. We soaked and cooked our own beans. This didn’t last forever. But, it was a long time before they started feeding the kids “typical” kid meals like lasagna and grilled cheese. The adults kept to a strict diet regimen. I was about seven years old, at a friends’ house for a playdate, when she opened a can of refried beans. She scooped the contents into a pot and heated it over the stove and I gagged at the stench. I thought she was playing a practical joke on me. Get the commune girl to eat cat food, that’ll be hilarious.

It wasn’t just food. It was exposure to anything outside of our 10-acre radius.

My dad was convinced that if you left the compound for any amount of time, particularly if you left unattended — without your designated buddy, who could vouch for your whereabouts and actions — you would most certainly return with AIDS.

He was sure of it.

You would contract AIDS and die of AIDS but not before infecting everyone else first.

Travel had to be authorized through him, activities required pre-approval, no adults were to leave alone (with or without kids) and anyone in his inner circle was not allowed to leave town for any period of time. Not for a dying father, the birth of a niece, a brother’s wedding, nothing. No exceptions. Or, you were out.

There were months, years even, where he was more lenient on these terms. He would concede some ground but then tightly pull in the reigns the next minute. There was no consistency from one year to the next. And, the women just had to keep figuring it out. Often through one of them making a mistake and shouldering the consequences.

I wonder how my life might have been different if I’d been allowed to go on some of the auditions I’d scored in Los Angeles or the family vacations with friends. If I’d been exposed to the outside world earlier and more fully.

Well, I wasn’t. But, I had my dream. My vision of life in New York. And, it got me through. Through elementary school, through the hellfire that was middle school. Through high school and into college. Beyond my mother’s illness and my own physical struggles. And, here I am.

Living my dream.