Friday, 30 May 2008
It begins with fragments. Something happens, or an idea flutters by, or you see something that nudges a memory, or a feeling races like a flash fire from pinkie fingernail through your hair follicles, and sometimes all these things happen at once, and you say to yourself, I have to write this down, but there might not be anything nearby to write with, or the words may not work for you, or your mind wanders down paths that resemble forests so dark the light cannot break through. Sometimes you save these little bits for later, but the labyrinth of thoughts jotted down tends to resemble the chaotic, neural nightmare that is your brain after five decades of living, so often you simply delete and leave mental sticky notes to hang on to that itty bitty perception that may yet prove to be of some use.
Thursday, 29 May 2008
I see a foot and ankle specialist, a former partner of my former doctor (who had a child and moved, darn her) but the two could be twins. Both are young, petite, with sparkling eyes and a sense of humor which they, unfortunately, inflict on me.
Every time I go in for a visit, I have this "wish list" of what I see as the next phase of recovery in my ankle sprain. She sits and listens with that damned twinkle in her eye, and then, laughing all the way, she pretty much denies me all my dreams with a dash of reality that is much icier than a mountain spring (where, by the way, I iced my first ruptured ligament...every evening, after a day's hike in an aircast).
Predictably, yesterday did not go any better. Three months post-injury, I am still to give my ankle lots of rest, elevation, and ice. I am still not to be on my feet to the point of pain. And, to add insult to injury for a woman who would prefer to go through life barefoot, I am not allowed to go barefoot at all. Not a step. I must confess, I'd disobeyed this last one for the last three weeks, and she explained in no uncertain terms exactly how far this has set me back in recovery.
So now I have a pair of Sketchers backless athletic shoes that serve as house slippers. Being Sketchers, they are darned cute. I must be content with that. Right now I need to slip them on so I can get ready for my appointment at the Prosthetic and Orthotic place. And you wonder why I feel so old.
I have a plan of counterattack. You didn't really think I'd cave? I'm learning photography, the non-digital kind. My husband is training me on his Nikon N80, and today I get to use the Nikkor 70-300 lens at our nephews' graduation, which is during his working hours. God help me if I mess up his Nikon. On the other hand, I'm excited about learning something new that has nothing to do with teaching writing or the dysfunctions in my ankle.
Too bad I had to injure myself in order to play with his toy, but I plan to milk this convalescence all summer if it enables me to learn something this cool.
Wednesday, 28 May 2008
With Memorial Day officially over, summer has officially begun, at least for my Yankee friends, who celebrated with parades and pool openings. I remember that water from my childhood: COLD. I didn't learn to swim in lakes or rivers; we took lessons in the gym pool, which was heated. I was a skinny little kid, and I remember always being cold, but then, I lived in a place where it snowed well into April and turned frosty in late September.
Then we moved to Florida, and I sunburned so badly my blisters had blisters. I discovered a land where entire winters can go by without reaching the freezing point. However, I was young; hot was fun.
Then I had kids, sticky, sweaty, sandy kids who made it their life mission to cuddle and snuggle and drape themselves over me, especially in the summer. Whenever I got to the point that I thought I might scream if one more person touched me, I used to picture myself in a long, flowing gown at the top of a hill, wind in my hair, Heathcliff at my side. Cool seemed desirable and unattainable.
Eight years ago I lived in England for three months in the fall, where it rained every day but three (I swear!) and was seeping-into-your-bones cold by the time I left, but I didn't mind a single day of cold and wet because I knew it was temporary and I was living a dream.
These days my internal thermostat is broken, and here I am, facing another summer in the swamps. This year, I have a driving need to be outdoors, having wasted my spring indoors. So yesterday I walked in a local park in the afternoon with a friend who was visiting from the north. I was hot and fairly miserable in comparison to my friend, who hasn't seen a lot of sun, but it felt so good to be at the lake, or what passes for a lake in this drought, watching a juvenile gator practicing its rolls and the birds fighting turf wars.
So I've decided to work my way back into walking at the local parks (if my doc agrees with my plan today), and I will spend some time working in my yard in the mornings. Therefore, I will also shower more often, and I will lower the thermostat a couple of degrees. It may be harmful to the environment, but then again, it just might save a life or two when the mood swings hit me in the back of the head. I promise you, I will try to save what's left of the planet just as soon as my hot flashes are over.
Sunday, 25 May 2008
It's so good to be home, to sleep in our own bed, to drive our own old cars and eat food we cook. The dishes and the laundry and the cleaning...not so much. Today, however, there's a family beach day for our two nephews who are graduating and entering the military. It is a day for celebration and love and peacemaking, sweltering heat and, hopefully, cooling breezes off the water.
I hope we will be home for a few weeks, but his work schedule is like a chameleon that changes colors to suit the corporate environment. Being away from home gave us time to prioritize and plan our home improvement projects, to talk about different approaches to dealing with family, to just enjoy spending time together away from all the challenges of the home front.
Ready or not, here it comes! Have a great Memorial Day weekend, everyone. Let the summer begin!
Friday, 23 May 2008
Imagine traffic worse than Chicago, where people pass on entrance ramps, forcing drivers on the shoulder. Picture art museums that bring the Louvre to you and theatres which house more than 65 performing groups. Think of a nightlife known as "hotlanta." Throw in a ball park where the fans boo a pitcher for two innings because he hit the star hitter in the shin with a wild ball. Add a historical society with genteel manners which overlay a steely resolve. Plant a large and lovely park in the center of the city, the site of Booker T. Washington's famous "Atlanta Compromise" speech. Toss in the "world's largest drive-in restaurant" (with the world's worst hotdog), a "Wren's Nest" museum dedicated to the creator of Uncle Remus, the headquarters of the CDC and CNN, and you're beginning to get the picture.
Atlanta is just like any other large city in the world and completely unique at the same time. However, perhaps the most beautiful part of Atlanta lies outside the city. Take any state or county road in any direction, and you'll find beautiful, lushly green (rains finally came) curvy, rolling hills and friendly people. Even the people who are from other places speak Southern here. The local jeweler who repairs your glasses when the mega-optical center refuses to even look at them. The German restaurateur from New Jersey who waits on his own customers. The cop who knows all the homeless people in his neighborhood by name. The dog who puts his paws on the counter to greet you when you enter "his" shop.
I 
Atlanta!
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Friday, 23 May 2008
Once again, the princess rescues herself from the self-imposed dungeon of despair and tower of lofty ideals and finds herself back in the real world, blinded by sunshine and embarrassed by having once again cried for help when she knows perfectly well that help lies within. However, she does not have an excess of false pride, and still knows how to laugh at herself, so InMyLife will return. 
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
My depression and anxiety have nearly incapacitated me this spring, which is probably no surprise to anyone who regularly reads this blog. Although I try to hide my chaos and to hide from my chaos, the truth seems to leak through. I am okay, but not nearly okay enough. In writing this here, I hope that I am taking a step forward out of the darkness and into the light.
What you probably cannot tell from reading this blog is that this spring I've become something of an agoraphobic, hiding in my room ninety percent of the time, and forcing myself out to participate in what used to feel like life the other ten percent. Although I managed to teach, in fact, poured myself into my teaching as though it were a lifeline, that was all I managed to do. I have not yet written the cover letter for a CV that I finally finished two weeks ago. I have not yet applied for a job.
I have not yet reentered the land of the living, and that fact is becoming more painfully apparent to me every day. Last night, my husband wanted to take me to a restaurant an hour away, and I could not leave the hotel room. He is a wonderfully understanding man, got take out, but I know he was disappointed in me once again, although he'd never say so. I haven't kept the car in the entire time we've been here, but my glasses broke last night, so I was forced into keeping the car this morning, and I have to leave soon to find a vision center. It frightens me to leave this hotel by myself, and that fear frightens me even more.
Tonight we're going with a group to a ball game. I know I'll enjoy it; when I force myself, I come back to life. I am a good actress, witty conversationalist, very social when out in the world. But I am going through the motions here, not really living. I'm doing everything right, but nothing is working. That reality scares me more than I can say.
When my life fell apart four years ago, I'd been doing everything "right." I followed the church's precepts and continued going through the motions for a solid two years after I'd lost the faith, but the faith did not return, not in the church, not in myself, and not even in God. In a way, the past several months have been very similar.
I've done the work of therapy. I've made a great deal of progress. I'm much better now than I was then, and my marriage, thankfully, is back on solid ground. I know I can get back to where I want to be; it's just that I thought I'd be there by now. I'm getting discouraged. The hills seem steeper, the valleys deeper, the pace slower. I've miles to go before I sleep, and all I want to do is sleep.
It's something like hypothermia. In order to survive, I must keep moving. The problem is that it feels as if I'm going nowhere, yet I know this is merely perception. Seeing this is one thing; getting past it requires serious, steady, plodding work on my part. I cannot give up; cannot give in.
9:25. I've procrastinated long enough. If I make any progress today, you won't see me here for a while. I have to leave my cave. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, 20 May 2008
I like the hotel we're staying in. It's contemporary, terra cotta color scheme, roomy, comfortable, designed to make people feel at home. Everyone smiles and says hello. Every now and then I pick a fight with hubby while we're in traffic, just to make things more real. 
Last week there was a group of Asian tourists who descended on the breakfast nook like a flock of birds, ate all the food and drank all the coffee, and left their dirty dishes all over the place. Over the weekend there was a family reunion, lots of children who quietly ate and cleared their places afterward. Then there was a wedding, and those "adult" guests who partied hardy all night (I'm SO grateful for the sound-proofed rooms here!), necessitating a major cleaning yesterday (even the carpets had to be shampooed after that group).
This morning it was a large group of flight attendant trainees stressing over their exams. There was the typical know-it-all, telling the group everyone would pass except for one person who remained nameless. There was the nervous type, cramming at the last minute. There was the woman who complimented everyone, the stylish guy who blushed at the compliments, and the hungover guy who sat very still and pale, holding his coffee mug in a death grip.
Virginia Woolf had it partly right. I do need a room of my own, but I also need some variety, a change of scenery, and it sure helps when someone else cleans my room and feeds me, and even better when the only thing I pay for is one meal a day.
I could get used to this. I'd better get busy writing in order to justify my existence.
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Monday, 19 May 2008
Big news: I walked a good mile Saturday, and I went to the same park Sunday and put in another mile. It was wonderful. My ankle is somewhat painful today, but I don't think I've done any damage, and it was well worth it.
There is a wonderful treasure in downtown Atlanta: Piedmont Park. It's ancient (1887) and huge and open and beautiful, filled with birds and walking paths, and on Saturdays there's a Green Market. Seated on a bench overlooking the lake, we were able to photograph a family of what look like Canadian geese (although I didn't think they remained this far south this late in spring?), eight goslings, all adorable, with papa hissing at a curious sheepdog and all paparazzi, including us. We also spied an adorable pair of chipmunks chasing each other through the brush. Hadn't seen those since I was a kid.
Another treasure we visit every chance we get is the Shakespeare Tavern, where we can eat, drink, and be merry. Last night, four of us saw Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and stayed for the Q and A session afterwards. One of the troupe remarked that old actors never quit; they always look for their next performance. There's something about that connection with the audience. If I lived in Atlanta, I'm sure I'd be one of the volunteers here, since I've never gotten over my love of the stage. I still remember how it felt when I got my first laugh, playing a tomboy in the 6th grade play. Magic.
There are also tons of great restaurants, off-the-beaten-path places that are unforgettable. The city is huge and diverse. The people we meet are, on the whole, friendly. If he has to work away from home this much, at least Atlanta has a lot to offer. I feel as though I've just skimmed the surface. Nice to know.
Friday, 16 May 2008
I am so very grateful for this week, which has been a cushioned re-entry for me. I realize anew the ways I get too caught up and make my life a lot harder than it has to be. I understand how much I need time off at the end of every academic year and wonder how those who teach in the summers can possibly stand it. My hat is off to each and every one of you; you amaze me, and I admire your stamina, which I lack.
This has been a week of reading. I read A Voyage Long and Strange and attended Tony Horwitz' lecture at the Literary Center at the Margaret Mitchell House, where I am now a member. Horwitz is a travel writer and history buff, and his often humorous approach makes our history relevant today. Will begin reading Confederates in the Attic next. I need to find a way to interest my students in history. A people who fail to understand the past cannot possibly understand the present or plan for the future.
This has been a week of quiet reflection and healing. I've taken a good, hard look at the ways I cope and the ways I've failed to cope, the ways in the past year that I have grown, and the ways I have stagnated, and I realize I've made progress and have renewed hope that I am on the right track. I can see the same things in my children. We each have a different path which we chart and claim for our own, and it's all good.
This has also been a week for reconnecting with my husband, who travels way too much as far as I'm concerned. When I travel with him, I get to know him better, the person he is at work, the man his friends know, the man he is both with me and without me, and I am amazed afresh at my good fortune in choosing to marry and stay married to this man, who makes me a much better person than I would be on my own.
I'm going to be alright. Thanks for letting me work things out here at Motime. I've been able to articulate things here that I was unable to say anywhere else, and your feedback and support have created a nurturing environment for me to grow into the person I somehow suspected was there but never quite knew.
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Thursday, 15 May 2008
Today is my dad's birthday. He's either 78 or 79; I've never gotten that straight. I will call him some time today to wish him a happy birthday, a call I dread. It's not that we don't get along; we do. In my entire life, I think I argued with him just once, and that was when he was leaving the hospital when my sister was in labor with a high-risk birth. I screamed at him that time, telling him his family needed him, but he still left. I left a dent in the elevator wall.
This call, however, will not be unpleasant; my dad is a pleasant man. He's always been a drinker, but he's what you would call a "happy" drunk, the life of the party. He was so happy, Mom had to protect us from him when he was drunk, which was every weekend, because that's the only time he ever wanted to "play" with us, something Mom called roughhousing, when we always ended up getting our heads bumped into the ceiling or smashed into the wall or trampled, all in good fun.
My mother's way of controlling my behavior as a teen was to shame me in front of my dad. Whatever I did, I had to sit down with them and recount every single detail. My dad always turned his head in disgust. My mom held hers up in a sick kind of triumph, calling it "making me face the truth."
My dad's father hung himself when my dad was three. Dad was the youngest of ten in a German/Irish Catholic family. The legend has it that whenever he asked about his dad, he got a slap in the face. So I understand the reasons I never had a real "dad" in my life, but I've never been able to fill that empty, aching void that was his presence.
I love my dad, and I even like a lot of things about him, but it's still painful when I bump into him because he does not know me, nor does he really want to. He loves me in his own way, I know. I need to let go of my own needs, for they will never be filled, not by him, and accept things as they are.
Happy Birthday, Dad. I hope you have a great day, I really do. See you soon. I'll give you a big bear hug then, and chat about little things, as we do. I'll even be glad to see you. I just wish it didn't still hurt.
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
After great struggle comes complete vegetation. I've seen this phase last an entire summer. Last year it lasted for a month. I'd like to get through it sooner this time because there is so much I want to do, but that summer playlist I put together on the iPod has drained me of the desire to do anything even remotely constructive. Damn, that's a good playlist! And then there's the fact that I am away from home, so it's actually impossible to really accomplish anything anyway.
We're relearning the joys of card games. You may remember those...you know, the kind where you actually hold cards made of paper in your hands and lay them on a table. No electronics involved. Right now, we've each won a game of cribbage, but I won mine by a bigger margin, so I've told him that makes me a bigger winner.
I beat my sister and her daughter at an online game of Scrabble. I never do that, but it's amazing how much mental space frees up when I'm not teaching. Tonight we're attending an author's lecture, and we have great plans for the weekend.
These are the kinds of things I imagined us doing in retirement, traveling and reading and trying new things with fun people. Given today's economy and our poor financial planning, I can't imagine that we'll ever actually retire. Typical Boomers. I guess we'll just have to find ways to live the dream everyday in every way we can.
Listening to John Denver's Today.
Monday, 12 May 2008
...cue iPod summer soundtrack...
Ah, summer. The payoff for all that hard work. There was a time when I worked summers too, but, if it is possible to do so, or unless I'd be lucky enough to land a permanent position somewhere, I will never work another summer again in my life. Summers are for reading and dreaming, for watching the waves crash into the sand and the clouds sail across the sky. Summers are also about traveling with my itinerant husband whose work is generally divided between two cities these days. He works, I relax, and on evenings and weekends we enjoy all Atlanta has to offer.
After a family brunch yesterday, we braved the winds and wildfires and drove north. I am now ensconced in a nice hotel suite, drinking complimentary Starbucks Verona (my favorite coffee, but don't tell Taming!) I brought some work with me, but I don't expect to spend a lot of time on that. I've also brought a stack of books, some favorite films, my trusty iPod, and lots and lots of skin care and manicure supplies. There is a great gym right here in the hotel, which contains (miracle of miracles!) a seated cross-trainer which works wonderfully for my therapy/exercise plan.
I've left behind my mother's expectations, my children's problems, and my messy, broken-down, old house. I am with the man of my dreams, and I have him all to myself, except for the times we go out with his friends here.
In other words, after years of Mother's Days spent with puking, feverish, needy, clingy, whiny toddlers, raucous, destructive, need-to-be-driven everywhere kids, sullen, resentful, rude teens, and reckless, thoughtless young adults, I've arrived at every mother's nirvana, a wonderful place where I sit back, relax, forget my troubles, and remember all the good times I had as a kid with my own mother, and all the good times I had as a mother with my own kids.
...insert long, satisfied exhale here...
Friday, 09 May 2008
Some weird stuff is happening, and my receptors are jumbled, so I cannot interpret. For one thing, yesterday I came to the startling and belated realization that I'd been counting on my depression to pack its bags and quietly leave, since the things that had brought depression back to me were kind of leaving. Not the case. It's going to take some more time.
Here's a question for the universe: why do bad times last longer than good ones? Is it to wean us of the desire to live forever? I'm tired of learning lessons. Haven't I learned enough yet? Can't I be excused or something? Get a hall pass to leave the crummy place where I've been and slip out a side door to an alternate universe of sunshine and rainbows?
Phew. Sorry. Just had to say that.
So, you remember, faithful readers who don't doze off halfway through my posts, that I was lamenting the loss of my friends, who all seemed to be moving elsewhere? Weirdly enough, without any solicitation on my part, THREE old friends have resurfaced in the last WEEK, all people I became acquainted with when I was a student, one at the CC, one at my undergrad university, and one in grad school.
All of a sudden, I'm revisiting all my old student dreams and accomplishments, all the disappointments and failures. I'm kind of revisiting the person I was then. Yesterday, I had a very long lunch with one of them, and the lunch made me face the extent of my depression. This friend is so real that I cannot escape myself in her presence.
I've struggled here at Motime with my spiritual shifts. I am not a praying person, not in the traditional sense, just as I am not a believer in a traditional sense, even though I've been actively involved in churches all my life until four years ago. Since then, I've been in a kind of spiritual diaspora from which I occasionally throw out a primal scream to the universe, something along the lines of what the fuck? And my friends range the gamut from intensely religious/spiritual to intensely atheist, but I increasingly find myself surrounded by people who pray, and I observe them with a fascination similar to that of a child observing a new insect, wondering what makes them tick.
I've no idea what I believe in anymore, but these believers keep crossing my path to challenge my lack of belief, not in a Great Commission kind of way, but in a solid, this-is-who-I-am kind of way. I keep going back to this feeling that there is a god, and this god is vastly amused by my struggles and has no intention of letting me off the hook. I know, it's not rational.
Outta here. Going for breakfast with a woman who works in the sciences. Breather.
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Thursday, 08 May 2008
If anyone asks you, I'm not here. I'm actually diligently toiling away at finishing my job application and the multitude of tasks on my to-do list that absolutely HAVE to be completed by 5 p.m. tomorrow. Honest.
If you are under 35, you probably won't get the reference in my title. I refer to Sally Field's 1985 Oscar acceptance speech, wherein she said words to the effect of "You like me! You really like me!" Of course this is a gross misquote and out of context, but for a while there Sally Field seemed to be the poster child of Insecurity.
Lately, I've been in a stranglehold of insecurity, due to my health issues and job issues. I'm bouncing back, honest I am, but the experience has helped me to see my students in a new light.
Students typically tend to think that passing or failing a course has to do with whether or not the instructor "likes" them rather than whether or not they met the course requirements. For this reason, I try very hard to communicate two key concepts: I like them all (truly, I do; they are like fledglings) and they will be graded as quantitatively as is humanly possible.
In keeping with this philosophy, I meet with students regularly outside of class. I make jokes. I bring in candy on Valentines' Day and throw them an end of year party. I also have them print out the departmental (numerical) grading rubrics and hand them in with each major assignment. I keep regular attendance records and remind them that I adhere to the departmental attendance policies. I update their homework and classwork grades frequently.
Despite all this, sometimes students take failure as a personal judgment. Despite all the signs, when they read their failing grade, I get an email that questions why? So I write back and give them all the data, but I also am careful to affirm the students in this email and tell them what I think they did well.
All indicators tell me that I will not be working at this university in the fall, nor will any of the adjuncts who have poured their hearts and minds and energy into this job. There are times in recent weeks that I've taken this personally, but I really shouldn't have. My immediate supervisor has repeatedly affirmed me. It's not about me, and in this case, it's not about my performance. It's about the economy and university politics.
And yet, and yet...there is still some small voice inside that tells me if they really liked me, they'd bring me back in the fall. Thus, I have a greater understanding of my students' perspective. Yet another learning experience.
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Wednesday, 07 May 2008
Yesterday I watched a distraught blue jay. I don't even like blue jays; they're bully birds who raid nests, push other birds around, and swoop and peck at injured old cats.
However, something was wrong with this blue jay. It hopped on every tiny branch of my jasmine bush and the old oak tree nearby. It peered under my house. It chattered and it screeched. It made the same rounds over and over again. It seemed to be looking or calling for something.
At dusk, a large shadow fell from the eaves. Without a sound, the huge, dark hawk swooped, dove, and flew off with something small and blue.
Twenty minutes ago, the hawk returned, silently gliding through the trees, and again five minutes ago, and again just now. When a hawk is searching for something, it is not a nervous, jittery seeking. The hawk flies with confidence and power. If it misses something, it never frets, for there are a million small meals out there.
For the first time in my life, I feel sorry for the blue jays. But then, I'm of the species that is the hawks' main predator.
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Monday, 05 May 2008
So, we're back to upper 80's, hot and humid, A/C...the very thing about Florida I hate, and I think it's finally here to stay. I had anticipated down time and in fact have no time at all at this point in time, too many small tasks to complete and a million things on my mind, circling like the floaters in my eye which resemble small bugs, but this vision disturbance seems appropriate down here in the swamp, where the mosquitoes have returned with a vengeance and gators are invading suburban kitchens and crawling into my dreams, which are many and varied at the moment, taking up a lot of space in a brain which is already full, so here's a friendly Southern wave, and I'll catch up with ya'll later. 
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Friday, 02 May 2008
It was quite startling, before I'd finished my first cup of coffee this morning, to read that I was an idiot. Usually I'm not reminded of this fact before noon because I live in the South, and most people here tend to at least feign politeness in the mornings.
It's the Yankee in me that rejoiced at the term. I've always loved a battle of wits, presuming that the opponent has any, and I've been down too long. The adrenalin started to flow, freeing up oxygen to my idiotic brain, and I realized that the comment was true, at least in the context of this blog.
So, yes, I am an idiot. What fun! I realize this qualifies me to run for public office, but I'm quite content to remain an insignificant idiot in cyberspace, where such idiocy runs rampant. We idiots do love to play with words.
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Thursday, 01 May 2008
I've spent a great deal of time and energy this spring attempting to come to terms with a lot of things that make up my life at present, so the return of something from the distant past kind of snuck up on me, like a sucker-punch. I was too busy maintaining everything else to deal with that, so I let it slide, but it can no longer be ignored. I must deal.
There is a difference between coming to terms with something, such as the past, and coming to grips with something in the present. Both involve facing reality, but the first implies acceptance and coming to a greater understanding, while the second implies a more aggressive stance, battling the thing, hand-to-hand combat. I need to come to an acceptance of the past and its mistakes so that I can let them go and reserve my strength for the things in the present that I can do something about.
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