Movin’ On Up

I am so obnoxiously disorganized. This is a major point of difficulty in my life. I like things and get distracted quite easily and tend to collect chaos and great bundles of clashing nonsense wherever I go. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I hoard things, necessarily, but I am shit at letting go. Matter and metaphorical. I believe that our material world is a physical manifestation of our subconscious selves. I am not implying that a tidy house is a clean psyche, sometimes quite the opposite; I had a good friend in high school who lived in a house where everything had it’s place, but it was always so cold and unwelcoming. It seemed dark even when the sun shone through the windows. He and his parents rarely spoke, when his father did talk to him it was usually a criticism. I was never actually there when his parents were around, and even though I have never been super perceptive to energies, I could still feel the disassociation and stunted emotion in that home.

My own home, however, is inviting and comfortable, or so I have been told. As I have gotten older I have learned to keep the common areas as tidy as can be expected of someone as domestically disabled as myself and there is no denying the creativity and love in this house. We can get messy, but rarely are we dirty. My kitchen is always in varying degrees of entropy, but I find time a few days a week to turn on some loud music and clean the bejeezus out of it. I actually like to clean. It is meditative for me, once I have gotten over the starting part. Motivation to start anything is not a strength I possess just yet. I am, however, an expert lounger and am absolutely in love with leisure. I would do it for a living if I could, and be very good at it. My living room reflects this. Big comfy couch and chairs, throw pillows, throw blankets, anything throwable really, rugs, parties, a biscuit if you are so inclined… There are tons of books and movies, art supplies and stereo equipment. Really anything you might want to waste some time on, I got. Except video games, I hate a challenge.

Then there is my room. The room that I also share with my daughter, though she really only goes in there to sleep. It has no windows and an unusually slender door. It is at the back of the apartment, hidden and ignored. The fire exit is an oddly placed white door that looks like a front door of a house, heavy and metal with a dead bolt. It leads to my building manager’s storage space and eventually outside. This is a mirror for the farthest reaches of my psyche. In other words, it is a dark forgotten pit of bedlam and neglect. I wake up confused and sick, and I go to bed over stimulated and restless. The in between part varies greatly, such is the life of a manic depressive, but the wake/sleep transitions seem to be non-negotiable and have always been my deepest bane.

There is hope. I am abandoning my fabulous metropolitan apartment with the giant yellow kitchen and deep pink tub that is just a block from anything I could possibly want in my hip expensive neighborhood in my hip expensive city by the water. I am packing up only that which I have decided I need, putting it all into storage and the kiddo and I are moving to the woods for the summer to live in a bright red double-decker school bus. I am so friggin’ excited. It is a journey that I have put off for entirely too long. It all begins with letting go. Letting go of all of this useless bullshit that bogs down my mind and soul. Getting rid of the forgotten toys, too small clothes, broken jewelery, mementos of a time in which we no longer exist, distractions, delusions unrealistic expectations and all of the lies I have told myself when I’m sad.

One of the goals of this adventure isĀ  to learn how to apply my myriad of daily epiphanies to reality. In this world of instant gratification, I have gone soft. In more than just my waistline. I have never learned self discipline or control. When you suffer from delusions, you learn to second guess yourself, to find the truth. The problem with that is that, well, you are always second guessing yourself and your confidence suffers and wanes. I want to learn to find that voice. The one that speaks my truths through love and compassion and teach it how to be louder than the rest of them, ultimately silencing them once and for all. There is not room in this head of mine for all of them. Especially the deceivers. You know the ones, we all have them. These little monsters of guilt and resentment. Of jealousy and despair. I came across a list I had made once when I was dealing with some stuff. It was instructions on how to pull myself out of a depressive episode. One of the steps really stuck with me and still helps to this day. Give your monsters really un-monstery names, like Kennith or Cleetus. It is impossible to be frightened or intimidated by something named Meriwether Snodgrass.

I will return to the city in the fall, find a new, quieter neighborhood and and apartment with sunlight. I will have less material crap than I do now (think minimalism, think White Room), so that will hopefully aid and abet any organizational prowess I intend to develop in the near future.

I really just long to feel like a grown up.

Till next time lovies,


Post Script, darlings: I am just barely learning HTML, clearly I still only really know how to make big bold font and back again. A point in the direction of tutorials would be most appreciated. Thanks!!


The trouble with Rapid Cycling bloggers

I have just received a metaphorical kick in the arse by one Miss Seaneen Molloy, in the form of an email stating that I had better “UPDATE OR SHALL I FIND YOU AND MAKE YOU DO SO”. As she does not seem the type of person I should like to cross, and because my gross negligence of this project has officially crossed over into the realm of hilarity; I find myself once again inspired and ready for literary buffoonery.

I had actually began a post at some point early last month, but failed to finish for reasons made obvious by the post itself. I had intended to return to it and revise, but then my mood pendulum swung gaily to the left, and hitting ‘publish’ would have felt quite like lying, so I let it go.

But here it is anyway, just in case you were wondering

Panic Aggression and Par-annoy-a

Nothing is wrong. No one is upset with me and I haven’t started any major fires yet. I am not in trouble with the law and I still have a job. I am not being evicted, my little has been fed and tended to and my living room is as tidy as it is ever going to be.

So why am I so ferociously afraid? What is this constant lump in my throat and why do I feel like my life is spiraling out of control? I am Catherine O’Hara on the airplane just before she screams “KEVIN!”

I have completely ruined life and am desperately searching for the reset button.

Logically, I am having an episode. I dropped enough acid in my formative years to be able talk myself down from anything, but mostly it just feels like rationalization. Everything is fine. God’s not disappointed in me. I still am only a minuscule speck in an ever expanding universe and nothing, NOTHING that I have done or could do in my life will cause so much of an upheaval that it will upset the balance of reality. This isn’t real. This is a by-product of my cranial fizzes and pops not fizzing and popping like they oughtta. Logically, I’m right on track.

I wish my emotions were logical.

Whew! Thank Frank that’s over. I am actually quite fine now, thank you. I have just celebrated my 28th complete revolution around the sun. I had literally The Best Birthday of my life thus far. My favorite boys played a show and I danced like my life depended on it. Honestly, if you ever get a chance to see A Gun That Shoots Knives, please, please do so. They embody giddiness and all that is magical in the world.

The fantastical night of debauchery and Tom Foolery was followed by an early morning drive to my old stomping grounds for a memorial of epic proportions. A favorite uncle and truly inspiring human being had passed away this winter, having family and friends dispersed across at least three states, the memorial had been postponed until the snow had a chance to melt.

The six hour car ride alone was an experience unto itself. I had mixed two-hundred and forty minutes of choice music and giggled in the back seat with my little one while my buddy Jimmy and my Auntie bonded in the front. I cried from happy nearly the entire way as I had pretty much had the greatest night prior, and was headed to see almost my entire family and many of my most favorite folk who have known me since I was just wee, and continue to love me regardless.

I was allowed to cut the reigns on the kiddo and let her run free with all of the other wild children. We do not live in a small town, and my grip is tight and smothering to a young one with such strong wings and desire to use them. But once in the safety of my old home, the baby was off and flying.

I was relishing in my own freedom too. I used to be afraid of people who knew me too well. I had always felt that too much familiarity would somehow stifle growth. As if those around us could keep us trapped and can limit us by their preconceived notions of who we are. Oh, I could not have been more wrong.

For someone who often feels disconnected from humanity, unconditional love can hit hard and unexpectedly, leaving no room for anxiety and self doubt.

I am so unbelievably and unwaveringly grateful for those who count me a part of their lives and have carved out small me-sized spaces in their hearts for me. I can be quite a lot to deal with, and at times I seem so self absorbed that I am not seeing you. But I am. I always am. Sometimes I just don’t possess the language to tell you.You keep me humble.

I came home from my trip to find that some good friends had cleaned my room in my absence. BEST. BIRTHDAY. EVER!

With butterfly kisses and marmalade dreams. Your Everlovin’,