Friday, March 28, 2003

aND NOW IT'S sPRING. hOW DOES pAMMIE FEEL? i FEEL GREAT. i AM PEPPY. i AM SLEEPING LIKE A BABY. i KEEP EXPECTING TO NEED MORE SLEEP, EVEN THOUGH i WAKE REFRESHED. I'm walking, eating better, taking vitamins, 40 mg Celexa a day. I am working at work: on task, completing jobs, working on focus items and completing thoses. I am able to train others without geting anxious and nervous and sick.
I seem to remember feeling better at this time last year too.

Monday, January 13, 2003

I get these overwhelming feelings of angst. I really, really feel, "What is the point? Why bother?" That makes perfectly NO sense at all at other times.
At other times I look at my girls and marvel, even when they are screaming and stomping.
Yeah, it's hard to without a love partner. A husband, I don't have anymore. He's just a roommate. A GOOD room mate, but just a roommate.
I am learning everyday to connect outside myself instead of getting lost in the pity pit of my own stomach. It's hard, though. It's tiring, and its hard. Once in awhile it's invigorating. Or maybe I am the one invigorating the world around me. EGO is all, doncha-know. Ego is all that I am.

And whatever happened to God? Why did I leave off on that major obsession? Those damned Left Behind books brainwashed me into becoming a Christian. Not that I don't love Jesus Christ. I do. I did. What happened to the fire? The passion? It got down to givng of myself, and I couldn't commit to anything. I would get sick, mentally and physically sick. Now here I am. It seems the deeper I look into moi, the blacker things get. The more I reach out, GIVE, the better things get. AS LONG AS I recharge.

I ordered that POWER 90 system on TV. impulseimpulseimpulse buy. Now I have to exercise for three months, so I don't feel like a jerk for breaking the budget. I WILL do it. I AM doing it. After not moving for many MANY months, I walked outside(did you HEAR me??? I said OUT SIDE!!!) three times last week. Out in public where anything could happen. People could actually see me, look at me, make judgements about me...I could be criticized out there in the world!

Anyway, I walked. I walked a mile each time. It was not easy because my lungs and muscles are just...bleh. I am nearly Jello at this point. Today at 2:00 I walk again. When my mind syas, "What's the point?" my heart has to answer that the point is, "Just to BE."

Saturday, December 14, 2002

The following is from a long letter I started to write as a Christmas update newsletter. I got side tracked on moi...
H is 14 now, and is sure enjoying her bowling. Her team mates really take a shine to her, even though most of them are upper classmen, and she's only a freshman. She tends to be laid back and cool about it all, especially when I am around. I'm sure she thinks I will embarrass her...just a hunch. :) She is so at ease out there in the world. I think people gravitate towards her because she is so unique, and yet comfortable with herself.
She is GORGEOUS too, with her new magenta-striped hair. I am surprised she got away with this hairdo at school. There is a rule about wild hairdos - NO funky colors. (Yes, I took her to get it done, I even paid for half of it.) I guess it's close enough to red to be considered OK. Plus, H is such a good kid, I don't think her teachers would hassle her about a little individuality on her part. (Get it? On her "part"? Ha Ha! I KILL me.)
I'm sure we'll get used to the loud music eventually. (If she knew I listen to the same stuff she does, I would never get to hear any good music...she'd switch to opera or something.)
N is tiny still, even at 12. She is in accelerated language arts and math at school, hating every minute of it. She liked it back in the regular classes where she could pull straight A's and still have time to read novels under her desk while the teachers lectured. Now that she has a bit of a challenge, it's very stressful to her. Plus she carries many, many books back and forth from school. At 75 pounds with a book bag weighing 40% of that, it's no wonder she hurt her neck yesterday trying to carry her 30-pound book bag off the bus at school. She even ended up taking a ride in the ambulance to the hospital for a look see. X-rays showed that there was no structural damage, but her wisdom teeth are coming in at a weird angle.
She is home suffering from a very sore neck today, something called a "wry neck", or torticollis. She can't even do her homework, the TRAGEDY! Actually, she is more disappointed that she can't play with her beloved Lego's. The Tylenol with codeine helps a little. For now, though, she's out of commission. Monday, if she's better, it will be a new rolling back pack for N. The school will have to make an exception to the "if it doesn't fit in your locker, don't bring it" rule. We have a note from the doctor!
N, when she isn't laid up, is involved in a competitive writing group at school. She's always been quite a creative genius when it comes to writing. Ever since she was a baby, about 2 1/2, and taught herself to use a computer mouse and keyboard because daddy was always playing on there. I'm not sure, but I think she was learning to read as she was learning to talk, because by age three she was typing somewhat, and making up stories. When her tiny fingers were FINALLY able to hold and use a pencil, she wrote. Simple as that. She's been writing for fun and entertainment ever since. We have, scattered around the house, many of N's diaries and journals, which none of us are allowed to read. For all I know, she may be writing, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." over and over and over. (Um...actually, I have snuck a peek now and then, and she's good. Trust me, she's way good. We're talking major talent, if I do say so myself. Harry Potter? P-Shaw. He pales in comparison to my little genius's creations.) Her sense of humor is dry, almost acid. The wit of this child could cut glass. She reads everything put in front of her. She gobbles it up. She's read Harry Potter (all of them) eight (I'm not exaggerating) times.

A is also a writer. She likes to write letters and journal entries. She plays with Microsoft PowerPoint a lot, and has made some very funny stories using the little stick-people graphics. Anna is our resident chef. At 9 years old, she already cooks quite a bit. Her favorite is baking, but she also makes a mean "egg' surprise for breakfast in the morning. She started cooking eggs at age 7, when daddy and mommy were sleeping. (grrrr) She used her Easy-bake oven until it croaked, and then moved on to the real thing. She is a child with much gusto and joy de vivre. She's bouncy and cute and dimply and emotional and sensitive and playful. Did I mention bouncy? She's funny too, and filled with so many ideas about everything that sometimes I think she will burst unless she tells us all about them. At length. In detail. With footnotes.
A tells really bad jokes which crack me up! ("Knock, knock..." "Who's there?" "Uh....Um...Joe!" "Joe who?" "Um...Uh...Joe nose is really big." Pure comedy GOLD!) She has recently started sewing. She makes little doll clothes by hand out of tiny strips of cloth. These are some sexy dolls.
She's always doing something artsy-crafty. (Remind you of anyone, mom?) She loves to paint wooden objects pieces of wood. LOL...anything. She painted her pumpkin this year, and some pieces of wood. She also painted some canisters for me with N, and some wooden boxes. She and N painted doll furniture too. It's very....colorful. :)
A is also the singer in the family. Grandma V and Grandpa E got her a karaoke microphone thingie last year for Christmas. She will stand in front of that TV and belt out tunes no matter whose watching. She dances to the stereo and sings like a diva with total unselfconsciousness. She loves her music. (N is hoping it's just a phase, and tells Anna that often.)
D has been taking a pottery class for a few years now down at the local art museum. He started going because N wanted to learn pottery, but the only class I could find was for adults only. They made an exception for N if a parent would take the class with her and supervise her. D went with her for the first year and ended up falling in love with it. They made some beautiful pottery.
Now H goes with him every Saturday. She really enjoys it too. She takes art at school, which she loves. She's getting to be quite the artist. One of her drawings for school was entered into a state-wide competition for 7th through 9th graders last week. We don't know how she did yet. ( She will win first place, of course. How could it be otherwise? She's brilliant.)
D will be teaching Astronomy at a local college this Spring semester. He still works as master scheduler at his regular job. The teaching is a lucrative evening vocation.
Me, I'm still a technician at my job. I tear components apart, measure everything you could possibly measure on a component, then put them back together for life testing, and write a big, long, intensely exciting report about what I find. I also enter tons of data into spreadsheets and statistics programs where they are jounced and bounced and juggled into results that tell our production plants whether or not they should continue making components just the way they have been, or if they should improve/change/tweak a process. (You are just drooling to be me right now, aren't you?)
When I am not at work, I sleep a lot and try to spend time with my children. I still battle chronic depression and anxiety. I have some stability through medication and exercise...when I exercise. Mostly I am centered through my faith in God and his precious Son, and through his faith in me. I also stay more in tune with reality when I focus on my family and keep life simple. I help myself by taking Yoga classes three times a week (starting two weeks ago) and going to counseling once a week with a wonderful psychologist that I have seen for the past 4 years.
Life is worth living even when my body chemistry tells me to give up. One of the reasons I encourage our girls to be artistic and creative is that all three have shown signs of budding emotional intensity (I don't want to hex them by calling it depression), and I know for a fact that creativity is a wonderful outlet, and inlet for emotions.
I myself have learned to color like a kid again. I keep an art journal which blossoms with emotion and conflict that I ordinarily would keep inside, lose somewhere, and push down with mass quantities of donuts and Hershey bars. The journals I keep are exploding with all things pasted in and kept. They burst with colors that I love. They hurt with pictures that come out through my heart. They giggle with comical caricatures of people I invent. They touch me inside my soul where I haven't been able to probe before. My journals are a link to a lost little girl who needs some nurturing and coaxing to grow up. Then maybe she won't spend so much money on art supplies...oooohh! Pretty!
Sometimes, though not as often since my bitterness went out of me, I write comedy bits for a website called Top5. I can be funny if I concentrate, but the regulars on that site, whooo! They make me bust a gut. My forte is rumination writing. You may get a glimpse of some of my old stuff in the archives if you feel like putting in some effort.
I also write in an online journal which I won't link to here. If you happen to run across it, you probably won't know it's me anyway. It's just a cry in the dark...a giggle in singing from offstage on a really loud microphone. It's a healthy outlet. Like writing letters that you never send.
Sometimes writing connects me to my inner soul. Once I start to write, I forget about how the words get on the screen or paper, they start to flow. It's a slow flowing, a thoughtful flowing. Because of the limitations of my hands, I search for the words to express the feelings. It's not like writing a report with facts and figures. It's like transcribing a heart scene. The words come along after the feeling, after the visualization, during the scene. The words are sometimes wishes. They are always truth, but truth as a heart sees it. Truth as a soul needs it to be.

Friday, December 13, 2002

May be should call this Checking In. I am not going to kill myself, nor do I want to become catatonic.
Connecting with the world outside my own head isn't always the easiest thing in the world for me. Connecting with my own self is even tougher. I don't like the truth in there. I barely know how to start.
I have three daughters. They are very different from each other. The middle one hates the little one, who happens to be bigger than the middle one. The oldest one is a good kid. She dresses like Tank Grrl, but has the spirit of a lamb. She is laid back, funny, creative, intelligent, and at home in her own skin.
The little one is bouncy and boisterous, sensitive and tender, grumpy and giggly. She's like a big bouncy puppy, and she loves to cook.
My middle child, child of intensity, is the most stubborn. There is nothing that is half way about her. She is drama and pain, joy and intelligence, fire and ice. Her highs are few and far between, and her lows are intense and long-lasting. Little things matter to her. Big things are just way too big. She's a tiny little girl with a big, big brain.

My husband is hurt. I hurt him bad enough to break whatever was keeping us a couple. He sleeps on a fouton in the living room, and he won't change clothes in front of me any more.

It's been 4 years since he confronted me about ...things. I fessed up, made ammends, haven't gone back to evil ways. It hasn't fixed our marriage. He's broken, and I can't fix him. I turn him cold. His heart is stoney towards me.
I think I have done my time what with therapy and meds and all that. I am not going to hurt him that way again. So, if we decide to split, I would have no hard feelings toward him. I just wish he would talk to me about what he wants.

Tuesday, December 10, 2002

Live, live, live: that's all I ever do. Or is it?
Here and now is usually far away from where I go.
Focus is hocus pocus to me,
Magic that I never learned in kindergarten.

Live, live, live, is all they ever say, and mean it.
Where and when is what I want to know.
Everything's out of focus to me.
Tragic that I learned it in kindergarten.