“I love The Drake!”

swing

It’s been a busy week so far.  I’ve been silent for a few days, meaning my ability to speak aloud has fled.  It happens every so often and to recover my voice I need to force myself to stop freaking out about it.  Fortunately, I have a short attention span.  It functions as Plan B because eventually, I forget I haven’t said anything in a while, and start singing again.  It’s just anxiety.

I don’t know why I’m so anxious lately, but whatever.  It’s possible I’m merely over-excited.  All my components for my new PC arrived, and I began building it last night.  It turns out, the CPU cooler I chose is too big to seat the four RAM chips I bought.  Sadly, I installed it before realizing it wasn’t going to work as planned.  I tend to function on auto-pilot too often, and this is a consequence.  For now, I’ll leave it and only use two chips.

I failed to research this particular component thoroughly enough.  Relying on reviews on Amazon and Newegg isn’t as useful as it was in the past.  Amazon used to be my favorite e-tailer, but now it’s more like a vast, unorganized garage sale.  The search function is a joke as third-party sellers place their items in any category they decide will get the most views, rather than where logic would dictate.  Half the time, the things I order are customer returns sold as new products.  I despise this practice so much I’m breaking up with Amazon altogether.

I’m finished assembling the PC, and only need to install the OS and drivers.  I’ll do it this weekend.  I’ve been thinking a great deal about Jesus lately.  I was given a different perspective on Christianity recently, and it’s rocked my world.  It might be why I’m not talking, now that I think about it.  Not enough resources left.  😂  My CBD oil should arrive tomorrow, and I’m hopeful it will lead to sleeping again.  I’ve spent my nights this week rereading Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson.  I’m finally quiet enough internally to process it as I read, which makes me so happy.

It’s feeding a part of me I don’t know how to identify, but I was so hungry it hurt.  It’s also contributing to my thoughtfulness.  It’s reminded me of the fact I see all humans as possibly Jesus interacting with me.  I remember when I learned I should treat everyone I encounter as if they might be Jesus in disguise.  It blew my mind profoundly as a kid.  I’ve since recognized the fact many don’t even see me as a human being.  I’m somehow less than that to many I’ve interacted with, and while it’s incredibly painful, it doesn’t change how I view others.

heather in the mist

Brandon Sanderson writes about this pain in Oathbringer.  It’s by no means the focus of the story, but it’s loud and clear.  It’s strange, but identifying a source of my inward pain is comforting.  When I’m able to understand, it makes healing easier.  At the core of my inability to identify as a Christian is my despair over the behavior of (self-proclaimed) Christians.  I’ve decided to let go of this distraction.  I do know a few who behave as if they believe Jesus is real.  I’m thankful to be aware of more than one because one was enough all along.  Silly me.  🙃

I’m incredibly relieved to have worked this out.  It’s done beautiful things for my joy-noticing ability.  I guess I not only had to climb out from beneath that rock, but I also needed to set it down.  That last bit is essential.  (I’m such a doof for carrying it around for no reason.)  😂  I finally understand why I love people so much, regardless of how they feel about me.  I don’t feel like a fool anymore.  It’s fascinating to me how much I’ve learned from people I’ve never met this year.  Most of them are much younger than me, too.

Now I understand why Stevie Nicks is my fairy godmother.  (Although not understanding had no impact on my ability to love her.)  I no longer feel weird for adopting Amy Lee as my little sister, even though she doesn’t even know I exist.  It’s not necessary.  I can still love her and learn from her.  Yay.  I don’t care that Lily is young enough to be my daughter.  She’s a friend and teacher.  As are Jade and Keia from Gettin’ Grown.  And so what if Lorde (Ella Yelich-O’Connor) is younger than kids I used to babysit.  Her music heals me.  I understand enough.  I now know being silent has more benefits than annoyances, so I won’t bother worrying about my voice returning.  I’m off to read about music theory.  Peace.  💜

 

“I almost had my own show in Japan.”

Content warning:  suicidal ideation.

Message in a bottle.

I have a confession.  Every time I read or hear about humans behaving abominably toward other humans, I think about suicide.  Last year, I thought about it almost nonstop.  It was distracting, annoying, and a little scary.

I think I’m supposed to feel ashamed of this, but I don’t.  It just is.  I’m capable of being as cold as space and utterly indifferent.  I trained myself to reject those feelings.  Now it’s habitual.

I could change this internal thought process by forming a new habit, but I choose not to do so.  I don’t want to live as an unfeeling, unattached, and unaffected entity.  We have computers for that.

This is one of the few instances where I regret being too intense.  That’s not quite what I mean…  (I was going to say unbalanced, but it failed the rudeness test ((and made me giggle.)))

Sometimes I wish I could attach an attenuator to my brain.  I’ve thought too many steps ahead, and now I’m more interested in pursuing the new thread.  This is precisely why I’m such an airhead.  I do this constantly.

I can’t complain about being an airhead because it’s the most potent tool in my survival kit.  If I couldn’t distract myself, I wouldn’t still be kicking it.  I’m just far too good at it.  It makes it difficult to communicate with others.

I’ve always journaled since a child.  It’s how I talked to my mom about things more complicated than nodding and head shaking could dispatch.  I began using a typewriter when I was six because writing longhand is (still) difficult for me.

When I don’t blog I go silent.  It’s usually not immediate, but when I don’t have my computer to help me express my thoughts, I gradually stop sharing them because it takes too much effort to mostly fail at saying what I mean.

The longer it goes on, the harder it is to start talking again.  Deep down I’m always terrified I’ll lose the ability to speak permanently.  It’s kinda twisted how the more I fear, the longer it takes to reclaim the skill.   I have to convince myself to stop being afraid of that scenario before my voice returns.  (It’s rocket science when you’re exasperated.)

When I let go of the world outside my head, it’s dangerous for my lifespan.  I overanalyze to death, literally.  It’s not logical for me to exist, and I’m a surprisingly good extemporaneous speaker.  (Even when it’s just in my head.)  It wouldn’t take long to recognize I’m insignificant in any mid to large sized picture.  Then weigh it against the price I pay to participate, and conclude it’s not worth it.

(Fortunately?)  I discovered I have a new tool in my arsenal.  It’s a song by Evanescence called, Imperfection.  When Amy Lee sings, don’t you dare surrender, she sings it like she means it.  She put feeling in it like Beyoncè.

Now, when I remember 45 is still faking it, that sound byte plays in my mind.  It’s an incredibly powerful rebuke.  Startling, even.  I’m a little bit freaked out by how well it works.  But more pleased to have a new empowering tool.  Music is powerful.  (Use it responsibly.)

secret door

Oh shit, you were probably expecting a point.  It’s this:  Feeling all the feels takes incredible strength and courage because it’s not always fun or even tolerable.  Lying and pretending you don’t feel things intensely is weak sauce.

We all have survival strategies we use to function in society.  I’m just confessing my own in case someone thinks they’re the only one who has similar experiences internally.  I have a tough time trusting people (over age 21) who have never contemplated suicide.  (They smell too much like a liar.)  I’m off to beat my drums with sticks.

This woman hates me so much I’m starting to like her.

I just realized I haven’t watched anything but Stevie Nicks documentaries and live concerts on DVD in a while.  Typically, I only allow myself to listen to music when I’m exercising because it’s the only way to get me to do it.  Lately, it’s all I do in my free time, but it hasn’t been long enough to mess up my exercise bribery scheme.  Whew.  (I don’t have a Plan B.)  I guess tomorrow will be a long run, and that’ll be my only music fix for the day.  I’m going to listen to In Your Dreams by Stevie Nicks, and The Open Door by Evanescence, and Tuesday Night Music Club by Sheryl Crow.

If it plays longer than my route, I’ll keep listening while I stretch.  I’m already looking forward to it.  I’m going to feel like Wonder Woman.  I’m off Prozac for the rest of the summer.  Or, I guess I should say until it snows.  So who knows, but as long as I can run outside.  I don’t like to run for more than an hour at a time on the treadmill, but I can break it up.  After my fall last winter, I’m too paranoid about falling again (on the ice outside in the snowy weather, where my imagination has assured me in advance I’ll die miserably.)

Note:  In my particular case, if I eat wisely, and do four hours of cardio per day, I feel exactly the same as when I take 20mg of Prozac per day, (minus the side-effects.)  If I do two hours of cardio per day, I’m uncomfortably close to frustration overload 24/7, but I can survive.  Less, and things go downhill quickly about two months after my last dose.  I’m weird.  Don’t try this at home.  Besides, finding out how many hours of exercise it takes per day to be the best me possible is exactly as fun as it sounds.  So do what’s right for you.

The thing about Prozac is this:  It interferes with creativity, sex drive, and for some people, appetite.  In my case, no sex drive, (and I started taking it soon after I realized I even had a sex drive.)  If you don’t know your sexual identity yet, don’t take Prozac.  I was a late bloomer.  I thought boys were gross until I met my ex-husband at nineteen.  If anything, it decreases my appetite when I’m initially adjusting.  It also makes me extremely sleepy for the first few weeks.  Others become overeaters for the first time in their lives.  It’s mean like that.

I want to turn off my Muse-repelling force field known as Prozac so I can do some artwork and find out the rest of this melody that keeps haunting me.  I don’t have it as bad as some.  I can ignore the urge to create if there’s something I’d rather do.  The Muse is a gentle whisper in the night for me.  For some people, she’s also a bitch with handcuffs.  But they’re usually outstanding at what they do so it might be fair.  I’m not sure how much choice they have in the matter.  They’re probably too busy being awesome to care.

I’m feeling balanced again, thank goodness.  You’d think after years of coping with PTSD I wouldn’t get so freaked out every time I hit a rough patch.  Nope.  I freak out every fucking time.  I imagine it’s like being in a fire.  No matter how many times it happens, it’s always alarming.  Plus, I think my mind lets me keep most of those times in short term memory.  Yay brain.  I finally let M. help me adjust my drum kit.  It was noticeably leaning because I loosened something I regret, and it just happened.

I was still playing on them after a few adjustments (without fucking with the rack.)  Now that M. helped, I’m a bit blown away by how much difference it makes.  It was worth the kick in the nuts to my ego.  I got over myself immediately after I started playing.  I’m starting to get pretty good.  I’m almost confident enough to start creating my own beats.  I only lack the practice hours.  My stamina is better, my timing is my strongest skill, and I rarely drop sticks anymore.  The part on my fingers where I lost the skin before getting gloves is calloused, but it’s barely noticeable (compared to what strings do to fingertips.)

I’m so happy to be feeling better.  I got busted singing twice today, but I tend to do it constantly when I’m happy.  It’s almost as good as the relief I feel after passing a kidney stone.  It’s a shame they can’t bottle the post kidney stone feeling and sell it as a drug.  On second thought, maybe it’s a good thing you have to suffer intensely for a while before you get to experience it.  It makes it addiction-proof as fuck.  I just cracked myself up.

I’m off to finish deep cleaning the carpet while listening to the rest of Al Franken, Giant of the Senate from Audible.  I love him.  I probably look silly laughing for no apparent reason every few minutes, but it’s excellent.  It’s helping me cope, and teaching me a lot about politics (in a way that doesn’t make my eyes glaze over.)  I forgot how powerful humor can be in learning.  If you want my full attention, make me laugh.  It’s my favorite thing to do in the world.

 

I hear everything.

The Depression Monster has me in a Full Nelson.  (I had to use Wikipedia.)  I’m no longer able to ignore him, but I’m flipping him the bird.  I’ve learned studying Stevie Nicks requires a commitment of sorts.  You have to accept the fact it’s going to hurt sometimes, or you have to move on.  I didn’t even need to think about it.  I like earning my passage into her world.  It’s calmer.  I also like how it doesn’t matter that I’m out of sync in time.

I’m on the second documentary now.  It’s called Stevie Nicks:  In Your Dreams.  I’m at the point where Katrina happened.  Fuck.  I wasn’t ready.  You can tell Stevie directed and edited.  It’s raw where it needs to be, and soft where it’s not.  I suppose this is a trigger warning.  Pause when you see the first hint of Katrina coming next.  It will be obvious now.  Make sure you’re in a safe place to ugly cry.  Get tissues and a few bottles of water.  Round up your pets, and your favorite blanket.  Then take a deep breath, and hit play.  You’re welcome.  (I do this because I love you.)

This hasn’t happened since I spent hours listening to Amy Lee (Hartzell) sing, Hello and Like You on repeat, while I wept with her over losing our little sisters.  It’s a good thing I eat intensity for breakfast.  I never thought I’d say that.  I’m so used to people telling me I’m too intense, (and having it sound like, “fuck off.”)  I’m glad it keeps proving valuable where it matters.  I slept on Tuesday night, so I should be good for a while.  I started writing my short horror story last night.  In hindsight, it may have been better to do it in the morning.

I learned some secrets about fear years ago.  It has a ceiling.  There’s nothing beyond scared shitless.  Further, I discovered there’s a limit to how long you can remain terrified.  I’m sure with practice you could extend it, but for most of us, it’s a relatively rare event.  It’s intense until you run out of energy.  Then it’s surreal.  It stays surreal while you recover a bit.  Then it repeats a few times, like a chorus.  But it has diminishing returns.  Your initial level of terror is greater than your fourth course.  Eventually, it just becomes hysterically funny.

Don’t look at me, I didn’t create these rules, I’m just reporting them.  This is how humans process prolonged fear.  At least the ones who don’t pop straight away, that is.  It’s not good news, but I believe it’s better to know up front.  I hate surprises.  So anyway, my point is I’ve learned how to cope with fear.  I don’t flee at the sight of it.  It’s a bitch, but so am I.  And you can refocus your eyes, I’m done giving myself a pep talk.  I plan on writing more tonight.  Last night I wrote two pages, then deleted them and started over.  I thought about an outline, then didn’t create one.  Finally,  I wrote two better pages.

Creative writing clearly had a far greater influence on my writing than English Grammar.  I love rules, except where creativity is involved, at which point it reverses.  Rules are for one type of thinking.  Creativity is for the other.  They don’t mix.  Mixing them should cause profound halitosis.  That’s how serious I am.  Incidentally, when my orchestra instructor tried to tell me how to feel about Beethoven, I noticed he had funky breath.  (I don’t believe in coincidences.  I’m far more impressed by irony.)

This is the closest I’ve ever leaned into my blog.  I’m incredibly impressionable, so it’s likely Stevie Nicks’ influence on me.  I’m becoming a little more open.  I didn’t see any of this coming.  Despite the tears, I’m having a fabulous time.  It’s a little like following a rabbit down a hole if you know what I mean. 😉  I have a long night ahead.  I’m off to get to it.

They’re real, and they’re spectacular.

I didn’t get much done today.  I mostly watched a Fixer Upper marathon on HGTV while goofing around on Twitter.  I did, however, get a strong recommendation for the new Adidas Ultra Boost running shoes.  I ordered some, along with a few other items.

I can’t wait to break the shoes in.  It got up to 62F yesterday, but dropped back into the 30’s today.  I had all my windows open when I went to bed, and it was 56F in my apartment when I woke up.  My cat was under the covers, so that should have been a clue.  I turned on the heat for a while after closing the windows.  Now it’s around 63F, right where I like it.  I’ve decided I’m not keeping this apartment when I move.  Yesterday, there was yelling in the parking lot of the building adjacent to mine.  There were police cars and a police dog apprehending someone who was shouting repeatedly that he wasn’t going with them.  It was scary.  This is the second incident involving police in a month or so.  When you add that to the cooking smells from whoever lives below me, it’s not worth maintaining.

I declined going to Denver this weekend.  I need some down time after NYC.  I’ll probably go this spring.  In the meantime, I’m going to work on a new quilt.  I’m going to do paper piecing, I think.  Once I find out what that is, and how it works.  I want to make a more traditional style quilt, but with modern fabric.  So it might require wearing sunglasses to view it, but I’ll still like it.  I finished the Cookie Monster quilt.

My lightsaber showed up in the photo, too.  I think it turned out fairly well.  I need to remove some specs of white from the color catcher I washed it with.  My stitching is a little off in places, but that was before I learned about measuring for my specific machine, not just the standard 1/4″.  The binding is black satin, and it’s the perfect size for the sofa.

Amy Lee of Evanescence released a new LP titled, Recover, Vol. 1.  I love it, and am going to listen to it on repeat until I fall asleep.  Again.  I can’t believe it as only about $4 on iTunes.  Granted, it’s exactly 4 songs.  But still, I would have paid way more.  I’ll probably buy it again on Amazon Music, just to support the artist.  It’s so good.