LSPoorEeyorick
09-27-2005, 06:34 PM
I've been tucked away in my hiding spot while the great game of hide-and-seek has moved on without me to other things. Red rover. Capture the flag. Wedding proposals. Loserdom. Lost internet access.
This has, among other things, given me some time to process what is going on in my little slice of the planet. Like anyone breathing, I meet challenges. That's not special. That's just life. But I stopped talking about mine, here, for awhile, because even my closest, my bosom, my ten-years-and-going-strong pals met me with blank looks, asking how in the world I was holding my head up. Because the more I told people about them, the more I actually wondered how that head wasn't cocked permanently to the side.
OK, so it's cocked to the side a lot. But it's up, in a matter of speaking.
Partly, this foray into lurkdom -- complete removal, really-- has been an effort to keep my Shi'ite together. Partly, I'm not one to really draw attention to myself in this venue, or to my problems when I know that the lot of the LoT has problems of their own. Partly, it is more of a sit-and-hold-my-hand-as-I'm-telling-you story that didn't feel quite right in a forum that grows ever more public. And if my family stumbled upon their nitty-gritty details on the internet, I know it would hurt them. At times when a family is broken in pieces -- and each member, in turn, is a stained-glass window of themselves-- one needs to smooth the edges of their words to each other. Use soft language: Communal. Soothe. Breathe. Empathize.
It's a long story, really, but I'll give you the gist. It involves my mother, ever sicker, reaching the point in her physical and spiritual spiral coin-bank where the penny isn't looping around in grand, slow swoops anymore, but is instead in the process of very tightly, very quickly dropping into the black abyss at the bottom. My father unable to stop her from slipping away. Add in some bizarre and unpleasant things happening to my siblings and their brood, and you are stuck watching a collection of people wishing they could help each other when they can't even help themselves anymore.
Around the same time that this hit a crescendo to fortissimo, at work we were all required to sign a document stating that we wouldn't be doing anything at our desks that wasn't work. Swell, there goes my time to interact with my friends during the drudgery. There goes the chance to call my freelance boss during the day. There goes the eight hours of my day that were partially bearable thanks to clever-cleverland.
It was at that moment when I realized that if I wasn't going to work on my own creative work, I was going to grow up to be an insurance liaison with nothing to her credit but the ability to listen for an hour every day to her family's crises. And I want more than that. I am capable. I deserve.
It was that night that I started writing Yoga for Fat Girls again. I'd taken a break. I'm too tired! I'd say. There's that great thing on TV! There's delicious procrastination to be had for dinner, and boy am I hungry for what the fast-food Internet has to offer. Or, if I was being honest, the excuses got less tangible. Who will read it? What if it's crap? What if I create it and nobody will acknowledge it?
But somehow, all of the mumblejumble that had been stopping me... it floated away, and I've basically been writing for three hours a night, four nights a week. It got me on a path that has helped me deal with the fragments in my head a bit better. Sweet, supportive Tom had long been suggesting we attempt a creative recovery program called "The Artist's Way," and we finally buckled down and started it. We are to write three pages of streaming-conscious journaling every morning before anything else. It helps me dump. It helps me process. It inspires me to more. And we get to answer fun questions like "describe your childhood bedroom." and tasks like "find something that makes you happy and put it in your current bedroom." I like the program very much, and if anybody is interested in joining us, we'd love to talk about it.
And the screenplay? It nears completion bit by bit, and I hope to have a reading of it within the year so that I can hear the words out loud. I'd love for any of you to come, when I do.
It's still a daily struggle, this life. There are supportive friends who've eeked their way into my hiding spot so now it feels a little more like a game of sardines than hide-and-seek. And I appreciate them all more than I can ever express. But I feel like coming out to play again. It may not be as often it once was. It may be tempered with departure for parts unknown in my creative brain, since the nightly writing requires much time and energy.
But, really, when I realized that my still-waters boyfriend was posting her more than I am, I knew that it was time for a nice game of freeze tag.
You're it.
This has, among other things, given me some time to process what is going on in my little slice of the planet. Like anyone breathing, I meet challenges. That's not special. That's just life. But I stopped talking about mine, here, for awhile, because even my closest, my bosom, my ten-years-and-going-strong pals met me with blank looks, asking how in the world I was holding my head up. Because the more I told people about them, the more I actually wondered how that head wasn't cocked permanently to the side.
OK, so it's cocked to the side a lot. But it's up, in a matter of speaking.
Partly, this foray into lurkdom -- complete removal, really-- has been an effort to keep my Shi'ite together. Partly, I'm not one to really draw attention to myself in this venue, or to my problems when I know that the lot of the LoT has problems of their own. Partly, it is more of a sit-and-hold-my-hand-as-I'm-telling-you story that didn't feel quite right in a forum that grows ever more public. And if my family stumbled upon their nitty-gritty details on the internet, I know it would hurt them. At times when a family is broken in pieces -- and each member, in turn, is a stained-glass window of themselves-- one needs to smooth the edges of their words to each other. Use soft language: Communal. Soothe. Breathe. Empathize.
It's a long story, really, but I'll give you the gist. It involves my mother, ever sicker, reaching the point in her physical and spiritual spiral coin-bank where the penny isn't looping around in grand, slow swoops anymore, but is instead in the process of very tightly, very quickly dropping into the black abyss at the bottom. My father unable to stop her from slipping away. Add in some bizarre and unpleasant things happening to my siblings and their brood, and you are stuck watching a collection of people wishing they could help each other when they can't even help themselves anymore.
Around the same time that this hit a crescendo to fortissimo, at work we were all required to sign a document stating that we wouldn't be doing anything at our desks that wasn't work. Swell, there goes my time to interact with my friends during the drudgery. There goes the chance to call my freelance boss during the day. There goes the eight hours of my day that were partially bearable thanks to clever-cleverland.
It was at that moment when I realized that if I wasn't going to work on my own creative work, I was going to grow up to be an insurance liaison with nothing to her credit but the ability to listen for an hour every day to her family's crises. And I want more than that. I am capable. I deserve.
It was that night that I started writing Yoga for Fat Girls again. I'd taken a break. I'm too tired! I'd say. There's that great thing on TV! There's delicious procrastination to be had for dinner, and boy am I hungry for what the fast-food Internet has to offer. Or, if I was being honest, the excuses got less tangible. Who will read it? What if it's crap? What if I create it and nobody will acknowledge it?
But somehow, all of the mumblejumble that had been stopping me... it floated away, and I've basically been writing for three hours a night, four nights a week. It got me on a path that has helped me deal with the fragments in my head a bit better. Sweet, supportive Tom had long been suggesting we attempt a creative recovery program called "The Artist's Way," and we finally buckled down and started it. We are to write three pages of streaming-conscious journaling every morning before anything else. It helps me dump. It helps me process. It inspires me to more. And we get to answer fun questions like "describe your childhood bedroom." and tasks like "find something that makes you happy and put it in your current bedroom." I like the program very much, and if anybody is interested in joining us, we'd love to talk about it.
And the screenplay? It nears completion bit by bit, and I hope to have a reading of it within the year so that I can hear the words out loud. I'd love for any of you to come, when I do.
It's still a daily struggle, this life. There are supportive friends who've eeked their way into my hiding spot so now it feels a little more like a game of sardines than hide-and-seek. And I appreciate them all more than I can ever express. But I feel like coming out to play again. It may not be as often it once was. It may be tempered with departure for parts unknown in my creative brain, since the nightly writing requires much time and energy.
But, really, when I realized that my still-waters boyfriend was posting her more than I am, I knew that it was time for a nice game of freeze tag.
You're it.