Last night was, hands-down, the best night I have had in a long while.
Dan and I went to see Rusted Root at the Aladdin Theater in town and had so much fun. Real fun! With laughing! and dancing! and no sign of the irritable and melancholic basket-case that has been haunting my person.
The paradigm shift started that afternoon when I decided to paint my nails. I never ever paint my nails, but I was inspired by the promise of a night on the town to put on some deep dark extra-shiny blue polish. The process of getting the polish on was a bit of a disaster (man I suck at manicures), but the results were transformative. Suddenly I was bad-ass and confident. Thank you, Sally Hansen.
Dan and I had dinner before the show and talked like friends talk. This should not be remarkable, but it is. Instead of fretting about our financial situation, we fantasized about how great it would be if we could just happen to come into an inheritance sometime very soon (sorry, g-mas). Instead of kvetching, we shot the shit and laughed. I could tell the night was going well when I started making snarky remarks about people's outfits. I can be a relentless wardrobe snarker. It is one of my best and worst qualities. However, it takes a certain amount of energy and interest in others to actually put the snark into action. The fact that I had that energy and interest last night was refreshing, and the dude with the faux-rasta beret and the chick with the bleach writing on her jeans provided the perfect entry level material for de-icing my considerable skills.
As soon as the show started, I was at the stage - front and center. I was there to dance. I've been a fan of Rusted Root's for 17 years and they are hands-down, my favorite band to see perform live. Losing myself in their music is my best medicine. Holy shit did I dance. Killed it. Had lengthy periods of "chi dancing", which is when my brain disengages from the process and the music flows through me like love. And I didn't hold back for fear of being laughed at by other people. I had the confidence of 100 Baryshnikovs going on in my little 2X2 square of dance floor. However, I can't say I was a complete island of self-contentedness. I did find myself wondering if the band noticed me. If they appreciated both the joy that their music inspired and the skill with which I transformed that joy into movement. The performer in me wanted to be recognized by the performers on stage.
At the end of the set, the lead singer tossed his guitar pick right toward me. It took a bounce and hit the floor between me and the guy next to me. I paused. I wanted it, but in the way that someone who is too cool to want it would want it. The guy picked it up and said, "its yours". "Thanks", I said, and I took it from him. It is my first piece of stage swag, and I'll keep it somewhere special. Not because it was touched by a rock star, but because it represents a night where I was recognized for being me. I'll remember how that felt most of all.
The last song they played was "Beautiful People", and I cried. Not crazy-hysterical tears, but tears of healing, of longing, and of gratitude.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Trip
Hot Damn.
Going on one week paxil-free now and as expected its been quite a trip. Contrary to my expectations, though, it hasn't just been a week of hell. There have been some bright spots along the way intermingled with mind-warping weirdness.
Here are a few highlights:
Saturday morning was glorious here in Portland. Bright blue sky, amazing foliage and the perfect amount of fall chill in the air. I took myself out on a walk up one of my favorite trails nearby. I used to walk this trail every day before we had kids. Me and the dogs, or me and Dan and the dogs. I walked it a lot with Minna too, when she was little enough to ride in the carrier, but since then the visits have been few and far between. As I was walking I tried to calm my head and take in the scenery. For a while I was doing OK, feeling kinda foggy, but not too bad. And then the voices started. Actually, one voice. My voice. My voice from about 5 years ago. I can't really explain this without sounding even loonier than I actually am, but suffice to say that hearing me talking to me but knowing that the me that was talking to the me that was listening was somehow dredged up from my memories of years past gave me chills.
Saturday afternoon I needed a little alone time to chill out, so I headed to the studio to distract my brain with some TV. I flipped around and ended up on the cooking channel half-way into an episode of "Down Home With the Neelys". A few minutes later, I was sobbing, bawling, gasping for air. Totally overwrought by the loving banter between Pat and Gina Neely. She looooooooves the way he chops shallots- you better recognize! and he has never met a woman who makes better shramps. It was all too fucking much for my faulty wires to handle. Ridiculous.
By Saturday evening, I was feeling good. So good I decided it would be a great idea to pack up the family and head to The Old (or is it Ye Olde?) Spaghetti Factory. What the what? If you know me, you know that I think the Spag Factory is where good dining goes to die. Normally I consider the Spag Factory to the be restaurant equivalent of public pools. Ew. But on this night, I was seeing nothing but positives. Its cheap (and we broke), Pasta! (one of the few things both kids will eat without a fight), and trashy (both kids were in dirty sweats and slippers and I had no intention of changing them before heading out). When I put this suggestion to Dan, he paused and said....Spaghetti Factory? Huh. You must be trippin'. But he knew better than to stand in the way of my big idea, so off we went.
The SF did not disappoint. It is trashtastic. People fucking everywhere. Amazing that a place so humongous, yet shitty, was teeming with people willing to suck it up for the 30-40 minute wait just to get some-o-dat Manager's Special in their face. We got our beeper and headed up to the "Kids Korner" to wait. Any time the C in Corner is replaced with a K, you know you are in for a treat. The Kids Korner consisted of, literally, a korner filled with video games. The one in the back was our kids' favorite. For 50 cents a mechanical crane type device moved back and forth with accompanying sound effects that evoked images of a dinosaur trying to push out a hard poo. At some point it stopped and scooped up about 2 cents worth of crappy candy and dropped it in the chute. "A winner every time" the sign said. Fifty cents for a crappy pack of smarties? Winner!
I had no quarters so the kids stood with their little noses pressed up against the glass tank for about 20 minutes watching other kids "play" the game. Eventually, their tactic paid off and each one of them received a candy donation from another parent (who was probably cursing me for being so goddamn cheap). Free fun size Skittles and Nerds. Winner!
The food was crap, but the kids were really really good and we actually had a pretty relaxing meal. Of course about 30 minutes after we got home I had to puke over the railing off our front deck. The Old Spaghetti Factory, where the food is cheap and the bulimia is free.
Going on one week paxil-free now and as expected its been quite a trip. Contrary to my expectations, though, it hasn't just been a week of hell. There have been some bright spots along the way intermingled with mind-warping weirdness.
Here are a few highlights:
Saturday morning was glorious here in Portland. Bright blue sky, amazing foliage and the perfect amount of fall chill in the air. I took myself out on a walk up one of my favorite trails nearby. I used to walk this trail every day before we had kids. Me and the dogs, or me and Dan and the dogs. I walked it a lot with Minna too, when she was little enough to ride in the carrier, but since then the visits have been few and far between. As I was walking I tried to calm my head and take in the scenery. For a while I was doing OK, feeling kinda foggy, but not too bad. And then the voices started. Actually, one voice. My voice. My voice from about 5 years ago. I can't really explain this without sounding even loonier than I actually am, but suffice to say that hearing me talking to me but knowing that the me that was talking to the me that was listening was somehow dredged up from my memories of years past gave me chills.
Saturday afternoon I needed a little alone time to chill out, so I headed to the studio to distract my brain with some TV. I flipped around and ended up on the cooking channel half-way into an episode of "Down Home With the Neelys". A few minutes later, I was sobbing, bawling, gasping for air. Totally overwrought by the loving banter between Pat and Gina Neely. She looooooooves the way he chops shallots- you better recognize! and he has never met a woman who makes better shramps. It was all too fucking much for my faulty wires to handle. Ridiculous.
By Saturday evening, I was feeling good. So good I decided it would be a great idea to pack up the family and head to The Old (or is it Ye Olde?) Spaghetti Factory. What the what? If you know me, you know that I think the Spag Factory is where good dining goes to die. Normally I consider the Spag Factory to the be restaurant equivalent of public pools. Ew. But on this night, I was seeing nothing but positives. Its cheap (and we broke), Pasta! (one of the few things both kids will eat without a fight), and trashy (both kids were in dirty sweats and slippers and I had no intention of changing them before heading out). When I put this suggestion to Dan, he paused and said....Spaghetti Factory? Huh. You must be trippin'. But he knew better than to stand in the way of my big idea, so off we went.
The SF did not disappoint. It is trashtastic. People fucking everywhere. Amazing that a place so humongous, yet shitty, was teeming with people willing to suck it up for the 30-40 minute wait just to get some-o-dat Manager's Special in their face. We got our beeper and headed up to the "Kids Korner" to wait. Any time the C in Corner is replaced with a K, you know you are in for a treat. The Kids Korner consisted of, literally, a korner filled with video games. The one in the back was our kids' favorite. For 50 cents a mechanical crane type device moved back and forth with accompanying sound effects that evoked images of a dinosaur trying to push out a hard poo. At some point it stopped and scooped up about 2 cents worth of crappy candy and dropped it in the chute. "A winner every time" the sign said. Fifty cents for a crappy pack of smarties? Winner!
I had no quarters so the kids stood with their little noses pressed up against the glass tank for about 20 minutes watching other kids "play" the game. Eventually, their tactic paid off and each one of them received a candy donation from another parent (who was probably cursing me for being so goddamn cheap). Free fun size Skittles and Nerds. Winner!
The food was crap, but the kids were really really good and we actually had a pretty relaxing meal. Of course about 30 minutes after we got home I had to puke over the railing off our front deck. The Old Spaghetti Factory, where the food is cheap and the bulimia is free.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Paxilated
Things are getting wormy around here.
I'm in the final throes of a long wean off Paxil, the SSRI I started when Kelan was an infant. Even with the very gradual step-down in dosage over the course of the past 5 months, taking that final step off the good-times train is a motherfucker.
There is the nausea and the headaches and the sweating and the chills.
There is the crying and the irritability and the mood swings and the anxiety.
There's the "holy shit I'm losing my fucking mind" factor, generally attributed to the hallucinations, both visual and aural. I've heard Kelan calling for me when I knew for a fact he was not home and I've seen faces, scary faces, in the walls.
There is the crushing self-doubt. The inability to deal with sensory input and the loss of social skills. I struggle to look people in the eye, and if I do, it is pretty likely that I will say something totally lame because I feel like my brain is not attached to my body when I'm trying to come up with polite conversation.
My personal favorite are the "brain zaps" (this is the technical term), which are essentially electrical shocks going through the brain. I can feel them and I can hear them. Its the brain's way of saying "whatthefuckisgoingon" while trying to adjust to the change in neurotransmitter levels brought upon by the wean. They are related to seizures, but not considered dangerous in and of themselves.
The best way to quit this bitch is to couple the withdrawal with a full intestinal and liver cleanse. So I've given up coffee, sugar, ibuprofen and booze (minus an occasional glass of vino, because 'holy shit I'm losing my fucking mind') and am taking handfuls of nasty-ass herbs many times a day.
All this to try and get my groove back. Hope it works. It has to. Otherwise, hook me up with some fuzzy slippers and shuffle me off to the nut house because I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like to be insane.
I'm in the final throes of a long wean off Paxil, the SSRI I started when Kelan was an infant. Even with the very gradual step-down in dosage over the course of the past 5 months, taking that final step off the good-times train is a motherfucker.
There is the nausea and the headaches and the sweating and the chills.
There is the crying and the irritability and the mood swings and the anxiety.
There's the "holy shit I'm losing my fucking mind" factor, generally attributed to the hallucinations, both visual and aural. I've heard Kelan calling for me when I knew for a fact he was not home and I've seen faces, scary faces, in the walls.
There is the crushing self-doubt. The inability to deal with sensory input and the loss of social skills. I struggle to look people in the eye, and if I do, it is pretty likely that I will say something totally lame because I feel like my brain is not attached to my body when I'm trying to come up with polite conversation.
My personal favorite are the "brain zaps" (this is the technical term), which are essentially electrical shocks going through the brain. I can feel them and I can hear them. Its the brain's way of saying "whatthefuckisgoingon" while trying to adjust to the change in neurotransmitter levels brought upon by the wean. They are related to seizures, but not considered dangerous in and of themselves.
The best way to quit this bitch is to couple the withdrawal with a full intestinal and liver cleanse. So I've given up coffee, sugar, ibuprofen and booze (minus an occasional glass of vino, because 'holy shit I'm losing my fucking mind') and am taking handfuls of nasty-ass herbs many times a day.
All this to try and get my groove back. Hope it works. It has to. Otherwise, hook me up with some fuzzy slippers and shuffle me off to the nut house because I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like to be insane.
I am Balloon Animals, I am Cat Gut
When I close my eyes and try to put words to the feelings I am feeling this is what comes up:
I am cat gut. Strung out and stretched thin.
Invisible objects hurtle toward me.
Some strike. Sending vibrations that start deep in my belly rising like electricity to my heart and brain.
Some sail through the gaps. I can't seem to swing to meet them.
Tension and absence.
I am balloon animals. Silly, frivolous, garish.
Wear me on your head. You like me. I make you happy.
Put me down and move on. I slowly leak and disappear.
Pathetic latex exoskeleton.
Insubstantial glee.
I am cat gut. Strung out and stretched thin.
Invisible objects hurtle toward me.
Some strike. Sending vibrations that start deep in my belly rising like electricity to my heart and brain.
Some sail through the gaps. I can't seem to swing to meet them.
Tension and absence.
I am balloon animals. Silly, frivolous, garish.
Wear me on your head. You like me. I make you happy.
Put me down and move on. I slowly leak and disappear.
Pathetic latex exoskeleton.
Insubstantial glee.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
All the things
I'm finding myself with a bit of a split persona these days. Sometimes I'm giddily happy with the choices I've made and the life I'm living, while other times I'm sick with doubt and mournful of opportunities lost.
Do I smell the stank of a mid-life crisis wafting my way? Is this kind of reflection and dissonance going to lead me straight to the plastic surgeon/BMW dealership/Tahiti?
All the things I am and all the things I am not are playing air hockey in my head and heart. Back and forth, whoosh. crack. goal.
These years have been tough. These mothering years. Mothering mothering Smothering. Across from where I sit are two gallery quality images of the most gorgeous children you will ever meet. Deep eyes. Electric smiles. These images in my house are like a monument to the work I do each day. I don't hang the bullshit on the wall. The stubborn battles over shoes and waffles that threaten to strip me of my last shreds of sanity and patience on the daily. I keep that noise backstage as best I can.
What if someone else fought those battles? What if I were off designing plus-size swimwear, creating neotenous ceramic figurines coveted by mid-western housewives, raising grass-fed beef and selling it over the internet? Whatever it was, you know it would be rad. Different. Special. Right? Otherwise, what would be the point of these fantasies of all the things that could be, but are not? I'm not going to get myself in a spiral of self-doubt over your average work alternative, because the only possible alternative to the life I live is one that reeks with excellence, no? This is the shit that is crazy making. To on some fundamental level believe that I am better than what I live.
The accumulations of a life. A degree that is concomitantly obscure and timely, a marriage that has both deep roots and shaky limbs, two children that are my face in the world. Dan once told me that the reason they shine so brightly is because they are me. They are all the things I am not AND all the things I am.
When the dust settles, I'll have to see what is left and go from there.
Do I smell the stank of a mid-life crisis wafting my way? Is this kind of reflection and dissonance going to lead me straight to the plastic surgeon/BMW dealership/Tahiti?
All the things I am and all the things I am not are playing air hockey in my head and heart. Back and forth, whoosh. crack. goal.
These years have been tough. These mothering years. Mothering mothering Smothering. Across from where I sit are two gallery quality images of the most gorgeous children you will ever meet. Deep eyes. Electric smiles. These images in my house are like a monument to the work I do each day. I don't hang the bullshit on the wall. The stubborn battles over shoes and waffles that threaten to strip me of my last shreds of sanity and patience on the daily. I keep that noise backstage as best I can.
What if someone else fought those battles? What if I were off designing plus-size swimwear, creating neotenous ceramic figurines coveted by mid-western housewives, raising grass-fed beef and selling it over the internet? Whatever it was, you know it would be rad. Different. Special. Right? Otherwise, what would be the point of these fantasies of all the things that could be, but are not? I'm not going to get myself in a spiral of self-doubt over your average work alternative, because the only possible alternative to the life I live is one that reeks with excellence, no? This is the shit that is crazy making. To on some fundamental level believe that I am better than what I live.
The accumulations of a life. A degree that is concomitantly obscure and timely, a marriage that has both deep roots and shaky limbs, two children that are my face in the world. Dan once told me that the reason they shine so brightly is because they are me. They are all the things I am not AND all the things I am.
When the dust settles, I'll have to see what is left and go from there.
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