me + boardwalk + camera =

rainy day lament

I keep having these dreams where I'm cleaning out my grandparents house. This is odd, since they sold it and moved out over a year ago. I have yet to see the old house since they've moved away, though. I don't really want to see it.

That house represents one of the very few places I considered safe when I was child. The thought that they don't live there anymore is heartbreaking. When I've been in town, I've made sure to not drive by it. The thought of someone else being in there, hanging all their stuff around, the thought of someone living there...not taking care of the roses my grandpa slaved over for years...his pride and joy....

I hate the thought of anyone being in there. I don't care who they are. I just want to throw a fit at the thought of it. I'm crying right now just thinking about it.

In the dreams, I'm at the house, packing up their stuff so the new people can move in. In one dream the lady who was moving in called me to ask me to hurry it up. I was overwhelmed by how much stuff was there still and yet thrilled at every single moment of going through it.

In particular I remember the joy of going through my grandmas armoire, the make up, the boxes of jewelry. I would spend hours doing that when I was a child, and being there in the dream was like being home, but the home I never really felt I had. I guess their house was the place that felt like home to me.

I remember the fancy little soaps on the shelf in the bathroom and the way they smelled. The stacks of Readers Digest that sat on the shelf that my grandpa loves to read. Both my brother and I grew addicted to reading them, too. Now even my son loves reading them. It feels so strange to see him jump when the new issue comes out, and he takes them away to his room to read, as if it were some delicious treat best enjoyed privately, savored and devoured completely.

The smell of my grandma's perfume chokes me up, no matter where I am. It's something by Estee Lauder, that's all I know. She always was a combination of that perfume and cigarette smoke, a combination I've grown to love more than any other smell. When she would send me care boxes I would just sit there and smell the inside of the box for a long time, even leaving it closed, just to savor the smell of her from so many miles away.

In the dreams, I go through their fridge, thinking of how much great food is still in there, how I'm going to take it over to their new house and make them some fabulous meals, maybe freeze some for them to eat later. Fried pork chops, maybe a meatloaf, a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup. Their fridge was always full of food, and always green grapes. There was always some bacon on the counter from when my grandma made it from that morning. She was a fan of Jiffy peanut butter, although I never knew what kind of bizarre jelly I might find. She always had a little crockery jar with my favorite gum (grape Bubble Yum) in it.

She calls margarine "Oleo" and Cool Whip "lick gob". She pronounces wash with an R ("warsh"). They always had a fridge in the basement full of pop (although years of living in the South has got me saying "soda" now).

Everything about their house said comfort to me, from the wacky inventions my grandpa made in the backyard to outsmart the squirrels, to the little bit of pavement where my brother and my baby footprints still are.

Now they live in a very snazzy assisted living place. It's like an apartment complex, but nurses nearby at a moments notice. It's not like a old folks home, it doesn't smell like that, it's very nice. They have exercise rooms and a lovely banquet room for the noon meal, served there. There's all kinds of activities and stuff to do, but my grandma hates it. Hates it. Hates it.

It's not her home. And I understand.

I've been trying to cheer her up, telling her about all the pranks she can pull on people, shooting them out of her third floor window with a squirt gun, leaving out whoopie cushions, fake dog poo, stuff like that. I told her I was going to send her the nudey playing cards I got for my bachelorette party and see if some of the gals wanted to join her for a game of poker.

I mean, I totally understand it. Which is what I told her, "Your stuck here now, and I know you hate it, so you can only make the best of it." She told me, "I think I would rather be dead than live here." I just nodded solemnly. She looked at me, frantic to make me understand, "I mean it! I think I'd be better off dead!" All I could say was, "I know, Grandma. I know."

Part of the depression is that she can't smoke or drink a fifth of whiskey for lunch anymore, due to medical issues. That's part of it. The other part is that the woman has never lived in an apartment. Ever. As far as she's concerned, all these people are living in HER house. She has to be nice to them. Niceities are not her forte.

So I tell her it's time to be a prankster. She's 86 years old, how much longer does she think she has to wait to be able to get away with whatever the hell she wants to? It's time to start pinching the waiters asses and giving people sticks of gum that dyes their mouths blue. If there was ever a time to buy a slingshot and use it, now's the time. "Think of them all as stupid lab rats for your vast experiments!" I explain, and she laughs, but with a note of sadness. I think about how much fun she and I would have if I lived nearby and it breaks my heart. I am seven hundred miles away.

I would take her gambling (the woman loves to gamble). I would leave crazy notes in the elevator and tell her I did it. I would find out who the one bitchiest old bitty lived there (other than MY grandma, of course) and have a porn mag delivered to her apartment, or maybe a singing telegram, delivered by a man in bad drag. During lunch.

~sigh~

But I am here. Having strange dreams. Dreams where I have to empty their house, but there's a leak in the ceiling and part of the living room floor is ruined, and I step on it and fall through to the basement. Dreams where I go into the bedroom and there is a rabid raccoon under then bed, and then a wolverine. I make friends with them, and they become my pets. I tell the lady that wants to move it that she'll just have to live with them, since they come with the house. I dream that I'm going through all kinds of crazy and wonderful artwork that my grandma collected over the years, and picking which ones I want to keep.

In reality, she has collected some gems. When my grandpa was in the army, he would bring her and send her back things from the places he went. I have, in my house right now, quite a few of the things he sent her while he was off fighting in the Korean War.

I treasure them more than anything else I own. His gold army bracelet. The cedar chest that sat in the attic, built in 1932, I still have the warranty papers (they expired in 1938 or so). The Chinese vase, the red colored blown glass decanter for Scotch or something. When we went to visit, my grandpa went ga-ga for Mr. Wonderful, and gave him a bunch of his old tools he couldn't use anymore, and a pile of his tie tacks and cufflinks. My dear hubby got all choked up and still does when he looks at them (and wears them). I have her old silk scarves. Her fancy elbow length gloves.

Why these dreams, and why now? I wake up so emotional, and then so distraught.

You know, until now I had never really understood that saying, "You can never go back home." I always thought, "Who the hell would want to?" but now I get it.

It's a very sad feeling.

yesterday was just one of those days

Dilbert being me, the boss being my hormones.

sleeeeeeeeeep

I'm overjoyed to report that I am sleeping again. The doctors put me back on Lunesta and even swore to fight my insurance company to pay for it.
I like her. My shrink, I mean.
She gets it.

It's weird, having my brain back. There's so many thoughts flooding through me I can't possibly keep up and blog them all, but it's glorious, just the same. I've spent the last few weeks trudging through every day, depressed as shit and waiting for yet another day to pass, another sleepless night, another sun to rise, just to do it all again.

I've felt like a fucking zombie.


(Note to self: Do not perform a google image search for zombies again. You are a wuss. Remember that.)

I feel so serene by comparison, so quick to laugh and smiley all the time....ahhhh. Sleep, I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Really. I wake up cuddled up in the pillow, which once again feels like the fluffy downy pile of smoosh that it is, not like the hideous rock I've been laying my head on for weeks. When I do wake up, there is no sudden rush of adrenaline and anxiety, just an awareness of being awake and then a gentle submission to sleep. Our bed feels so comfy again, not some medieval torture device meant to make me thrash all night and wake up feeling like an army of rabid Oompa Loompas took turns beating the crap out of me.

Sleep, I love you.

liar liar Lucy butt

A comment on my sex blog got me to thinking...Lucy was guilty of false advertising. One, she was a bitch, and usually had her own agenda tied up with her advice, and two, she never offered psychiatric help. Psychological, in her own hideous way, perhaps, but did she ever once write Charlie Brown a script for Prozac?

Talk about a blockhead...

The experience of studying Zen is like hiding your body in fire: even if you have iron guts and a brass heart, here they will surely melt and flux.

-Chien-ju




Luminous is this mind, brightly shining, but it is colored by the attachments that visit it. This unlearned people do not really understand, and so do not cultivate the mind. Luminous is this mind, brightly shining, and it is free of the attachments that visit it. This the noble follower of the way really understands; so for them there is cultivation of the mind.

-Anguttara Nikaya

starry starry nights

spewing

I haven't been able to write much lately, because I've been depressed. As much as I like to avoid it and pretend it isn't there, sometimes the only way through it is to dive right in.

Fuck it. Here goes.

There's a lot going on it my head right now, and it's all congealed and tangled together. I keep trying to pull it apart, extract it somehow, but perhaps that isn't the way. Perhaps it IS all joined, one great tapestry of fucked up confusion. So this post will be a combination of childhood trauma, depression, sex and any other disturbing crap that spews out of my head. Any of you faint of heart move on, the Cure is blaring and the gloves are off.

I've spent the last hour reading "The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty" by Anne Rice, and felt more understood than I've felt lately. The humiliation, the dispute of ego and lust, desire and pain, it's a common theme for me lately.

First, the depression. I've had it as long as I can remember. Most people who know me know that I go through periods of seclusion, where I just seem to disappear for awhile. I do this for a reason- I can't be present. It's taxing to try, to try to pretend I'm having emotions I know I should feel, but can't.

That's the tricky part of depression I never see described on lists of depression traits. It's like living behind Saran Wrap, or maybe in Jell-o. Jell-o seems a bit too conducive, which depression is not. I feel as if I exist in a world devoid of genuine feeling. More precisely, I feel as if I live in a world devoid of specific feelings- joy, intimacy, love, happiness... I recognize situations that I should feel a certain way, but it's like suddenly being color blind, the emotion doesn't exist. I know what it SHOULD be, but it isn't. I know when something is funny, and I may even laugh, but it feels hollow inside. I hear myself laugh, but the joy isn't behind it.

What I am able to feel is limited to pain, anger, desperation, resentment, and apathy. Because of this, I find myself seeking out things that bring out these feelings. It's unconscious, but I want to FEEL SOMETHING. I lash out, I am a bitch, I'm touchy and pissed off. I lay in bed, waiting for the days to pass until I feel better. I pull away from people, to try to do as little damage as possible. I am so angry, because I know this is not who I am, but I am unable to do anything about it.

This time I suspect it is due in large part to my latest bout of insomnia. I don't do insomnia, because this is what happens. Each day that passes I am watching the color and joy bleed helplessly out of my sight. I know it's in my head somewhere, but I can't access it. It makes me so fucking frustrated, then so fucking tired. It's like fighting to swim upstream.

Fuck it. Let's go downstream.

I told my husband this morning I feel like the purest way for me to access my own rage would be to be shackled and sexually tormented until I was able to release my rage in it's purest and most blinding form. His eyes widened.

I know. I told him it wouldn't be possible for him to do this for me. It is too much to ask.

But somehow, I need some sort of way to both access and express my rage in a way that is safe. Obviously, being sexually abused my a stranger is not safe, and would only cause more trauma.

Why is sex entangled? I'm not sure. Is it because of being raped? I would imagine so. I didn't fight back. In the years that passed after the rape I allowed so many men to fuck me, when I didn't want them to. It's like I allowed myself to mentally rape myself afterwards, for years on end. Apathy. Resignation. An unwillingness to fight back.

I don't do anger well. I don't know how to express it without being overwhelmed by my own terror. When I get angry, it's a blinding fury. I immediately shut down, emotionally, physically, mentally. When I found out my sons father was cheating on me, I almost killed him. Literally. When I found out my last ex cheated on me, I screamed at him until he was (also literally) backed into a corner of the bedroom, curled up on the floor, while I emotionally shredded him. It was awful. And it was GLORIOUS.

Somewhere in there is my power, somewhere in there is my strength.

Why are they locked together with rage?

Last night I spent a while reading a book about anger. It's taken me months to get a few chapters through it, it's hard for me to read. It's hard to touch. It frightens me. Underneath my anger lies the real me. As Dmast said, it is not the act of rape that defines me. I am more than that. I am so much more than that.

Perhaps most importantly, underneath my anger lies my vulnerability.

The current chapter of the book I am reading discusses the inner child. I've been stuck trying to get through this one chapter for months. It says to imagine my inner child of actual childhood. Easier said than done.

I lay there, three Xanax deep, teddybear clutched to my chest, blankets pulled to my chin, my husbands leg comfortingly slung over mine as he read, and I closed my eyes to think about it. Who was I?

Before life shaped me, who was I? What kind of child was I? What did I put out into the world? How did the people around me respond to me? Why did they respond the way they did? And how does it all lead me to the present moment?

I have very few memories of childhood, surprisingly few. Most are unpleasant. Some are happy, playing with friends, that sort of thing.

I look back at pictures of myself as a child and I look so sweet and innocent, so happy and carefree. I don't look the way I remember feeling. So, I spent a good deal of time trying to pry open the box, and really remember.



It's like looking at a child, second person. I see a small girl, full of love and exuberance of life, creative, expressive, incredibly affectionate. Then I imagine my family life, my father a depressed wreckless alcoholic, my mother a cold broken hearted woman trying to deal with it, and how that must have affected me. My father, incapable of expressing true emotion, stuck in his own non conducive saran wrapped depression, my mother never being the affectionate type, trying to buck up and knuckle on, taking up the slack for his failures. My older brother, he was just as older brothers are, he picked on me. Not much help there. Most of the neighbor kids had some pretty fucked up families, too. I remember being sensitive to it when being in their houses. Their houses seemed weirder than mine, the vibe of tension tangible everywhere I went. My grandparents were alcoholics.

Where was anything to nourish a soul like me?

I spent most of my time outside, in trees, or inside, reading books and writing.

I suspect my family managed to squash any outward expression of optimism from me, unwittingly as it may have been. My brother bullied me, my dad wasn't even emotionally present, and my mother probably tried to toughen me up to make me better able to deal with a harsh environment.

While discussing all this with my husband this morning, he said, "I think you might resent your family for making you so passive that by the time the rape happened, you had no will to fight left."

It was like being struck by lightning, with no following thunderclap. I just blinked at him and said little. I couldn't speak, for how profoundly that hit me. I quickly changed the subject, as I'm prone to do when I just can't deal with something. I wanted to have time to digest that on my own, later.

The only person I'm really close with AT ALL in my family is my grandmother, and even that is bizarre. She is a homophobe, racist, old school alcoholic chain smoking bitch. Since her cancer last year, she no longer drinks or smokes. The difference between my grandmother and every other member of my family is that she is the only person I've ever felt supported me for who I was. She likes me for ME. And I truly believe she is the only one.

When we thought she was going to die last year I was beside myself. I felt like I was in danger of being orphaned, despite having the rest of my family alive.

What is it about her that is so different, besides her acceptance of me? Her anger. The woman has a razor tongue, and uses it with impunity. None shall be spared. Frankly, I worship her for that trait. It tends to horrify the rest of the family, because the woman can make a scene, one hell of a self righteous and indignant scene.

How I wish I could be more like her, in that respect.

She is never a victim.

If you cross her, you will be left feeling like the scratching post of a rabid lioness.

Me, I get angry and the rush of adrenaline fueled rage fills me with a red misty blindness. There is no doubt in my mind that it is due to years of suppression. How do I vent it? How do I access it while feeling safe to do so?

I've debated this for years. This is no new thought in my head. Hence, the apathy that floods me while I consider it. I'm tired of swimming upstream on this one, too. But to go with the flow of it is terrifying.

Since sex sets it off so easily, it seems an easy route. I often wonder what fuels my desire for domination and submission. It seems like perhaps I would be drawn more towards domination than submission. I have a theory, of course- this is a choice. Roleplaying submission allows me to act out a painful part of my life with someone I trust, and I can say no or stop the scene whenever I want.

When I was about twenty years old, I spent some serious time reading through rape therapy books and doing all kind of internal work to deal with it. It was enlightening, to say the least. When I tried to picture myself without the pain of it all, the image shocked me. I will never forget it; I saw myself opening a small treasure chest, and golden blinding light poured out of it, unheeded.

That is who I am.

On a side note, that was around the same time that I went to go see the movie Rob Roy. I wasn't aware there would be a rape scene in it, and that came as a horrible surprise. The woman who played that part nailed the expression- disassociation. I was so hideously traumatized by that scene that I actually stood up in the theater, unable to control myself, and screamed, "KILL HIM AGAIN!" when her husband killed her rapist at the end. No shit. I barely made it out to the car I was shaking so badly and had a nervous breakdown as soon as I closed the door.



I fear my anger.

And yet...I remain a willing captive of it. How do I break free?

I've been doing a lot these last few months, writing more and more of the stories of pain and resentment, trying to work my way out of this hole. I've done well. For a while there, I felt I was making some magnificent progress.

Darling Jack says it's the sleep deprivation, and I shouldn't feel so terrible for what I see as back sliding. And I do. But, he points out, I was this depressed before the doctors put me on Lunesta. It's an uphill battle, psychologically, my life. There are have been vast black periods where I moved forward sheerly on willpower alone. And while part of me would like to congratulate myself on being such a stoic little soldier, I know those times have done more damage, not healing.

Now I have Jack, and I am safer than ever before to examine the darkness within.

If only I knew the way.

For now, expect more outpouring of grief and anger and emotional vomiting. I'm so sick of poisoning myself.

closer....

insomnia

That about sums up how I feel, yessirree.

things in my cupboard that amuse me

paying assholes to kill you: A Bad Plan

Smoking.

Stop. No, seriously, stop.

I am not going to give you the usual "it's bad for you" and "the surgeon general is actually a cyborg but he's still got a point, you know" speeches you've come to expect. No. I'm going to pull off the gloves and tell you straight up:

If you give Big Tabacco companies any more money, ever, you are a stupid asshole.

Really. You are paying someone money to kill you. Not only are you paying someone to kill you (slowly, painfully, but you know that) but you're paying someone EVIL to kill you. Think. If you really want to inflict hurt upon yourself on a daily basis, there are dominatrix out there willing to perform this service for you, and the pleasure/pain/release thing would be far more enjoyable. You'll even smell better at the end, unless you're into some really weird kinky shit but hey, that's your thing. All I'm saying is your hard earned cash will stay out of the hands of the Evil Overlords and back into the hands of us normal everyday superheroes. You know, the ones who aren't puppeteering the government so they can cull more humans. Us. Come back to us. Look at your cigarrettes and see them for what they truly are: the mark of ignorant sheep.

You want to grow your own? Have at, I say. It's your body, defile it however you want. We all have our personal favorite defilements... (smiles, eyes glaze over and stares at the wall while grinning stupidly...)
At least your money isn't going to the evil empire...



Ok, just so we're clear here: I smoked for 15 years. 15 years! So don't have a fit about what a judgemental bitch I am and I don't know what I'm talking about. I quit while I was pregnant with my son and then my dumb ass actually starting again afterwards! Evil, I'm tellin' ya...

And then one day when my son was maybe 5, he looks at me and tells me when HE grows up, HE'S going to smoke cigarrettes just like me. What a hideous moment in a mothers life. What kind of explanation can you give that doesn't make you sound either like a hypocrite or a blundering moron?

And then it hit me: I'm paying these people to kill me. I'm paying them to leave my child motherless. And they don't care. As a matter of fact, as long as my child grows up to take my place as a smoker, they couldn't give a crap. And so the cycle continues.

And then...then I got MAD. But, addiction being as it is, I continued to smoke. And everytime I bought a pack I felt like a total jackass.

(me at the counter) Hi, I'd like a pack of smokes.
(guy at the counter) Ok, that'll be $3.75
(me) Here you go. Could you please send my money to the bastards that are killing me? Cause I'm a stupid asshole that keeps giving them money. Thanks. That'd be just great.

And within a week or two I was actually embarrassed to be seen smoking. Every time I stuck that smoke to my lips I just thought of how I must look: like a stupid asshole. A self-indulgent moron wallowing in my own weakness.

And that was when I quit.

It's been 4 years? More or less. When someone is smoking far away and I get a whiff of it it still smells good...but only from far away. And now when I see people standing outside their work, freezing in the cold so they can have a smoke, I can SEE the ball and chain. And I feel liberated.

Liberated.

coo coo kachoo haiku

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chanting feral cats
hunt with sharpened claws of death;
Jerry Springer show

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

denial is strong
"We're so in love!" she told me
smash! facedown on desk

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stare at the rat
seems to be dead on your head
your stinkin' mullet

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

crack headed haiku
it's so fun to amuse me
on a sunny day

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erica

(pulled from a previous blog)


>slowly the curtain parts to reveal moi standing on stage, lone spotlight.....silence falls on the crowd....I raise one arm to the ceiling and theatrically start singing, a cappella<

"Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiicaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa........"


>a long pause of silence for dramatic effect<

"Errrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa......."

>the lights fall, only to come back up on a full gospel choir in the background, curtains pulled back fully........the choir starts quietly, softly, building in crescendo until....<

"Erica! Ah ah ah ah ah ah Erica!"

>the orchestra and band kicks in with a rousing ass shaking jam that has people in the crowd swaying to the beat........the choir keeps up their incredibly melodic harmonies........and I raise up my top hat and start tap dancing.......then 75 tuxedoed chimpanzees flood the stage on unicycles, doing slow concentric circles while I continue my tap dancing<


"Errrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiicaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..............."

>the choir<

"Erica! Ah ah ah ah ah ah Erica! ERICA! ERICA!"

>a blast of fireworks somewhere high up in the rafters and suddenly a shaft of light and a winged angel appears, slowly spinning closer and closer to the stage....could it be.....is it.....<

"Errrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..........."

>the choir builds, builds, the chimps pedal faster, the crowd stares upward, wonderstruck.....I get down on to one knee, one arm raised upward to the angel slowly spinning down to grace me, stars twinkling in her eyes, her brand new latex sex kitten suit shimmering in the spotlight trained upon her mind numbing glory, as she slowly spins and touches lightly, gracefully on the stage next to me<

"Erica! Ah ah ah ah ah ah Erica! Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah Erica!"

>you gaze meaningfully into my eyes, I rise up to meet you, you pull a Twinkie out of thin air and cram in into my mouth, squishing Twinkie guts all over my face, while smiling lovingly at me....the chimpanzees go completely beserk and start humping each other, while the choir starts singing the Grease Lightning song from Grease and doing complicated hand jive moves amongst themselves....<

"I get the money you bet I get the money
With a fourspeed on the floor they'll be waiting at the door
You know it ain't no shit
We'll be getting lots of tit in Greased Lightnin'!

Go Greased Lightnin'
Your burning up the quarter mile
Greased Lightnin' Go Greased Lightnin'
Go Greased Lightnin'! "

>I hop on your back and we fly off over the crowd laughing, while I rain chunks of unchewed Twinkie-bits onto the heads of the gaping crowd below, which causes you to snort with laughter, and away we fly, with one last look back to the hand jiving choir and the humping chimps, unicycles forgotten, as the ceiling opens before us and we fly out into the sunset howling with laughter...<


Thanks for calling me yesterday. I was so sad and cranky when the phone rang. But it was you. And as I sat on the kitchen counter, happy as hell and burning peirogies, I thought about how much I love you.
And I do.
Hand jiving chimp humping twinkie stuffing love.
That's the GOOD stuff.

an overexposed me

baby steps, people, baby steps...

one picture is worth a thousand squeals

It's hard not to imagine it, isn't it?

If you cling to an idea as the inalterable truth, then when the truth does come in person and knock at your door, you will not be able to open the door and accept it.

-Udana Sutta

when words fail

I would tell you that I'm sorry, but I'm not. There was just no way to resist.

Wild Divine

The FedEx guy just delivered this to our door. Mr. Wonderful ordered it for us. All of us. He's so cool.

I shall report back when I know more. It looks fascinating.

well. that's that.

You Aren't Scary, You're Scared

Probably even scared to see how this quiz came out!

How Scary Are You?

tweek!

Because of the various ways in which insurance companies are run, my insurance company has decided it doesn't want to pay for my prescription for Lunesta (medication for insomnia). Instead, they want me to try a menagerie of other sleeping medications that are, how does one say...oh yes, cheaper.

Ok. I get it. It's business, whatever.

My problem with it is that it overlooks the basic facts of why my doctor put me on Lunesta in the first place: a life time history of insomnia. Lunesta is the only sleep medication that has been approved for long term use.

It's not that I can't fall asleep, I can: in the DAYTIME. I can nap like...well, like a cat. Long lazy naps in the sunfilled window, I'm all about it. But night...fuck. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, staring at the walls, staring at the back of my eyelids. I toss, turn, and damn if I don't end up sore just from thrashing about.

Tonight is the first night that I've tried Restoril. I've dreaded it. Why switch when I have the perfect solution? Well, because my perfect solution is $4 a pill, taken nightly, and my insurance refuses to pay for it until they think I've tried enough alternatives.

~sigh~

So, I took the maximum dose it said to take on the bottle, because I have no desire to go back to insomnia. Insomnia sucks ass, for those of you who have never experienced it. And over an hour later, my vision is blurry but that's it. That could be the Restoril or the fact that I just finished an entire book in a few hours, waiting to get tired...

I have posted oh so many a time about my insomnia before. It's vile, and it makes ME vile. For now, I'm just pissed off. I would like to be asleep. I would like to be cuddled up in bed next to my gorgeous husband, but instead I was just laying there thrashing about and keeping him up.

He has to go to work in the morning. I don't. I have the option of napping.

So, here I am. Fuck you, Restoril. I'm sure you work great for people who haven't been plagued with insomnia for 18 years (seems like it started at 13, but I could be wrong...) but for me, you aren't doing crapola.

On the other hand, having some quiet time alone in a dark house is nice. I always favored writing at night, because it was when I was always awake and alone anyway...

a day in my yard, in reverse

silly test that I don't disagree with

posies

I took pictures of some of my houseplants, and just feel like sharing, 'cause I'm like that and my camera ROCKS. Also, I just finished having the second half of a root canal done, and by golly if I don't feel like just plopping my ass down on the couch.
Click on them for the full picture.
Enjoy the eye candy.

I may just push right out of your screen

...but the picture is fifteen years old.

the journal chronicles

I recently wrote about the sheer amount of writing I did as a child. Last night, I decided to pull out a stack of journals dating from ages fifteen through nineteen.



Just for fun (and laziness) I decided I would post some, not by typing them out, but actually photographing the original pages and posting them, unedited.
So here's the first installment. This one is from the book on the top of the pile, and I'm guessing it was sophomore year of high school, age 15. I won't bother to explain any of them, because we all know that will just lead to an endless day of me typing to tell you the stories behind them...