I've been feeling pretty whacko as of late. Not in a "must be the humidity" kind of way, nor just nicotine withdrawal from my weekly drink-and-smoke binge, which inevitably takes up not just a five-hour chunk of time at a bar, but the entirety of the next full day, recuperating, sure of an impending stroke. No, this is Certifiable Whackoville. Stamp the passport, whir-click of the turnstyle, WELCOME TO PLANET X. There is a morbid fear inside me at the moment, a valid paralysis, at the prospect that I could actually lose my fucking gourd over a 13-year-old burglar. It. Is. So. Irritating. I can physically feel my neurons arguing with each other over which paranoid thought to think first. Did you quadruple-check the windows?
No! Grab a butcher knife and investigate "gunshots" which are, in reality, the revelry of all those children in the neighborhood you were so gung ho about, CELEBRATING A FUCKING HOLIDAY!
Really, it's that out of hand. Yesterday, I found myself saying the words, "Give me valium." Not in many, many years have I actually pondered the healing attributes of heavy barbituates. The good thing about all of this is that, hey! I'm writing! And the bad, of course, is that anyone reading can get a first-hand glimpse of the real scoop on creativity and place your bets. Gregory, so far (knocking on wood), is so far ahead of the pack I can barely see the bottoms of his green sneakers, by, a) wagering on the underdog (me), and b) smacking a 30-year mortgage down on the table that says, "Yes! I will live with this crazy person! AND I WILL LIKE IT!" Take that, Insanity!
I learned yesterday on Whaddya Know? With Michael Feldman on NPR that a poet can add ten years (or was it five?) to her life expectancy if she switches from writing poetry to non-fiction. Duly noted.
All of this has led to some detective work on my part, trying to figure out what it is exactly that has been driving me batshit crazy for the last few weeks so that I can plan an attack. My list of possible suspects thus far is as follows (note: this entire entry is part of the weeding process and if you're exhausted reading it, I don't blame you - have a cup of tea! find a newspaper! take a walk! carry on, then, carry on...):
1. Maddie is home from school for the summer and I have made ZERO time for myself thus far to write, play music, relax, etc.
2. What's more stressful than a new baby? One that's OF A DIFFERENT SPECIES. An alien baby. A 35-pound, drooling, furry, sharp-toothed, alien barking baby WHO ONLY BARKS AT OTHER FURRY, SHARP-TOOTHED MEMBERS OF ITS PACK.
3. My partner is in the midst of our own private Homeland Security development, making him less available to coax his girlfriend out of the cabinet during one of my many daily system overloads. God bless you, Gregory, for keeping your shit together.
4. I'm due for an annual exam, which always, at some point or another pre-exam, convinces me I Have Cancer, not to mention gives me the willies, heebie-jeebies and such, at the prospect of a stranger shoving sharp metallic objects into my holiest of holies.
5. I'm one week off of birth control. Hello, unstable estrogen levels!
(note: maybe the only reason I haven't required mood stabilizers in so many years is because estrogen has done the trick? Hm. Talk amongst yerselves.)
6. My childhood home is steadily creeping its way into the arms of another, as yet unknown, inhabitant.
7. Maddie is now on vacation until next Sunday - Gone Fishin'! No, Really! - waaaaay up north where there are no cellphone towers and thus no communication. I feel safe with her up there - Yoopers don't kill people; they hunt deer. Milwaukeeans kill people, and they HIDE THE BODIES up north. - knowing her chances are much higher of FINDING a body rather than BEING the body, but the resulting silence around here is creating way too much space for my willies to jump around in.
8. IT'S FUCKING MUGGY.
9. It's summertime, the time of year I dread, when physical comfort can only be achieved by wearing as little clothing as possible. Such exposure makes me highly uncomfortable, leaving me with a decision to make: cover myself and sweat it out, or shut up and deal with the skinny and have a fucking drink.
10. I'm an almost 30 years old American waitress - STILL - who spends more money at Target than I do helping other people.
That pretty much covers it.
Read the Tao te Ching.
Re-record the inner tapes. Make changes where necessary.
Drink water.
Eat when hungry.
Shit when full.
Create. Write. PURGE.
Be still.
DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT.
The answer to the question of what is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything? is 42, bunnies don't lay eggs; chickens do, and if you're lost the best thing to do is to stay calm, exactly where you are.
Funny how what they don't tell you is that staying calm, exactly where you are, is also precisely the most difficult thing any human being can accomplish. Anyone. Anytime. Anywhere.
Stop guilting yourself. You would have made a great Catholic, but you're not. So mind the minefields, speak softly and carry a big stick, do your Pilates, let your body do its job and stop hassling it about it, get old, go crazy, reload, and know that GodWhatever has already given you what you need: shelter, food, a family. And they're not going anywhere. With or without documentation.
See? Feeling better already, aren't we? I don't know what your problem was.