Slave to the Rhythm

I’m unwinding.

My naturopath would like to take all the credit. He’s got me on a new remedy, one that’s supposed to nurture one’s faith. It’s called “Star-of-Bethlehem”. If fear is the opposite of faith, then it’s working. I’ve been less anxious over the past few weeks.

I’ve always had a rigid morning routine. Wake up at 6:30 am, shower, yoga, breakfast, dress, always in the same order, always on the same schedule.

While I was recovering from the flu, I couldn’t keep my schedule. I was too tired. I’d turn off my alarm clock and go back to sleep, then rush around trying to get out the door on time. Sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t. If I was a few minutes late for work, too bad, so sad. I don’t have a boss on site, so there was no one to chastise me. If I needed more time at the end of the day, I stayed late.

Now the flu is over, but I haven’t gone back to my morning schedule. I set my alarm for the latest time I can get away with getting up. Then I go to bed whenever I’m tired, and wake up when I’m ready to wake up, usually before the alarm goes off. (It’s a lot easier to get to bed on time now that I don’t have cable TV, hooking me in to a show that I simply MUST see the end of.)

I love being on this new non-schedule. It’s like sleeping in every morning. Sometimes I have to hustle to get out the door, but that’s OK. I’m so well-rested that I can deal with being a bit rushed.

I’ve been letting go of other things too, like making plans. I’ve always been the type to want to plan ahead in detail. What will I eat for dinner tomorrow night? What outfit am I going to wear tomorrow morning? I had it all set in my mind ahead of time. These days I’m more likely to wing it. Sometimes that means we end up eating odd dinners, from whatever we can find in the refrigerator, but whatever. I’m not picky.

I’ve even let go of my attachment to practicing the violin. Performance time has been postponed indefinitely. It’s a heck of an instrument to master. It requires muscles and body postures that are not used for any other purpose, therefore without constant practice I find I lose my ability to play well quite quickly.

Sleeping upwards of 9 hours per night requires that I spend less time doing things in my spare time. If I have to chose between calling my mom and practicing the violin, I’ll call my mom. Spending time with my husband, family, or friends vs. the violin? My loved ones win every time. Time relaxing with a movie vs. the violin? At this time, I’m choosing to relax. I like this new, less uptight self. I don’t want to get myself caught up in a project that’s going to re-activate my inner over-achiever.

I don’t want to get to the end of my life and realize that I spent too much time trying to get things done. Just like they say that no one, on their deathbed, ever regrets that they didn’t spend more time at the office, I doubt that anyone wishes they spent more time practicing violin. Maybe I’ll find time for it again at some point, but right now, I have other priorities.

Don't be a slave to your schedule. Be a slave to the rhythm.

(((HUGS)))

Thanks everybody for the love, support, and suggestions. It helps a lot to know that all y'all are out there, caring and sending me healing thoughts and prayers.

In answer to a couple of comments: I take a multivitamin with a B-complex every day, but it's not a "high" dose. 25 mg of each of the Big B's. It would be a good idea to add a little extra. Next time I'm out shopping I'll see if I can find an additional B complex take on top of the multi for the time being.

I have a couple of options if I'm desperate to sleep and not having any luck. I can take a herbal helper, or sometimes I'll go find Ken, who stays up late, and he'll mix me up a medicinal drink. I'm not even a social drinker, so it doesn't take much to unwind me. Booze works better and faster than the herbs, but for obvious reasons I don't want to overdo that route. Either option usually leaves me feeling much more drowsy than usual in the morning. Neither is much help if the insomnia comes at 3:30 am. I can't take a pill or a drink if I'm supposed to wake up and go to work in 3 hours.

As for other pharmaceutical options, I'm taking a "wait and see" approach. If there were such a thing as a short-term anti-depressant, I'd be thrilled to take it. The thing is, most of them take 4 - 6 months to kick in, and then they're hard to stop. I'm hoping that I can at least count on feeling better by 3 months from now! If I don't, well, whatever, I'd let them stick horse tranquilizers into my veins by that point.

I want to make it clear that while I have my dark moments, especially in the wee hours of the morning, I'm not just flopping down on the floor and giving myself over to despair. The horrible anxiety episodes tend to come at night. In the daytime, as long as I'm not ridiculously tired I can get myself dressed, put on makeup, and be almost normal.

Yesterday I went to church, which, while I have complained bitterly about some of the church politics here lately, was an uplifting, comforting experience. What I think about the church and what I feel in my heart while I'm there are often two very different stories.

Ken and I went for lunch at a favourite restaurant downtown. It's casual, cheap, healthy, and has a good view of a major intersection out the front and side windows, making for excellent people-watching. The University of Toronto Engineering frosh were up to some shenanigans on the street corner, making a lot of noise and hassling passers-by for donations to the Sick Children's hospital as part of their orientation/hazing. On our way out I dropped a Toonie into their collection hard-hat. All 12 or so students in the group pointed at me and chanted "This lady rocks! This lady rocks! This lady rocks!" which was the silliest thing that's happened to me in a long time. I mean that in a good way.

The weather was perfect. Blue skies, not too warm, the epitome of a lovely summer day. We were close enough to the Canadian National Exhibition fairgrounds that the jet planes from the air show flew over us as they looped back from their demonstration runs. For the next hour or so as we strolled along Queen St., at intervals the air would begin to tremble, then shake, then rip apart as yet another specimen of Canadian or American Air Force muscle burned a streak across the high, blue sky. Sometimes the planes were so close that we could see the details of their paint jobs as they tore overhead. Other times the entire world would fill with their vibrations, echoing off tall buildings and all around, but the planes themselves would be out of view behind a stand of trees or something, and the noise seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The air show is an end-of-summer ritual that always cheers me up. It's fun, it's predictable, and yet always exciting. I have been to see it from down at the fairgrounds, where you can hear announcements over a wobbly P.A. system describing what type of planes are being flown and by whom, but it's actually more fun to be out somewhere random in the city when suddenly nine Snowbirds shoot past overhead in tight formation, and you're clenching your jaws to keep all the fillings from vibrating out of your teeth.

I hear they have a special clean-up crew at the CNE for after they air show. They go around with soft brooms and micro-accurate vacuum cleaners, collecting the shreds of blown-out eardrums that collect in drifts against the bleacher supports thanks to the breeze off the lake.

We stopped in a bakery for treats, and then window-shopped, swigging Perrier out of small, green-glass bottles.

We strolled through the lushly green grounds of Trinity-Bellwoods park amongst young people working on their tans and/or showing off their ink.

Despite being a little more tired than "normal" (whatever "normal" is - it's getting difficult to remember at this stage), I relaxed and enjoyed the day.

Of course I still couldn't fall asleep at night. After tossing and turning for two hours with frustrated adrenaline building up to toxic levels in my bloodstream, I went back out into the living room and let Ken get me tipsy on orange juice mixed with vodka and Disaronno. We watched Ghost World, or at least Ken watched the whole thing and I watched until my drunky eyelids started drooping and I got back into my bed and passed out. At least I got to sleep in this morning.

If I didn't have to work, it might almost be fun to live like this: stay up late with Ken every night, sipping mixed drinks and watching indie films together. Ah well. Better luck tonight, perhaps. *fingers crossed*

Struggling

I have a good life, and I know it. But right now, I'm struggling.

All last week I had just enough energy to work for around 6 hours each day, and then come home and crash out. Except the one day I came home at 4pm, had a nap for 45 minutes, then glued my contact lenses back onto my tired eyeballs and went out for an evening work event. All I had to do was sit around, eat a nice dinner, and make pleasant conversation. How could that be tiring? I don't know. But it was.

Saturday was my catch-up-on-rest day. I slept for twelve hours on Friday night, and then had a long nap on Saturday afternoon. I had made a deal with myself that I would be feeling good by Sunday. I could feel my energy returning, and I knew that it would just take one good rest to get back to myself. I was looking forward to that as my reward for suffering patiently all month with the stupid virus.

My energy did come back, but not how I wanted it to. For the two weeks before I caught the virus, I had anxiety and insomnia. It came back during the brief break between when I initially got sick and when I got re-sick. And now, you guessed it, it's back again.

Last night I woke up at 4:15 am. It wasn't just one of those jet-laggy wake-ups that happen when you've been sleeping too much during the day. It was a full-on stomach-clenching, eye-squeezing, tearful, lengthy anxiety attack. I won't say panic attack - it wasn't that severe. But it was pretty freaking uncomfortable. And unpleasantly familiar.

Great. I finally get over my illness. Now I have enough energy to go back to having anxiety and insomnia. Perfect.

I know, I know. Maybe it's just a one-off. Maybe I'm just re-adjusting to normality. I shouldn't catastrophize and assume that this is how it's going to be for the rest of the week/month/my whole pitiful life. (Yes, I am feeling a little sorry for myself.) But it's getting harder and harder to pick my chin up off the ground and keep going. The boundary between my dark thoughts and my conscious control is getting mightily thin.

Open

I'm starting this post without a clear idea of how I want to express my thoughts.

Verbal communication is a linear medium. Sometimes it's difficult to describe three-dimensional thoughts and feelings in two-dimensional words. There's so much that I want to get across all in one sweeping impression. The sequential nature of writing is frustrating.

A year ago I wrote a post describing my rudimentary psychic abilities. In the past year, with the spiritual protection of the loving force I know as God/J.C., I have felt relatively protected from the onslaught of emotional input that used to overwhelm me every day. However, those impressions not entirely gone. And they can still be temporarily overwhelming.

I've worked hard to try to understand how I am meant to respond to this type of input. I do believe that I have a gift, but it can feel like a curse when I don't handle it properly.

The first strategy that ever helped me at all was praying, so I continued to pray each time I felt overwhelmed by negative emotions. When there was a strong likelihood that these emotions were primarily originating from someone else, I would pray for "us", whether that person was a close friend or a stranger on the subway train.

That tactic helped. It was better than doing nothing at all. I was significantly more comfortable, but definitely felt that there was room for improvement. I still had many experiences of wishing that I could jump out of my own skin and run away from feeling other peoples' crap.

I believed the problem was that I didn't always pray very well. Sometimes I didn't feel like praying at all. Sometimes the words wouldn't come. Sometimes I felt awkward and self-conscious. I was trying to figure out the right words to say, but I couldn't find them.

A series of events began recently which led to an epiphany, which I believe is the answer I've been looking for since last June.

On July 19 the musical group I'm in lead the worship at my church. For the first time, we totally rocked the house. I haven't had such an incredible musical high since, no pun intended, high school. People were jumping to their feet, clapping, holding their hands to the sky, and some were even weeping. (From joy, you skeptics!) I was swept up in the intensity, and my heart flew wide open.

Since then not only have I been unable to contain my own emotions as strictly as usual, I have been much more susceptible to other peoples' feelings. Also, my thinking has been less linear. I have developed a hunger for the creative arts; poetry, music, and other things that don't make rational sense.

In the end, the problem became the solution. My real problem was that I was trying to think my way to a heart's solution, and that's impossible. My problem was that when my heart opened it felt so uncomfortable that I tried as best I could to close it up tight again. But really what I need to do is open it wider.

It came to me this morning, as an intuition. Instead of labouriously constructing a prayer from my head, I opened my heart and loved. When I was confronted with waves of anxiety coming from a nervous sales rep, I pictured myself physically embracing him with unconditional love.* Yes, it was a little distracting. I missed some of the sales pitch. But I was so uncomfortable feeling all his nervousness, I wasn't focused on the conversation anyway.

It worked for a while, so I stopped visualizing the hug and went back to listening. Within a minute, the anxiety was back. So I went back to my virtual hugging. I hugged that lucky sales rep (psychically speaking) for twenty minutes. Finally he was comfortable enough to relax and talk to me without constant energy-realm reassurance. It was pretty cool.

He reacted perceptibly each time I went back to the imagined hug. I was sitting completely still in my chair, just looking at him. Nothing changed except the energy. But each time he would get slightly distracted from what he was saying, and had to take a moment to recoup his train of thought. There was definitely something happening there.

It worked so well that I tried it on someone else I work with, to similar effect.

Finally, I get it! I couldn't, before, because my heart wasn't open enough. But now I see: I was coming at it from the wrong angle. I'm not supposed to start with prayer to get to love. I'm supposed to start with love, and from there prayer will flow naturally. If I care about someone with all my heart in a given moment, I won't have any trouble finding the words to ask God to love them, encourage them, and provide them with whatever it is they need to heal and grow.

I don't know if I'll be able to maintain this level of open-heartedness. But if not, I'll be asking God to take me back to it. This is the direction I'm meant to go in, and I'm so glad I figured out my next step. Incidentally, I've also been doing some simple exercises to practice clairvoyance, and the results are good. I believe that's another part of my gift that I'll be meant to use for God's work when the time comes. But that's another story for another day.

*It wasn't sexual, you skeptics! I'm smarter than that. If there were any chemistry in the air, I wouldn't be doing any hugging, energetic or otherwise. I don't need to play with fire like that. Life's complicated enough already.

Brains

I thank you all for your encouragement, and support. Please, keep it coming. My brains are still scrambled. One relaxing weekend is evidently not enough to undo months of stress. No big suprise there, I guess.

I have heard that repetition of certain behaviours or situations actually carves physical pathways into the brain. There is a neural equivalent to "a rut", and it's easy to fall into it. My rut is anxiety, hypervigilance, and self-effacement.

I learned it when I was young, through all the years I lived with my mom and step-dad. Be quiet. Stay out of the way. Don't do anything that might make someone else upset. For example: My mom used to become enraged when she had to do laundry. Therefore, I hardly ever put anything other than my socks and underwear into the hamper to be washed, lest I be the target of one of her rages. My efforts to be careful and not disturb the status quo were that detailed.

(And yes, even though I'm naturally not a sweaty person, my clothes weren't as clean as they should have been.)

It's something I always did, so I tend not to notice when I've slipped back into my old habits. It feels natural and normal to me. Always ask what the other person wants to do first. Don't have an opinion of my own. There seems to be a subconscious mechanism that kicks in, preventing any of my own feelings or preferences from showing up in my consciousness, when I'm in that state. It's a lot easier not to cause trouble when you don't have any preferences. They all go underground, and then I get writer's block, because it's tough to write a snappy blog post when you don't have an opinion on anything.

I can drift along in a fog of varying density for quite some time. I haven't kept track of the durations. I'd like to say that it gets shorter every time; that I'm getting better at coming back to myself. I don't know if that's true.

Anyway, that's where I've been, and even though I'm conscious of it now, I'm still automatically slipping back into those behaviours. It's my natural, unconscious reaction to stress. Once the fear is in me, it's not easy to let it go. I'm not convinced that I'm safe, yet. I wish I could just snap out of it. Trust me, if I could, I would. I need more time.

Be Careful What You Pray For

Everything was going really well. The problem with things going too well is that it's possible to get a wee bit smug. I was congratulating myself a little too often. The awareness of this as a problem kept sneaking into my consciousness. So, I prayed: God, keep me humble.

Boy oh boy, did He ever deliver on that one.

Ken has been changing lately, for the better. After a long struggle with issues too personal to share here, he has begun to manifest much of the potential I've always seen in him. I loved him the way he was, to be sure, but the New And Improved Ken is even better.

He has shed much of the extra weight he was carrying. His confidence has grown exponentially. He has more energy than I've seen in him in many years. He's calling everyone in his address book to plan social outings. He's thinking about signing up for advanced classes at the comedy improv theatre. Etc. Etc. Etc.

I'm happy for him. I'm happy for us. This is what I always wanted, right?

But deep down inside, in the dark corners of my psyche, some bad buttons are being pushed. Emotions I haven't dealt with in a long time are raising their ugly heads. Versions of me from the past, ones that I thought were completely uninstalled, are booting up and running their programs. I'm trying my best to handle it all, but I can't. I'm falling down, here.

I'm jealous. Jealous of his energy when I've struggled with so much illness these past many months. Jealous that he has broken through to a new level of being while I'm still plain old me.

I'm threatened. I used to be the centre of his world because he rarely took the initiative to make social plans. Now there are all these other people on his schedule and I'm not getting the same amount of attention as I used to. Yes, it's childish and selfish of me to resent that. But I do.

(For the record, I'm hardly being neglected. Ken is going out of his way to reassure me verbally, by setting time aside just for us, by bringing me flowers, by caring for me when I'm sick... Trust me, it's not him. My insecurities are the problem.)

I'm time-travelling. In my previous marriage, my first husband was the socially dominant one. Most of "our" friends were his friends. He was in charge of our schedule. I was meek, quiet, and resentful. Sure, I had fun at the events he planned, but I also sulked because I wasn't allowed to be an equal partner in the decision-making process. Ken isn't like my ex, and yet there's enough similarity in his social initiatives to throw me back into my old feelings. I'm fighting it, but it's a struggle that's not easily resolved.

In all of this I feel completely off-balance. The only thing that centres me for a short period of time is prayer. It doesn't help that I've been sick for the past week, yet again.

This morning I finally made it back to work. The phone rang before I had even caught my breath from walking up the stairs. In my flustered, frazzled state, I had a conversation with an important special guest of my workplace. I didn't handle it as gracefully as I could have. I let slip that there had been some major miscommunications between myself and my bosses, when I probably could have covered it up. The VIP was not impressed.

In the seven years I've worked here, I've never been in trouble with my bosses like I was today. One of them sent a scathing e-mail about my behaviour to the other. The second one called and told me off, not cruelly, but firmly. In the end we all agreed to take some of the blame for the miscommunications, but I had to own that I wasn't on top of my game this morning. I really could have done better on that phone call.

So basically I'm kind of feeling like a basket case this week. I'm trying to take it day by day and do my best, but I'm not operating with a balanced mind, and I don't trust myself to handle the situations that keep coming up. I'm reacting emotionally instead of responding responsibly.

But, I asked to be humbled. If there's any better reminder that I'm human, fallible, and flawed, I don't want it! I have plenty to work with here.

Recombobulating

I think I'm back to "normal" now. Yaaaaaaaaaay!

All that cathartic purge-writing, followed by large doses of support from all y'all were better than any medicine a doctor could have prescribed.

Also, I had a chance to get some stuff off my chest with respect to my step-dad. He's back in town for a few days. Ken and I met him on Sunday, in the freezing cold, at 4:45 pm when the sun was beginning to set, in the middle of a vast industrial park in Markham. He's shipping his car to Florida, where he'll be spending most of the next few months. It's kind of weird to put a car on top of a train to move it from point A to point B, but even at $800 I guess it's cheaper than renting wheels all winter. He dropped off his car at the rail depot and we drove him back into town.

It's almost exactly one year since I got the news that my parents were splitting up. During that year, I listened to a lot of bitterness (mostly justified) from my mom. But for whatever subconcious reason, maybe my need to provide balance and the desire to keep both of my parents close to my heart, I didn't allow myself to agree with her. I saw her side; I saw his side. I tried to remain calm.

But since my mom finally announced that she was starting to feel like herself again, in early November, starting to feel happy and optimistic about the future, something shifted in me. It wasn't necessary for me to hold the centre, so I finally let down my defenses and started feeling my real feelings. I got sad, and angry.

By Sunday I decided that I had to talk to my step-dad about my feelings, because it got so that I anytime I talked with him I'd get all crabby and then snap at Ken or some other innocent 3rd party.

I broached the subject over dinner. I told him that I would love him no matter what, and he would always be my dad, but I was really angry with him. He made a selfish decision that hurt a lot of people. He wasn't miserable with my mother. In fact he was quite content. But after 27 years of marriage he saw something he liked more, and so he went after it because he "didn't want to have regrets" on his deathbed.

How about regretting how much he hurt my mother? And me, and the rest of the family?

I told him that to me, marriage vows are for real. I left my first marriage, but not easily. I was literally going crazy in that relationship. If I had stayed, I would have had to be medicated in order to function. Talking it out wasn't working. We had been going round in the same negative circles for years. He wasn't open to the idea of going to a counsellor. I stayed until I lost all hope for happiness in that marriage, then left for the sake of survival. And I hated that I had to leave.

He says it was a tough decision for him. In the end, he turned to his guiding philosophy: a channelled entity by the name of Seth. According to Seth, the most important thing is self-actualization. There is no mention of "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." It's all about doing what feels good and right for you. Other people have to look out for themselves. So much for love. I hate Seth a lot right now.

Be that as it may, my step-dad is not planning to reconsider his beliefs. I have to accept that if I want to have him in my life. Also, I'd better be ready for him to make more decisions in the future that may hurt me. That sucks. However, he doesn't go out of his way to be mean. Mostly he's very generous, and he tries to be kind, if it doesn't interfere with his convenience too much.

That'll have to be good enough.

The good part is that he's so self-confident and unworried about what other people think of him that he was able to hear me out without getting upset. He listened, and he said that he understands my feelings. He even told me that he feels guilty, although he tries to push the feeling away. When the anniversary of the split came around, he started having guilt-nightmares that were keeping him up at night. Good. I think it's only fair that he feel some consequence from the decision that he made.

So maybe I'm not ready to fully forgive him yet, but I feel a thousand pounds lighter after telling him what was on my mind. And I'll always love him because... how could I stop?

The bottom line is that the process of going to pieces that started in mid-November and carried on throughout the holidays has finally reversed itself. I feel like I've put myself back together again. It's not exactly the same configuration as before, but I'm here, and feeling good.

I made it through the mess. Now, on to better things.
:-)

More Glad Tidings

Good news # 1!

San has been ever so kind, and honoured me with a very flattering award:

To quote San's blog, The PREMIO DARDOS award is "given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing." Wow. That's one classy recommendation! I feel truly humble.

Of course an honour like this must be passed on. After deep and searching thought, I have chosen the following honourees:

1) Ron at Warped Mind of Ron, because he writes in so many styles: poetry, fiction, and memoir. How much more literary can you get?

2) Whatigosofar because he's definitely transmitting his personal values through original writing. No punches pulled on this blog.

3) Nilsa at Somi is never afraid to speak her mind. She does so charmingly and gracefully.

4) Keera at A Roll in the Universe posts snapshots, both literal and literary, of life in Norway.

5) Dianne at Forks Off the Moment is deserving in every way, especially with regard to ethical values.

Congratulations to all y'all! ;-)

Good News #2!

Slowly but surely, I have recuperated from my spell of ill health. The aches and pains are gone, as is the shortness of breath. My hands no longer require five minutes of warm-up exercises before they can be used in the morning. I'm not breaking out in hives either. I'm still more tired than usual, but other than that, I'm back to my normal self again.

Of course the blood tests didn't show any significant results. I guess it was just my body's wild and crazy way of responding to stress. This whole past year has been pretty challenging, what with my mom and step-dad's divorce and me being caught in the middle. I don't think it's any coincidence that my health crumbled shortly after my mom finally said that she was starting to feel alright again. I was running on empty, and when I learned that she didn't need me to be strong for her anymore, I just went down like a puppet with my strings cut. 10 months of accumulated tension was finally released.

I'll be taking it easy for a while longer. I can feel that I need a long rest. A few days off for the holidays couldn't have come at a better time!

Bravado

Today I finally went to see my doctor about the mysterious symptoms that have been plaguing me for the past three weeks.  Like, on Friday my hands were so weak and stiff that I was having trouble turning doorknobs.  Like, on Sunday, at church, I felt faint during the singing and had to go lie down in the lounge.  

Anyway, OF COURSE I felt almost 100% better by my appointment.  I figured I'd better show up anyway, because I could guarantee that if I cancelled I'd be a mess again by morning.  It's like taking your umbrella along to ensure that it won't rain.

I told the doctor my long list of bizarre and seemingly random symptoms, which he jotted down.  Then, as I knew he would, he told me I'd better go down to the lab to have some blood tests.  We joked a bit about (I can't resist this pun) the irony of him telling me to take a potent iron supplement to get my blood levels up, and then continually draining blood out of me.  Then he told me not to worry.  If the blood tests were positive, he'd send me to a rheumatologist.  If negative, to an allergist.  At any rate, he assured me, I'd get to see "some kind of '-ist'".  

I relate these lame jokes not because I think you'll find them hilarious and be all with the LOL in the comments, but more to indicate that I was feeling relaxed.  In fact, I was feeling so at ease, and so confident, that I decided to do something I hadn't done in five years, which was to provide my blood sample while sitting up.

In the past, I had a history of passing out when my blood was drawn.  I got into the habit of telling the lab techs that I need to lie down for these operations.  But the last two times I had blood drawn, which were within the past couple of months, I did so well (from my prone position), and sat up so fast with so little light-headedness after, that I started to wonder if maybe I was over this fear.

The only way to know is to try.  So.  Can you see where this is going?  I thought "I'm gonna give my blood like a big girl today.  I'm gonna sit in that chair and just not look and it'll all be fine."

I was doing great in the waiting room.  I was feeling brave when I sat down in the chair.  I rolled up my sleeve and didn't even look when the lab tech put on the tourniquet, because I get grossed out by the sight of bulging  veins.  I was slightly concerned when I saw her prepare three empty vials.  The last couple of times I only had to do one.  But by the time I realized that there was more at stake this time, I felt it was too late to rethink my bravado.

In went the needle, and a whooshing squeeze of yuckiness swept through me.  I don't know if I could have tolerated it if it had been over after one vial, but, as the endless seconds dragged by, the feeling got worse and worse.  I started to sigh, and then put my head down on my other arm.  I began to sweat, and then my eyes welled up with tears.  Yeah, not much of a big girl there.

By the time the tech had filled her three vials, I was feeling pretty awful.  She asked me if I was alright. I didn't really want to speak, so I shook my head, and the room spun.  The tech took my right hand and told me to press a cotton swab into my left elbow.   Then she told me to put my head between my knees.

Instead of feeling better, I started feeling even worse.  The waves of badness that had taken over my body were becoming unbearable.  I didn't know if I was going to pass out or barf.  In a quiet corner of my mind, where my observer-self was sitting in a comfortable armchair and taking notes on a steno pad, I remarked to myself on the undesirability of puking.  Meanwhile, my outside voice was moaning.  

"HHHHNNNNNGGGGGG" most closely approximates the animal sound that was passing through my clenched teeth.  I debated letting myself fall out of the chair to curl up in the fetal position on the  people-have-been-walking-on-it-all-day-with-dirty-salty-snowboots linoleum floor.  

Tech #1 had hurried off and came back quickly with Tech #2.    Between the two of them they got ahold of my elbows, negotiated me to my feet, then marched me to a room with a full-length examination table, and lay me down there.  Or at least, I lay my torso down.  I was so totally flopped that they had to pick up my feet one by one and place them onto the table.  

Then I heard one of the techs, the kind one with the Phillipino accent, say "Oh no, she let go of the gauze.  Look, there's blood all over."  Lovely.  Just what I wanted to hear.  Obviously I was too distraught to put proper pressure on my needle-stick wound, and now I had bled all over myself. 

While one of the techs swabbed my forhead with a cold, wet paper towel and fanned me with a file folder, the other wiped down my right hand with more wet towels.  At the back of my mind I recalled how I had ignored my instinct to wear black pants today.  Logic dictated that pale grey went better with the sweater I had picked out.  I wish I had gone with my gut.

Finally, after much swabbing, and fanning, and sipping at a Dixie cup of cold water, I started to come back from that desperate state to my normal, conscious self.  When they saw my eyes focusing again, the techs confirmed that I was feeling better, and then they left me there with strict instructions not to move until I felt totally recovered.

It took awhile.  I tried to get up in stages, first flopping one foot over the edge of the table, then the other.  Then roll onto side.  Then lift head up a few inches, to test the waters.  I kept having to lie back down again.  At one point, Tech #1 came back to tell me I could take my time, no rush, they were open until 8:00 pm.  That actually made me laugh.  And then it made me even more motivated to get myself vertical and headed home.

Finally I got upright.  I assessed the damage to my pants, which wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but bad enough that they could still be considered "ruined".  I apologized to the lab techs for making such a fuss, and thanked them for their kindness.

By the time I got home the bloodstains had started to set.  Ever-helpful, Google suggested that I spit on the stains and then rub them.  The protein enzymes in saliva break down the proteins in blood.  Which is kind of a weird equation, like two wrongs making a right: bleeding AND spitting on your clothes leaves you with a wearable item.  Or maybe it's like the Rock, Paper, Scissors of bodily fluids.  Spit beats blood.  What does blood beat?  

I couldn't get the stains all the way out.  We'll see what happens once my pants go through the wash.

The moral of the story for me was: Don't try to be a hero.  Now and forevermore, I will be a compliant wimp and will lie down to have my blood taken.  

On the other hand, I'm really proud of myself for facing my fear.  That it was an unmitigated Fail doesn't discount the fact that I tried.  Now I know for sure.  And I swear I'll never do it again.

Botanozac

I'm getting better, slowly but surely.

When I put my feet on the floor first thing in the morning, I don't feel pain.  My soles are still a little spongey upon waking, but that's a big improvement over last week's grinding and aching.

The hives aren't blooming up with quite such alarming frequency as last week.  There's still the odd one here and there, but generally they seem to be fading.

My back is still giving me the gears.  Yesterday, I was ready to break down in tears at my desk.  Doing my usual stats data entry, right hand on the number pad of my keyboard, was torture.  I tried using my left hand to type the numbers.  That was ridiculously slow.  Then I smartened up and remembered that I had Tylenol in my desk drawer.  Later, I was grateful to score an emergency appointment with my massage therapist.  Today ez mucho improve-o.

At my massage therapist's advice I bought a two-pack of Hot Bags on my way home today.  You know, those cotton sacks full of beans or grain or some such that you can microwave for heat therapy.  On the first try I overheated the neck bag and seared my skin, but after I got the temperature sorted out, I fell in love.  I would like to duct tape the Hot Bags to my body and wear them all winter long.

My big challenge in the past 24 hours was fighting sneaky panic attacks.  They come out of nowhere, like when I'm sleeping peacefully or innocently doing yoga poses.  All of a sudden I feel faint, nauseous, and completely freaked out.  I recognize the symptoms for what they are, and I can calm myself down with a little sensible self-talk in short order, but dang it's no fun.  Especially waking up into panic in the middle of the night.  That is extra no-fun.

I find myself feeling nostalgic for an herbal product that is no longer on the market.  Botanozac: it was a mix of sedative and nervine herbs.  Thirteen years ago, my life was in transition and I wasn't coping very well.  I was working in a health food store.  I started taking Botanozac.

This stuff really chilled me out.  You have to understand where I was starting from; when the store staff played the game "If so-and-so was an animal, what animal would he or she be?", the consensus for me was "squirrel".  So, yeah, straight up I was a little jumpy.  But when I was on Botanozac?  Eeeeeeverything was just peachy keen okay!

A customer returned a large jug of some corrosive chemical.  I can't remember what exactly, but something that should be diluted down to 1/10 strength for washing pesticides off produce.  The lid was loose.  I picked up the jug to take it back to the stockroom, and a big splash of the stuff slopped onto my foot, burning the skin instantly.  I had taken Botanozac that day.  I looked at my foot and thought "Huh, that's interesting."  I could feel the pain and yet I couldn't feel the pain.

Yup, that was good stuff.  I told two of my co-workers about it, and of course because they were young people who thought it would be hilarious to get stoned at work, they took some.  They didn't count on how strong it was.  Within an hour they were both swooning against the walls, and complaining about how they wanted to just lie on the floor and sleep for ten hours.  I guess if you start out at "squirrel" Botanozac takes you down to "human".  If you start out at "human" it takes you down to "slug".

Now that I think about it, I don't really want to take anything that would make me sleep any more.  I'm already needing 9 or 10 hours just to get by.  I keep thinking of all the things I could accomplish if I just had that extra hour or two back in each of my days.  Speaking of which, I'm passing out.  I'm off to bed.  Goodnight!

Listening Skills

Today I had a conversation with someone who has been repeatedly vexing me.  When we speak I feel like I have to fight her every step of the way to reach any kind of connection and understanding. 

We both agreed that our communications aren't working out, and she is receptive to some feedback.  So I'm teaching her some of the "active listening" techniques I learned in psychotherapy school.  I thought I'd pass them along to y'all, because good listening is easy to do and is truly helpful in one's relationships.

When someone is speaking to you about something that stirs their emotions, these techniques are helpful.

1) Resist the urge to give advice, especially if you weren't invited to do so.  Giving advice sends the message 

"I know you, and your life, better than you do".   

It's condescending.   Even good advice is disempowering.

If you are invited to give advice, it's probably because the person you're speaking with is having trouble making a choice.  Whichever side you pick, the other person will most likely begin to argue for the other option, externalizing the arguments they've been having with themselves inside their head.  This will probably just leave you both frustrated.

2) Ask open-ended questions.  Examples:

• What would be the worst-case scenario?
• Ideally, how would you like to see this turn out?
• What do you think she'd say if she knew how you really felt?

Basically, any question that leads other other person to consider an angle that they hadn't considered before is useful.  Usually when someone has a problem that's bugging them, they get caught in a repeating thought-cycle, which is frustrating and non-productive.  

If you try to change their mind directly, they'll resist you, because most people don't want to admit that their viewpoint is incomplete or flawed.  You can't directly break the cycle, but you can introduce a train of thought that leads the other person out of their rut.  See if you can persuade them to look deeper, or think of something they haven't thought of before, just by asking questions.  It's sneaky, and it works.

3)  Paraphrase what the person has just told you, and repeat it back to them, also recognizing whatever emotional content they've expressed.  Then validate the emotion.  

For example:

"So, you've been studying really hard for exams for three weeks, you're burned out, and completely freaking about your test tomorrow.  That's rough.  I remember feeling like that when I was in school."

or

"I understand that the doctor has kept you waiting for two hours, you're in pain, and you feel that the staff has been ignoring you.  I'm so sorry.  You must be beyond frustrated.   I would feel the same way if I were in your shoes."

It doesn't matter if you think you would be more patient or more calm or whatever.  Identify with the emotion as much as you genuinely can, and let the person know you respect their feelings.

You might think it sounds really fake and scripted, but as you get more practice with it you'll begin to incorporate the techniques naturally.  Generally the person you're speaking with will be receptive to the content of what you're saying, even if it comes off as slightly awkward.

4) Avoid any use of or implication of the word "should".  For example:

• You should calm down/just relax/chill out!

Nothing annoys people more than being told to calm down.

• You shouldn't feel like that!

My mother says this to me when she wants to rescue me from some kind of negative emotion that I'm feeling.  I know she means well, but it comes across sounding like "You're feeling the wrong feelings!   I know what you should feel.  You're wrong, and I'm right.  Feel this other way!"

• You should just [insert advice].

See point 1) above regarding the perils of advice.  Also, using "just" trivializes the problem and the solution.  It implies "I don't see why you're making such a big deal about this."  Which invalidates the other person's emotions, which puts them on the defensive, and then you're back to arguing and frustration.

Bottom line: shoulds, musts, oughts, and have to's are bad.

And that's it.  Four easy tips to smooth, productive communications. Listen, give feedback on the content, validate the emotion, and don't give advice.  You all graduate with gold stars from this short course on active listening.  Now go forth and listen!

Who turned up the gravity?

On Saturday, yesterday as I write this, I was raring to go. I wanted to go out! Now! Into the sunshine!

It was like channeling the hyperactive energy of thousands of children hopped up on chocolate, marshmallows, and egg-hunt excitement. It was that kind of bursting energy which can quickly blur the line between expansive fun and impatient irritability. This is a familiar mood for me. Sometimes I just wake up into it.

Of course I still try to go about my day with a measure of adult decorum. I might want to stamp my feet and run madly in circles, but that's frowned upon in public. So I tried to keep myself reined in.

I had the most trouble when we were in the lighting store. It's a giant, windowless showroom which seems to go on for miles. Ken was very into his lamp shopping, and wandered contentedly from one section to the next, making observations and asking for my opinion. I had a strong urge to run outside and stomp through the snowbanks in the parking lot while yelling "AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!". I thought I was hiding my irritability pretty well.

Until later in the car, when Ken, tentatively, as if attempting to diffuse a ticking bomb, asked me if I was "feeling better yet." Dang. I'm so transparent.

Anyway, I got through the day, comforting myself with the thought of today, Sunday, when I'd have hours to run around outside if I wanted to. That's the best medicine: a long walk in my stomping boots, until I'm all worn out.

I got up this morning feeling like a balloon with half the air gone. Crash. That's how I swing. I never know how long the furious energy will last, but if I feel excessively up for a spell (up can mean Extra-Happy-Crazy or Hyper-Angry-Agitated), you can bet money that a crash-landing is around the corner.

I don't feel blue today, just unnaturally tired.

Hopefully a good night's sleep will have me balanced for Monday.

****

Monday morning: I'm almost back to what I like to think of as my "normal" self again. I don't love being at work, but the routine is stabilizing. It's all good.

Spark's OCD for Dummies

Have you ever wanted to have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder but just didn't know where to start?

Spark's publishing brings you a simple, step-by step guide for enjoying this unique and colourful disorder, in nine easy steps.

1) No detail is too small to obsess about. Why not start with the status of your stove? This is very popular among beginners. Develop a habit of checking your stove to make sure it's off. This can be done on your way out of the house, before you go to bed, or anytime. Remember: if you check once and feel satisfied, you have not achieved OCD. The "magic number" of checks that allows you to leave the stove and carry on with your life must be at least two (2).

2) The "magic number" of checks for any of your compulsions should increase proportionately to the stress in your life. Once the number has increased, it will be very difficult to reduce it again. For example, if you usually check the stove four times before you leave the house, you may feel compelled to check a fifth time. Or, in severe circumstances, you may need to "take it from the top" and do another full round of four checks.

3) The checking should be done in a ritualistic fashion. It is not sufficient to give the stove a quick, visual once-over, and walk away. Point to each dial on the stove, and as you do so chant "Off, Off, Off, Off, Off" (that's once for each element and once for the oven). Vocalizing and using repetitious movements will reinforce your habit and deepen your experience.

4) Be prepared: the day will come when no amount of ritualized checking will scratch the itch. When you get stuck in front of the stove, checking and re-checking in an infinite loop, congratulate yourself! You have achieved a masterful level of OCD. If you have made yourself late for work or any other obligation, to which you otherwise would have been on time, pat yourself on the back. You have truly arrived.

5) Are you sure that the door to your home is closed and locked? Pull on it a bunch of times. Walk away from it. Turn back. Stare at it. Walk back and pull on it a bunch more times. Stare at it some more. It looks closed, but something in your mind isn't accepting that input. Fiddle with your door until no one could possibly rationalize the amount of time you're spending there. Now all your neighbours know that you have OCD! Good work.

6) If you'd like to spend a good deal of time convinced that your home is burning down while you're away, and the stove just isn't doing it for you, invest in a curling or straightening iron. If you can ever convince yourself to leave the house again, it'll be a miracle. Are you sure you turned it off? Or is your shower curtain catching fire as you read this?

7) You're just about to fall asleep. It's the end of the day. Time to just lie back and relax. Wait, are you sure you took out your contact lenses? Is your alarm set to the right time, turned on, and at an appropriate volume? Did you leave the tap running in the bathroom? There is such an abundance of things to jump out of bed and check, that sleeping pales in comparison.

8) For added fun, encourage your spouse to trigger your obsessions. When you've finally checked for your wallet enough times, and feel ready to walk out the door, s/he should take that as a cue to ask "Are you sure you have your wallet?" and then giggle insanely as you furiously undertake a fresh round of checking. (No, Ken doesn't do this. But my ex did. I don't think he really "got" how mean it was.)

9) Had enough of the OCD for now? Shake it off. Get angry. Say to yourself "I cannot spend all day standing and staring at my front door. So what if it is unlocked? So what if the stove is on? I can't live paralyzed by these thoughts. If the house is burgled or burns down, so be it." Then turn on your heel and march.

Ed. Note: Don't be concerned. Lately the OCD is averaging less than 5 minutes of my time per day, which is manageable. There are bad days, but they are not frequent at this stage in my life. All is well in Sparkville.

Psycho Therapy

Psychotherapy is a strange thing. Difficult to define. I've been through around 300 hours of it by now, between individual and group therapy sessions. I also attended a 2-year, part-time program with the intention of actually become a practicing psychotherapist.

There have been times when I hated being in therapy, and times when I felt that it was the one thing that kept me hanging on. It has alternately comforted, confused, enraged, frustrated, clarified, supported, and bored me.

One thing psychotherapy always did: it refused to let me sit in a rut and wallow.

I see the role of a good therapist as supportively confronting: always giving that little push to get you out of your comfort zone. It's always amazing to me how devoted people are to their old, familiar ways, even when those ways are self-sabotaging. (Including me.) Even when people think they want to change, and say they want to change, in their heart of hearts they often resist, kicking and screaming all the way.

In my second year of school, I realized that I don't have enough patience to be a therapist. I have enough inner resources to support myself and manage my own inner crap, but just barely, some days. When we were in class on weekends for 8 hours at a stretch, doing case studies on each other, I ran low on compassion. I didn't want to hear another sad story. I didn't want to watch yet another classmate break down in tears as they accessed their inner child's pain.

When someone finally let down their defenses and sobbed, the class felt that we'd really gotten somewhere. Therapy isn't all about looking for bruises to push on, but sometimes it seemed like that to me.

I still go to a group once a week. We sit in a circle, and talk about the stuff that's going on in our lives. The group has alternately comforted, frustrated, clarified, bored, and supported me. Sometimes I look forward to it. Sometimes I'd really rather go home and watch TV instead. I keep going, because it feels good to know that there's 2 hours in my week when I can be in a safe space with other people and we all share the goal of trying to be honest with ourselves and with each other.

If we can just see through some of the lies and illusions, and really see ourselves and each other just for a little bit, that makes the rest of life easier to survive. That's what it means to me.

Type A to Type B

I used to be incredibly goal-oriented. It was my way of coping with a mostly miserable childhood. I survived by focusing all my attention on where I'd like to be in the future. Even when I only had small change to put in my piggy bank, in grade school, I was already saving up to move out.

I took the same approach to school. I was extremely self-disciplined, always putting off pleasurable activities until all my studying was done. I came first or second in my class all the time. I thought hard work would ensure that I could achieve approval, love, money, and a glamorous lifestyle.

But things didn't turn out how I'd envisioned. I didn't have the greatest social skills, nor a good understanding of myself. Starting from the age of 15, I had some disastrous experiences with boys. My first serious love affair ended badly, leaving me in a depression. Still, I soldiered on, gamely pursuing my agenda.

I put in 200% effort. And yet each of my dreams ended in bitter disappointment. My determination to become an engineer ended with disillusionment. Several other careers went down in flames, consecutively. My marriage, of which I had been so proud initially, also crumbled in my hands until I felt I must leave or I would lose my mind. (I'm not exaggerating. I actually had episodes of spontaneous, uncontrollable screaming because of the stress. I literally thought I was going crazy.)

At that point, nothing was working for me. I spent hours weeping every day. The dynamics of my marriage seemed unfixable. My job was driving me nuts. So I took one last big leap of faith and left my ex, moved out on my own for the first time, and left my job all within a period of a few weeks. Logically I thought it made sense to change everything at once and go for a fresh start.

Initially I got a high from the empowerment involved in making all these changes, and it seemed that my plan was working.

However, within the following year, I was laid off from the great new job I'd found. I had a breast cancer scare, around the same time that my therapist suddenly dropped all her clients because she'd been diagnosed with breast cancer. I don't mean that I imagined I'd found a lump because of my therapist. My doctor found it and I had to have a biopsy. I thought I might be dying.

A grey cloud descended. One symptom of the deep depression I sank into was an inability to imagine the future. I could barely get through one hour at a time, even five minutes at a time, sometimes. How could I even think of tomorrow? The idea of having goals was completely perplexing.

I stayed in that one depression for around two years. Since then, I have a tendency to sink into the greyness when things get tough. I recovered my ability to enjoy life, on good days. The grey fog is not the permanent-seeming feature it once was. But I never recovered my ability to have goals, or dreams. I have given up on trying to write the next chapter of my story, because all my efforts to do so only ever resulted in bitter failures.

Now I live as best I can day to day, following my heart and my genuine interests. My life progresses, but not because I planned it. In a way, I'm living like a child, growing because I can't help but grow. I figure that if I live each day with as much integrity as I can muster, I'll be headed in the right direction even if I don't know where I'll end up. And honestly, I'm as happy as I've ever been in my adult life since I started living this way.

What about you? Do you live for your dreams and goals? Or are you living in the moment too?

Anti-nucleic What?

Three years ago, I got sick. On a warm day in late summer, I was out shopping with Ken, and I began to feel very tired. At one point the fatigue hit me so hard that I actually sat down on the floor of the store we were in. Concerned, Ken took me home.

I got into bed as it really started to hit. Waves of pain rolled through me. My whole body ached. I felt wretched.

I took a week off work to recuperate. I didn't know what was wrong. Was it the flu? I had no runny nose, no sore throat, no tummy troubles. Had I been exposed to an allergen? Was it something more serious? I was extremely weak. My joints continued to ache. My hips were so sore that I was unable to sit up in a chair without pain, so I lay on my back for days.

Near the end of my week off, I decided to try going for a walk. I felt around 200 years old. I shuffled the block-and-a-half to the nearest little park, and sat on a wooden bench in the sun. I couldn't lean back, because of the pain when my spine pressed against the wooden back of the bench. So I hunched over instead, and wondered what was wrong with me.

By the end of the week I had improved, but not completely. I went back to work, hoping that my routine would re-energize me. It didn't. I had trouble sitting at my desk for all those hours. One afternoon, frustrated, I pushed my chair aside and kneeled on the carpet - tried typing at my computer that way, just to take the pressure off my aching hips. I don't even remember how people reacted. I was past caring.

Weeks went by. I still wasn't feeling like myself. I was chronically tired and sore. I felt inflammed all over, in my joints, and in my organs, if you can imagine it. It felt like all the soft stuff inside me from my neck down to my groin was tender and out of sorts.

I went to my doctor. He tested me for rheumatoid arthritis, lupus, and fibromyalgia. He tested me for West Nile Virus and Lyme disease. He tested me for everything he could think of. The tests all came back negative. Apparently there was nothing wrong with me. Good to know!

Months went by. I started having respiratory symptoms too. Sometimes my sinuses ached for no apparent reason. Sometimes my lungs felt sore. I began to think that I wouldn't be able to carry on working full-time. I began to wonder if I would ever feel healthy again.

Finally, by the following April, I started to feel good again. Gradually, my health returned. Quite some time later, I switched to a new family doctor, and he found that my blood showed significant levels of anti-nucleic antibodies, which is indicative of auto-immune disfunction. He said that this is why I had felt ill for all those months. It was because of stress that my body had attacked itself.

That made sense to me, because I had been fighting depression for around two years before I got sick. I guess eventually it got the better of me.

Sometimes lately, the voice of my Internal Hypochondriac tries to convince me that my symptoms are coming back. If I have aches and pains, or if I'm feeling extra-tired, part of me starts to panic. There has been a lot of stress in my life in the last couple of months, and about half of it has been work stress so I haven't even been able to blog about it.

But I'm fighting the negativity. I will cling to my peace of mind and my enjoyment of life with all the willpower that I can muster. I say "Nay!" to downward spirals and self-fulfilling prophecies. I will persevere.

Shock Attack

Speaking of symptoms, apparently I jinxed myself.

I've been coping pretty well with my challenges lately. My physical symptoms have been restricted to intermittent insomnia, bouts of sweatiness, and occasional shaking hands. The best cure is deep breaths, yoga, and not allowing myself to get into a downward spiral.

Last night, however, after a particularly upsetting conversation with a member of my family regarding my parents' separation, I didn't get off so easy. After I hung up the phone, I noticed that my heart was beating rapidly, but I got myself calmed down and went to bed.

2:35 am: I wake up with a need to visit the facilities. I get out of bed as always, when WHOOOOOSH! The floor starts tipping under my feet. Woah, head rush. I must have gotten up too quickly. I sit my butt back down and wait for my blood pressure to adjust.

I wait a reasonable amount of time, and try again. Again, vertigo attacks. I get myself to the facilities and back by clutching door jambs and chair backs along the way. By the time I'm on my return journey, my heart rate has sped up quite a lot.

Ken's still up watching TV on the sofa, but I don't want to worry him. I get myself back into bed. I figure it's just some kind of nighttime weirdness and if I can fall back asleep it'll be gone when I wake up again in the morning. But I can't fall asleep. My heart races faster and faster and my whole body start to shake. Very quickly I start to feel chilled. My hands and feet become icy.

I call for Ken. By the time he shows up by my side, looking concerned, my teeth are chattering uncontrollably. The vertigo is still having its way with me, despite the fact that I am lying flat on my back. The room spins. What is going on?

Ken piles blankets on top of me and brings me a hot water bottle, but my teeth are still rattling away. He fetches his furry winter hat and sticks it on my head. No help. I'm thinking that this is probably one of my show-stopping psychosomatic symptoms, so I ask him to bring my trusted homeopathic cure: Rescue Remedy.

I know that not everyone believes in homeopathic medicine. In my experience, it works. If you want to call it the placebo effect, go ahead. I'm a pragmatist. As long as I feel better, that's good enough for me.

I instruct Ken to get four drops of Rescue Remedy into my mouth. This is something of a challenge for him considering that my jaw is opening and closing at a rate of about 10 times per second. But he manages. Within seconds, my body relaxes. The shaking becomes a series of twitches, and then stops. My teeth get in a few last clickity-clacks, then stand at ease.

I'm still feeling faint, nauseated, and dizzy, but the worst is over. I think I can fall asleep now. So I do, under a mountain of blankets and wearing Ken's shapka.

Through the rest of the night I woke every 90 minutes or so with a racing heart, and took another dose of Rescue Remedy. I survived. It's morning now, and despite still feeling a little shaky I'm well enough to sit up and type. I'll be spending the rest of the day on my sofa, for reals.

Self Talk

Things I have to keep reminding myself of lately:

1. I'm not a toddler helplessly watching my first set of parents fall apart. I do not need to hide in my closet hugging a stuffed toy until the yelling is done. I am 35 years old, and I can look after myself.

2. I'm not 28 years old, wrenching myself away from my own first marriage. I am not a fox chewing off her own leg to free herself from a trap. I am not leaving my home, my routines, and even my old job behind to start a terrifying new life. I am safe, and Ken is here to support me.

3. I don't have to let depression win. I can feel my sadness without losing hope. I have learned coping mechanisms, and they work, as long as I actually use them. I must use them.

4. I have good friends, and they want to hear from me. Some of those friends are also part of my family. I am lucky to be surrounded by so many people who wish me well. I do not have to go through this alone.

I've been trying to calculate how I should feel. On one hand I'm a grown woman no longer living with my parents, so it seems that their divorce might not have any direct impact on me. On the other hand I'm still my parents' daughter, and it's heart-breaking to watch them suffer, because I love them. I'm trying to figure out which of my feelings are about the present situation and which are echos of past divorces coming back to haunt me.

Like, if I could only get that straightened out, I could deal with my feelings in an orderly fashion.

Or maybe I just need to let myself feel my feelings and honour them all. They're there for a reason, right? They each have an important lesson to deliver from my heart to my conscious mind.

I wish I had a whole week just to sit back and mull things over. I need time to understand all the messages.

Two Phobias

I have two phobias. There are a lot of things that can make me anxious, but only these two have the power to induce physical symptoms despite my most stubborn willpower. These are: being poked with hypodermic needles and anything to do with uncontrolled bleeding.

Funny thing is, I have a high tolerance for things that would make other people squirm. I have no problems with mice, spiders, snakes, or any other of God's fine creatures. OK, yes, when I lived in the horrible basement apartment with giant cockroaches, I wasn't exactly thrilled to find one burrowing in my duvet. But I could control my disgust and deal with the situation.

I can also handle operations and freaky illnesses on TV (although sometimes I do watch from between my fingers). It takes a lot to seriously gross me out.

But give me a tetanus shot, and I'll go all faint. It doesn't matter that I can't even feel the needle . It doesn't matter how stoic my thoughts are. Even if I don't look, I get that woozy feeling and I know I'm in trouble.

If I'm asked to give a blood sample, it's the same thing times ten. I always ask to lie down for the procedure, because I'll end up horizontal anyway. It's easier to start out that way than to play brave and pass out in a chair.

I wish that positive self-talk could help. I can be so psyched for a situation, like, Come on, girl, it's just a little pinprick! Button up and get it over with! I'll be fine, fine, fine, oh wait, there's a needle... then I start to get this sick, tight feeling between my shoulderblades, my head starts to spin, and that's that.

The worst part of it is how it prevents me from helping other people. There's just no way I could give blood. And the one time I accompanied a friend for a minor surgical procedure was a complete embarrassment.

Before my friend even got called in from the waiting room, I overheard another patient telling her friend about a hemorrhaging problem. Uh oh. I knew I was in trouble. I got up to leave the room, and made it about half-way to the door before I collapsed into a helpless heap on the floor. A big, burly nurse with a buzz-cut told me curtly that I'd have to move because I was blocking the fire exit. I murmured pathetically "I... can't..." She went off and got a second tough-ass nurse. They each grabbed one of my elbows and hauled me, heels dragging, into a spare room, and threw a heating pad on me. Then they left me to stew in my humiliating uselessness.

When the procedure was finished, my friend was sitting up on her cot in the recovery area, chipper as a budgie, chatting away with her neighbours. She looked none the worse for wear. She thanked me for coming to support her, without any hint of irony. Yeah, right, I was so "there for her".

I have tried hypnotism, to no avail. And don't ask me why I'm fine with acupuncture. Those needles aren't hollow, so somehow that makes it OK. I just don't get it.

Get Outa Town

What with all my recent posts about summer, and how SUMMER IS THE BEST! and OH I DO MISS THE SUMMERTIME!, you might be wondering if I'm due for a vacation. I should just jump on a plane to Barbados already, yes?

I will not be traveling anytime soon, not voluntarily, not even to the most seductive, luciously tropical destinations. Why? Because I'm just not cut out to enjoy traveling.

Physically, I do not react well to long trips. Sitting in a car or an airplane for hours on end leaves me drained. Jet lag makes me completely miserable. Sleeping in a strange bed leaves me fatigued and suffering from headaches. Hotel food for more than one meal makes my stomach misbehave. And whenever I've travelled anywhere hot, I've spent the whole time hiding from the sun, nursing heatstroke and sunburn.

Part of these reactions is also due to my mental state. I am a woman of habit. I am even perhaps just a wee tidge obsessive-compulsive. And controlling. And did I mention compulsive? Just ask Ken. He has had to adjust quite a bit to accommodate my need to have things Just So in our home. As long as I get my way, everything is Peachy Keen! But put me in unfamiliar surroundings and there are just so many details that seem wrong.

The sheets on the bed might not have a welcoming texture. The glass tumbler that's provided for drinking water probably has a funny smell. Unfamiliar controls in the shower are cause for concern. It's not like any one of these things makes me want to hyperventilate, but they start adding up and grating on my nerves, to the point where I feel on edge all the time. Add that to jet lag and poor sleep, and generally I'm going to be feeling fussy and querulous. I won't be able to relax until I get settled in at home again.

Once I'm home, I can sift through the sensory memories of the vacation, and begin to have some appreciation for them. Like the day we took that tour when I was dying of heatstroke, we saw some really beautiful sights! So it's not a total loss. But considering how expensive it is to travel, I have come to the conclusion that for me, it's not worth it. I am much happier to read travel stories or watch movies set in exotic locations.

The advantages: I save a lot of money. It's better for the environment. I don't have to worry about terrorists on my airplane. I won't catch horrible parasites or "traveler's diarrhea". And I am the perfect audience for your vacation snapshots. I will look at 1000 of them in a sitting with real and sustained interest. I will travel vicariously at any opportunity, as long as I can stay in Toronto to do it.