Depression is contagious. Fortunately, there are now squirrels for that!
*
I read an article today by a mom who describes herself saying, “When Did I Become Broken?” As she lists, point-by-point, her mental health challenges, I find myself lifting an imaginary glass saying, “Amen sister!”* After summing up the depressing qualities of life as a single mom with autism flavorings, I am thoroughly gruntled.
But, like the mom above, I too am enjoying the thrills of DBT Therapy. I decide to do a homework assignment and galump outside—grumbling the entire way, thinking “f*ck positivity” and dragging behind me a thick cloud of despair like a cloak of wet cement.
As I practice breathing–inhale, hold breath for a few seconds, breathe out–my eyes close and I felt the sun hit my face like a welcoming benediction. I muscle past the pain of echoed despair and drift toward the nearby farmer’s market.
On the way, I pass the same corner house I always do–the one with the scraggly white fence and a host of plants trying to escape through the wide, chipped painted slats. An enormous maple tree dominates the front corner and I am further distracted from my gloomy funk by the chittering of a familiar friend.
I call this “Urban Squirrel with Cracker Not Giving a Fu…uh…Fig.”
High in a crook of the tree, the squirrel gives me a concerned look–the kind that just invites you to start talking to him.
“Look at you! So brave. So bold. Not bothered by me in the least.”**
The squirrel is all nonchalance, flicking his head up and back down to me as if he has pressing things to do and I’d better cut to the chase.
I’m admiring his calm when the dog in the house intrudes on our conversation:
No doubt the dog is letting me know I am in imminent danger of doggy justice…just as soon as he figures out how to use the doorknob. I think he also told off the squirrel, but I might just be imagining the eye roll the squirrel gave me.
“You are certainly braver than me.” I tell the squirrel. “I know he’s behind glass and I’m still scared of that dog!”
The squirrel gives me the bush-tailed equivalent of “What Evs” and scampers away.
I make my way to the farmer’s market which is closing up its stalls slowly enough I am able to grab an impulse cabbage and a bag of reasonably priced Honey Crisps. Just before I leave, I snatch up a tiny pumpkin for 75 cents.
Back at the office, I place my orange gourd du season on the desk and realize, I’m feeling better–not fixed 100%–but definitely better. I have to wonder that no one has figured out a way to use squirrels as therapy animals.
Stolen from: evilsquirrelsnest.com where they did a much better job.
So, if you haven’t heard from me in a while, don’t worry. I’m working through some issues. And if anyone asks, I’ll be with the squirrels. Apparently, it’s all the rage:
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*All beverages quaffed on this blog will be imaginary unless otherwise designated. They also will come with tiny umbrellas and fruity names like: “Divine Intoxication Infused with Chocolate Dreams.”
**No, I did not say “Squeak….squeak…chitter…squeak.” I do not speak squirrel. What kind of idiot do you take me for?
***Or words to that effect. I don’t speak dog either. But I can recognize “Fuck you and the horse you road in on!” in many languages.
_____________ You Read This Far Bonus_________________
You want to read more about squirrel potential? Great! Look no further than a nomination for president to be found at:
I highly approve the furry-tailed candidate’s promise to make therapy squirrels available to everyone! The no-parole until they graduate stance on children’s education might be a mite rigid. But, his nutty stand on gun control will at least make you smile.
On the heels of my last post “Tempest in a Teapot, ” today follows the story with an introductory Haiku—poorly crafted poetry that tries to sum up a day in seventeen syllables:
As tea steeps, rain weeps
Water fills both bowl and sky
Prepare to drink deep.
I leave the Japanese Tea House buoyed with happiness and a certain sense of rightness with the world. It doesn’t last long.*
I take my complimentary shocking-yellow umbrella from our Meijer Garden’s guide—I almost bow from recently-acquired habit—and pause to pose in front of a font for a photo. (Hit *like* if you love alliteration.)
As I am leaving, the guide casually mentions that a ‘storm’ is headed this way and I should make sure to head in by 2:00.
I scramble around the larger Japanese Garden to admire the lush-to-the-point-of- heaving-bosoms blooming flowers in the rain. I ‘Cecil B. DeMille’ a few of them with dew-laden close-ups. I might have asked a few of them to “Come on, show a little stamen and pistil.”**
I stalk the Bonsai garden—a human sequoia in a land of miniature conifers. I took several snaps of the plump, if bruised, pear growing on its tiny parent. It struck me funny that I was giving produce the paparazzi treatment when I pass it up with barely a blink at our local grocery store. (I am high on centuries of tradition, what can I say? I am a wild woman.)
The rain is steady–not too heavy but definitely a presence. My shadowy, wet companion. At one point, I am juggling the umbrella and trying to photograph the Korean Hornbeam*** when I drop my iPhone. Fortunately, it hits the rocks glass-side up, or I’d be crying in the rain.
Infamous Hornbeam – Destroyer of Cell Phones.
I stop in the rock garden on my way out. The nearly invisible poetry etched into the massive boulders is made visible by the downpour.
RAIN FALLING IN SPRING
AND I AM SORRY
NOT TO BE ABLE TO WRITE
My new excuse for not writing – Rain Delay.
I’m eating lunch in the Meijer Gardens’ café, surrounded by raindrop streaked windows and Chihuly glass installment on the ceiling, when I turn my phone back on to check for messages. There is a mildly alarming inquiry about my son from the babysitter, so I call to check on him.
That’s when I get the news…they are in the basement…there is a tornado alert for the area. I should seek shelter.
We exchange a few frantic words before I head to the front desk.
“Uh, are you all aware that there is a tornado alert?” I whisper this as if I’d cause a stampede if overheard.
The huddle of women with grey-to-frosty-white hair helmets look up from an iPad and confirm they’re tracking its progress.
“Don’t worry. We’ll let everyone know if we need to move to the shelters in the basement.”
I shrug, I’ve done my part. But in my head, I’m thinking. “Don’t tornados move pretty fast?” I make my way to the basement to grab a seat before anyone else does. Because…priorities!
Pretty soon, everybody else with an iPhone or other device is making their way down there ahead of an official announcement. If there is ever another mass extinction it will be because someone decided to wait until they were sure disaster was heading in their direction before taking action.
It’s getting crowded and suddenly all of our phones are going off announcing the approach of the storm. The officials finally make it official and start herding people into the area that is the ‘actual’ storm shelter. (Apparently they don’t consider a need for access to plumbing with the same level of urgency I do.) A service door leads to an unfinished concrete cavern filled with twists and turns and lots of unused equipment and staging material. We are urged to move as far back in the space to make room for everybody. I’m surprised by how calmly everyone is taking this. Inside I wonder if we really ought to be more concerned.
I spy a few of the people I ran into while walking the garden. I’m glad they made it back—but I do wonder about the second tea ceremony that was supposed to start at 2:00. There is a really evil part of me that whispers “Aren’t you glad you signed up for the first showing at 11:30!”
I pass members of a wedding party, one of the women is still holding a glass/candle concoction which would be an excellent thing if anyone wanted a light. (I see a future market for wedding planners —decorative flourishes that function as emergency provisions in the event of a disaster.)
I finally choose a spot that circles back to a secondary exit. There is light spilling in from the corridor so it isn’t totally scary if it is a bit cold.
Across from me a family—two grandparents, a family friend, and two children—are trying to get comfortable on the floor. I look around. Nearby there are folded chairs and a huddle of employees who, by their uniforms, work in the kitchens upstairs.
“Would it be okay if we got out the chairs?” I ask one of them. I have to repeat myself because it appears the young man isn’t used to actually talking with the visitors to the Gardens.
Minutes later, our area is much cozier with scattered seating. I quash any guilt I might feel because the woman across says, “Oh, that’s so much better.”
We exchange a few pleasantries before settling into a tense wait-and-see. The children are scared. You can tell by the way they clutch the toys they’ve brought with them. I honestly don’t feel that much fear—probably because I have no clue what kind of damage a storm like this can do. You see…
I am a tornado virgin.
I have never lived through any major storm—beyond the huge snow storm of 78’ when I was a child. And all I remember from that week was the isolation—school was canceled and we were unable to leave because the roads couldn’t be plowed. (One of the joys of living rurally.) I do recall my brothers and I deciding that the four-foot drifts were an invitation to jumping off the roof and sinking over waist deep in snow. We had to swivel back and forth to worm our way out. Oh, I’ve had to hide in a few basements on occasion, but they had always turned out to be false prophecies. So, I had a cocky optimism that this time wouldn’t be any different.
Minutes creep past. The littlest girl across from me is crying with that suppressed sob-hiccup combination that can be so cute even when they are earnest tears. I can’t make out what she is upset about other than it involves someone or something called…Balthazar?
So, I ask. Partly to hopefully distract the child and, well, because I am curious.
“Who is Balthazar?”
The little girl blinks tear drenched lashes and utters a nearly incomprehensible string of words:
“I…I…he’s…I left him…and…he’s in danger. I…I…what will…I do…if…” She trails off with more tears and no doubt a snuffly nose.
Her grandmother brushes a strand of hair away from her flushed pink face and leans toward me.
“It’s her toy…I think it’s called Bulbasaur. Or something like that.”
“It’s Bulbazar, Grandma!” This comes from the second little girl ensconced on the other woman’s lap.
A discuss pops up about the pronunciation, but Grandma shakes her head.
“No, I think it has S.A.U.R. at the end—like a dinosaur.”
“What exactly is a Bulbasaur?” I ask.
If I had known the torrent of information that was about to rain down on me, I might have tried to save myself. But then, again, there was no Wi-Fi signal and there really wasn’t anything else to do. So, I took an unscheduled course in Pokémon 101. The little redhead across from me apparently had a masters if not a doctorate.
At one point, she tells me her name is “Kay”
(Names changed just because.)
I tell her, “My name starts with a ‘K’ too!” She beams at me; we are now friends for life.
She points to her sister, “That’s Dee.”
“I recognize that is Pokémon.” I say, pointing to the yellow pillow-type thing Dee is holding as if someone were threatening to take it from her. Then I point to whatever lump is in Kay’s hands. “But what is that?”
Kay giggles. She holds up a lumpy, terry-clothed thing.
“It’s a towel! ‘Cause I did a ‘Dee’!”
And then she plops the thing against the side of her head.
Of course. This make perfect sense. No doubt my expression says as much.
Her grandmother laughs and explains. “She bumped her head earlier and they got her a cloth with ice in it.”
Kay holds back her bangs to reveal nary a bruise. The ice must have done its job or the strawberry hair is hiding the evidence. Kay is now picking through the washcloth and slips a sliver of ice into her mouth with her grandma none the wiser.
Grandma smooths the bangs again, adding, “Anytime we bump our heads, we say we are doing a Dee because she used to run into all sorts of corners and things when she was little.”
Kay pipes up again and points to her sister. “Yeah she bumped her head a lot! So we say ‘We did a Dee.’”
Everyone is nodded and smiling. Then Kay adds, “And when we fart we say we did a ‘Kathy’. Because Grandma farts a lot!” And she points back at her grandmother, who is now laughing—though a tiny bit mortified by this announcement.
Grandma Kathy murmurs something about maybe sharing too much information but she isn’t really mad and her granddaughters know it because they are both laughing, snuggled safe in loving arms.
Kay pops back up from this to launch into a detailed explanation of Bulbasaur’s relationship to Pokémon.
I learn there is something called the Rocket Team—and they are definitely bad guys. And someone named Ash who spends a lot of time in the gym.
The grandma throws in a comment to clarify a point Kay is trying to make with hand gestures that look like something is exploding.
“The Pokémon can evolve.” She says.
But into what is never clearly explained. I picture something like a Transformer—which is my cultural experience with toys that are more than meets the eye—but rounder and cuter.
I learn that the Pokémon can fight. That Pikachu has a secret weapon—something called a ‘Thunder Shock.’ And here, Kay puffs out her cheeks and demonstrates:
“His cheeks blow out really loud and he says, ‘Pikachuuuuuu!”
Apparently this devastates his enemies.
The girls are laughing and chatting back and forth when all of our phones go off at once.
Some of the alerts are voiced announcements notifying us of a Tornado alert in our area and to seek shelter. There is something really unnerving about the shrill cacophony of notes chiming throughout the cement block room. No one is laughing now.
There is a human instinct to huddle. To crouch low as if to make a smaller target. I find myself looking at the little girls across from me shrinking back and arms that had been holding them loosely now tightened. Reassurances are whispered and Grandpa is a stoic figure who rarely says a word but is a calm presence in the face of the unseen.
I try to comfort them, knowing I am helpless to be there for my own son tucked in the basement with a babysitter who definitely deserves more than I pay her.
“So, the alarms are like the ‘Thunder Shock’ Pikachu makes. It’s just a reminder to be careful.”
Then a little girl in a frilly dress toddles past and loses a bow. The pink ribbon falls near my feet and I seize the opportunity.
“Look she lost her bow. That’s a bow alert!”
Kay is delighted by this idea. When an oblivious little boy in an adorable suit trundles through bumping into nearly everything in his path, she calls out, “Baby Alert.”
Soon Kay is reciting once again the episodes and even an entire theme about her favorite TV characters. She sings some sort of anthem—it went on for about seven verses—and it is too fast and her voice is too high for me to do more than pick out one word in ten.
I’m reminded of the scene in Finding Nemo where Nemo’s dad is listening to the baby sea turtle explain the way to get to the East Australian current. After the pipsqueak voice winds down, Marlin says:
“You know, you’re really cute, but I don’t know what you are saying! Say the first thing again.”
For whatever else I miss, I understand that this language is helping Kay and Dee to deal with a frightening situation. No one can call out. All attempts to text and get replies are blocked by the surrounding concrete cocoon that keeps us safe from tornados as well as causing wireless signal fatigue. So, while we sit and try not to worry about the ominous thumps we occasionally hear overhead—we share our stories to distract each other.
Thanks to ‘Kay’ and ‘Dee’ who made sitting through a storm a lots of laughs.
Instead of spending our moments anticipating whooshing air signifying imminent destruction, we find the strength to laugh, to find the humor and our humanity in the darkness.
Eventually, the crowds that had been loitering near raw plywood and collapsed tables usually only seen fully clothed with the ruched skirts to protect the legs’ modesty, start to part. People drift away and cheers go up as we realize the danger is past. With very little fanfare, the crisis is over.
I say goodbye to the girls and soon the crowd separates us. We are all ready to be done with the claustrophobic space.
The wedding party is making its way back to their celebration. I spot a woman who is still clutching her slice of wedding cake. I can’t help but comment on her foresight.
“Well, I didn’t want to miss out if it was gone when we got back!” she says with a smile.
“I am just surprised you didn’t eat it while waiting.”
“I didn’t have time to grab a fork,” she replies.
I laugh, “A little thing like that wouldn’t have stopped me!”
Before we part, we agree, this is a wedding no one is likely to forget!
Outside, there is little evidence that a major storm front has gone through.
“Another much ado about nothing!” I think.
It’s not until I am nearing home that I spot the devastation. Trees that had survived sixty to a hundred years of bad weather were torn and scattered on front yards and crushing cars and houses like giant match sticks dropped by a careless hand. I’m not even a mile away from home and it suddenly strikes me how close it came. How violent the winds had to have been to snap oaks and other hard wood like dry kindling. I later learn this was a weak system–only a category EF-0. I don’t want to ever see what something stronger could do.
My house and family are fine–two city blocks west of the path of destruction. I pay the sitter and she shrugs off the seven-hour ordeal caused by our separate vigils in the dark. Thankfully, my son was totally oblivious of any danger.
I didn’t really face the dragon—but I felt his breath on my neck. I survived his reign of terror and I can imagine how differently things could have turned out.
Thus ends my tale. The only thing left is an appreciation for Japanese culture which creates a tea to feed the soul and a Pokémon to calm the tempest in the pot.
I leave you with a final haiku:
Trees dance and bow low
Thunder applauds with fierce claps
Making dancers fall
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
* It never does
**Floral porn, take one—“Come on, you know you want to bee pollinated!”
***You were expecting a dragon ala Harry Potter, weren’t you?
We hadn’t known each other long. Eight, nine months, not even a year. I confided all of my secrets to you. You introduced me to DropBox and Amazon Prime movies. You made me laugh.
I’m sorry I let him hurt you. He’d been so good for so long. I thought I could trust him. It was just one game of Where’s My Water. I wanted to spend time with another friend. I didn’t mean this to happen.
It was all a blur. He got angry. He threw you across the room before I could do anything. I am so sorry!
I know there is nothing I can do to make this un-happen. I can’t blame it on him really. I knew what he was capable of and I let him take you anyway. I am more sorry than you will ever know.
I understand that you don’t want to talk to me. That this means the end. I just hope, someday, if the backups work and the hard drive is saved, you’ll forgive me.
You may all hum “This Is The End Beautiful Friend” I have no facility in doing all the fancy stuff like inserting links on my cell phone.*
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*The Dust Season will be offline until I can get me a new digital friend. I may have to pass a background check or a psychological profile. This is my third computer in as many years. (The first one languishes in desktop obsolescence the second had motherboard issues.)
It happened, just before bed last night…the first of the signs.*
Omen Number One
It’s nearing 2:00 a.m. I’m scrambling to get ready for our trip to Wisconsin tomorrow. My cell phone, as usual, was down to its last, flickering percentage. I plug it in and it tells me, “This is not the Android recharger you are looking for.” I shrug, unplug and plug it back in. Again, “Please use original Android equipment to recharge device, you wompa-breathed buffoon.”
There is nothing I…or anyone at this lonely hour of the night…can do to save me. Obi Wan, it’s hopeless.
The next morning, the phone chirps a pitiful wake-up call before giving up its last percentile ghost. I’m swamped with a to-do list longer than my will to live. I shove my child on his 2 ½ hour tour bus for what they call “summer school” and I race to get a few boxes checked off.
The Verizon Death Star won’t be operational until 10:00 a.m. (stormtrooper reviews are more elaborate than a Broadway Musical) so I run to the mall to pick up the new pants from Fu Alterations. I stopped to visit my boyfriend.** And then I’m off to take on the Empire…and pick up my new pair of glasses. I have one hour left.
(Cue the aforementioned, footnoted ominous music. You all know the tune: Da Da Da, Dah Dah Dah, Dah Dah Dah…)
The heartless drone at Verizon takes my name and leaves me to stew and search fruitlessly for a clock to make sure I don’t miss the bus. I go through withdrawals as I have no way to play Words With Friends, so I decide to exchange words with a stranger instead. It turns out, I sit down next to a member of the resistance force who is holding her notes about the Rebel Alliance just up the street (aka Sprint). We get to chatting:
Rebel Leader: “Sprint is offering a phone deal and lower rates. I’m checking to see what Verizon will offer before switching.”
Kir-Leia: “Phone won’t recharge…mumble mumble… the guy said I have to wait in the Samsung Galaxy for tech support…So I told him to shove his blaster down his Aldaran belt and fire!”
Rebel Leader: “Come over to the Sprint side and save!”
Or words to that effect.
I’m finally brought before the Sith Lord…scarlet scourge of the Verizon Empire. After a brief back-and-forth about the problematic port, this is what he offers:
Darth-Insidious: “The best I can do is to ship a phone to where you will be tomorrow.”
Kir-Leia: “If I’m getting a new phone, why can’t I just get one from the store?”
Now he drops the thermite-detonator:
Darth-Insidious: “We don’t keep replacements in stock. It will be a ‘Factory Certified’ Android phone.”
Kiri-Leia: “I get a used phone? I only had the Samsung for about five months! It’s not even paid for yet! Why can’t I get a new phone?”
Darth-Insidious: “It is not our way. Get back Rebel scum!”
Kir-Leia: “I recognized your foul stench when I was brought on board!”’
Darth Insidious: “How charming…but wrong movie.”
Of course, I storm out in a huff, swearing that I will never darken the doors of Verizon again.
Over at the Sprint Rebel Base, I have enough time to toss my phone at Jedi Master Trevor and swear allegiance. (Fortunately, my midichlorians are off the scale.)
I dash to get the child before the bus leaves him wandering in search of a better parent. I send an emergency signal through a cousin to my mother and she agrees to watch my Padawan Learner (boy child). I race and to get my new iPhone…but it’s not ready. They have to match the geosynchronous orbit, or some technical mumbo jumbo I don’t understand. So, I dash back to home base, stopping to get a thank-you pop and scratch-n-win ticket for the Grandma, when the universe speaks to me again…
The Second Omen
The swinging door of the Coca Cola cooler was obviously programmed for stealth attack. As I turn and let the door swing shut, it takes a huge bite out of my ankle.
Mom patches me up, listening to the entire tale. Wishes me well, and I’m off once more. Dashing back to pick up the phone, dragging the child in tow.
Then, I learn something wondrous…the deal I signed my life away for included a second phone! And the Rebel Leader and I can declare ourselves friends and get a $50 rebate…if we can ever figure out how to sign up for it.
Things are looking marginally up. I’m battered and limping, but I have my new phone and…shit….look at the time.
The next few hours are a blur of manic packing, driving, and arriving at the RV Park & Campground where I have reserved a teepee for the night.
You heard me a teepee. Did I mention it’s raining? Have I also mentioned it is an authentic structure with a hole in the center and the floor has running water? (But the bathrooms are located in another building.) No matter. I will find the fun in this. I will overcome a most inauspicious start to our vacation. I will ignore the dreadful music that implies otherwise.
I’m trying to tell myself that I can relax about the small stuff. So, there’s a little water on the floor? So what? I move the electric cords to a table to remove the possibility of a third and fatal sign. No electrocution for me, no sir!
The Third Omen
As I’m leaving the teepee to gather the bedding for the unauthentic mattresses, I don’t clear the odd lower lip of the oval door way. I trip in a most graceless fashion, landing hard on my left wrist and both knees. I break a blood vessel in my hand.
I raise my uninjured fist and shake it at the universe.
“Why? Why? For the love of all that is Jedi…why?”
Somewhere, the dark side is taunting me. Or it could just be the croaking frogs. I’m not sure. It sure sounds like the universe laughing.
*
So, if I die on the boat crossing tomorrow, you’ll know why….
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*Why does no one ever heed the signs? In real life, I blame the lack of ominous music.
**One of these days I’m going to write the blog post to explain this remark, but this is not the day.
***I should have gone with Kirbaca as I did scream like an enraged wookie today, but it did not fit the scene.
You’ll note the telling absence of any vomit icons.
And for those of you caring folks out there who wonder how this kind of thing happens, when your child turns down ice cream, recognize it as the sign from the universe it is and get him home tout suite.**
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote*
*So far, the only thing the Febreze products have managed to do is stun me for a short period of time. Whenever I turn up the A/C, my nose feels like it has been punched by a Midnight Storm.
There is a manic busyness to butterflies that reminds a person that life is short. On average, a butterfly lives about a month, which is practically a luxury when compared to the mayfly which lives as an adult for less than a day—time which is basically spent reproducing before giving up their tiny ghosts. There is a lesson in this, probably.*
It’s hard to take a bad photo here, but going out at noon when the shadows are flat helps.
Because the human life span promises an extravagance of time, we tend to play fast and loose with our possibilities. We waste time to a degree that that Mother Nature shakes her head and throws plagues and severe storms at us for the occasional wake-up call. I was reminded of this while photographing butterflies at Meijer Gardens this weekend.
“Tower to Echo leader, Bravo leader is coming in hot for a landing. Prepare crash teams.”
Saturday, I shutterbugged my way through hordes of Vitamin-D deficient, pale mid-westerners who frolicked in the sun like they forgot what the glowing ball in the sky meant.** It was a good day to be out. Bright, warm. If I hadn’t had a raging headache, the day would have been perfect.
“Abort landing, Bravo. Pull up! Echo has claimed the landing leaf and isn’t budging, the wanker! Tower out.”
A babysitter sprinted after my son who was like a hound off his leash, allowing me the privilege of a leisurely inspection of the Japanese Gardens where incipient spring threatens pollen bombing if the warm weather continues.
“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”
In my haste to worship the sun god, I neglected my hat and sunscreen routine. After ensuring that I’d exposed myself long enough to accrue a good case of sunstroke, I scampered inside to jam myself between iPhone happy strangers all trying to immortalize terrorized butterflies in unwilling selfies in the arboretum.
Black and White – A dramatic pause on a posy.
April signifies the end of the Butterfly Exhibit—a seasonal tradition at the gardens guaranteeing huge crowds as winter slips its stranglehold on the state. It also signals the end of the butterflies’ tiny life spans. Maybe it was just me, but their ragged wings and spastic flapping seemed tragic even as I too tried to pin their image to a digital cork board. It’s a macabre pastime only ameliorated by the lack of chloroform and a ‘humane’ practice of letting the poor things live out their sexless lives, out of season, trapped in a giant glass prison. I quash my guilt in order to enjoy myself.
Would it kill them to introduce one female into the group? Would it?
Throbbing skull aside, it was a perfect day. [Cue Ominous Music.]
We’re walking back to the car when, suddenly, I realize something is blocking the vision in my right eye. There is a shadow pantomime something like a stick and a jellyfish sword fighting wherever I look. I’ve had similar incidents in the past, but nothing on this scale. I’m not the brightest girl in the world, but, taking the headache into consideration, it occurs to me something might be wrong.
A visual representation of the butterflies churning in my stomach.
I scurry home, upload my pictures (because, hey, priorities), and chat with a friend to ask her opinion. She agrees, it is probably a floater and it’s no big deal. Because I suffer a certain amount of paranoia married with an overactive imagination and access to the internet, I come up with a different conclusion: I’ve detached a retina and I could lose my vision altogether.*** I call my friend who is a doctor, she says, “It’s probably nothing, but at your age with your severe myopia it could be a detached retina. If you can, you should have it looked at.”
Butterflies are fluttering, nihilistic harbingers–just better dressed than most.
Fast forward to an emergency visit to an ophthalmologist’s office, and she confirms it: “It’s just a big floater. We’ll have you come back in three weeks to see how it’s doing.”
Looks harmless. Total death merchant.
So, there you have it, butterflies are pernicious omens of ill will and doom, signifying the end of all things. Of course, that could just be the dancing jellyfish in my eye playing tricks on me.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*Mayfly mantra: more sex, less effing around with laundry and shit.
**We had. I call it winter amnesia.
***This is aptly called free-floating anxiety. Also, part of me wants to call this a detached retinue–because all of the voices in my head have abandoned me to run around in a panic.
Now that’s what I call a “Frozen Dinner”. (Someone needs to photoshop ‘Olaf’ into the interior for me… or just use your imagination.)
According to my microwave, half-an-inch of snow has fallen in the past hour. No, my oven doesn’t possess space-age technology allowing it to pop the Orville Redenbacher while simultaneously measuring the barometer looking for a warming trends. In fact, it’s not even capable of popping corn correctly. Which is why my microwave is sitting outside in the snow and my windows are open to the elements in hopes I won’t set off the very expensive, ear-piercingly loud fire alarms.*
The reason my microwave is melting a rectangle of water outside my door (that it will no doubt freeze in place overnight), is because I dared to dream. After a day of ‘getting stuff done’ and ‘being responsible’, I decided to take a break, sit down, and watch a movie with my son. Then Netflix froze up and I thought that, while it rebooted, I would make a snack…
Apparently Netflix decided I didn’t deserve to see the ending of “Home” and, while I was fiddling with that, the microwave set its phazers to ‘obliterate’ and my sweet-and-salty popcorn did a Vesuvius. Distracted by ‘the purple screen of death’, I hear my son shutting off the microwave—a favorite thing of his to do. I’m turning to yell at him when I realize billows of black smoke are pouring out through the side vents. Anticipating my curses, the child turns the microwave back on. Of course, I yelled at him anyway…
“No! It’s okay to turn it off when it’s on fire!”**
So, I’m sitting in my snow suit, waiting for the smoke to clear and hoping that, if I ever again get the bright idea to try and have a relaxing evening, I will just skip it and go to bed. Apparently the Gods of Irony have me on speed dial.
Single Serving = “You’ve Been Served!”
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*My kitchen appliances really ought to come with built-in fire alarms and extinguishers. It would save time.
**One of these days I am going to write a book, Words I Never Thought Would Come Out of My Mouth. The first chapter will be entitled, “That’s Not Food”.
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Please admire my new topic category: “Highly Flammable“. I see great things in my future with this one!
This is how my brain feels on Christmas. Any Questions?
The holidays come around every year and every year I struggle to get through them despite depressive inclinations. The DSM V (Dismal Scrooge Manual) describes it as a tinsel-bedecked, window-flocked, overly-piped Chipmunk Christmas Album version of Seasonal Affective Disorder.* On occasion I have had to suppress the urge to strangle someone with tangled Christmas lights if they so much as Ho Ho Ho in my direction.
Based on the theory that which does not kill us makes us stronger, in the past, I have responded by leaping maniacally manically into the holiday spirit with an elaborate annual letter with photos and captions, holiday cards, and a cookie party inviting all my friends and their children to festoon my carpet with a thousand and one sprinkles.
But the stress of my life has had an accumulative toll and this year, I seriously wondered if I was going to live long enough to see my child grow up. So I got help. I’ve been seeing a therapist (because all the cool kids are doing it) and for months now I have been trying to embrace a very simple philosophy that gives me a headache when I try to employ it. Repeat after me people:
“I am not my thoughts or emotions.”
The therapy in question is called A.C.T. a lovely acronym which stands for Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. During months of weekly visits with a very nice therapist through the V.A., I’ve managed to grasp the ideas behind the program. There’s even an APP for that on the VA website. But it’s like chess, you can learn the rules pretty easily, it’s becoming a grand master that takes practice.
Describing A.C.T., as it turns out, is harder than I thought, but here goes:
OBSERVE
First, I learned that you step outside of whatever thought you are having (good, bad, indifferent, the emotional context doesn’t matter) instead you focus on recognizing that all thoughts are separate from who you are. You accept that you have thoughts of worthlessness, failure, depression, whatever, and then you say, “Okay. I see myself thinking X, Y, Z.” The goal isn’t to get rid of the thought or even dispute them.** After you accept that you have had a thought, you are to ask yourself “Is that thought helpful?”
BE MINDFUL
Second – be present in your life. Practicing mindfulness is what I like to call the “Woo Woo” portion of ACT. This involves active observation either of a task or meditative relaxation where you might hear a soft-spoken speaker tell you to listen to your breath while imagining leaves floating on water carrying any extraneous thought away from your observer state.*** After learning mindfulness came what I consider the more concrete portion of the therapy: Commitment.
BEING COMMITTED
Third – Values versus Goals. I was given a few different lessons in determining what really matters to me—defining the way I want to live my life. Once I decided what values matter most to me—health, being a good parent, writing—I wrote goals as steps that life. Goal: I will get to sleep by 11:00 p.m. (in progress), Goal: I will not swear at my child. (Damn.) Goal: I will value my writing and make time in my day to respect my creativity. (Ta dah!)
PRACTICE
Okay, but what happens when your week sucks bilge water? I’ll give you an example of one day I reported to my therapist:
Me: “…child has been sick …. I haven’t slept…today he flooded the kitchen AND the bathroom, he emptied the liquid dish soap into a garbage can—twice— and then, he turned on the stove past the click-click starter point, filling the house with gas, and he turned off the refrigerator…blather…blather…hysterical tears…
[My therapist always gives me time to have a mini-meltdown and she makes comforting noises before redirecting me to our opening woo-woo practice. Her voice is a soft monotone and very hypnotic as she reads from the page.]
Therapist: “Okay let’s do a mindful relaxation session. Get comfortable. Focus on your breath, but you do not need to change your breath. Breathe as you normally would. You are comfortable. You sense your hands, your feet, and your head is centered on your body….”
This goes on for a bit and then I heard the following sentence:
Therapist: “…you do not need to fix yourself.”
Me: “Bwa ha ha ha ha hah!”
I laughed so hard I was crying. I laughed so hard, I almost peed myself. I laughed so hard, the therapist started laughing. She broke out of ‘robo-voice’ to say, “Well…there isn’t anything wrong with you that needs fixing.”
It took an effort, but I finally stopped snorting and threatening to burst into manic laughter every time I thought of that sentence. Somehow we got through the exercise. Afterward, I told her it was the best session I had and it was worth it just to be able to laugh like that.
A.C.T. doesn’t pretend to be a solution to any problems you have in your life. I like that about the program. My goal isn’t to try and ‘fix’ my thoughts, or make them go away, or pretend they aren’t there. A.C.T. is teaching me that, yeah, I may be depressed, I may have negative thoughts or feelings of worthlessness, but, I’m not going to let that stop me from trying to have a better life. It’s teaching me that I can choose to act in my best interest in spite of my mental illness.
One of my favorite lines from a movie, comes from A Beautiful Mind. In this movie, Russell Crowe plays John Nash, a mathematics genius who is nominated for the Nobel Prize for his theories in economics in spite of the fact that he is a diagnosed schizophrenic. In the scene I’m remembering, Nash is meeting a member of the Nobel Committee who is there to see whether awarding Nash the prize will lead to embarrassment.
Nash say that he might embarrass the Nobel Committee, and when asked, admits that he still sees the hallucinations that mark his schizophrenia.
Nash says, “I still see things that are not here. I just choose not to acknowledge them.”
He further explains: “I’ve gotten used to ignoring them and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me. I think that’s what it’s like with all our dreams and our nightmares, Martin, we’ve got to keep feeding them for them to stay alive.”
From now on, I am going to try and feed my dreams instead of my nightmares; take the actions that will help me to live my values; and acknowledge that some days will be easier than others. I pledge to be as kind to myself as I would be to a friend who felt this bad. And I will remember “I do not need to fix myself.” In truth, I already possess a beautiful mind.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*Not to make light of people who actually have S.A.D. No Joke.
**Although A.C.T. has some nifty terms for handling destructive ideas–like ‘cognitive defusion’–that makes it sound like your brain is a bomb about to go off.
***For some reason, I always imagine floating elephants down a river on a leaf. I have no idea why.
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Anyone truly wanting information on the subject can check out the following links:
My inner child typically goes wild during the holidays: perusing the many catalogues that come to the house pointing to each item (or circling) the ones I want the way I did when I was a kid. Now, instead of Easy Bake Ovens or Barbie accessories, I’m eyeballing whatever takes my fancy and trying to justify buying it.*
My butt really deserves a $5,000 massage
Yet, this time of year also brings with it the anxiety of gift buying that grows more intractable every year. Worry about buying a commensurate gift or any gift for an unexpected kindness makes me want to avoid people.** Trust me, when I say “You shouldn’t have!” I really mean it. The Big Bang Theory’s neurotically lovable character, Sheldon, said it best: “You didn’t get me a gift, you got me an obligation.”
But I understand, there is a joy in sharing and caring for the ones you love. But maybe, just maybe, we don’t have to do it with tangible, pricey exchanges—beautiful bows, notwithstanding.
This brings up today’s quandary. I have looked up from November’s hole of self-absorption to realize Christmas is barely two weeks away. I have not strung the house with any kind of decoration. I have not written any cards. I have baked no cookies. I have purchased no gifts, no boomwhackers or fandoozles. In short, I have been the Grinch who Ignored Christmas.
My son, however, has finally noticed the holiday comes around every year. He has started dragging me to the toy aisle to point out the extremely expensive plastic monstrosity which is this year’s IT toy:
Because nothing says love like $99.99 worth of plastic.
Now, I try not to be a Scrooge when it comes to my kid. But there is a history here that wars with my better nature. Maybe it is because he is autistic, but in the past my son has insisted on one toy in particular. He will drag me or run to the toy department to make me follow him. He will try to get me to buy it…or, failing that, will try to tuck it under his arm and walk out with it. It takes the skills of a ninja for me to sneak out, buy the item, wrap it and hide it where he can’t find it, and keep it secret until December 26th.
Then, when the holiday rolls around, and I wait to see his excitement as he opens his present, I am floored by the total disinterest the toy produces when it is actually removed from the many trip wires they use to entrap parents into never returning the item for fear they would have to repackage it. It’s as if, the minute it is out of the box, it loses whatever magic it possessed in the store when I refused to buy it for him.
So I sat down with my son and pulled up several much-cheaper options online which he willingly clicked on and watched the video ads that promoted them. Over, and over, and over. Afterwards, I type out my questions on the iPad and wait for his painstakingly slow replies:
Me: “Why do you want the garage toy?
Son: “It is wider.”
Me: “It is very expensive. Let’s see if we can find a cheaper toy you like.”
[interlude with several nearly identical v-tech toys.]
Me: “Will you like this toy instead?”
Son: “Yes”
Me: “Is there anything else you would like for Christmas?”
Son: “Crayons.”
Me: “Okay, anything else?”
Son: “I would like you to teach me to talk.”
It took me a few seconds to remember how to breathe, that’s how much the sentence hurt. I typed a few more sentences about how well he is doing and how much I now know about him because of the iPad…but he is done for the night. He runs off to play and I get a glass of wine and try not to cry.
It is entirely tempting to just order the damned prized toy to make up for all of the things my child doesn’t have. It is a constant measure of guilt that underscores many of the decisions I make as a parent. It is a trap of desperation: “If only I can make him happy it will make up for him being a non-verbal child with autism.” But I have been down this very expensive road before and, though it is a scenic route full of enticing detours, I stick to my pecuniary path. I order a VTech Ultimate Amazement Play Park car set that will make him happy for at least an hour at half the price.
Do we as parents say “No!” to the overpriced toys and the overpriced holidays since we know that it isn’t worth the cost? On the other hand, do we really want to face disappointing our child and the associated guilt? This is my continual quandary.
I would really like to know, where do you all come down on this issue? Do you cave and buy the exorbitant junk or do you grit your teeth bear the price of impecunious, parental perspicacity?***
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*I am impulse consumerism personified.
**Let’s be honest, people make me want to avoid people.
A short note as I am still stuck in the land of Nanowrimo this month.
This image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/stuart miles
I tried a new method of approaching sleep last night: falling asleep while listening to a book on tape. Typically, I can trick myself to bed early, but it’s getting me to shut off my electronic toys that is the problem. So why not try a book on tape? You listen with your eyes closed! What could be better?
I probably shouldn’t have chosen a short fiction work that turned out to be a horror story about a woman haunted by demons in her sleep. I don’t know if listening to a reader hiss the ghostly words “Leave…leave…leaveleaveleaveleave LEAVE!” in your ear is meant to be restful. But I can assure you, it wasn’t a good night’s sleep for me.
TheDustSeason 