Acupuncture 2 November 2009

I started seeing an acupuncturist.  I mean really started – just one visit so far.  Apparently, she let loose seven dragons and, considering I didn’t even know I had any dragons, it was very pleasant.

She was a likable lady.  I’ve had mixed results with therapists and doctors of all sorts in the past and it’s always a delight to find someone who is likable from the first instant.  I had hoped she would be as sincere, upbeat and professional as her voice sounded on the telephone and I was delighted to find she was.  Given my typical reaction to white coats (not that she was wearing one) things went very well.

I’m trying acupuncture for a billion reasons, not least of which are the nasty migraines and incessant nightmares.  D and I would both like to get a good nights sleep.   The first session was a long two hours – the first spent exhausting my physical, mental and emotional history and the second pushing needles.  The history was unremarkable, except for the disturbing self-realization that I’m gathering soul scars as I get older.  I deeply enjoyed the second half.

Shedding my pants and socks, I had a lovely high table to lay on with sheets and blankets.  She used seven needles (to release the seven dragons that fight the body’s demons – an initial treatment done once) and put three in my stomach, one in each thigh and one on each foot (or was it ankle?)  She then came back at regular intervals to twist the needles a quarter turn until she’d gone all the way around.  Sounds a little brutal but wasn’t remarkable at all.

The sensations during treatment were remarkable.  As she put each needle in, it felt as though someone was gently pressing down on my back from the inside.  It was a heavy, pleasant feeling.  I’m not afraid of needles, and these are so small, they barely created a sensation other than the weight in my center.  Occasionally, the needles felt cold or radiated tingles, but for the most part, I was unaware that they were there.

During the times she was out of the room, I concentrating on breathing as she suggested.  At first my mind was busy, flying all over the place.  When she came back into the room and I mentioned the commotion, she said I might try being a river bed with the thoughts flowing above.  That worked beautifully and I felt as though I was glued to the table when she came back into the room again.  I couldn’t have moved if she had asked.  I was cemented to the table.  After that I slowly spun upward again until I was ready to be on my way by the time she finished.  I don’t think I’ve been so completely relaxed in a long time.

I’ll be heading back again every week for six weeks to see if the acupuncture has any effect.  Folks have been suggesting I try for years and I’ve always been willing but never motivated to spend the extra time and money.  At this point, no new solutions are coming from the traditional medical community and I’ve always been at home with alternative techniques, so it’s well worth the try.  Here’s to hoping the dragons swallow the nightmares.

Lucky. 21 October 2009

The months have been getting away from me.  Spring flew past in a blur of planting a new garden, learning a new neighborhood and owning a new house.  Then the start of the academic year, thousands of colleges kids coming back to a new start, and a change in the work routine brought on by living in a new place.  Slowly, work got busier as the students discovered the library and D and I spent more time focusing on things running smoothly at work, home life somewhat forgotten.  Right now, in some ways, our focus has turned inward and we’ve let everything else fall by the wayside.  It was a luxury to be able to do that.

My parents arrived last week to stay for a couple of weeks.  Refocusing has been more rough than expected.  We’ve been sucked into the whirlwind of having three extra people in the house.  My grandmother is elderly (very) and my parents are in their sixties.  They all arrived coughing and wheezing and have been slow to recover.  Sick or not, I’m reminded that my mother and father love each other very much.  I hoe D and I have that, I thing we do.  And it’s always amazing to see my grandmother again.  Every time I see her, I feel like it might be the last time.

All this introspection has left me sleepless.  What will happen when my parents die?  And worse, since most folks don’t simultaneously pass, what will life be like for my mother alone?  How will my father manage without her?  How will he cope with the grief?  Will she go crazy in that empty, cold house?  Who will chop the wood when he’s gone?  And that, accompanied by the inward focus of recent weeks, leaves me panicking over D and life without her.  It spirals on, of course, and soon I’m thinking about our dog, how wonderful he is and how we’ll get, at best, nine more years with him and then I’m sitting wide-eyed in the basement while D sleeps.

I know there are chemical reasons for this.  I haven’t been working much since my parents have been in town, I’ve been sleeping more and eating differently and my schedule is thrown off.  I know that this alters the way I think and that this panic and anxiety isn’t me.  I’m not a basement sitter, basement dweller, tears dripping from the corners of my eyes when I pretend to sleep.

I’m lucky to be able to afford to be so self-centered.

No, you can’t. 30 August 2009

You need vitamins.  Protein.  Even a healthy amount of fat.  Google searchers, you can not live on lettuce.

We don’t know each other, you and I.   But we both know that, while an attractive strategy to become a shard of your former self while still eating every meal, it can’t be good to eat only lettuce.  I was there once.  I wished that I could be as thin, no, thinner!, than the other girls at school.  Jill had the cutest, shortest white shorts that she wore all summer long.  Kim had legs that you could drive a train between.  Jennifer was a tiny thing – not five feet, all eyes and a smile.  A trio of Shelbys with itsy bitsy ribcages and small gently curved arms waving from snug tank tops.  I didn’t dream about magazine models – everyone knows you can’t look like those woman, right? – but I’d have given anything, even heads upon heads of lettuce to look like the thin girls around me.

I’ve spent time on the edge of resolutions.  Nothing anything after 8.  Nothing after noon.  Just breakfast.  Maybe nothing.  I’ll go to the gym for an hour.  Every day.  Twice a day.  I’ll stay two hours.  I can look like them.  I can be them.  Lettuce lookers, “can I survive on only lettuce” and “eat only lettuce”, I’m talking to you.

High school years behind me, I know I was that same girl.  Rounder maybe, curvier.  Cuter.  But I lived on ice cream sandwiches for breakfast, an apple for lunch and two hour swim practices each afternoon. How I managed it, I have no idea.  Regardless of my miserable eating habits (which I am now, happily, over) I never resigned myself to a vegetable that is basically water.  So please, don’t come here looking for tips on living on lettuce alone.  No one is selling that promise here.

The Reason I Couldn’t Help 28 August 2009

Folks, this could be considered graphic.

Sometimes, I’m a pretty bad wife. Occasionally, I’ll insist the chicken is still frozen so that we have to have pizza instead. And, every so often, I’ll stick my head out from a  book and say, “Why is the cat meowing?” without even checking to see if he has food. I know, dastardly. I don’t even make up for it in other ways. You see, I don’t like to touch the wet laundry unless there’s lotion nearby and I don’t like to fold things that are inside out. I don’t like to unpack things and I don’t like to talk about key racks, picture frames, closet organizers or decor. But, at least I do these thing every so often. Throwing her a bone, so to speak. Like I said, I’m a pretty bad wife.

I don’t think I’d had a single panic attack until I rode a collapsing deck down a couple of stories. After that, creaking wood sent me into heart-fluttering shakes. But otherwise? Totally okay. Totally okay in all areas except, apparently, disco rice. I would link that, but I’m not up for whatever images might be behind that Google search. No, seriously.

I think I’ve been storing up panic. Pre-deck crunch, I went to Africa a reletively undamaged person. In fact, I’d say my interests ran to the macabre and that I had a stronger stomach for gore than most. And then I spent one very hot afternoon in an African morgue. Culturally, it was fascinating, though that word implies a lightheartedness I don’t intend.

A crowd of women in colorful fabric crouched around a small set of steps in the morgue courtyard. The courtyard itself was pretty, trees and benches dotted a walled cement area framed on one side by tall concrete and the other by a low L-shaped building. The women wailed. Isn’t that what you’re meant to do when mourning? It’s not really crying anymore, it’s a ripping sort of hollow sob that rises and falls with your breath and your memories. I watched them cluster and mourn while I was taking a break from watching a body.

This was on the heels of several mundane things. The stereo from the embassy truck was stolen after delivering the coffin. My boss yelled at me on the cell phone for not being able to be two places at once. I watched dried leaves drift on the pavement. It also followed some firsts for me.  Speaking with the tender-voiced manager of the morgue about why we would need to use our U.S. coffin. Explaining why someone needed to stay with the body. Learning about the draining mechanism in the steel lining of a coffin.

Even now, I’m unable to give eloquence to that afternoon. There was blood in swirls on the floor. And, there were bodies. More than I expected. Stacked and carried in ways I hadn’t expected. A smell that never faded, even after hours. And of course, there were bugs. This is not CSI’s cool, dimly lit morgue. This is a bright, summery place with no air conditioning and wide open doors and windows. Honestly, it was easier to stare at the tiled walls than at the waiting body. Or worse, the wide hallway with a slide-show of atrocity. At least, it was easier until I realized that I wasn’t dizzy so much as the tile was moving. And that the small, white bugs responsible for the movement were everywhere.

You know, that’s all I can say today about that day. And it’s the first time I think I’ve put it into writing. Shared with someone who wasn’t my partner or a therapist. I’m not sure how I developed the idea that the larvae exclusively populated one-hour crime shows, read-in-a-day detective thrillers and third world countries. How privileged to assume wealth is an inoculation.

One weekend before we moved in, we left a trash bag with discarded sandwich wrappings on the floor of our new kitchen. When we came back a few days later, I picked up the nearly empty bag to toss with the rest of the painting detrius. I’m sure I don’t need to explain what was under the bag. I can’t anyway.  The 20 minutes of sobbing and shaking that followed was enough to turn D. pale. That was a real panic attack. It put my issues with cracking wood to shame. She cleaned up the mess and soaked the kitchen in chemicals. I don’t know how long it took or how awful it was. I’m not even sure where I went in my mind as it happened.

Last night, we discovered our outdoor trashcan had picked up unwanted visitors. First a few, then a lot. I think we’re both happy that I wasn’t the one who discovered it. Regardless, I also wasn’t the one who dealt with it. If, by dealing, you mean dousing the interior with dichotomous earth and returning, green, to the house with this statement “Let’s throw out the whole can.” I can’t help but wonder if she’d be less squicked if I hadn’t turned the first instance into weeping, startling panic. But they are gross, and I don’t blame her for wanting to spare the trash collectors.

Summary?  She is amazing and I am damaged.  I’m the lucky one.

It runs in the family… 6 November 2007

My sister called today to announce, through tears, that she was coming to spend the weekend.  I’m devoted to my sister, but she’s 3000 miles and a pricey plane ticket away from this weekend.  As it stands though, she’s coming to drown her sorrows in a cold snap and fall leaves. 

When I told D., the first thing she said was, “She’s not moving in with us again, is she?”  And thank goodness, she’s not.  But she is grappling with a best friend who hates her boyfriend-almost-fiance and the third year of law school.  If I were her, I’d run away too. 

It runs in the family.  I also made a 3000 mile bolt one year.  The Foreign Service, wonderful though it may be, isn’t known for its tranparent, fast hiring process.  I’d been told, over and over, that I’d need to be in DC  in late September.  The Thursday before class started, I still sat, still in sunny Arizona, still unpacked, still without a plnae ticket, still in shorts, still without knowing where I needed to be on Monday.  When I called (no, no not in panic, really!), they told me that if things “worked out,” I’d need to be there in a suit and heels, shiny and happy.  I still did not own a suit.  So I bought a ticket instead of a suit, and flew to Chicago to stay with my mother’s best friend.  She bought me a piece of pie, and let me be a runaway for a weekend.  I’ve never forgotten how kind she was not to ask what I was running from.

Bonus points if you, too, run further than the nearest Baskin Robbins if you want to escape…

Sand Trays 10 August 2006

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

It’s the reason I’m seeing Ann. Oh yes, apparently, I’m damaged. I could go into it, but you’d be bored and I want you to stay, not run screaming from the scene. Someday I’ll tell you about the exaggerated startle response (no, it’s not fun to slam the door and see what I’ll do!) or maybe about the trouble concentrating (what was I doing again?) but you’re probably safe from a recounting of the things I think about when I’m alone. Frankly, I wish I were safe from the things I think about when I’m alone. But today, you’ve won the therapy lottery. It’s a jackpot. A windfall. You lucky duck. I’m going to tell you about sand trays.

Not what I did (you wouldn’t like that) but about sand trays in general. Have you ever done a sand tray? I haven’t…or rather, hadn’t. Ann has a waist high table, flat and slightly tilted toward you, and about as big as a coffee table. It’s filled with soft, pale sand. It isn’t so shallow or narrow that you feel restricted to what you can do. And you can do anything. Draw, place small figurines (since you asked, I placed a pirate and a palm tree but I’m not telling you what else), anything at all. It seems innocent and easy. But this is still therapy, people.

It was amazing that I knew what I was doing and had an entire inner dialogue about it (oh sure, put that one down, then you’ll have to explain it to Ann and she’ll know you’re a freak show, so put it back and hey! wait a second! don’t put that in the sand, now you’ve done it, oh but here’s another one, oh sure…and so on) but I was unable to build a pretty little scene that would make Ann happy. It was depressing, not being stronger than my own mind.

We scoffed at the sand trays upon reading about them in Ann’s bio but it was surprisingly soothing. Well, not the depressing part, but the rest. I thought it would be all rocks and little rakes and concentric circles. Instead there were plastic snakes and monsters, little metal tanks and pretty plastic things of all kinds. Part of me felt silly, playing in the sand, but mostly, I enjoyed putting down just about whatever I wanted. Too bad it was, as I mentioned, depressing. I can only imagine what I’d do with a sand tray in my own house. A girl can dream…

Fight or Flight 101 29 June 2006

The therapist (aren’t you proud, dear reader) has suggested that perhaps five years of crisis mode isn’t the best plan for mental and physical health. Though I felt like I knew most of what she told me (it was the first meeting after all), it was nice to get some validation for why I’m a wreck half the time. I was a little surprised I was able to hit all the important points in the span of 45 minutes and when I left she looked a little overwhelmed. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

She did tell me to do something kind for myself and I, promptly, burst into tears. I’ll make an effort to use that massage gift certificate I got for my birthday almost a year ago before I see her next. It’s a date.

Bad Luck 27 June 2006

I have to wonder if I have some sort of curse. In fact, I’ve spent the last several days thinking about anyone I could have made angry that would have both a) a mean streak and b) access to powerful voodoo magic.

What else explains the year of constant health problems (broken ankle, possibly broken foot, cavity that can’t be numbed and therefore can’t be filled, only drilled at painfully, pre-cancerous pap and subsequent painful cervical biopsy, the PCOS, the new glasses), the year of car problems (back window leaks, drivers side window goes off track and sticks (then is repaired for a pretty penny), the carpet is inexplicably sopping on one side after the recent storms, the passenger side door is letting water in, the car window has stuck again (and will probably need to be repaired…again), the frequent doctors appointments, the frequent phone calls to people who can’t fix things/aren’t nice/cost money etc.  It just goes on…the windows in the house are leaking, the cats keep throwing up, really, the only thing that’s right about life is D.

I wish I weren’t complaining, but I fell a little bit better.  Aren’t you glad you helped?  Now…how do I lift a curse?

Creak 20 May 2006

It’s funny how one of my favorite sounds, the gentle creeping creak of a wooden ship rocking on the waves, sound just like one of my least favorite sounds. Granted, I’ve never heard an actual wooden ship creak, despite having been in fair share of them – everything from huge twenty-man row boats that leaked as much as they floated and tiny, sleek sailboats that slipped soundlessly across open water. But there are plenty of opportunities in film to hear ships creak, their masts swaying slightly, the deck giving with the rolling waves, the wooden oars shifting against their metal brackets. Movies are rich with the sound, and I’m likely to watch a film I never would all the way through if I think there’s a chance that a ship might creak. I sometimes imagine the sound as I’m falling asleep lulled by the creak potential in my head. Yes, I know, I’m crazy.

On the other hand, I spent an entire three days confronted by that awful sound, menacing me at every turn and keeping me from fully enjoying where I was and what I was doing. Last September, I was on a deck that collapsed, falling straight down with 30 or so people aboard, crashing into the ground about 15 feet down. I shattered my ankle and a number of my colleagues and friends broke feet, sliced scalps, snapped wrists and generally took a beating. It could have been so much worse – of course it could have been. Someone could have been underneath. Someone could have been killed. The one pregnant woman among us had just left the deck to go inside. Thank goodness. But, I was hurt and, more hurt, clearly, than I thought.

Every seven weeks I have to return to the same place – a remote (30 miles from the hospital, believe me, I know) resort complex, fully rustic, dotted with wooden cabins elevated off the ground, with wooden steps, wooden floors, wooden paths and, yes, wooden decks. I’m okay as long as the wind doesn’t blow, and no one walks too heavily, and I don’t have to stand on a deck. But friends, that’s practically impossible. In fact, in order to do my job, what I’m paid to be there doing, often involves doing those very things. On a day to day basis, I’m fine. And a creak sounds like a solid, rocking ship. But when I’m there, or when I’m anywhere standing on something wooden – hell, if you’re standing on something wooden and I’m on solid ground – a creak sounds like panic, fear and pain.

Bonus points if you, too, like ships.

Stirrups, please. 20 April 2006

Caution: Icky medical drama ahead…

Do you love going to the gynocologist? Because I don’t, and I could use some of that love over here. My last doctor, quite probably scarred by my tears, general panic and faint-inducing anxiety suggested that as a fairly healthy, fairly young person, I could wait three years between visits. As you expected, the three years have come and gone and I dragged myself off to the new doc today. I rationalized it by telling myself that the woman was reputedly lesbian friendly (and her entire office was), a new diagnosis of PCOS demanded some more specialized attention to my delinquent ovaries and that if D and I were planning to have a baby…ever…I was going to have to get used to someone in between my legs.

I did it with a minimum of tears (applause here) but not without considerable panicking, fidgeting, grimacing and blood pressure rocketing. D held my hand (helping matters tremendously), setting a precedent for every future visit so that I don’t have to take that horrid, poking awfulness alone. The doctor said she’d see me next year (thank goodness she wants to keep me) and I’m not completely turned off at the idea of sex for the next six months (which is what happened last time one of us went to the doc).

You’d think being a dyke would make it easier for me to throw my feet up there and slide down just so and lay quietly while some woman sticks gigantic baseball bats into me. Frankly, I’d let D stick just about anything up there with the appropriate amount of fiddling elsewhere. But just so you straight folks know, being a lesbian doesn’t give me an edge. I still really, really hate it.

You might ask why I’d put this out there for the Internet to read. Partly because I’m proud of myself for not turning into a blubbering wreck and partly because I can’t seem to find anyone else out there as scarred by this experience as I am. All of you scarred people can coome over here. It’s fun! We’re a party!