The State of Me

This is the combo vanity/writing desk I bought from Ikea earlier this year. It amuses me that a Swedish company made it in Portugal and that it was ultimately assembled (poorly) in the U.S. by a chick of Portuguese decent (moi). Gave it a brisk neatening just a little while ago, as a hot mess of crap and dust and whatnot littered it. In addition to the requisite lamp and writing utensils I've plopped down some items meant to inspire me (star-shaped clock for a wanna-be superstar; a framed note from a fan--which does touch me every time I see it; a pic of me as a little girl before I'd learned to fear life).

I've been mainly using the vanity aspect of this thing, to help me ready my carcass for my day job and because I'm vain. Maybe I'll use it for writing in 2018. I'm using it right now to tap out this post so that's a good sign...?

Getting up in the mornings is harder and harder. I'm angry all the time; like, I simmer and surge with the slightest provocation but internalize everything because I don't want to hurt anyone though I don't seem to mind destroying myself. So many times I've bit my metaphorical tongue to keep from ranting out a blog post on stupid shit--though I am pretty fucking tired of people and their "I was laying down" bullshit. Unless you were setting a motherfucking table for dinner you were not laying down, you were in fact LYING down, God damn it. See what I mean? It's stupid shit and I get riled up by it and who knows if ranting out a blog post on the reg wouldn't be better than nuking my innards by holding back but I'm embarrassed to reveal my ick so I simmer.

I know what it means, that stupid shit's getting my goat--it means I feel that life is completely beyond my control. It means I feel I'm battering my head against an impenetrable wall of NO and that I'll never reach my full potential as a human and will never, ever know true comfort or joy, because I'm simply not meant to.

The drugs don't work. Or if they do, they just keep me from a final slide down to God knows what, because mostly I just feel like I'm in a fog. I'm cloudy-headed, numb, anxious, despairing. I think of death and mortality every day. I'm the living dead. I'm not suicidal--I'm far too Catholic and, frankly, cowardly for that. Besides, I seem to prefer a slow death by tobacco, sugar, and hope.

I should note that I've been off work for the past week and off my routine; I've forgotten to take my antidepressants more often than not and, moreover, am getting my period, so I'm feeling especially dark today. But all of this is still perfectly true. And skipping the meds, though inadvertent, doesn't really seem to have made things any worse so I may just go off the stuff. I mean, maybe.

This year I hid my birthday on Facebook and no one there hailed me on my so-called special day. That was the desired outcome--dozens of people wishing me hyperbolic happiness is a burden that has made me break down in tears in recent years. You'd think I'd be cheered but each wish weighs on me more heavily than the last because I can't live up to any of them. A few folks reached out to me in other ways, and that I could take. But nothing more. I'm even disabling comments for this post because I can't bear anyone's hopes/wishes/expectations. Emotionally I'm a 3rd degree burn victim and the slightest brush, of anything, feels awful. I'm just posting because the lid on my seething pot of angst finally shifted a little--the words needed to go out but I don't need or want any in return.

So that's the state of me as the last grains of 2017 scurry down the hourglass. May 2018 be better, God willing.

Color Me Blue...

Color Me Blue

by Mina Lobo

I feast but never fill up,

I bleed myself for love,

I tire of fruitless praying

for blessings from above.

So I don’t want to party,

and I don’t want to fight.

I don’t want to sing and

I don’t want to write.

No…

Part II: The Kid Goes to College...

...and I lose my mind. (Click here if you missed Part I, as Part II won't make much sense without it.) (It may not make much sense, regardless.)

Dad, Star, and I made it home all right (in spite of continuing thunderstorms!), had dinner with Mom, and then my Sis spent another night at chez moi to lend me some (im)moral support. We cracked open our (second) bottle of cabernet sauvignon and re-watched, for the umpteenth time, the movie Warlock (from 1989, starring still super-sexy Julian Sands and Richard E. Grant). (Hubba freaking hubba.) (I would even add wooooooof!)

I got up with Star early-ish Sunday morning, to make her some coffee before she trekked back to Brooklyn, and then I was alone. Before she left, she asked me how I was doing and, taking her meaning, I told her I'd be totally fine. And I really thought it was true. I'd felt nothing but normal through the past few days and, in spite of the nasty storms we'd encountered, took great pleasure in Balthazar's obvious excitement to be embarking on this great college adventure. I really felt OK.

I went back to bed and snored away a couple more hours, dreaming intense and crazy dreams, one of which included my Dad flying me somewhere in a small plane and telling me not to look. Of course, I looked, and he said not to panic. When I saw we were flying over a beach and about to fly out over open water, I completely freaked out. Quelle bizarre. (My Dad ain't no pilot.)

What Balthazar leaves behind...

I got out of bed for realz a little before noon and headed to the bathroom. I passed Balthy's bedroom, now nearly completely vacant and a bit of a mess with moving-away debris and stuff I'm to throw out at some undesignated point in the near future. I thought I noticed a tumbleweed roll by. Then I became completely overpowered by sobs. I spent all of Sunday alternately keening and telling myself this horrible feeling would pass, without believing it for one second. I felt like I was dying. And, God help me, I almost wanted to die, if it meant I wouldn't feel so awful, ever again.

The thing is, it's not just the reminder that Balthy's gone which set me off. It's the fact that I can either pay rent on my apartment (or on any apartment) OR pay the balance of his college fees that aren't covered by scholarships and loans and whatnot. Which means that when my lease expires at the end of September, I'm moving back into my parents' two-bedroom apartment. It's absolutely generous of them to let me, as they know why it's necessary. I love my parents, a whole hell of a lot, and I'm so grateful to them for all they've done, and continue to do, for Balthy and me. But moving back in with them at this stage in my life, living in such close quarters, after running a home of my own...gah.

Finally, I'm facing not only a midlife-crisis, but an identity crisis as well. Without having to provide such nuanced care for my kid on a daily basis, I feel all at sea. (Aha, that dream now makes sense!) I have to redefine who I am and I'm not sure I know how to be anything other than a mom anymore. Geez, I've been a mother for most of my adult life! I know who I wanted to be, before Balthazar came along. And I reckon I should go back to that head space and re-frame those dreams with the wisdom I've acquired over the years. I know this is a wonderful opportunity to recreate myself, but this parting of ways with the Me I've been since May 29, 1995...it's a stunningly painful divide.

All Sunday I felt grief-stricken, with these thoughts of loss and dreaded change roiling around in my mind and gut. I know, intellectually, that this downpour of feeling was the worst of it. As the days go by, I will adjust, I will re-frame, and I will conquer all of this ick. And I will strive, in the immortal words of my favorite band, Duran Duran, to not "...cry for yesterday; there's an ordinary world, somehow I have to find." (Man, actually listening to this song on Sunday night = big mistake.)

And I may get a tattoo. 'Cause, you know, a midlife crisis is the perfect time of life in which to do something terribly permanent which you may some day regret. Well, one's teen years are the ideal time, but that ship has long since sailed, alas...

Part I: The Kid Goes to College...

Balthazar, snoozing through several deadly thunderstorms.

...and I lose my mind...

About a week ago, I asked some friends what, apart from quarters for doing laundry and condoms, I should make sure Balthazar The Kid took with him when he moved up to college. They helpfully answered:

• Lube! Bleach! Cookies!
• a snuggie
• bug spray and blankets!
• a taser
• mace
• Flint, Steel, a Good Knife, pair of good boots, canteen and a water filter
• pepper spray
• Ramen

Of the above, I did procure cookies but figured he could pick up the other items later, if required. (They sell tasers at college bookstores, right?) (And no, I didn't buy him any condoms, as a quick rummage through his armoire's drawers revealed an already ample supply.) (::sighs::)

Last Thursday and Friday were spent picking up the items I did deem necessary (stuff for his dorm room, some clothes and shoes, refilling his asthma meds, etc.). Then Friday night, Balthy did about five loads of laundry and, with the help of my sister, Star (not her real name, obviously), and myself, folded and packed it all. The three of us got to bed around 2:30am.

Later that Saturday morning, we got all the stuff in my Dad's car and he drove us masterfully through two hours' worth of weather hell in upstate New York. The skies were heavy with dark clouds and it rained, often dangerously, a good part of the way to Balthy's new college and sporadically on the way back. At several points, the rain was so intense that we could barely see the faint glow of the red break lights of cars ahead. I have to say, I got pretty Catholic, praying fervently and begging the Virgin Mary, all the angels and saints, and all our loved ones who'd gone on before us to put some good words in with the Lord so He'd get us safely to our destination. And He did. (For which I thank you again, Most Holy of Dudes.)

Star and Balthy, figuring out where to get started with unpacking.

As I noted earlier, my sister, Star, joined us to lend a hand. She graduated from this very same college back in 1998 and, though I'm not positive, I think the fact that Balthy has an alum in his pocket maybe helped his application to this very prestigious art-school-type-place. He attended her graduation back in '98, just a few days shy of his third birthday. Now, his auntie beams with pride to see him follow in her Doc Martens clad footsteps.

The view from Balthy's dorm room.

Star and I helped Balthy unpack and settle in, quickly getting rid of excess bags (which made me crazy to see, floating about the place) and recyclables (which did the same to my Sis). We got to meet Balthy's new roomie, a seemingly nice young man (fingers crossed!), went through the various hoops of Student Accounts and I.D. picture-taking and whatnot, and got drenched in the continuing rain for our troubles. Oh, and we got to experience the cafeteria food, which was rather crap but all-you-can-eat-for-five-dollars (for family and friends; the newbies ate for "free"), so that was some small reward. Sorta.

"...let us say goodnight till it be morrow..."

Then it was time to mix metaphors and leave my no-longer-little birdling to fly under his own steam. (As it were.) I managed to snap a pic of us despite his bitching. FYI, he's not all gelled up, hair-wise, here; it was just so friggin' humid we all dripped with sweat. Which is less attractive than it sounds...

...be sure to tune in tomorrow for Part II, in which, to quote Spandau Ballet, "...to cut a long story short, I [lose] my mind."