I was so tired driving in to work this morning that I slowed down to allow a skittering of leaves to cross the street.

I don't even know, man.

Willpower: Tips & Tricks

It was 35°F outside when my alarm went off this morning. I was warm, snuggled under a pile of blankets with the cat by my feet, the haze of sleep wrapping a cocoon of comfort around me. The sweet aftertaste of dreams lingered, a haven of mingled contentment and sleepiness that gently tugged me toward the honeyed Lethe of slumber.

Oh darling, we don't have time for that shit.

Against the protests of literally every other part of my being, pure willpower shoved through the soft haze and, taking advantage of the bewildered confusion, cast off the warm blankets and pushed my body out of bed and into the cold air of the room. I hurried to the bathroom counter where the rest of my workout clothes awaited, having set them out the night before.

(The secret, you see, is to get moving before your less motivated self can build an argument to stay in bed. The other secret is to wear half your workout clothes as pajamas).

I have a fifteen minute window from the time my alarm goes off and the time I'm out the door for the bitterly cold walk to my apartment's gym. I have to move fast -- not just because I'm concerned that I'll ice the hell over if I stop, but if I don't make it at least half way there in a few minutes, my brain wakes up with a "OH WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCK IS THIS SHIT?!" and I get grumpy. Grumpier. Semantics.

Taking off my jacket in the barely-warmer-than-outside gym is typically the last hurdle. I don't have any tricks for this except just doing it very quickly, tucking the fleecey warmth of it into a cubby and getting on the elliptical as soon as humanly possible. If I move more slowly, the shivers set in and it's harder to get moving.

Usually it takes about 20 minutes before I begrudgingly accept that this is a good idea, that yes, this is not so bad, exercise is good, gold goddamn star for you, Kat. Forty minutes in, I feel awesome. By the time I'm done, I feel like I could climb all the mountains and defeat all the monsters. One self-congratulatory cool down & stretch later, I'm bundling back up for the cheerful hustle through the frost-glittered dawn to head home and shower.

Hypermobile

This is a bit of a divergent topic that I just need to get down on paper (so to speak) for myself for later.

I've been hypermobile my whole life. As a kid, it was a great source of pride -- I could freak people out by bending and folding myself like so much origami (which, for an 8 year old, there is no greater pursuit). It later helped me out in martial arts and dance, but I just always assumed that being ridiculously bendy was a good thing and somehow translated into heightened athleticism.

It turns out that hypermobility is really, really bad for your joints. In normal people, the muscles and tendons around their joints helps to keep them stable and supported. In hypermobile people, those joints take a brutal beating, even when we're not doing crazy flexible things. It's really important that we, more so than regular people, have to work hard to make sure we're building and maintaining the muscle needed to support our joints so that they don't overextend and push us into early osteoarthritis.

There's more to say about that, but I've realized something else while I've been cultivating the frame of mind I need to be vigilant about how I treat my body.

I know there has to be a word for the way I think. That is, I know it's not unique in its overall design but I've learned in the last couple years that it's not exactly normal, either. It's sort of like.... semi-focused ADD. Instead of not being able to focus on something, I instead go down the pipeline of the thing, rapidly considering the pros, cons, consequences, actions, reactions, everything it touches, what the impact would be if it failed, if it succeeds, how it could change, and then the whole thing all over again with the new changes. On paper it sounds super great, like some kind of business superpower and maybe sometimes it is, a little bit (or just high functioning anxiety, but we're not going there). But... overall it alienates those around me because they're not sure where my head is at, because they just said "hey, what if we [plan]?" and while they're enjoying the possibilities of that plan, I've already decided it's not a viable plan because avocados aren't in season. I'll explain my logic to others and they look at me like I'm insane, but (at the risk of sounding really self-aggrandizing) I'm really good about being spot on in my assessment.

It's a sort of mental hypermobility that has similar consequences of physical hypermobility. It beats up the joints -- the things upon which we all hinge that are typically stabilized by our friendships and relationships to others. Things that are supported by our ability to not find the linchpin in a plan and allows us to venture into uncertainty with a smile. Sure, the plan might not work, but venturing on the path with friends toward a goal is valuable in its own right. But for me -- and all the people like me -- it's really hard to move in that direction because we know the plan won't work. So we're stuck being frustrated because it's hard to see the point of expending the energy when you know the end goal isn't attainable.

So I need to strengthen the supporting mental muscles. I need to practice patience, to learn to slow down sometimes, and to even stop myself from chasing possibilities to every possible conclusion. While there's a sense of satisfaction in seeing the all the mechanical parts that make a situation or project work, it's a cold, lifeless fulfillment that lacks joy or warmth, especially when you start to apply it to other, non-work areas of life. 

There's a scene in an anime that I really like that explains this feeling really well. The show is called Princess Tutu (don't judge) and the title character finds herself pulled out of the actual story and into a place where she can see all the moving parts that create the story. It's a world of cogs and clockwork, and she can only see the story through a little porthole. She's lonely and can't reach anyone she cares about -- and they don't know where she is. 

It's very like being where I am these days, both from my perspective and those around me. I've become very difficult for others to relate to or understand, and I've been so lost in all the variables that it's hard to just be. 

Here's to stabilizing the joints. 

Derp

So I don't make a habit of reading back over old entries and realized just now that I did actually talk about my medical things in more detail before my last post, but due to post-surgery drugs I had no memory of it. Ah, well. C'est la vie.

A Recap, Holding Space, and The Underworld

I realized just now that I never actually explained my medical situation beyond mentioning the cyst, and with my intentions with writing going forward, I really need to give a frame of reference to what's going on.

During my ovarian cystectomy, my doctor found a significant volume of endometrial tissue that had attached to my abdominal wall. I had a some show up on a few other internal organs, but the vast (and I do mean vast) majority was on my peritoneum. My doctor removed as much as she could, but it's literally impossible to get it all. She did her best, the nursing staff was extremely supportive, and in the end I received both excellent care and a diagnosis of stage 4 endometriosis.

I knew it was a possibility going in. It's really important to emphasize this because it's a profoundly scary diagnosis to have dropped on you suddenly. It was a relief to have a reason behind the pain -- a pain that I'd jokingly describe as some kind of alien chest-burster hanging out and gnawing at my insides and stabbing at me with tiny alien claws as it scrabbled around in my guts (which in retrospect is probably not as hilarious to others as it is for me). The diagnosis means that this is a condition that I'll have for the rest of my life and that I will never bear children. I could undergo several more surgeries that might possibly allow me to get pregnant, but I'm at extremely high risk for death if I ever attempt to carry a child to term.

It took me some time to come to terms with it and I'm honestly still working through it all. I've never had strong maternal ambitions but having that choice taken away from me isn't a great feeling. The sense that my body has betrayed me has brought up a lot of questions and doubts that I'm slowly processing. As I'm sure many women do in times like this, I've been looking for guidance in the sphere of my religious/spiritual life and am finding very little by way of resources or support. I'm not sure if this is because many pagan women approach their cycle in the context of maiden/mother/crone and menses as part of that sacred cycle, or if it's just simply too painful for women who are drawn to a maternal Goddess to talk about. This is honestly one of the more isolating situations I've been in, and while it's given me the opportunity to walk this path with an unexpected fierce and clear mind, it's also got me in the mind to create resources for other women who face this same situation. Maybe I'll write a book.

Radiant Health by Bell Pine Art Farm

So in a drug-addled post-surgery haze, laying up on the sofa with cushions and provisions nearby (as provided by my absolutely amazing and loving boyfriend) and equipped with my laptop, I renewed my search. Through a series of unlikely links, I eventually came across the Bell Pine Art Farm page and fell in love with both the Radiant Health and Moon Mother sculptures. I ordered them both, and in my painkiller-fueled delirium, I wrote my story in the comments section of my order. I explained everything that I hadn't even told my family, about the lifelong condition and never having children. It was a stark, hopeless confession into the ether. I closed my laptop and succumbed to the sleep that only heavy drugs can provide.

A couple days later, I received an email from the wonderful woman who makes the sculptures. Not only did she respond with absolute love for a complete stranger on the other side of the country, she held space for me. It's hard to explain -- she acknowledged the awfulness fully, accepted my feelings completely and wholly, without the usual "You must feel [emotion]!" or "well at least.." or any number of other things that people say because they don't know what to say, or because they need to diminish my experience for their comfort. She also pointed me in the direction of a worldwide meditation for women happening on August 18th, which I think is exactly what I need. Between my health and this inexplicable spiritual block, this whole summer has been strange and complicated for me. I feel disconnected and spinning past things I wish I could hold fast to and it's taking everything I have to just breathe.

Mother Moon by Bell Pine Art Farm

I've talked previously about feeling closer to some of the Dark Goddesses -- Hecate, Cerridwen -- and I know I must travel to the underworld to face and process everything that's happening, but I feel weak and unable to muscle through that journey. I feel helpless, feeling like I know what I need to do but can't physically or spiritually do it. It's happened to me physically once before, where I was getting out of the bath and my whole body just couldn't hold itself up anymore. I ended up lying on the cold tile of the bathroom floor for almost an hour, just breathing, until I could get the strength to lift myself up.

(Now I know that was an important symptom of S4 endometriosis, but I wonder if spiritual fatigue can tie in with that as well? Food for research later)

I've been reading about Dark Goddess journeying lately, and there was one passage in Jane Meredith's book about those of us who may have been stuck in the underworld for a time -- and that the issue is less about journeying into the darkness and more about learning how to ascend back into the light.

Journeying to the Dark Goddess changes us each time we undertake that journey. To prepare to visit the Dark Goddess we have to stop and listen to ourselves; deeply. We have to admit to the parts of our lives that are not working, that are making us unhappy or even ill and we have to be prepared to do something about them. To descend into the Underworld we have to give away, one by one, all the things that hold us back from change. This can feel like we're losing everything. Meeting the Dark Goddess herself is at the heart of the mystery and is different each time, but that is the point where change happens. The return journey -- that of the Ascent -- is the time when we put those changes into action, integrating what we have learnt.

For some women, journeying toward the Dark Goddess is not the issue. Some of us feel like we've spent all or most of our lives with her. We might be artists, healers, mothers, and dreamers. But maybe we've also gone through depression; been out of control with addictions or self-harming; or felt balanced on the edge of insanity, unable to escape the Underworld and the immediate and continual presence of the Dark Goddess. When this is happening, learning how to depart from the Underworld is the issue. But these alternatives -- barely visiting our hidden selves unless absolutely forced to or else not being able to get away -- are both stories of imbalance; how to visit and how to return.

Going into the dark as others have described it has always made me feel like I didn't understand the process exactly, because when they described confronting their shadow self I felt like that was something I do every day. Not in the sense that I'm some kind of badass who fearlessly looks her darkness in the eye, but more in the sense that I'm acutely aware of every awful part of myself, my terrible habits, the things that I've said that inadvertently hurt others; the things I try to hide from myself, things I shy away from, things I'm terrified of acting upon because I'm paralyzed with the notion that I can't actually make the situation any better.

The up side to this is when people try to point out these negative traits to hurt me, they aren't able to because I live with a kind of darker self-awareness all the time. On the other hand, it's harder for me to accept compliments because I feel like if the person really knew me, they might not say kind things.

It's about balance. For now I'm just trying to slow the spin and get my bearings.

Unexpected Light

In the flurry of surgery follow-ups and talks about long-term treatment options, I've been focusing on how to punch through each challenge with as much oomph as possible, using the momentum to get me through the next thing, and the next thing. My doctor has noticed this and mentioned it in passing during a few appointments, but during my last meeting with her, she sat me down and slid my file over to me.

"You need to see something," she said.

She pulled up the patient notes from my visits, starting with my ultrasounds, my pre-op, then the day of my procedure -- the prep nurse, the anesthesiologist, the recovery nurse - then my post-op and consultation for treatment. She'd highlighted sections that said "very strong!" and "manages pain with a smile" and "cheerful about options." She told me that all the feedback she'd had from her staff has been overwhelmingly positive, and that it's really uncommon to see women with my condition respond with humor and good cheer.

I cried. Hell, I'm crying now just thinking about it.

As she handed me tissues, she expressed worry that I wasn't truly facing my situation and that I might be bottling up the negative feelings and pushing them away.

I had to explain that the tears weren't about that. I was crying because they cared -- that each little note felt like an affirmation of my determination to not letting this change how I approach my life. Those notes are cheers and encouragement from people who have the context on how hard the challenge really is.

Post-op flowers

It's not in me to explain all the things about this that make it hard. I'm not interested in bogging someone down with the details just so they can tell me that I'm doing a good job handling it. That'd be a horrible and unnecessary thing to do to the people I care about and there's no benefit in whining to them about my situation.

Having medical professionals who are familiar with the condition, though -- who can look at my charts and see for themselves without me explaining -- to have them comment so positively on how I'm choosing to manage this is so reaffirming and encouraging. I don't even have the words for it.

I'm not a hundred percent sure my doctor understands, but she's trying. I appreciate her concern and dedication to both my physical and emotional health, and I have every faith as we move forward with my treatment that I'm in good hands with her and her extraordinarily kind and supportive staff.

Sometimes it's easy to get so distracted figuring out how to conquer the challenges ahead that you forget to take a pause and remind yourself how far you've come. It's so important -- seeing the beasts you've slain and the terrain you've already covered can be exactly what you need to get you through the times to come.

A Sacred Pause

There's a word I'm looking for that I can't quite find. It's the name of ancient stone markers found on long and difficult paths so that travelers, having traversed vast, breathtaking vistas and toiled through rocky, perilous uncertainty can reorient to find their way. It's a symbol that serves to mark the path, but also to shake you from your focus on the obstacles and remind you of your journey.

I'm still on a lot of heavy medication post-surgery, but here's the general gist of things:

Last Wednesday I went into surgery to remove an ovarian cyst and, while they were in there, to follow up on some unusual red flags. The nurses were extremely kind and took very good care of me and my surgeon took the time to explain everything and answer all my questions before I went under.

In the haze of waking up from the general anesthesia, the nurses continued to care for me with absolute kindness. They made sure I was warm, had ice chips, crackers and anything else I needed. I swam in and out of sleep. At one point, my doctor came in and let me know that they took out the cyst and a significant volume endometrial tissue, that I'd required a blood transfusion and would be out of commission longer than initially planned. She said that she'd follow up with me later, after the drugs wore off.

She called on Thursday to let me know that I have a severe case of endometriosis. In very solemn tones, she told me that we need to have a serious talk about my family plans, because fertility will be an issue with me. More to the point, carrying a child would be an extreme risk to my health even if I beat the odds and managed to get pregnant. In any case, I'll have to undergo treatment for the rest of my life to keep it under control to reduce the pain.

I can't say I really wanted kids, so I guess it's better that this has happened to me rather than to someone with heartfelt maternal aspirations. That said, it's really not that simple and my feelings are complicated.

I have a lot to say eventually, but for now I'm resting and being kind with myself. I'm taking a sacred pause, holding a personal space for myself where I am processing everything on my own without the obligation of explaining to others.

Progress!

After keeping quiet for a long time about the consistent pain and stress of my medical situation for fear of falling apart if I peeped a word of it, I'm happy to report that I was finally referred to a specialist who put in an order for urgent surgery.

It's still a lot and there are a few things she thinks are unanswered by the scans and blood tests, but she said in no uncertain terms that I needed surgery as soon as possible. She's going to check on my appendix and look for signs of the other condition (which I don't remember the name of right now) while they're removing the cyst, but I'm just happy that we're finally moving forward with something more than "just wait."

I did have a gratifying moment where she looked over my records that were faxed over from my doctor's office. She read the report once, twice, squinted, then looked up at me in shock and said "your doctor decided to wait it out? For six weeks?!"

I feel decidedly less crazy for being upset about that now.

In any case, next Wednesday is the big day. My hope is that this will solve everything, that there isn't any deeper issue or additional condition, and that I can get back to my life again. Here's to hoping.

Never Cut What You Can Untie

I've been in a twisted, complicated, knotted up state for the past couple days. I don't know what I want -- I'm restless and twitchy and don't want to sit still. I simultaneously want to dig into the earth with my bare hands, rending root and stone to give way to the life I wish to plant, while also wanting to run -- run far and fast and never stop, not for anyone or anything, until I have swallowed the sun with my running and leaping.

I feel disconnected and without inspiration. I feel a slave to my impulses, and when the rational part of me locks down and says no, we are not going to eat all of that food or spend all of that money, I feel caged and restless. So the smaller things go undone, like going to the gym or wiping down the kitchen before I go to bed.

I understand all the disparate parts that have caused this feeling. I know that the health issue, the stress about the health issue, and the complete and utter frustration that there is literally nothing in my power that I can do about it until my goddamn appointment in two weeks has caused this terrible whirlwind inside. I am trying to be patient. I am trying to sit back and wait for them to approve the surgery. I am trying.

I want to tear the sky open with tooth and claw for all my trying.

I am restless and frightened and full of rage. I can't help but feel that this whole issue is being mismanaged -- that saying "oh, you have this cyst the size of a baseball that is causing you extreme pain but we're just gonna see if it ruptures" is dangerous. They told me I could go into shock if it ruptures. They told me that I could get very sick if it ruptures. They told me that I'll know it if it does, and that I should go to a hospital immediately. But they're not going to schedule surgery for six goddamn weeks just to see if it'll rupture.

I am restless and frightened and full of rage.

But I'm trying.

Once More, With Feeling

Back in November I started taking SAM-e (S-Adenosyl Methionine) for depression. I didn't want to jump right in to higher dosages without leading up to it, but eased in gently. The 200mg helped keep my head above the water, but I didn't feel any groundbreaking differences -- the amazing sun-shining, birds-singing cheeriness I was expecting and hoping for never came, but it did help.

A couple weeks ago I upped my intake to 400mg a day. Again, nothing groundbreaking and I didn't feel much of a difference at first. 

A few weeks passed. Then one day I found myself encountering something I haven't felt in at least a decade: envy. Real, true, knee-jerk envy. Friends going to Japan, people going out and having a blast with a group of people -- things that didn't really mean anything to me before and didn't inspire any response suddenly filled me with this feeling I was really unequipped to handle. Why was I suddenly invested in learning every detail about a trip? Why was I suddenly feeling like it wasn't fair that those people had found their tribe and I hadn't? I'd always scoffed when people talked about FOMO -- fear of missing out -- but I never actually understood what it meant.

And then other feelings started showing up, like someone slowly started turning up the color saturation on what I thought was a black and white movie. Pride in my work -- real pride, not just "woo, I did the thing, hurray" -- and hints of joy. A renewed interest in things that I just couldn't bring myself to continue caring about before. Hints of passion for life that I'd nearly forgotten was possible. 

Equilibrium, if you haven't seen it, portrays this feeling pretty well

Quietly, hidden behind the rest, was an interest in what the future might hold. My future, not just the future of the company or the future of a project. I found that I cared about what my future will bring, what it will look like, and how I'll get there. I realize that this sounds absurd for most, but when you live in the headspace where everything you do requires energy you don't have, spending what you haven't got to think about something you aren't sure will happen is a luxury you can't afford. 

I'm not saying everything is suddenly technicolor rainbows of feeling. It's more like I've been living underground for as long as I can remember and somewhere, someone has cracked the seal off the door and let a breeze in. I'm not sure what to do with myself, but it's beautiful. 

Feedback, Reflection, and Patience

Following some troubles at work, I sought out my mentor for advice (okay, so I go to him for advice but I seriously doubt he considers himself my mentor). In any case, he had a lot of really helpful things to say, much of it hard to hear because I don't identify with the traits he described me as having.

Flowering tree outside my apartment

He said that I tend to be a few steps ahead of others, and that the impression that I'm not being present can feel dismissive. He also said that I have a habit of either waiting for people to come around to my way of thinking (which they do, eventually) or dragging people along to the option I want them to take. This, combined with a no-bullshit, very direct approach to problem solving, can make people feel like I don't respect or value them.

To be fair, he said that he likes that I'm direct and don't deal with the bullshit, but that it's not the best way to work with most people.

He says I need to slow down, to not make people feel rushed. To just chill out and give people the chance to explore the space and arrive at their own conclusions -- even if there's only one conclusion and I know it, I have to give them the chance to figure it out.

This is going to be really hard for me. I see where he's coming from and I respect his opinion, but I don't like that my desire to not waste peoples' time is considered disrespectful to them. I come from a place of thinking people have better things to do with their time than to "explore the space." My background is in science, with conclusions measured and factual. Wasting someone's time with speculation or asking them to arrive at their own conclusions was deeply insulting and disrespectful. They had better things to do! We were always swamped! So you were methodical in your testing, concise in your reporting, and succinct in your briefs with others (that's why they're called briefs!)

I see where he's coming from, though. I work in a creative environment, and people need the option to explore and understand what's going on before having a conclusion or idea forced on them. I remember once in a meeting with my boss and another coworker where I desperately wanted to say something but it seemed out of place and self-serving. Fifteen minutes into the meeting, my boss had a sudden dawning and brought it up -- and it was more impactful, more powerful that he came to the realization himself without me calling it out. I don't need to be the one to mention a thing.

The problem, I think, is patience. In things I perceive as simple, I just want to knock them out and move to the next thing. For things that require I focus on the long game, I'm good. I can see the path and bide my time. The issue is when I have to rely on others to see what I see, and I haven't had a great track record on that count.

I will try. I'll work on this, and seek out ways to be more patient.

Old Thoughts

I wrote this six years ago in 2010. It's been sitting in my email drafts (something I occasionally used as a word processing tool and deeply inefficient filing system) since then, and I wasn't really sure what to do with it. It was in the middle of Obama's first term, back when I was working at the police department and wasn't in the greatest place mentally. I used writing as a way to begin with small, insignificant details of myself and slowly spiral out and away, looking beyond my fishbowl so I could breathe for a moment. 

Named for the song and date, which I inexplicably decided to include as the subject line, which -- six years later -- seems weird.

"Special Needs" - Placebo 6/17/10

Right now, I'm sitting at my computer with an oversized mug of coffee that is too hot to drink. My office is a decent size, but filled with boxes awaiting my attention. I'm listening to Placebo and the crackling of a woodwick candle that I'm burning in my office, despite it being against city policy. It's a small form of rebellion that I'm not particularly proud of, but that doesn't stop me. My fingers are typing smoothly on the gently worn, cool keys of the keyboard. I'm fairly comfortable; I really like this sweater, even though it's not particularly flattering. My left ankle hurts, a testament to the nasty bruise I sustained over a week ago when I hit the bone on the doorstop while trying to juggle a supply shipment, swipe my key card, and get the door open without dropping anything. The citrus of my fiber drink lingers on my tongue, soon to be washed away by the bitterness of my coffee, black, which will likely burn my tongue a little, since it's too hot to drink.

Outside my office, in the squad room, three officers are writing reports and talking. They're all rookies, but the two youngest think they know more than their counterparts. They're wrong.

The copy machine is jammed, and one of them will fix it. He will feel a sense of accomplishment and pride, because the copy machine is notorious for getting jammed, but he won't say anything about this triumph. Be cool, be cool. Only a rookie would be excited about such a thing. He will return to his station and continue writing his report, under the guise of world-weary tedium. One day this facade of weariness will replace the enthusiasm he feels for his job, and the facade will become who he really is. He'll take up smoking, or drinking, or both, maybe cheat on his wife or at least think about it. He'll watch cop shows out of habit, because his life has lost its direction. He'll get a brief thrill when the men on the screen tackle the fleeing suspect and remember, if only momentarily, the reason he took the job. 

Other officers are on patrol, some still groggy, some alert. Most are unhappy; they feel like they're damned either way they do their jobs, whether it be over-productivity that ends in accusations of citizen rights' violations, or under-productivity and accusations of not doing their jobs. They live in that moment when the pendulum comes to a momentary pause before beginning another pass, on either end of a spectrum but never, nay, never anywhere in the in-between. 

An officer is writing a ticket, and the citizen is unhappy. Not because the officer has been rude, but because the driver is a parent of three children -- two grown with children of their own, and one a trick of menopause that has extended his years before retirement -- and rules his home with an iron fist. He despises the idea that any person, man or god, would chastise him for his behavior. He is a God-fearing man who will protest loudly that the ticket was unfounded, insult the officer's manhood and livelihood, but never contest the citation. He will feign indignity at the courthouse when he pays his ticket, make allusions to his imagined standing in the community, and nothing will ever come of it. 

The city is covered in a fine morning mist this morning, strung golden and silver in the sun like wispy garlands over the marsh. Egrets move unhurriedly through the duckweed and cordgrass, watching for minnows and tadpoles darting beneath the speckled surface. Several curve-beaked ibis will meander slowly along the banks, seeking insects and ignoring the latent danger of the alligator drifting, log-like, in the nearby murk. 

About two hours north of here, Savannah is a bustling hub of activity. On the fringe of town, the medical examiner's senior assistant is preparing a body for autopsy. The intern is attempting to help her, but it only annoys the senior assistant. The field has become very popular since these shows have come out, inaccurate portrayals of a clinical, efficient service.The senior assistant has been on the job for almost twenty years and has watched many an intern blunder their way through, mangling organs while thinking the whole time that one day they'll have it better, that they'll get past this "gross" field stuff and will have some office job being important. The senior assistant pulls her mask over her face and starts the small circular saw, disgusted.

In Texas, a boy has become a man. He rises before the sun and prepares himself for the day. Sometimes he feels that twinge of adolescent fear, that inexplicable twisting in the stomach when he goes somewhere unfamiliar and without friends. He has made his way through his first value-sized tube of toothpaste that he alone has used; an odd occurrence for a man who grew up with two sisters, and has always shared. The man fills his travel mug with coffee and gets into his car. Adjusting his rear view mirror, he sees his father as a young man looking back at him. The uniform has changed over the years, but the look of a determined young soldier has not. He thinks momentarily about his family, that he misses them, and pulls out of the parking lot. 

In Washington DC, an intern makes coffee. He works with important people who do not really notice him, but he feels important by association. They've forbidden him to use his iPhone and have someone or another carefully monitoring his Facebook page, and he delights in this. Nothing says more than not saying, and he drafts a vague yet important-sounding status message in his head, something that suggests he does something far more meaningful than fill staplers or make copies. He traces the presidential seal on the back of the chair and feels like he is part of something bigger, something meaningful. He doesn't much care about what meaning it might be that this important body of people possess, but that he has meaning. He revises the status message in his head.

A man sits at his desk, holding his head heavily in his hands. He is trying to get past the blockades of greed and avarice, trying to stand tall like some New England lighthouse, guiding lost ships and warning them away from rocky shores. Of course, he knew that they would resist, but common logic and reason bolstered his courage, and even knowing that it was dangerous, he took the plunge. His family was supportive. His children were excited and his wife enthusiastic, though worried about what it would mean for his family. He worries that he overestimated the ability of people to surrender to reason, that the feather-touch trigger of their emotions could be reasoned with. He is tired. He is tired, but he will carry on. There is nothing else he can do. The man bows his head and prays. An aide surreptitiously snaps his photo. It will be on the 8 o'clock news, accompanied by sensationalist commentary from spiritual 'experts' decrying his sincerity; it will be suggested that this photo has something to do with NASDAQ falling three points, and the national audience will become a little more jaded.

In Liverpool, a young woman leans against the wall in an alley and takes a drag of her cigarette. She suspects they'll soon be illegal, since the primary focus of the various heads of state has always been about protecting people from what they want. She feels empty, staring down at a line of ants making their way into an empty crisp packet, and thinks of her future. She once saw an aerial panorama of Wavertree and thought it might be nice to live there if she ever started a family, but it seemed now like an endless series of roads much like those tunnels she imagined the crisp packet ants walked. She closes her eyes and remembers the panorama, with the graceful curve of the horizon supporting the glinting gold of the sun, and neat rows of homes fit in just so next to one another in long rows, with little vignette parks at the edges. Safe and comfortable. She takes another long drag of her cigarette.

In Africa, a man sits motionless in the shade of his home. Flies are buzzing, but he doesn't bother to swat them. They will only be replaced by more flies. His village is dying, one child at a time, and the men tell him that if he digs, he can save his family. He has always agreed. In a few hours, the men will come and he will go dig again. A few hours after that, more men will come and tell him he can't dig, that it's dangerous. They will tell him that it's illegal for him to dig, that he needs a permit to rend the ground for metal. The rainy season will come, and the lead will be washed away into another village, and children will die. He knows this. He is not as stupid as they think he is, sitting there with flies on his arms. No, he knows the dangers. He also knows that his children must eat and his bare-boned cattle are on the brink of death. He has no room for compassion for other villages. He knows he must survive, and will not choose the life of another child over his own. 

In South Korea, a woman watches the television and worries. 

In Pakistan, dust and gunpowder obscure the sun.

My coffee has become cold.

Spring and a Cat

This is her face all the time. Wide-eyed and ready to attack.
Not pictured: her constantly thrashing tail. 

I don't have much of an update today, this is just an excuse to share some really ridiculous pictures of my cat.

Although "my" cat isn't quite right.

I'm not sure she's anyone's cat. She's mostly feral despite the fact that she's been raised by people since she was a kitten, and is showing no signs of slowing down into happy domestication any time soon. She lives indoors because I value the external wildlife too much to let her escape (she's also temporarily paralyzed by outdoor things no matter how many times she's sat in the sill of an open window and observed the outside world -- something I regularly exploit so I can get things done without her being underfoot). I can have the window open for 20 minutes, during which time she'll sit a few feet away and just stare at it intently, as if the elder gods themselves were planning on popping through for a cuppa at any moment.

Of course, once she gets used to it, I need only to close the window for ten minutes, then open it again and we repeat the whole staring process again.

Boxes are another diversionary tactic.

 I've been doing some spring cleaning lately and getting ready for the big move in June. I'm also hoping to redirect some of this extra energy toward things I've wanted to do for a while, to get back in touch with the woman I was before my last job. It's been difficult -- I feel like there's so much other noise in my head that blocks out the clear goals and hopes I had before. I'm working hard on unraveling the tangled mess, but it's very hard and makes me irritable. That said, the alternative isn't great and the journey is worth it. Who knew that the obstacles within are the hardest to overcome?

Okay, right, so everyone knows that.

I'm also working on overhauling habits and goals I've left unattended for years. Again, it's not an easy process but with Spring here (Happy belated Ostara!) it's the perfect time to grow and change. I find that I'm very much in sync with the seasons right now (for better or worse) and find the blooming of the flowers and industry of the bees reflected in my own thoughts and efforts. For now it's a good thing, although I'm still reeling from the toll winter took on me.

Right, so! Fitness has been pretty good. I took a week off for absolutely no reason at all and I regretted it the entire time, but here's to moving forward! I started today angry and grumpy (it was so, so cold and I was extremely tired) and was still grumpy and angry when I finished, but it's getting better.

I'm really, really looking forward to the warming weather. This is going to be a wonderful season and for the first time in memory I'm not waiting til the leaves come to take advantage of it.

I'm done putting things off til arbitrary milestones happen. The time is now!

Spring (and Change) is Coming

Post workout shower:
you thought "beast mode" was a metaphor

So much news!

I've officially moved to Cary, which has set off a fantastic chain reaction of fitness, goal-setting, and overall peace that I can't quite explain.

First, I'm staying with a friend but getting my dream apartment at the end of June. I found it last year when I was going through local apartments and filed the link away in a folder called "in a perfect world." The apartment has a balcony, an open floor plan, and a spiral staircase up to a loft library, in a complex with a salt water pool, a huge gym, and two dog parks. I'm so freaking excited.

Work has been amazing. I've been working long hours, but since my conversion to FTE I've been able to see a lot more of the company's big picture, which has put a lot of stressful things in context. I'm getting recognition for the work I'm doing, and while conditions aren't always great, people seem grateful and appreciative of the work I do.

I've been at a standstill weight-wise, although my overall fitness has increased. It's stressful to see the scale not budge (or even go up!!) but I'm getting stronger and more consistent with my workouts. I'm reevaluating my diet and looking more critically at my other habits so that I can better hit my goals. Despite set backs, I'm staying positive and doing everything I can to keep moving forward.

I've also started a meditation class at the local Buddhist temple, which has been really good. There's an unexpected fitness component to it (we do squats and walking/very brisk walking meditations between seated sessions) and it's been fantastic. Our homework includes daily squats and timed meditation throughout the week which ties in beautifully to my fitness schedule and keeps me accountable.

Oh, and LOOK AT THIS SWEET GRAPH that shows how much better my resting heart rate has become!  It was in the high 90s a few months ago and was becoming something my doctor was concerned about, but through exercise, meditation, and reduced caffeine, I've brought it down 32 pts in three months.

Things aren't perfect, but I'm happy. I'm working on a lot and making lifestyle changes -- I have a long way to go, but at least I finally feel like I'm on the right track.

♥

Functioning

Pictured: no caffeine, damn it.

Winter has robbed me not only of my warmth and happiness, but has slithered into my heart and stolen my words. It's been so hard to find the motivation to write when I struggle just to get out of bed. That said, things have been easier than they were last winter, when I literally spent my free time curled up under my blankets and crying -- which was, of course, a very useful way to spend my time and made everything better.

My hope is that this means subsequent winters will be easier and that with time, I'll find beauty in the frozen, dormant world around me. Right now I just want to curl up inside the sun and sleep forever.

I haven't been able to focus on my reading, so I switched gears and have been reading Buddhist books. They've been nice, but I'm not really in a place where I can/want to write my thoughts about them. This week is expected to get colder, and as the temperature drops, so does my motivation to put fingers to keys. That I've even said this much is personally surprising.

Stay warm, friends. Stay warm and safe, and keep your spirit up. Spring is coming.

Winter Sucks