tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67076397936292201672024-01-29T07:11:21.946-05:00The Happy GrouchAn optimistic cynic. A bitter romantic. A Happy Grouch.Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comBlogger310125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-31121901386975403282023-10-07T09:12:00.004-04:002024-01-24T17:10:29.107-05:00Everything is Fleeting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2g6Vkldt-WM64NMiLXEj41Ssn0GZ7kk4Y5yUOUkiqDR-NyGvLTd7d3ikiJBF6Hawu5y0Sz1HSUi8jv5ABwrG99eddX0B7ONVib3COS1Ab9XxvHYO8f_BqK_fpr38AtxbGmff7YzK-FBqq4ZSYsFOp2Anxp83jnBH3U1UW_AWBDBGcZx_KP7hZQE8s1UA/s1800/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="1800" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2g6Vkldt-WM64NMiLXEj41Ssn0GZ7kk4Y5yUOUkiqDR-NyGvLTd7d3ikiJBF6Hawu5y0Sz1HSUi8jv5ABwrG99eddX0B7ONVib3COS1Ab9XxvHYO8f_BqK_fpr38AtxbGmff7YzK-FBqq4ZSYsFOp2Anxp83jnBH3U1UW_AWBDBGcZx_KP7hZQE8s1UA/w640-h234/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">More and more often I find myself opening with "How have I not written in ___ months?" And here we are, 8 months later. The space of time between entries grows and grows...</div></div><p>Every time I talk to my shrink (I use that term with fondness), she says- "Have you written lately?" I sheepishly shake my head, and I realize that my answer is almost always the same. "No, and you know what- when I woke up this morning, I intended to! But then I sat at my computer and scrolled Facebook, Zillow, Indeed..."</p><p>I feel like I am most lucid in the first moments of waking. <br />I lay in bed organizing and analyzing my dreams. Then I emotionally wrestle all of the things that plague me, as they are usually in the forefront of my mind when my eyes open. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, push the dog out of the way while trying to find my slippers in the dark (because I'm always up before sunrise), and I say out loud- I'm going to write.</p><p>I do the morning zombie shuffle to the Keurig (not simply out of fatigue, but because I'm old and stiff), letting the dogs outside along the way. I set the coffee pod and rummage around the dishwasher for a mug (because I'm usually too lazy to put clean dishes away). I visit the bathroom, get the dogs back inside, and add far too much cream and sugar to my cup. I stand there for a second, close my eyes, take in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. And then zombie shuffle to my desk. </p><p>The morning ritual only takes about ten minutes.<br />And by the time I sit at my computer, the notion to write is gone.</p><p>And although it is a routine, it wasn't until today that I thought- this serves as a small representative of all things in my life- <i>everything is fleeting</i>.</p><p>Relationships, addresses/homes, jobs, hobbies... Why is it that I stay at/with nothing long-term? I mean, I guess it depends on what your definition of long-term is... </p><p>After all, I've lived at my current address for seven years. It's the longest I've lived anywhere. And of course, I'm blaming my increasingly overwhelming gypsy tendencies on the 7-year itch. If that's even a real thing.</p><p>I've been in my current relationship for about a year. Ironically, it seems to be just a shorter replay of our relationship several years ago, which lasted about 4 years.<br />I couldn't tell you how many relationships I've been in over the last 30 years. I couldn't possibly count (or remember) them all.</p><p>I've been at my "new" job for about 2 years. The longest position I've ever held was as a bartender (and bar manager). I did that for nearly 20 years (while also holding other miscellaneous jobs). But even then, it was at a few different establishments.</p><p>Performing/music... has been a constant? I suppose, if you don't consider that it's been with multiple acts/bands over the years.</p><p>I have enough college credits for a Bachelor's and a Half. Yet, no degrees. </p><p>And it's taken me over three hours to get this far in today's writing. Constantly flitting back and forth between websites, texting mom and Logan, checking email, working a little (very little), making more coffee, wandering the house looking at all that needs to be done...<br />Yes, I take medication for that. When I remember.</p><p>My shrink and I discussed a lot of this at my last appointment (it's actually a recurring conversation). She commended me for recognizing these things and being self-aware, etc. etc. etc... And although I appreciate her encouragement, I said- "But I've always recognized these behaviors, these patterns, I've just never learned <i>how to change them.</i> </p><p>How to just <i>be</i>. How to prevent stagnancy in a relationship, a job, a home... in <i><b>life</b></i>. <br />How to stop seeking out change. She used the word "excitement," I used the word "chaos." We agreed they are interchangeable terms.</p><p>I've always said, with a sense of distaste, that the only constant in life is change. <br />Ironic, considering I'm always wishing for it.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="382" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ICcMJcnJSLM" width="459" youtube-src-id="ICcMJcnJSLM"></iframe></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;">"A Change Gonna Come"</div><div style="text-align: center;">Cover, by Me</div><p></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-6420741364542968882023-02-21T21:12:00.003-05:002023-02-21T21:30:06.203-05:00Foster Care and Adoption, from Behind the Camera<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-Y5NmzsyN82HXp0eXGLlUA5r2ltVu9Vmy0hhh-KoEBtGR5yKMQxI2MuhCgAEVNYd04ukiPwnphlq92jnN-XKK10LzcbpZ5spLvGgm5hzanWdBniT9J3i0-QnGZEGGqtjkG6l61x_iFetWuxfMqyMZ0SSUGhewz_cxjc1RyYOVclz7uDfTon443tj/s3980/IMG_1044.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1970" data-original-width="3980" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-Y5NmzsyN82HXp0eXGLlUA5r2ltVu9Vmy0hhh-KoEBtGR5yKMQxI2MuhCgAEVNYd04ukiPwnphlq92jnN-XKK10LzcbpZ5spLvGgm5hzanWdBniT9J3i0-QnGZEGGqtjkG6l61x_iFetWuxfMqyMZ0SSUGhewz_cxjc1RyYOVclz7uDfTon443tj/w640-h317/IMG_1044.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Some (or most) of you already know that I work for a nonprofit agency that recruits foster and adoptive families. And a work event today inspired this blog and my most recent recording, done just tonight (which I've included at the end).</p><p>I am not on the “front lines" in my job, so to speak, I’m on the marketing and communications side. I manage our website and social media, design various marketing materials like newsletters, videos, flyers, car magnets, bus wraps, etc, etc, etc.</p><p>Part of my job is maintaining the Heart Gallery on our website. Every state has one, and we manage the one for Maine. The Heart Gallery is where you can find just a few of the children who are awaiting adoption.</p><p>I take kids off or put them on, read their bios, update their photos and their information. <br />I get to know them from behind the scenes.</p><p>Today, for the first time, I had the pleasure of meeting a few of these kids in person at an adoption matching event. I was in charge of the photo booth.</p><p>Of course, I couldn’t let it be just a plain old photo booth… I brought props! A leather biker jacket, a feather boa, lots of sunglasses and beads, a fancy Kentucky derby hat, a cowboy hat, and dad‘s old leather cap. Which, oddly enough, was a kiddo favorite of the day. He would’ve gotten a kick out of that. We got a great group photo of the team, too.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBOugLFXP9lidPvBR3vAcsrIUabF5ZMR52L2qUkHAADpK-87Ma_ayx-H6zZD3atX3RPRpxP9bIIgGKuGzdKmhYW0REkCHUbA-E7npMVOJBHnC30K5drMwwIwj9QvDezg5RNq9dBhVka5-YQApfvjqHTAOpvhZM-gyC_po2ix7b1ni6HZyszkArIk9/s3381/IMG_0099.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3381" data-original-width="2513" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBOugLFXP9lidPvBR3vAcsrIUabF5ZMR52L2qUkHAADpK-87Ma_ayx-H6zZD3atX3RPRpxP9bIIgGKuGzdKmhYW0REkCHUbA-E7npMVOJBHnC30K5drMwwIwj9QvDezg5RNq9dBhVka5-YQApfvjqHTAOpvhZM-gyC_po2ix7b1ni6HZyszkArIk9/w298-h400/IMG_0099.jpeg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p>I got pictures of the kids so I could update the Heart Gallery, and they took lots of silly photos with the props, too. Even the families and caseworkers grabbed some props and had their pictures taken. And when it came time for the egg race, I teamed up with a coworker and one of the teen girls. I can’t say I was very quick on my feet... thank goodness for my coworker!</p><p>When the event ended and we were all packed up, the whole team went out to lunch. It was great listening to them talk about the kids and the families. I learned a lot over burgers and fries today.</p><p>I've always had the utmost respect and admiration for my coworkers, but today only amplified that. They are out there in the thick of it- on a daily basis they are connecting with these kids, dealing with the families and caseworkers… they get to experience the joy when a child (or children) and a family come together. They also experience the frustration, the sorrow, when a child who may have had a potential match, or even a committed family, is let down.</p><p>Just hearing the stories they told made me weepy. I can't imagine being so intimately involved. I don't know if I'd have the emotional fortitude for it, and I don't know how they do it. But thank God for people like them who can.</p><p>To say I am in awe of them wouldn’t be an exaggeration.</p><p>I was still on a high when I hopped in my car to make the two-hour drive home. But it didn't take even ten miles before I crashed. </p><p>I thought about all the kids I had met today... a couple tween boys, a very young girl, a young pair of twin boys, a few more teen boys, the teen girl who was my egg race partner... </p><p>And it's just so foreign to me, so unbelievable, so <i>awful</i>, that they, or any child, could possibly grow up without a family. What kind of world is it that we live in where this happens? So frequently, so often, and to so many children?</p><p>It's not like I wasn't aware of this before I started working here. But it's human nature to not pay attention, to anything, really, unless it's put right under your nose. </p><p>Today was bittersweet, but I still feel so fortunate to have been able to participate. So fortunate for the job that I have, with my team and this organization, and this <i>mission</i>. <br />I only wish I could do more.</p><p>And as I drove home contemplating the day, and thinking about these children, this song kept running through my head. And I recorded it as soon as I got home.</p><p>I love what I do, even if it sometimes breaks my heart.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="405" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/t79h60vWTQc" width="487" youtube-src-id="t79h60vWTQc"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;">"Mad World" Gary Jules<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Please consider becoming a resource parent. Learn more by going to </span><a href="https://afamilyformemaine.org/" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">afamilyformemaine.org</a><span style="text-align: left;">.</span></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-71083001192059801932022-09-11T12:57:00.002-04:002022-09-11T14:30:42.523-04:00The Clamor of Silence<p> </p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELQzcBfx0Kp_1NW2UbF1g3kQQIftzJ-2XQjTAW9U681A9Z-KGR45iHjeXstxQO7xJWdCbuvf-oJNSOxMKGjbGStdy5r58K-c81Ghg8ahOKnH7xJq6-ejY_u3ZgwUtNTljd_hLXNUnTvYJNekh26zJVRPzUWXUML4GmhHgPdV09kfsUHmYd-3R36vi/s4032/399D0031-3F3F-4F1A-89FB-FE2696ECD6DB.jpeg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELQzcBfx0Kp_1NW2UbF1g3kQQIftzJ-2XQjTAW9U681A9Z-KGR45iHjeXstxQO7xJWdCbuvf-oJNSOxMKGjbGStdy5r58K-c81Ghg8ahOKnH7xJq6-ejY_u3ZgwUtNTljd_hLXNUnTvYJNekh26zJVRPzUWXUML4GmhHgPdV09kfsUHmYd-3R36vi/w400-h225/399D0031-3F3F-4F1A-89FB-FE2696ECD6DB.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>I'm enjoying my last full day at the camp I rented. It's a small pond, but beautiful, clean, peaceful. <br />And so... quiet.</p><p>I hear people say how they wish they could get a few moments of peace and quiet, how nice it would be to have a dose of tranquility. And I know that I am fortunate to have it, even if only for a few days. </p><p>But the truth is, a few days of it is all I can handle.<br />Truth is, the quieter it is, the noisier my head becomes.</p><p>Too much quiet breeds too much thinking. And I've had a lot to think about this weekend. Then again, I'm always thinking, I suppose. It doesn't matter where I am or what the circumstance. <br />But the quiet... it just makes the thinking louder.</p><p><br /></p><p>A good friend of mine became ill recently, and he passed this morning. He was only two years older than me. This morning the quiet became even more hushed.</p><p>I met Shawn almost 30 years ago, when I was fresh out of high school, and my mom invited me to join her band. He played drums, and came on shortly after I did. And dear lord, how the women loved him. Even I, steely-minded and cynical, couldn't deny that he was gorgeous, funny, and talented. We became fast friends. Even if I did have to give him a metronome to play along with for the first couple years, lol...</p><p>We shared the stage for almost ten years. While other positions/bandmates rotated in and out, Mom, Shawn, and I were steadfast. After some time, Shawn and I became bound by family when he partnered with my cousin Angela. Sadly, their son Elijah died in 2020 when he was only 24 years old. As I said on Facebook, I wish I could say "you're with Elijah now," and fully believe it. I'll try to. Maybe it'll help.</p><p><br /></p><p>Last night's gig at the mud runs was pretty fun. I haven't felt like I've had a lot of "fun" gigs this summer. We've been so busy that it has felt more and more like a job. Sometimes a job I don't even want to go to. <br />Especially the gig last month when we were doing our usual engaging the crowd to sing along, and one of the staff members said to us- "I'm here, I <i>am </i>participating. I'm not getting paid to sing, you are." <br />But anyway, gigs like last night, or the party at molasses pond, or anywhere when all of our friends and followers come, those are the fun gigs. They seemed fewer this year. We've agreed to book less next year (and for people/places who appreciate it), to make it less exhausting and more enjoyable for us both.</p><p>Like many other instances, I got a good laugh last night when someone asked me about "my old man" (Chris). Everywhere we go, people assume we are a couple. I'm going to make myself a shirt that says- "I'm single." Or maybe, one with an arrow pointing at Chris that says "I'm NOT with stupid."</p><p>Last night I thought, wouldn't it be nice if it were true. No, not with Chris! Jeezus! But just, <i>someone</i>. Wouldn't it be nice if I had an "old man" to talk about...</p><p><br /></p><p>I'm certain this is the longest I've ever been single. I used to hate being alone. I used to cry almost every day. I still don't like it, and I cry less often. Maybe I'm growing accustomed to it. Maybe I'm trying to accept that, unfortunately, this may be the story of the last half of my life. </p><p>On a date recently, I was asked what I want, what I am looking for. Oddly, I had a very hard time explaining it. I tripped over my words for a bit, then finally said- I guess I just want one someone, more often than not.</p><p>I don't want to "date." I don't want "friends." I don't want to live a life separate from a partner.<br />I want more of something meaningful, rather than a little of something insignificant.<br />One someone, more often than not.<br />And if I can't have that, I'll just continue to choose nothing. </p><p><br /></p><p>I picked this camp for a number of reasons. It was cheaper than many, it allows pets, and it is local. Local being the key point, much like the last one I rented this summer.</p><p>I hoped that the kids could come out and enjoy the water during what will probably be our last hot weekend of the season. We actually had a day planned. Then, evidently, it fell apart. <br />And I almost had a dinner visitor Friday night. Actually, I'm pretty sure that was planned, too. But alas, like family day, it didn't come to fruition. <br /></p><p>Next time I won't consider location. Next time, maybe I'll go as far away as possible.</p><p>Maybe somewhere secluded, so my dogs don't bolt after little old ladies during their morning walk. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs3XRQ9DhB5u1PYRsh2aNTzsXkJQAGNf77rw1Sgs7dKII9w8poj-QmTBUPYffvMcNAlK7T7WyaEpXVl7OfN0kwo39t29zeNcLC6jdu184QUag3YzgricNnAY50GsbjsrMyGDM8dh9bqLJDfyq2NTlogs0qfQLX9SGrTGyWEE-OCSFiQ-HT3hjoxyY-/s240/person-facepalming_1f926.png" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="240" height="47" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs3XRQ9DhB5u1PYRsh2aNTzsXkJQAGNf77rw1Sgs7dKII9w8poj-QmTBUPYffvMcNAlK7T7WyaEpXVl7OfN0kwo39t29zeNcLC6jdu184QUag3YzgricNnAY50GsbjsrMyGDM8dh9bqLJDfyq2NTlogs0qfQLX9SGrTGyWEE-OCSFiQ-HT3hjoxyY-/w47-h47/person-facepalming_1f926.png" width="47" /></a></p>Needless to say, the dogs went home early. Vacationing with dogs is not vacationing. Well, at least not this weekend, it wasn't.<div><br /></div><div>I wonder if this weekend was a vacation at all. I mean, I did sit by the water a lot, floated around a lot (and there wasn't another single soul in the water this weekend, it was weird), enjoyed the loons and other wildlife, had lazy days (minus the gig), etc, etc, etc.<br />But... the quiet... The quiet that intensified the noise in my head... That I could do without.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then again, I will probably never have a vacation from that. No matter where I go. No matter how far away. No matter if I have visitors or not. No matter if I'm working, or sleeping, or singing, or floating in a silent pond. <br /><br /></div><div>Never a vacation from the cacophony in my head.<br />And silence, and being alone, only increases the volume. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="396" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qVV2Vm4SozY" width="476" youtube-src-id="qVV2Vm4SozY"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-76287749259584470062022-08-20T15:01:00.004-04:002022-10-03T18:58:33.425-04:00It's the Little Things...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQmXZvuR1PLZ1CoMyOvA8MG4Ow32buJULx7hLZwAx1TEWvAwgTpzN4AHIkclJ8Cyepzku5hrYwOsMhSdVJU51qaa3E5M3myYnD2xktVoUNCfu2SkhUSttI_zKy1ZaNRfxu68UccFxer1zNbzrAOHRu8qybn6RIXFwwh5OJb0WArAgUxirBIC3zuq4/s1280/maxresdefault.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQmXZvuR1PLZ1CoMyOvA8MG4Ow32buJULx7hLZwAx1TEWvAwgTpzN4AHIkclJ8Cyepzku5hrYwOsMhSdVJU51qaa3E5M3myYnD2xktVoUNCfu2SkhUSttI_zKy1ZaNRfxu68UccFxer1zNbzrAOHRu8qybn6RIXFwwh5OJb0WArAgUxirBIC3zuq4/w640-h240/maxresdefault.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>I bet you read that title and thought this was going to be a blog about appreciating the little things. I mean, who wouldn't? That's what that phrase usually implies, right?<br />But... Have you met me?</p><p>(dramatic pause while we allow those who are uninterested in or don't want to expose themselves to real-life stuff, and/or who simply don't give a shit, to hit their browser's back button)</p><p>Now that that's out of the way, let's get on with it.</p><p>Sometimes it's the little things that make you smile, make you recognize small kindnesses, bring you hope, or relief.</p><p>Sometimes it's the little things that make you cry, make you want to scream or break things, make you want to bury your head in the sand and stay there until the day is over, hoping for a new day to start sooner than later. And hoping like hell that it'll be better than the last.</p><p>This week seems to have been a pile of the latter. And since my shrink is overbooked, this becomes my therapy stand-in...<br /></p><p>...</p><p>This week, in my Facebook notifications, I received several new "likes" on my music videos from a man. 47 liked videos, to be exact.</p><p></p><p>Let's back up a bit...</p><p>Years ago, there was a man I loved very, very much. In fact, I left my first husband for him (yes, terrible, I know). He was the bass player in the band I was in. We were together for two years. I have always said that if life didn't have such a fucked up sense of humor, I would probably still be with this man today. </p><p>Long story short; we were both married at the time. He was in the process of leaving his wife... She was a foreigner, a family friend, and the intent was to end the marriage as soon as she got her citizenship.</p><p>Just before that happened, he suffered an aneurysm. He survived it, but his mind was taken. He essentially forgot about us (and almost everything else). I visited him in the hospital, and in rehab, until the family had me removed from the visitor's list. </p><p>He eventually went home. Got his driver's license back, went back to living as normal a life as possible for someone with a brain injury.</p><p>I've run into him a couple times over the years, but he still only had vague memories of us being in a band together. Years ago, Logan and I ran into him at Amato's. We were behind him in line. He turned and looked at us, said hello, and turned back around. One of the last times I saw him was years later, at the bar in Bucksport where we used to play, and where I worked. He did ask me then if we had been involved. It may not have even been the first time he asked me. But I think it was the first time I answered him honestly. That night we exchanged phone numbers. He even kissed me when we parted. Somehow I knew I'd still never hear from him. And I didn't. He probably forgot about it all the next day.</p><p>He's never been on social media before now. It was his name. I knew it was him because when I went to the profile, there was no picture, and very few friends. Only a few of his relatives, and his french wife. </p><p>It felt so strange. To be catapulted back to that time, to think of him again. I have been tempted to reach out. But I guess I know better. It would only lead to more heartache. Honestly, he may not even know why he's doing it. By now he may not even remember doing it at all.</p><p>...</p><p>I learned this week that when it comes to dating, ultimately, someone's feelings are going to get hurt. Yours, or theirs. I don't know which I dislike more.</p><p>Speaking of dating, it's uncomfortable to be around someone you like when you know that they don't see you. Well, not literally, but, just not in that way.</p><p>Also, after going so long without human contact or affection, and craving it so desperately, it sucks when you recognize that someone's advances just mean they want to sleep with you. I mean, it's flattering, I guess. But just once it would be cool if it meant more than that. Oh well. <br />And although I write that off as no big deal, it eventually gets to you. On the surface, at least for a moment, it makes you feel desirable. But eventually, on a deeper level, it just makes you feel unwanted.</p><p>...</p><p>This week was the first time I've been seriously heckled at a gig. And by seriously, I mean, not in a fun way. I can't say I've ever had someone, up close and personal, say- "I don't have to participate, I'm here, so I'm participating. We're not getting paid to sing, you are."</p><p>Ouch.</p><p>Also, it was the first time I've wanted to hit someone in a long time. Okay, maybe not "in a long time..."</p><p>...</p><p>Being the only person in a group not invited to be part of selfie fun is awkward. And enlightening. Although, I've always kinda felt like I don't belong anyway, so I guess it's more affirmation than enlightenment.</p><p>Goes right along with always seeing "friends" doing stuff, but never being invited or included. </p><p>I guess you eventually get used to it. <br />Kinda.</p><p>...</p><p> I saw another surgeon this past week. After a year of this, four different specialists, misdiagnoses, and a surgery that was for something else rather than the root problem, it looks like I'll finally get the surgery I need. But because the surgeon is booking out (as most are), it'll be just in time for my health insurance to end. Of course. Fuck you, universe. Seriously, just, fuck you.</p><p>...</p><p>Well, I think I've complained enough for now. But, you know me, there will always be something to complain about. I'd apologize for being a Debbie downer, but I'm not into being apologetic for how I'm wired.</p><p>I guess I'll spend the day hanging out with my dogs (until my gig tonight... TGIF means nothing to a musician). They are always up for a selfie, they love to sing along, and their advances are always sincere.<br /></p><p>...</p><p>In closing... <br />Do you ever feel like you just won't ever be that special thing for someone else? <br />And please spare me the - love yourself, no one else will bring you self-worth, you make you happy, someone else isn't going to make you feel whole, bla bla bla, inspirational bullshit. <br />Because... what does your life mean if it only means something to <i>you</i>? What worth do we have if we have not meant <i>something</i>, to at least <i>someone</i>? It's fucking true, no matter how much the idealists want to deny it. <br />If you only mean something to yourself, if no one sees you but you, what is your worth?</p><p>...</p><p>Folks, this is what happens when you hide all your medications because you are having a house sitter, only to come back from vacation and forget where you hid them, thereby causing a lapse in your treatment. <br />Ooops.</p><p>Or, maybe I'm just a natural born killer of anything that might bring that feeling of wholeness (hence the included video of the recording I just did today).</p><p>Or, maybe I just need more coffee.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="330" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/a86oXgqD8dU" width="397" youtube-src-id="a86oXgqD8dU"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-47608963590475134142022-05-29T06:58:00.002-04:002022-05-29T08:08:03.031-04:00The Pre-programmed Morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUYkAKY2xjv9F_1vK_YcKQM5QE9MG3qxqlpJ7OHrQFZ1cmt3jH901lrJ2y1brRhk9ovmUz3VTIG9zrfdhXc2C3b0G5q7OHcq9SBfDkaIzz5uXW4y4JHMASFYJV9ZeowpjNBt787h4LmK3nOnfUJnuDenoGAG7jIE4FHyHmZ06mYXjagxIDVTteQR92/s2365/IMG_6582.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1330" data-original-width="2365" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUYkAKY2xjv9F_1vK_YcKQM5QE9MG3qxqlpJ7OHrQFZ1cmt3jH901lrJ2y1brRhk9ovmUz3VTIG9zrfdhXc2C3b0G5q7OHcq9SBfDkaIzz5uXW4y4JHMASFYJV9ZeowpjNBt787h4LmK3nOnfUJnuDenoGAG7jIE4FHyHmZ06mYXjagxIDVTteQR92/w640-h360/IMG_6582.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>As Nine Inch Nails would say... Every day is exactly the same.</p><p>I woke up at 4am, like every other morning. <br />Well, some mornings it's 3 or 3:30, some unusual mornings I sleep in until 5. But always, up with the sun. Or before it.</p><p>Let the dogs out. Make coffee. Light a cigarette. Sit down at my desk. Tell Alexa to play Big104 FM. <br />Like every other morning.</p><p>I had been dreaming. And when I woke up, I spoke out loud, "I didn't get to hear what he said." And then I cried.</p><p>I was dreaming about all kinds of stuff, all mushed together, like a kitchen sink stew. My dreams never seem to make sense. There is usually a prevailing topic, but there are all kinds of other things happening, too. All kinds of other cameo appearances or even leading roles, all kinds of storylines and sub-plots. All happening at once. And a whole bunch of weird.</p><p>Sometimes when I'm actually interested in picking them all apart, I'll write everything down when I wake up. Every detail, every weird thing (and there is always plenty of weirdness), all the nonsense... And sometimes, I can make sense of it all. But this morning, even upon waking, I only vaguely remembered the peripherals, the cast, the plots and sub-plots. There was only one theme that stuck out. Unfortunately.</p><p>It was very detailed and ornate, but the general overview was...</p><p>I was seeing someone. One day, he got my mail for me (although, we were in some kind of campground, for whatever reason). There was a package, and it was from my ex-boyfriend. Not my most recent one or two. Those were only blips compared to my other relationships. COVID Contingencies, I call them. </p><p>No, it was from the other one, the last man I <i>really loved</i>. The man I thought perhaps would be the last in a long line of loves. Sidenote, it still amazes me, the number of men (or women) I've loved. Not amazed as in amazing. There's nothing amazing, or wondrous about it. Amazed, as in, astonished, confounded, dismayed.</p><p>Anyway...</p><p>It was from <i>him</i>. I opened it and it was a statue of some kind, but I can't remember what. An angel? A flamingo? Who knows. But it was a statue, that was kind of like a music box. But this statue-music box allowed you to record yourself and save it. And that's what <i>he </i>had done. He'd spoken as if to me, recorded it, and sent it to me. There was a tiny note with it that read "Reflecting; long, but worth it."</p><p>I turned it around and over and every which way, trying to figure out where to turn it on, how to make it play. My heart was pounding in anticipation. There were so many distractions... children running around, playing loudly, people talking to me or needing something from me, loud 4-wheelers speeding by, flies buzzing around my head that I constantly swatted away, loud music playing from a dance party right next to me, and the man I was seeing complaining about how my ex-boyfriend was sending me recorded love notes. If that's even what it was at all. </p><p>After turning the statue over and over a dozen times, I found a little compartment with buttons and switches, and I thought I was finally on the way to working out this puzzle. And as if on cue, "If You're Gone" by Matchbox 20 started playing somewhere in the background. That's it, that must be it. He must want to rekindle. He wants me to "come back home..."</p><p>And then I woke up.<br />Shocker. </p><p>And that's when I spoke aloud, even as soon as opening my eyes, "I never got to hear what he'd said."</p><p>But I was never meant to hear it. It played out exactly as it should have. Because that man never really did say anything. He was quiet, reserved. No... withdrawn.<br />But I loved him, still.</p><p>And so I cried, the lyrics of "If You're Gone" running through my head.<br /><i><br />If you're gone, maybe it's time to come home<br />There's an awful lot of breathing room<br />But I can hardly move<br />If you're gone, baby you need to come home, come home<br />There's a little bit of something me<br />In everything in you</i></p><p>Get up, coffee, cigarette, desk, Alexa and music...</p><p>And again, as if on cue, the song that was on when I asked Alexa to play my radio station was "Goodbye to You" by Scandal.</p><p><i>Goodbye to you<br />Goodbye to everything that I knew<br />You were the one I loved<br />The one thing that I tried to hold on to<br />Goodbye to you</i></p><p>If singing weren't on the list of things I can't do for 5 weeks post-surgery, I'd go into my make-shift recording studio and sing that song right now, for therapy. I just bought a set of conga drums, maybe I'll go bang on those, instead.</p><p>Pre-programmed. The whole fucking morning. <br />The morning ritual, the dream, the moment of waking, the music. The coincidences that weren't coincidences. And me, still pining over a relationship that ended over two years ago.<br />Sigh.</p><p>I need more coffee.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="365" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vWOMtKw7J5M" width="439" youtube-src-id="vWOMtKw7J5M"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="369" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_50-gOeBilc" width="444" youtube-src-id="_50-gOeBilc"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-53734218883728696342022-04-30T09:51:00.040-04:002022-11-23T12:46:27.017-05:00More Than Just a Job...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBwXrGfeVCZsUnLF3lvujm6iD6G9-_vV8VZJ4PZqejVg2_zw10paFSGfEZjrauMDVu5xneOh-rZls4Mu_qQKkX4lDEGVNBK9CGJ0ceC3r-fNoAzkt5ii23Jb1fre0vUoAe_ub4qPbyfbTfXgP8GsSODzKWJe618nydPetYh8IQ7LShSx6V-pkuVinL/s1080/blogger.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1080" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBwXrGfeVCZsUnLF3lvujm6iD6G9-_vV8VZJ4PZqejVg2_zw10paFSGfEZjrauMDVu5xneOh-rZls4Mu_qQKkX4lDEGVNBK9CGJ0ceC3r-fNoAzkt5ii23Jb1fre0vUoAe_ub4qPbyfbTfXgP8GsSODzKWJe618nydPetYh8IQ7LShSx6V-pkuVinL/w640-h296/blogger.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p>I can't believe it's been three months since I last wrote. Although, it appears to be a pattern. It was three months between the last two blogs as well.</p><p>As always, there's plenty of fodder, just little time. Or desire.</p><p>I'm still single (after nearly two years), got a puppy, got a new job, lost an ex-husband... a man I was still close with, who I loved more than all the others (and I have loved many). But I can't speak of that yet, it's still too painful.</p><p>Anyway...</p><p>It's unusual for me to lose interest in writing, even if only for a couple months. Writing and singing are the two things that are steadfast passions. Unlike most everything else that I pick up and put down eventually (or sooner than later). Hobbies, habits, jobs, pets, homes, relationships...</p><p>The new job isn't something I imagine being on my pick-up-put-down list, though. Sometimes I pinch myself. I get paid to create content for social media, newsletters, flyers, website material... I can't believe I finally landed a job doing what I want. It has taken SO long to get here. It might not pay as much as I'd like, but I'm making enough to pay my bills (and to support my flight of obsessive, ever-changing hobbies and habits). And honestly, the rest makes it worth it.</p><p>It is sometimes stressful, like any job. I'm usually busy, and there are always projects to work on. Often many at once, with fast-approaching deadlines. Even though I am designing, my creativity is a bit stunted, but it's due to the sensitive nature of the organization (it is a state-contracted nonprofit that recruits foster and adoptive families). I'd prefer to be doing more writing, but perhaps that will develop in the future. And besides, I can always scratch that itch here. Or when I get around to finishing that book I've always said I'd write. Anyway...</p><p>There are so many perks... I am the only one in the office most of the time (since COVID, no one across the state has really gone back to work in-office), and the one woman I share it with is really great. There are no hovering micro-managers, I make my own hours, I can work from home if I need to... it's almost kind of perfect. Not to mention, <i>the mission</i>. Working for an organization that makes a difference in the world is pretty amazing. More specifically, in a child's world. And that's really something. </p><p>And there's this one other thing that makes it really awesome. A story I haven't told anyone. But since a few months have passed, and since I'm such an over-sharer (much to the dismay of all three of my ex-husbands), I'll tell it now. </p><p>It was the week before Christmas, and after two interviews and accepting the job offer, I was on top of the world. I was consumed with giddiness. The year-long jobless dry spell was over, AND the job was something I actually wanted to be doing, the kind of job I'd been gunning for, for such a long time. I was insanely happy.</p><p>That was Thursday.</p><p>On Friday morning, I woke in a panic. A debilitating, paralyzing panic. And that was the start of a weekend-long nervous breakdown (as my shrink described it).</p><p>Yes, I have a shrink. And certain "conditions" that I am medicated for in order to make life manageable... But, I've never really gone <i>crazy</i>.</p><p>I called her ("the shrink") Friday morning, literally losing it. I was yelling and sobbing and maniacally pacing the house, and I couldn't breathe through it all. It was the most awful thing I've felt. I'd never experienced something like that before. And I was in shock. I'm usually quite in control. But I had lost it, any hope of control, not even a shred.</p><p>She did her best to talk me off the ledge, asked me if I needed to be hospitalized... What?? Hell no! She assured me that she would be available around the clock, told me to keep 911 handy, and prescribed a sedative.</p><p>I managed to drive myself to the pharmacy, but I imagine I definitely looked the part of crazy when I got there.</p><p>The sedative got me through most of Saturday, Christmas day. When I felt the break closing in, I went to the cupboard for another. Or went to the bathroom to lose it a little to release some of the pressure. Christmas was an all-day family affair, and it really was lovely. Aside from trying to remain in control all day. That was exhausting.</p><p>At nearly 9 o'clock, everyone but mom had left. Halfway out the door, she said, "Now go get some rest, you're going to need it for your new job on Monday." And that was the moment the sedatives failed me and I gave in to the crazy. Again.<br />I clearly remember the look on her face. One foot in the house, one foot on the porch, her jaw dropping in sync with her bags full of Christmas goodies.</p><p>She sat at the table with me and listened while I tried to speak, more yelling and sobbing, repeating a cycle of getting up and pacing, and sitting back down and bouncing my feet on the floor, getting back up and pacing... rinse, wash, repeat. More yelling, more sobbing. <br />And I'm sure she'll clearly remember my face, too. I could <i>feel </i>the look<i> </i>on my face. Terror, desperation, fury, shame... an angry, warped swirling of crazy on my face. I could feel it. <br />She, too eventually talked me off the ledge, at least a little. I don't know how much time passed, but it was late. And eventually, she (we) felt it was safe enough for her to leave me alone.</p><p>And after a few more hours of crazy, and two more sedatives washed down with Bailey's, I finally exhausted myself enough to sleep.</p><p>Sunday was more of the same.</p><p>Sunday evening, I wrote an email to the women who offered me the position. I didn't know what else to say, so I told the truth. I vaguely explained my unexplainable reaction. I was shocked at myself, ashamed. I felt so fortunate for the opportunity and so grateful for them offering it to me, but I just couldn't accept the job. </p><p>The rest of the night I spent sobbing. In relief, and in shame.</p><p>I slept soundly. So soundly I didn't hear my phone ring in the morning. I woke to a voicemail from one of the women, the one who would become my supervisor. She said she had something she wanted to talk to me about. I almost didn't return her call, I was so embarrassed.</p><p>She and the others had discussed things, and she thanked me for my email, for being so honest and transparent. That was part of the reason they were calling me back. She suggested we start out slowly, maybe 20 hours a week or so, for the first few months if need be. Take the pressure off, and let me slowly ease into it. </p><p>WHAT??? Really??? I was stunned. I imagine my jaw dropped as far as my mother's had. If not even farther. What company, what bosses, would even do that?! Who would have ever heard of such an act from an organization?!</p><p>I hung up and cried. Tears of reprieve, embarrassment, and gratitude.</p><p>And, long story short (it really was long, wasn't it... apologies), here I am, the "marketing and communications specialist." </p><p>Because of a weekend-long nervous breakdown, because of my nature of being an over-sharer, because of a woman and a company that appreciated my transparency, understood my "conditions," and recognized my value.</p><p>Now, if only I had someone, a life partner, to share all of this with (other than the dogs), that would be really cool. </p><p>Regardless, I'm still pretty damn grateful for this.</p><p>Life might not be great, but it's okay. And that's as close to positivity as you'll get from me. :)<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Unwell</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="372" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fZh4eiv4VIc" width="447" youtube-src-id="fZh4eiv4VIc"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-47236966876934023142022-02-01T08:57:00.005-05:002022-02-03T14:52:13.850-05:00Just a Little Unwell; the Many Shades of Mania<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjA-TMqc7Z1GErY7dVSgl1eLUJN0CXhk1ydMYQE4mynD3ZyDmMBHLi3RgDf01jSiXJPOXpI7HDxnhAN9vMz1sid0udrVsAvn8Shd5ohEh7sfO3ncvYqzUF5MgtcULFEr2n06-9-DVtIduhQBgqG8__RrFd4ENC6i67Nkh4bB15-kfB9uY5_KSD2NhRH=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1639" data-original-width="4032" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjA-TMqc7Z1GErY7dVSgl1eLUJN0CXhk1ydMYQE4mynD3ZyDmMBHLi3RgDf01jSiXJPOXpI7HDxnhAN9vMz1sid0udrVsAvn8Shd5ohEh7sfO3ncvYqzUF5MgtcULFEr2n06-9-DVtIduhQBgqG8__RrFd4ENC6i67Nkh4bB15-kfB9uY5_KSD2NhRH=w640-h261" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Despite popular belief, bipolar disorder isn’t really about jumping off buildings because you can fly.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Yes, in very extreme cases, it sometimes looks like
delirium, bizarre behavior, hearing voices, invincibility. That’s
usually when it’s exacerbated by schizophrenia, PTSD, psychosis, and/or some other fun
mental combination. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Nor is bipolar just “being moody.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I'll give you a textbook definition, and then I'll give you the "real life" one.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Bipolar disorder is a disruption in state-of-mind
that lasts over a sustained period of time. Usually weeks or months. It’s a
cycle of mania and depression, often co-ocurring with anxiety disorders, OCD,
attention deficit.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The typical physiology of mania is euphoria, extreme creativity,
excitement, boundless energy, new ideas and limitless possibilities (often
unrealistic), doing everything with great gusto... I like to call it "pleasantly frenzied."<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Doesn’t sound terrible, right? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But as awesome as it sounds (and often feels), it’s not. It
substantially impacts your life, negatively. It comes with a cost.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It’s not sleeping (sometimes for days), or only a couple
hours here or there, sparsely. It’s a racing mind, an inability to concentrate,
pressured speech. It’s extreme risk taking, unrestrained pleasure seeking, unmanageable impulsivity. It’s a near-complete loss
of social/sexual inhibitions. It’s intense anxiety, feelings of paranoia. It’s hyper-focusing on things (anything, really), and not being able
to stop. It’s binge eating, or not eating at all. It’s irritability that easily
(and frequently) escalates to a fury that rivals the savage temper tantrum of a toddler.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It’s emptying your savings and maxing credit cards. It’s quitting
your job of many years. It’s impulsively giving things away, selling and/or purchasing
things, like a family heirloom or a new car every year. It’s going off all
your meds because you feel great, normal, cured. It’s having multiple sexual
partners and unprotected sex. It’s obsessing about projects or taking on massive
new ones, only to lose interest weeks or months later and moving on to another. It's being "not very nice." Sometimes it's being excessively friendly, over-generous. It’s
being unfaithful, abruptly ending relationships, divorcing. It’s suddenly
deciding to sell your home, or leave that rental without a 30-day notice, and
moving somewhere new. … and so much more…</p><p class="MsoNormal">And it's <i>not </i>being consciously irresponsible, careless or immoral. Mania diminishes, practically disables your regard for consequence, and it rationalizes everything.</p><p class="MsoNormal">But as always, sooner or later, mania moves along and a new monster shows up at
the party. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes it’s with only a moment’s notice. Or none. Sometimes
it’s a slow transition that you recognize but cannot regulate or contain. Like a
gradual ride in the ski lift as it sluggishly travels up and down the mountain.
If you jump off you die, so all you can do is just hold on.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It’s a sense of complete worthlessness, that your life
has no meaning or purpose whatsoever. It’s always feeling cryptic, fatalistic.
It’s shutting out your partner and other loved ones. Withdrawing from your
friends (if you even have any by this point). It’s sleeping too much, eating too much or not at all. It’s losing interest in
everything you love. It's crying for hours, and hours, and hours. It’s being too overwhelmed to do even the simplest of
things/tasks, like taking a shower or changing the trash. Or even just getting out of bed. Being too
overwhelmed to make decisions, or think clearly, being cognitively
incapacitated. Yet somehow, at the same time, it’s thinking waaaay too much. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And the thinking that does happen is never pleasant...</p><p class="MsoNormal">You are always in a state of painful worry, about
everything, but mostly about the few people you love; how can you possibly go on living when they die, what if they’re dying right now, what if they already have, and you just don’t know about it
yet.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">You’re terrified of your own mortality, yet, ironically, you’re also ready to die. <br />Your life has plateaued and has nothing left to give you. This world doesn’t need you, there's nothing more for you
here. Other than your parents, children, a husband or wife. But they don’t really need
you, either, and will be fine when you are gone.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Just as being bipolar isn’t the equivalent of “moodiness,” depression is much more than “feeling sad.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">Switching between mania and depression is cyclical, happening over, and over, and over
again. And no matter what state you’re in, you lack the ability to control the
shift. Or even influence it. In that moment, you’re emotionally paralyzed. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes it’s patterned, almost foreseeable; expectedly triggered by events, holidays, times of intense stress, environments, seasons. Sometimes it’s completely unpredictable.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes the shifts happen more frequently. I once read somewhere that "rapid cycling" is defined as having four or more depressive and manic episodes in a year. I’m not sure who wrote that, because it’s almost always more than that.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And sometimes there are “mixed episodes.” Those are the most fun (note the sarcasm). You’re high and unstoppable, and depressed and despondent, all in the same moment. Day. Week.</p><p class="MsoNormal">And we all joke… I wonder if crazy people know they’re
crazy? <br />I’m not sure.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes you don't recognize your own mood changes. <br />But the frustration intensifies during the times when you are <i>aware</i>. <br />
Aware, and powerless. There's that skilift again. You can only try your best to navigate the episode, knowing it will
change, but not knowing when. You have <i>just</i> enough sense for your mind to yell– “Don’t trust this! It will change!” To no avail.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">When people think bipolars hear voices in their head, that’s
usually what it is. <br />
Or we’re just having a conversation with ourselves (imagine nonchalant shrug here).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Regardless, it doesn’t always look like jumping off
buildings.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes it just looks like painting your interior walls (for the fourth time in three years) at 2 am. Waiting for them to dry so you can stay up 3 (4, 5, 6..) more hours
putting on additional coats, because who needs sleep! Drinking more than you should. Dancing and singing, positively giddy through four minutes of the song that happens to be playing. And like the flip of a switch, angry, hopeless, sobbing through four minutes of the following song. And
then dancing and singing and ... You get
the idea. Rinse, wash, repeat.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Washing down a handful of depressants with a glass of
wine, because you know that the only way to escape, even if only
temporarily, is to go to sleep, be unconscious for a while.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes it looks like a weekend-long nervous breakdown (literally) before starting a new job. But that's a story for another time.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And sometimes, bipolar looks like nothing at all. For a combination of reasons, probably. <br />Your current prescription
cocktail seems to be more effective than the last few you've tried. Your therapy is helping.
It happens to be a “good” day, not an "off" day.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Or you’re one of the affected people who have
<i>just enough </i>control to be “quietly bipolar.” You suffer at home, in your car, in the restroom, or any other moment when there is no one around. Unfortunately the suppression leads to a worse situation when you've dropped the reins. But anyway...</p><p class="MsoNormal">You blend in, you're concealed. <br />You're like a leper pulling down the brim of your cap just enough to hide how hideous, repulsive, and abnormal you are.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Regardless of what it looks like (or doesn’t), it's infuriating, debilitating. <br />I wish I could think of stronger words.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
But I can’t at the moment. My eyes hurt and my thoughts are wandering like a
runaway float at the Macy’s day parade. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Besides, I have to go put on the second coat in the kitchen, and finish the
first in the living room.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="330" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/E5bMld5_ROM" width="397" youtube-src-id="E5bMld5_ROM"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-35895747683049253092022-01-30T15:53:00.001-05:002022-01-30T15:53:14.634-05:00This Year's Love<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaYQ7d0SOZBHAZR2ml5tkS6D5jcnKCCKcimYlW-r2zKepHUlpamBsCLOXZybCF8ItnX4hw_n90VO8eY2uXpJa8kVOWN7LekuFVXzaOGSTFL_pegD6f3P3TZx4sqrQi96_5xZioz58wRNYfEqyFTxsPdr4XneH6z86m-Ypz-s6Mhy_x_LlXLDB7PnSv=s1640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="1640" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaYQ7d0SOZBHAZR2ml5tkS6D5jcnKCCKcimYlW-r2zKepHUlpamBsCLOXZybCF8ItnX4hw_n90VO8eY2uXpJa8kVOWN7LekuFVXzaOGSTFL_pegD6f3P3TZx4sqrQi96_5xZioz58wRNYfEqyFTxsPdr4XneH6z86m-Ypz-s6Mhy_x_LlXLDB7PnSv=w438-h168" width="438" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>I recently got myself a new toy for my make-shift recording studio. It's a nifty little gadget that allows me to connect my iPhone to my Shure sm58. </p><p>It's still an unrefined, archaic, amateur setup, but it's not really a recording studio... it's a therapy room. </p><p>I tested it out with one of my favorite songs.</p>Every new year, I listen to this song. Why? I don't know. It's kind of self-abusing, I suppose. <br />But also oddly cathartic. <p>A song quite appropriate for the new year. A song that fits well with the life I've lived so far.</p><p>This year, I decided to sing it.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="381" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NvmmHM8zRcc" width="458" youtube-src-id="NvmmHM8zRcc"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-54337575651491201192021-10-20T09:57:00.011-04:002021-11-14T20:41:45.724-05:00When Coping Isn't An Option...<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pDoXxXeoraOU_6Q6aBkefylUm0VC_KQrxzHm6nTtWlPEE73lbEp6cd3kx1yoP-a_F4baa7QeOwQzA_9cHZPu_AtdhpS7g5gNG0Bbf0SCSTA1wr5XfpbXGjRvyQ0gt3D-8Y8aquPbueU/s996/coping-strategies1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="547" data-original-width="996" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pDoXxXeoraOU_6Q6aBkefylUm0VC_KQrxzHm6nTtWlPEE73lbEp6cd3kx1yoP-a_F4baa7QeOwQzA_9cHZPu_AtdhpS7g5gNG0Bbf0SCSTA1wr5XfpbXGjRvyQ0gt3D-8Y8aquPbueU/w400-h220/coping-strategies1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i>A glimpse into the mind of a person suffering from depression</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">We all have hard times.
We each have our own personal demons and struggles. Maybe we’ve lost someone we
love, or a job, or a home. Maybe our spouse of decades has decided they are no
longer “in love.” Maybe someone is terminally ill. An addict. Severely
disabled. Have lost a child (possibly the worst pain that exists, I’ve seen it
firsthand).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">And many of these
instances remind us to count our blessings. Our friends and family tell us how
fortunate we are that none of these are our hardships. We minimize our
suffering because of the comparisons. But the truth is, the pain we feel is intense,
too, regardless of another’s. Our causes of pain, whatever they may be, are important,
too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">There are also times we
feel pain, are positively <i>crippled</i> by it, but don’t know <i>why</i>.
Sure, there may be a cause (or two or three), some challenges in life at
present, but none that we haven’t overcome before. Or at least none that should
be quite this debilitating.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">And, as always, even if you are not, you feel <i>alone</i>.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">And </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">everything hurts</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><i>.<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">There is So. Much. Pain.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">And in our pain,
different from anyone else's, the one thing we all have in common, no matter
the circumstance, is our response to that pain: <i>we attempt to cope</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">But what do you do when
coping isn’t an option? Not because coping is a thing that doesn’t exist. Not
because you lack the skills (you’ve experienced tragedy before, you managed).
Ineffectively or successfully, you’ve always <i>coped</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">So, what do you do when
coping is no longer an option, because, suddenly… you just <i>can’t</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">You try all the methods
that have been helpful in the past. Listen to upbeat music. Read a book, or
listen to one. Busy yourself with household chores or projects. Watch your
favorite show on one of the many entertainment platforms. Look at puppies and
cars on the internet. And countless other techniques that you’ve utilized
before. But each “old standby” seems to have lost its efficacy. Maybe one or
two work at first, but the reprieve only lasts a few minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">So you resort to other
means that, though not as ideal as the others, have still had some kind of
effect in the past. Perhaps they didn’t quite induce healthy coping skills, but
at least they broke the pain pattern for a time, even if just a little...<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">You go for a drive,
which, under normal circumstances might be relaxing. But you know that in times
like these, you just drive carelessly. And you drive <i>fast</i>. <br />You take
a few more of your anti-depressants to try and climb out of it. Or a few more
of your sedatives, hoping you’ll just become unconscious for a while. <br />You shop,
which is never a good idea. Before you know it, you’ve taken a substantial
chunk out of your savings, which is the only “income” you currently have. <br />You
get drunk, but you’re really terrible at it, because you don’t often drink.
<br />You break things, and that sometimes brings a sense of relief. But when you’ve hit the top
of that pain threshold, breaking things just leads to breaking <i>more</i>
things. Inevitably, you completely lose your mind because you’ve broken
something of sentimental or monetary value. Sometimes you lose your mind over
breaking something of no value at all. Like the $8 ceramic gnome you bought at
TJ Maxx.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Regular" folks (those who aren't familiar with manic and/or clinical depression) would say,
"Reach out to a friend or family member." And most people know to do
that. People in pain often do, actually. <br />But sometimes, people don't <i>want </i>to
share their pain. Or they <i>can't</i>. And they feel embarrassed or ashamed, because of the stigma of mental health issues. By all the people who say- "You're responsible for your own happiness, j</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18px;">ust choose to be happy, quit feeling sorry for yourself, stop playing the victim..." among hundreds of other comments that come from people who have <i>no idea</i> what it's like. They don't even believe depression is a thing at all.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">So, you've tried everything you can imagine.<br />And still, nothing
works.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">So you try the only
thing left you can think of. You simply <i>let go</i>.<br />
And by that, I don’t mean letting go of the pain, or the problems, or the
burden...<br />
You let go of <i>control</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">You are so afraid to,
more afraid than you’ve been of anything in a long time. You suspect that once
you do, there will be no turning back. You’re afraid you’ll finally learn what the
definition of “nervous breakdown” really is. But it seems you have been left
with no other choice. The pain has become unbearable. Suffocating.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">So you succumb to every
ounce of the hurt (even if it doesn’t make sense to be feeling it). You give
yourself over to the misery. You <i>let go</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">And then you’re crumpled
in the corner of the kitchen, trying to catch your breath between sobs,
pounding your fists against the floor. When you can finally breathe through
your crying, you yell into the empty room, at nothing, begging for it to stop.
Please, just make it stop.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">You don’t know how long
it lasts. It seems endless, that agony. You wonder how long it took your body
to exhaust itself from the heaving of your chest, the soreness in your hands,
the yelling. You have no sense of time.<br />
You have no sense of anything.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">
You’re drained, exhausted, empty. Nothing but a void ... except for the pain. <br />It's still there. <br />It's always there.<br /><br />
And so you start from the beginning.<br />
Implement the old techniques. Try new ones. Perform the process all over again. With the same results, like being stuck in a time loop. Like Groundhog's Day.<br />
The kitchen floor, the pounding of fists, the sobbing and yelling...<br />
Again. And again. And again.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So, when coping is no longer
an option, </span></span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">what do you do</i><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">?</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qVV2Vm4SozY" width="414" youtube-src-id="qVV2Vm4SozY"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-22965836220185285742021-08-27T13:41:00.006-04:002021-08-27T13:41:46.172-04:00The Hugging and Singing Prayer Lady <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJD9W3Ze7amV3QCoo4igeOLqXZOl-kV71WJu3x4BAetA2V4or4SBmutqVCAYg-cdz6L8Oz9QeMfzqhcDxAP6HMEuzclKUEbpCts4FRrouv9gVuVSfxhB8vLfwZ2yUCTqEu5G_R3wzYng/s767/MomPic2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="767" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJD9W3Ze7amV3QCoo4igeOLqXZOl-kV71WJu3x4BAetA2V4or4SBmutqVCAYg-cdz6L8Oz9QeMfzqhcDxAP6HMEuzclKUEbpCts4FRrouv9gVuVSfxhB8vLfwZ2yUCTqEu5G_R3wzYng/w400-h190/MomPic2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>I wrote this a couple years ago for Journalism class. I re-wrote it this morning to be a story rather than a news article. Chicken Soup for the Soul is looking for submissions. They publish books yearly on various topics. One category they are accepting submissions for is acts of kindness. And I thought- what better story to submit than this one...<br />Maybe I'll get lucky, and they'll choose it for the next book.</p><p><br /></p><p>Crista Jakacky<br />Bangor ME ¬August 27, 2021</p><p><br />You can’t see a halo or wings when you look at my mother, but if you ask anyone who knows her, they’ll say it’s just because they’re invisible. Now, I’m not of the faith, but I <i>might </i>have to agree with that. </p><p>Yes, she’s my mom, but I’m certainly not biased. I’m a brutally honest (sometimes more brutal than honest) person, a skeptical cynic. “Mom bias” doesn’t apply to us a lot of the time. She doesn’t always get my approval, or praise, or warm and fuzzy feelings (probably not as much as she deserves). This, as the saying goes, just “is what it is.” </p><p>My mom is a busy retiree living in Glenburn, Maine. I often hear retirees say they are busier than they were while working. They’re traveling, spending time on their hobbies, finding new ones, sometimes volunteering, even working a part-time job. And mom is no exception to the rule. But she stays busy with a purpose. <i>Multiple purposes</i>, actually.</p><p>She has always been a kind and altruistic person, but her crazy obsession with humanity began a little over 10 years ago, before retirement, when she went to New York city with a group called "Street Pastors." Street Pastors is a worldwide organization that originated in London, with only two official groups here in the U.S.- Chico, California, and Bangor, Maine. Who knows why the Bangor group exists. Most people have no idea where Bangor is. Most people from outside of Maine have never even heard of Bangor. Some don't even know where <i>Maine </i>is. “Is that part of Canada?” people ask (imagine a sigh and a facepalm here). </p><p>The group walked the streets of NYC for days, handing out food and supplies to the homeless population. They spoke with people walking the streets; homeless or not. They didn’t preach (as you might expect, based on their name), but they did offer prayers if and when appropriate. Mostly, they just wanted to <i>connect </i>with people. To be a kind, supportive presence for anyone who might need it.</p><p> Since that trip, mom has done the same thing here on the weekends with the Bangor branch. They walk all around downtown Bangor, sometimes as late as 2am (much to my dismay). She refuses to carry the mace I bought her, regardless of my arguments. She laughs at my worry and tells me it’s safe, that she’s with the group. Ever the optimist (imagine another sigh and facepalm). They do the same things here as they did years ago in New York- passing out snacks and water bottles, handing out taxi vouchers for bar patrons who are too intoxicated to drive, and just being there for people. For a shoulder, for conversation, a prayer, or even a hug. </p><p>Mom is a member of two churches here in town. On Sunday mornings, she leads worship at “The Biker Church,” singing and playing her guitar. Afterwards, she heads over to services at “River Church,” and later that afternoon she participates in their bible study. On Wednesday nights, she returns to The Biker Church for their mid-week service.</p><p>A few days a week, mom can be found volunteering for an organization called “Samaritan Inc.” Samaritan Inc. operates food cupboards six days a week, at various local churches. All day long she packs and hands out boxes of food to local families in need. She also plays her guitar and sings while the families eagerly wait their turn in line. After the long day is over, she loads her car with any leftover food and delivers it to The Biker Church, where they provide two meals a day and a 24/7 warming center. </p><p>On Monday nights, after spending all day at the food cupboard, she goes down to the Bangor waterfront with a group called “Jericho Road.” They park their box truck along the river, where most of the area homeless have made their homes, and hand out food and supplies. She plays her guitar and sings there, too. The homeless are often the most appreciative of audiences. Rain, snow, or dangerously stifling heat, they are always there. Every Monday night, every season, all year. </p><p>And just as she does with the food cupboards, she delivers anything left to “The Storehouse.” The Storehouse is part of The Biker Church that also provides the homeless with clothing and necessities. They also give to people who are transitioning from homelessness; things like furniture, kitchen or bath supplies, clothes, Christmas gifts and school supplies for the kids. </p><p> As if that weren’t enough, she is also the caretaker of her 90-year-old roommate. The roommate is well, mostly. As healthy as a 90-year-old can be, I suppose. But she is very unsteady on her feet, can hardly hear, and can barely see. Mom takes her to countless doctor’s appointments, and basically tends to her every need. That roommate, as appreciative as she is, can sometimes be overbearing and ornery. That roommate is her mother. We call them The Golden Girls of Glenburn. </p><p>When mom is not busy caring for Nana or volunteering, she collects donations from her friends and family. In the rest of her (very little) spare time, she delivers them to The Storehouse. </p><p>Mom sees many of the same faces at all of her volunteer locations, and even at church services. They are always excited to see her coming. They love her dearly, and have named her “Tina the Hugging and Singing Prayer Lady.” She always leaves them with a prayer (if it is welcomed, and it usually is) and a hug. </p><p>And she leaves them with <i>hope</i>. </p><p>But she insists, “I’m not there to preach, I’m just there to help.”</p><div><br /></div>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-42813010557664938732021-08-14T12:19:00.007-04:002021-10-06T13:30:29.529-04:00“Come Sail Away (a dream, not the song)”<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLNSvZ9Gm6eSr8Xc0q14KRTCWlRNED-VOLIgv-M3bo6B6ONWxaPIjBY0RNVifMDMGNjvEvPW_SK8yckORP0HL5czdw_W6htD6ZxRNIDAk8kQl62NXl3S5ZWbsHRN-hbcziYMTFnIMATY/s2707/IMG_9998.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1033" data-original-width="2707" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLNSvZ9Gm6eSr8Xc0q14KRTCWlRNED-VOLIgv-M3bo6B6ONWxaPIjBY0RNVifMDMGNjvEvPW_SK8yckORP0HL5czdw_W6htD6ZxRNIDAk8kQl62NXl3S5ZWbsHRN-hbcziYMTFnIMATY/w640-h244/IMG_9998.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Last night I went to a local pub to
see a couple fellow musicians perform, Allison and Gaylen, otherwise known as “The
Sail Bums.” An adorable husband/wife duo
who spend their days living on a boat, and their evenings performing music. Seemingly,
the ideal life of every musician and couple. I have to admit, it suits them.
Watching Allison gaze lovingly at Gaylen during their performance was heart-warming
and disgusting all at once. Perhaps I’m bitter. Or envious.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">When I arrived, I was waved over to
a table full of others who had also come to support the musical couple. We were
an interesting and diverse group; a variety of people all there for the same reason.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Brad, an advisor with the
University and talented and well-known bass player. Sue, a successful marketing
professional. Drew, the pastor at a local progressive church. A young foreign man whose name escapes me, who looked like a cross between Dave Grohl
and Fabio (or maybe I just imagined that he did). And me, an unemployed singer
and “veteran” bartender. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A veritable smorgasbord of people with
not much in common other than most of us were “middle age” (save for Fabio), and
all friends and followers of the two performers. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And we were all single.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I enjoyed a fabulous
pineapple cider and skillet of buffalo mac-n-cheese while listening to the music and the musings
at the table. Drew and Sue got acquainted while Brad and I stuffed our faces
and talked about the latest season of “Titans” on HBO Max. He occasionally sat
in with the duo, adding the melodic sounds of his upright bass to the mix. As
I find with many musicians, watching him play is as enjoyable as listening. Passionate
musical facial expressions, I call them (well, except for when I sing, then it
just looks like I’m in pain). When Fabio joined the table mid-way through the
evening, concentrating on my meal, the music, or the conversations became a bit
more challenging.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I continued to take it all in,
though, and listened to familiar tales of singledom woes... Tales of “casual
friends,” tales of failed first (or second, or third) dates and failed
relationships, tales of loneliness tinged with a bit of humor and cynicism (ok,
the cynicism was usually my contribution). There were exchanges of courting
quips, dating advice, and horror stories. And a lot of laughter. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The husband/wife duo joined us after
the gig was done, and the fans at the table began to depart one by one. Drew
was the first to leave. Allison beamed at Sue and mentioned that the two of
them seemed to have made a connection. I chuckled into my cider as I saw both
women glowing with the prospect. I imagined them with animated Warner Bros
heart eyes bulging from their faces; Pepe Le Pew, Bugs Bunny, Tom n Gerry style...
Sue admitted that they had exchanged contact information, and had considered getting together again. But it wouldn’t be a date, she insisted. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">“There’s nothing wrong with dinner
with friends,” Allison giggled. And everyone winked at each other. I joined the
winking, wondering what we were all winking about. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">After Sue left, Allison glowed once
more at the idea that she had accidentally played matchmaker. That the couple
seemed well-suited for one another. Fabio, sitting next to her, said (in that exquisite accent)- “Hey, next
it’s my turn.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A wicked grin crossed Allison’s
face as she looked from Fabio to me, and back and forth, again and again, with
no subtlety whatsoever. We all laughed (as I squirmed uncomfortably), and I
reminded them of my age. We all laughed some more. I still can’t imagine why on
earth that young man is single. Dear Lord, if only I were (at least) ten years
younger…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As the evening wound down, Brad
extended an invite to come over and start binging “Titans.” But it was late, his
house was a bit of a drive from mine, and I was tired. Those things were all
true, but so is my difficulty of developing/maintaining friendships with men.
It never used to be the case; I’ve had more male friends over the years than
females. Women tend to irritate me. Well, unless they’re beautiful and
interesting and captivating; girl crushes. But as far as friendships, men have
always been my choice of company. As I’ve aged and lived single longer, the lines of friendship have become blurry and hard for me to define. Instances like that have often led to misreading situations and embarrassing myself, or
ruining a good friendship by crossing said lines. I’m not sure why any of that is, and I don’t put
much thought into trying to figure it out. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And so I walked to my car, drove to
the bar down the street, and had a nightcap before going home. Half of an
overpriced cider later and a slight headache (from the cider? The annoying
20-something crowd? All of it?) and I tabbed out and went home. To the comfort
of my couch, a bag of cookies, and the dog and the cat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As enjoyable as the evening was, the
laughter, the great music, the camaraderie… it was
still the same conclusion to every other night out. Go home alone. Laugh a
little, cry a little. Laugh at yourself for crying. Eat your weight in junk
food, watch The Big Bang Theory just to try to keep laughing. Wake up on the couch at 5 am, the tv and all the lights
still on, an empty bag of cookies in your hand, and the cat enjoying the buffet of crumbs on your lap. You sigh, too tired (defeated?) to drag yourself to bed. You roll over, cover your head with your fuzzy blanket, and go back to dreaming. Except this night's dreams were of blurred lines, animated heart eyes, handsome foreigners, buffalo mac n cheese, and sailing the ocean with the musical love
of your life.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="348" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Q4l3x-d3gkI" width="419" youtube-src-id="Q4l3x-d3gkI"></iframe></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-82014387351900368732021-08-09T09:55:00.002-04:002021-10-20T08:49:38.964-04:00Marlene<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-B082m2Vp3wb0phJ4MIB2iWHECGgvSWl_vi1vyNrmN6Z5rAAG_-QN16CAtsrXV4D2wLi1CSu-hznUd-8Rs_PGiM7UVY5KrT0cL-yuHdeVdTtLPk4Zszyy-hQ-tLqeMVs0falRo5AwAE/s910/IMG_9355.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="910" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-B082m2Vp3wb0phJ4MIB2iWHECGgvSWl_vi1vyNrmN6Z5rAAG_-QN16CAtsrXV4D2wLi1CSu-hznUd-8Rs_PGiM7UVY5KrT0cL-yuHdeVdTtLPk4Zszyy-hQ-tLqeMVs0falRo5AwAE/w640-h406/IMG_9355.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Marlene</h2><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>He was married</p><p>with a small house on the river</p><p>It was a mess, cluttered and dirty</p><p>forgotten, neglected, like his wife</p><p>Her name was Marlene</p><p>she had Alzheimer’s, or dementia, or some other mental curse</p><p>But she was still coherent, at least a little</p><p>coherent enough to know I was sleeping with her husband</p><p>He was short, with longer, shaggy hair, ten years older than me</p><p>He was dirty, but it was from being a working man</p><p>Not dirty like his house</p><p>He wasn’t even “my type”</p><p>Then again, I’ve had a hundred types </p><p>I’ve settled for a hundred more</p><p>But I loved the water</p><p>so I went to his home, to sit with him by the river</p><p>Marlene, not completely lost in her mind</p><p>ran at me, screaming</p><p>Her thick, gray hair wild and untamed </p><p>like a feral cat</p><p>A woman driven mad by illness and infidelity</p><p>He grabbed her just before her attack</p><p>calming and soothing her with a soft voice I had not heard before</p><p>And then he kissed her</p><p>It was passionate, unbridled </p><p>I watched in awe, in envy, in disgust </p><p>And I ran</p><p>The next day, after work</p><p>there was an envelope on the windshield of my car</p><p>Inside was a note</p><p>“Meet me at the falls near my house”</p><p>and a key</p><p>I parked on the side of the road</p><p>where the trail would take me to the base</p><p>of the town-famous river falls</p><p>It was exceptional, 200 feet of cascading water</p><p>cleaved by nature’s fury some time long ago</p><p>He was there, waiting at the bottom</p><p>He told me the key was mine</p><p>it was a copy, for his new apartment </p><p>“What about Marlene?” I asked</p><p>“She’ll need someone to care for her”</p><p>And as if produced by our words,</p><p>Marlene appeared atop the crest</p><p>We could hear her screaming</p><p>even over the noise of the falls</p><p>The last lights of day shone through her white nightgown</p><p>Blown about by the wind</p><p>Her dull, gray mane </p><p>made bright and silver and beautiful</p><p>swirling around her face</p><p>She was luminous, a visage</p><p>She seemed to float, just for a moment</p><p>When she leapt from the precipice</p><p>to the jagged, unforgiving ground below</p><p>Cascading, like the falls</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>Beautiful and angry</p></blockquote>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-16566522109806079952021-07-14T12:00:00.001-04:002021-07-14T12:00:56.622-04:00Lions & Tigers & Feelings, Oh My!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCADJLxytzDtluS19FD8J9VRn7OTvIBBTlULPTNmpgXPrufVL8STQzy8aKjqGx9Pbs3ifCrvP6v8_IbVWhTnzhEB_xYgC1TzCeEF2iBhjGYn8pxGdje1vJOzPBXDMYaooTOXNrbATtgVk/s498/lionstigersbears_orig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="498" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCADJLxytzDtluS19FD8J9VRn7OTvIBBTlULPTNmpgXPrufVL8STQzy8aKjqGx9Pbs3ifCrvP6v8_IbVWhTnzhEB_xYgC1TzCeEF2iBhjGYn8pxGdje1vJOzPBXDMYaooTOXNrbATtgVk/w400-h181/lionstigersbears_orig.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Do you ever sign in to Facebook in the morning, and almost immediately fight the urge to put your fist through the screen when it autogenerates random memories for you?<br />No? Oh. Ummm... okay, me neither. <br /><br /><i>Here you go, Crista... One year ago today you were being dumped by the last man you loved while the two of you were vacationing on the lake. </i></p><p>Thanks, Facebook. <br /></p><p>Thanks for showing me that. And for showing me memories of dating fiascos for the entire year before that. <br />And just think, as every day passes from here on out, Facebook will help me relive all the dating debacles since then, too! Yippee!</p><p>Aye yi yi.</p><p>But those complaints, those memories or those men, are not the meat and potatoes of this blog. They're kind of an appetizer for the main course, though. </p><p>So, what's the primary dish for tonight's ravings?<br />Feelings.<br />I know, not very palatable.</p><p>A short while ago, I wrote a blog about what I like to call the "feel/flee syndrome." Which is just a phrase I coined for men who run away from feelings. </p><p>Don't get me wrong, I don't believe ALL men are afraid of feelings (but perhaps a good majority of them are), and I know that women are sometimes afraid of them, too. <br /><br />Like me.<br />Fucking petrified, actually.</p><p>Last summer on that lake, I was reminded of how it felt to have my heart broken. It had been intact for quite a few years, after having survived my last ex-husband. And <i>that </i>heartbreak was enough to toughen up that ole muscle for decades! <br />Or, so I thought.</p><p>What a surprise it was to me when I was suddenly crying every day. Mournful, forlorn... devastated. <br />I guess I thought it was no longer possible.</p><p>Anyway, fuck that dude.</p><p>My point is, at least, I think is... Feelings are frightening. Absofuckinglutely terrifying. <i>Dangerous</i>.<br />Especially when you're an emotive empath who develops them quickly and intensely (sometimes irrationally, I know). It's a fucking curse.</p><p>In the last couple of years, I've dated a dozen men, probably. At least, I think. That I can remember. Anyway...<br />Thankfully, aside from the one who broke my heart last summer, I only had feelings for one other. Nowhere near what I felt last summer, but I could have loved him. Knew that I would, had it continued. Knew it was happening. Regardless of the bouquet of red flags. Luckily (although it did not feel fortunate at the time), he walked before I had a chance to fall. <br />Feel-flee.<br />But I did have feelings for him. And boy, weren't they hurt when he left.</p><p>I've felt a connection to a couple others, perhaps, but nothing ever grew from them. Which was perplexing to me. Feel-flee.</p><p>With most others, I spent a lot of time trying to determine if I "like" them, if there were any <i>feelings</i>. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out if it was anything more than just physical. And then spent the rest of the time trying to figure out if I actually cared if I figured it out. (Did you follow that? ...It made sense in my head...)</p><p>Weird? I don't know. People would advise- "Well, if you don't know if you like him, that's probably your answer." Is it? Was it? I guess I'll never know. Then again, if I'm not mourning them? Well, that's probably my answer.</p><p>(Insert Jeff Foxworthy/Bill Engvall/Larry the Cable Guy, etc... "Here's your sign!")</p><p>What's worse? Some I knew I didn't actually like, yet still dated them (let's just call it "dating," for my mother's sake). Why? Eh, who knows. Probably because I was lonely, craved attention. Or bored. Likely both. But, goddamnit, I sure have been lonely. </p><p>I complain about being alone/lonely almost every day. Going home alone, living alone, vacationing alone, doing things alone, blah, blah, blah friggin blah. And it's true. The loneliness sucks. It literally sucks the life right out of me, almost daily. If only I had love in my life again, right?</p><p>But, but, but....<br />It's SO. Fucking. Horrifying. </p><p>Hence the keepin' on with the guys that I may or may not have liked. They were safe. There were no real feelings. </p><p>But, but, but...<br />But I <i>want </i>feelings!</p><p>No, wait. I don't. Yes, I do. No... Yes... No...<br />Goddamnit.</p><p>The normal trepidation that accompanies emotions is only heightened for me, now. For a few reasons...</p><p>1. My asshole radar seems to be broken. And when it actually does work, my ability (willingness?) to pay attention to it is obscured. And I don't mean asshole as in outright jerk, more like the subtle insincere, dishonest, deceptive kind of asshole. Or just plain fucking weird.<br />Last summer's heartbreak was a perfect example of its malfunction, and my inability/unwillingness to pay attention to it when it did operate properly.<br />But, fuck that dude. Anyway...</p><p>2. Over the last couple of years, I have at least figured out the "types" that feel safe to me, and the "types" that I am inexplicably and fiercely drawn to. The types that ignite <i>so </i>many sparks. But are more prone to turning into wildfires. The ones I should probably run from, but don't.</p><p>And, 3. Somehow, over the last couple of years, my once thick skin and hardened heart seem to have lost their impenetrable qualities. </p><p>I still can't, and may never understand the irony of it... <br />How the most amazing, wonderful things in life come with the most risk.<br />Swim with sharks, you might die.<br />Skydive, you might die.<br />Rock/summit climb, you might die.<br />Bunjee jump, you might die<br />Fall in love, you might die.</p><p>I would <i>never </i>do any of the first four things on that list (or any other life-risking activity, for that matter). So <i>why on earth</i> would I do the fourth?! And even worse, continue to do it again, and again, and again?!<br />Dear Jeezus, we are stupid humans!</p><p>I <i>wish </i>I could be like those feel/flee guys. I <i>wish </i>I could turn it off. Oh, how I <i>desperately </i>wish it were so.</p><p style="text-align: center;">..........</p><p>And that's about where I fell asleep last night.</p><p>This morning I woke up with a raw throat, stuffy nose, plugged ears, and a somewhat nasty cough. Evidently, I am allergic to feelings. Which only reiterates my theory that they are hazardous to your health. </p><p>Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go fight off them off with some antihistamines, cough suppressants, and probably some chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Kn4AFefWino" width="320" youtube-src-id="Kn4AFefWino"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Soulmate"</i></div><p><br /></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-1690527138481627312021-06-21T13:18:00.000-04:002021-06-21T13:18:38.665-04:00Lost in a Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSKDVOtr2N61JPqR1fiR_cAG-3gtZeRPCeqOC4r3MXcgUPr2g1P6dmWrZDfLuc-P3G30vV9EW5a0JHHL35DAO-B_lGhs_vcf86Cf1wNA0hBOq7PkL-ZSLkNKSIeStJZA3I8GG8vHdjPFs/s1080/Waking+Lovers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSKDVOtr2N61JPqR1fiR_cAG-3gtZeRPCeqOC4r3MXcgUPr2g1P6dmWrZDfLuc-P3G30vV9EW5a0JHHL35DAO-B_lGhs_vcf86Cf1wNA0hBOq7PkL-ZSLkNKSIeStJZA3I8GG8vHdjPFs/w400-h400/Waking+Lovers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Such a strange way to wake up. Sad and endearing at the same time. </p><p>He was there lying next to me, we were just opening our eyes. Curled up to him, his arm around my neck, caressing my hair. My head on his chest, rising and falling with his breath, his words. The sound of his voice, the smell of yesterday's cologne, the softness of him... it was so real. So familiar… We have been there before.</p><p>When I woke from the dream I was forlorn. Tearful. I closed my eyes and went back to it, pretending, imagining. I felt it all again. I didn't want to open my eyes. </p><p>What makes it beautiful and wistful all at once is that it's not that unrealistic. It would be more than a possibility; probable, likely, if there weren't so much distance between us. <br />Sigh. Of course. Story of my life. </p><p>Jeezus, I sound like friggin Nora Roberts or something. I obviously haven't had enough coffee. Stupid brain.</p><p><br /></p><p>I can't help it. I was stuck in a moment. The dream was yesterday morning, and I'm still stuck in it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="305" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/StpgEnNRmA4" width="367" youtube-src-id="StpgEnNRmA4"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-48569155045031231502021-06-21T12:30:00.001-04:002021-06-21T13:09:34.799-04:00Happy Anti-Father's Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiudnShruwjSIlZT_3G0ro6Xhe4B7m1FcxI4K-C6aLE5xTkivRJU51JP5gchO-o-GJ-qvWbiktZrjV-QYb1kQVmAZAF7rpiJcfOBgya0AVSgTDzzddfRWLqOzl0OY6SqccZzedUUQCl0HU/s3777/IMG_85592.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1589" data-original-width="3777" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiudnShruwjSIlZT_3G0ro6Xhe4B7m1FcxI4K-C6aLE5xTkivRJU51JP5gchO-o-GJ-qvWbiktZrjV-QYb1kQVmAZAF7rpiJcfOBgya0AVSgTDzzddfRWLqOzl0OY6SqccZzedUUQCl0HU/w640-h270/IMG_85592.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I usually mention your death anniversary when it comes around. I always say- I will not drink a Coors Light today. But last week I let it pass without mention. In fact, I’m going to try that every year. It was one of the worst days of my life, and I don’t want to memorialize it anymore.<p></p><p>But today, just as on your birthday, I will drink a Coors Light. Ok, I admit that today, for the first time, I couldn’t finish it. Dad, it’s just gross. I don’t know how you drank this stuff.</p><p>Today I played a gig on the pier. All day I heard echoes of “Happy Father’s Day!” I may have even said it to the crowd. But I didn’t like it. It hurts to say it. To hear it. I wonder if there will ever come a year when it won’t.</p><p>It’s fitting that I’m at the ocean today. It’s my favorite place. I walked to the farthest corner of the beach so I could eat my take-out in peace. So I could (try to) drink my Coors light unnoticed. So I could talk to you and cry where no one would see me.</p><p>I always look for heart-shaped rocks on the beach. Today I just wanted to sit. Yet, when I reached down into my cooler to grab that disgusting beer, there this little guy was...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL9OAAh7_DNV_FGO6ijnFNbRKvUb2viF-4jk77fQOvTTvMthjNk5mWi6k_3_0dOQb3-DvJ8798nsdRRMPBEtvTZ2_kLLI-BjvV410nF1PZfCGvh100HMv5usobGfXoszH-F4zA-z_A_Ns/s2041/IMG_8580.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2041" data-original-width="1779" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL9OAAh7_DNV_FGO6ijnFNbRKvUb2viF-4jk77fQOvTTvMthjNk5mWi6k_3_0dOQb3-DvJ8798nsdRRMPBEtvTZ2_kLLI-BjvV410nF1PZfCGvh100HMv5usobGfXoszH-F4zA-z_A_Ns/w349-h400/IMG_8580.jpg" width="349" /></a></div><br /><p>Maybe from now on, I’ll toast with something else. Something not as gross as beer. Besides, it (and all the other booze) is what took you from us. You <i>let </i>it take you. It didn’t have to be this way. I love you, and hate you just a little, all at the same time. As each year passes, I continue to work on forgiving you for it. I’m not there yet, but I think I’m probably close. We shall see.</p><p>I still can’t listen to “Two Tickets to Paradise.” It’s what was playing the day you were going. I screamed into the hospital valet parking, threw the keys, and ran. The song played in my head as I willed the elevator to go faster, as my sister texted me… “hurry.”<br />My memory is so terrible nowadays. But of the very few things I remember, that’s the one I wish I could forget.</p><p>Eight years. Eight years and I still miss you so fucking much.</p><p>Happy Father’s Day.</p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-60042408550718700102021-06-12T21:18:00.001-04:002021-06-12T21:19:55.263-04:00The Epiphany That Wasn't an Epiphany<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlnXY31w90RjesHLpJUF0SLQdpouDb4fqpRm2udOE_VZpzN5fUmIquEGUV-ZgeuI4Cd76BPafZgP1aS0xMaVA7kRLnNUDluPY8oZ5QPwS_u82g4GGR4_-r0X7f97cenvhDn8M937A7Ss/s2048/IMG_7909a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlnXY31w90RjesHLpJUF0SLQdpouDb4fqpRm2udOE_VZpzN5fUmIquEGUV-ZgeuI4Cd76BPafZgP1aS0xMaVA7kRLnNUDluPY8oZ5QPwS_u82g4GGR4_-r0X7f97cenvhDn8M937A7Ss/w640-h360/IMG_7909a.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Today was a great day.</p><p>And then it wasn't.<br />Oh, hello there, depression. So nice to see you again (eye roll).</p><p>Let me preface this with- No, I'm not suicidal, so don't freak out. Morbid? perhaps. Cryptic? Perhaps. Suicidal? No. </p><p>Also- No, I'm not attention-seeking. Trust me, I'm good with the whole no attention thing. Really. Look away. Go away. </p><p>Also- I'm not pity-seeking. As a person who suffers from bipolar depression, I feel bad enough for myself. I don't need (or want) you to.</p><p>I just write to feel. Or, to <i>unfeel</i>. It helps. <br />Sometimes.</p><p>Ok, now that we have that out of the way...</p><p>Wait, one more thing. Please stop with the "you won't be happy until you do this, or stop doing that..." Or the "happiness is a choice, you <i>choose </i>to be miserable..." bullshit. PLEASE. You obviously have no idea how unrealistic, how <i>absurd, </i>that is for people who are clinical. Just quit that shit. Ok? Ok.</p><p>Ok, moving on...</p><p>Today was a great day.<br />I played a gig at an outdoor craft fair/bizarre/festival thing. To say we were well received would be a HUGE understatement. <br />There were a lot of people there, of all ages. We had 8 to 80-year-olds telling us how wonderful we were. How awesome we were. All day long.<br />The former owner of Spectacular Events Center said- Where were you guys when I was in business?!<br />There were several people who were obviously musically inclined because they were very impressed by our harmonies, our chemistry, our sound. That's the kind of stuff I really appreciate because I do believe that's what sets us apart from other local small acts.<br />Friends I haven't seen in a while were there. Other friends, too. My aunt, cousin, mom, and son showed up. That was really nice.<br />We were paid more than we charged, and the tips were plentiful. All said and done, I made enough to give my partner another chunk of money towards our new sound system, and then go shop all the local vendors. Although I might have walked away with nearly my weight in fudge.</p><p>Yes, it was a great day.</p><p>On my drive home I wondered whether or not I would go down to my partner's place and join the party that was happening down there. Lots of people I know. Lots of good food, drinks, lawn games. We'd play some more music...</p><p>But it's a long drive from my place. It's an even longer drive back, in the dark, after having a beer or two. And it's not just that. The ride would just be so much more tolerable, and the night would be so much more enjoyable if I had someone in the passenger seat. Or the driver's seat. For the ride, for the company, for the sake of not feeling like the 3rd (23rd) wheel... Just for the sake of not going somewhere alone<i>. </i>Just for<i> once, </i>fah fahk sake! <br />Nah. I'll stay home with the dog. Eat some fudge for dinner. Have some leftover Chinese for dessert.</p><p>On my drive home I also wondered (again, still) why I have had such a hard time singing these last several months. Why my ears have been so closed-up. Why my throat has been so strained, so weak. The first six months or so singing in this act, my voice came back stronger than I ever expected (after being out of the business for a dozen years). It was awesome. And then it changed. First I blamed it on winter and forced hot air heat. I got humidifiers. I bought extra special filters for my furnace and heat vents. Then spring came around, and I blamed it on pollen, allergies. In comes the persistent cough, unaccompanied by anything else, that refuses to respond to any amount of cough suppressive I throw at it. I blame it on allergies again. I'm not sick, I'm fine. Couldn't be smoker's cough. I've smoked 30 years and have never had smoker's cough.</p><p>And yes, you probably see where I'm going with this. Might I be a bit of a hypochondriac? Not usually, but maybe. Then again, it's all too realistic. Probable, even. <br />Then I think... well, I guess now I don't have to quit smoking, right? If I already got the "cancah," quitting now makes no sense (Nice logic, huh?).</p><p>But none of that is even the <i>point </i>here...</p><p><i>The real point was when the epiphany came...</i></p><p>You see, I've always been afraid of dying. "Mortality anxiety," I call it. Mostly because I'm not "of the faith," so I don't believe there's anything for me after this. It'll just be a shutdown. Just a big nothing. There won't even be consciousness, so how can we even call it "nothing?" Or anything? Anyway...</p><p>But today, on the way home in my hypochondriac (yet realistic) state of mind, thinking about the cancah takin' me, I thought... <br />You know, if it did, I'd be ready. I'm not scared anymore. I'm all done here.</p><p>I've raised my kids, they're grown and no longer need me. And they've turned into amazing humans. I haven't "made it big" as a singer. I never did get a degree out of the hundreds of credits I have. Never finished beauty school, police academy, or anything else, for that matter. I don't have a lot of friends. I'm not working, and certainly don't have any hope of a "big career" at this age. I have no life partner. I've had three husbands, tried that. I've lived a mundane (yet maybe a little bit interesting) life, with no real impression to leave, no accomplishments, no more purpose to fulfill, other than what's already been done. Life has plateaued where it is, there's no more/other destination. And I'm sad more than I'm happy. Besides, I'd like to go when I'm still kinda pretty. <br />There's nothing here for me anymore. I'm ready.</p><p>The more I think about it, the more I realize <i>it really isn't even an epiphany</i>. It's a feeling that's been growing for a while, I just didn't see it for what it was.</p><p>My home has almost <i>always </i>been presentable, neat, tidy, everything in its place (just ask my kids, or my three ex-husbands, I was kind of impossible to live with). Now I have literal piles of clothes in my room (there are more clothes than there is floor space). And yet, I have three dressers and two closets. My bathroom has been partially painted for three months. Dropcloths, paint cans, brushes, rollers, all still clutter the floor, the bathroom counter. Dirty dishes are always in the sink. Stuff all over my kitchen table. A fridge, freezer, and cupboards jam-packed with food I'll never eat. Trim pulled off various places around the house, new trim laying around on the floor waiting to be put in. Dozens of projects started, never finished. And I really don't care about any of it.</p><p>I buy shit I don't need. I spend when I can't afford to. In fact, the only really "big" thing I've accomplished (other than raising the kids) has been accumulating credit card and student loan debt. And, like the house, I don't really give a shit about any of that, either.</p><p>I haven't landed that job that I really want yet (whatever that might be... I don't even know what I want to be when I grow up). Still unemployed. But, I've stopped giving a shit about it.</p><p>I've made some not-so-great decisions when it comes to "relationships" over the last couple of years. Like, micro-super-short-lived relationships, if'n ya know what I mean (sorry mom/kids, if you're reading this). Quite a few not-so-great decisions, actually. Maybe a lot. Oops. But, like everything else, I don't give a shit about those, either.</p><p>All the junk food I eat is catching up with me. My midsection is growing. Nope. Don't give a shit.</p><p>Today I wore sandals, in public, <i>to a gig</i>, without my toenails painted. In my world that is a <i>HUGE </i>no-no. But, you guessed it, I didn't give a shit.</p><p>And even now, while I'm really quite sad and have shed far more than enough tears for the day, I also kind of don't give a shit. I don't <i>feel </i>depressed. But I know that's where this comes from. At least, I think that's where it comes from. Then again, maybe it just "is what it is." Maybe it's just a natural, final state of mind.<br />The epiphany that wasn't an epiphany.</p><p>Jeezus, now I sound crazy even to me (facepalm).</p><p>Which probably means it's time to put away this proverbial pen, go flop my ever-growing ass on the couch, and stuff my face with fudge.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="324" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qVV2Vm4SozY" width="390" youtube-src-id="qVV2Vm4SozY"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-56337833547636542052021-03-28T16:02:00.006-04:002021-03-28T16:52:30.321-04:00Mid-life Dating and the Feel/Flee Phenomenon<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKJC3-cA4u-HomXqJAMOYVV2ANDdCdnnAEStUhdV21i9bj2rToymMMvS_IFuxLriosFy28k5diDInkW3oRTea8AmnvIfWY5Pim2hMwaC7QDzo7eJWv1GdB00NuKoeeJ9WCNd0cvjJo-OA/s1057/IMG_5548.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="1057" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKJC3-cA4u-HomXqJAMOYVV2ANDdCdnnAEStUhdV21i9bj2rToymMMvS_IFuxLriosFy28k5diDInkW3oRTea8AmnvIfWY5Pim2hMwaC7QDzo7eJWv1GdB00NuKoeeJ9WCNd0cvjJo-OA/w400-h138/IMG_5548.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> I often wonder why I pay 38.99 for three months of browsing
profiles that don’t match mine. Deleting messages without even reading them.
Rolling my eyes at the computer screen. Thinking things like “Jeezus Christ! …
Oh dear lord … Seriously?? … What the actual f&%k?”<p class="MsoNormal">
… 38.99 for continuously swiping left.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Still has four kids at home… swipe left<br />
Writes two lines on their profile… Swipe left<br />
Drinks often/moderately… swipe left<br />
“Looking for something casual” … swipe left<br />
Doesn't like dogs and/or cats… swipe left<br />
420 lifestyle… swipe left<br />
Multiple spelling/grammatical issues… swipe left<br />
“Separated” … swipe left<br />
Works out 6 days a week… swipe left<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If I continued, we’d be here all day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So why do I do it, you ask? Well, because… mid-life dating.<br />
That’s why.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dating at this age is <i>so</i> much harder than I remember it
being. Not only are all those aforementioned things (and many more things) challenging,
but there’s more to it, something more prominent, more poignant, more <i>troublesome</i>.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It seems that no one my age is actually looking for a <i>relationship</i>.
And by that I mean, a true life partnership. No one seems to want that anymore.
Some people my age are simply comfortable and content being single. Being alone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, but, but… Why? At our age? Do they all want to die
alone?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many of them <i>say</i> they want a relationship. They might
even think that they do. Until they are reminded that it takes effort,
patience, dedication, and compromise. That’s about the time they realize that
they like the <i>idea</i> of a relationship, instead of an actual one.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was talking to a friend of mine earlier about dating at
our age, a single guy, so it’s always interesting to hear something unbiased from
the other side. I said these same things to him. How no one wants to make the
effort anymore, there is no intestinal fortitude. That most people just want
casual because anything more than that is too much work. He agreed. Even said some
things that sounded like they could have come out of my mouth.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then suddenly, and probably unknowingly, he said something
that sounded like every other guy I’ve met over these last two years. Paraphrased,
it was something about how he is just going with the flow and waiting to see
where life takes him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ok, so maybe that’s not as severe as what I’m talking about,
but it’s quite similar. Approaching the idea of dating and relationships without
intent. No one seems to have a true desire to actually pursue something real,
something lasting, anymore.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have dated a handful of men over the last couple years. And
more than once, I have felt a connection. Many times, immediate. They weren’t
imagined. I might be a girl, but I’m not naïve. I’m a hopeless romantic, but I’m
a realistic one. Authentic connections, unmistakable, often times intense. And each
time, reciprocated.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One lasted a few months. Sometimes it was a few weeks.
Sometimes only a matter of days. Once or twice it may have even been one night.
Some ended dramatically, with lots of tears (on my part). Some kind of just
fizzled out. Some disappeared altogether. <br />
And no amount of hanging onto them would make any difference. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This phenomenon confuses me. I call it the feel – flee phenomenon.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">How does someone experience something like that, <i>genuinely</i>
<i>feel</i> it, and then walk away from it? Set it down. Brush it aside. As
unimportant as an old, faded gas receipt, crumpled and forgotten under the back
seat of a car.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Feel. <br />
Flee.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then again, it’s possible (but unlikely) that my “feelings
radar” might have gone askew as I’ve aged. After all, my “asshole radar” has
definitely failed me on more than one occasion these last few years!<br />(I almost just made a list of names, but I resisted)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve had my feelings hurt quite a few times throughout these
mid-life dating adventures (and countless times in my history of failed
relationships, but that’s another blog…). And it never does get any easier. It’s
not like drinking heavily and eventually building a tolerance to it. Or getting
Covid and developing an immunity to it. Every new hurt feels as bad as the
last. Every time is as shocking as the time before.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It. Never. Gets. Easier.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So perhaps it’s only a matter of time before I join the
feel-flee movement. After all, how many times can I go through that before finally
succumbing to the fight or flight response? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alas, I probably won’t. As I mentioned, although realistic, I
am a hopeless romantic. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am not a happy, content single person. I am wired to be partnered.
I am better with love in my life. My <i>life</i> is better with someone to
share it with. I am starting to believe that I am an oddball. A critically endangered
species.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, I’ll keep trying. <br />
A glutton for punishment. Time after time, hurt feeling after hurt feeling, connection
after connection. Until I find one that sticks. Until I come across that needle
in a haystack, that one other human near extinction. One that connects and
commits, instead of feels and flees. <br />
Keep. On. Trying.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And hopefully I’ll survive it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="405" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GocBjxcM8XA" width="487" youtube-src-id="GocBjxcM8XA"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Happy Grouch</div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><br /><p></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-49231465319734911632021-02-14T19:03:00.043-05:002021-02-18T01:13:10.099-05:00Hoodwinked; a Love Story<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9eAnLFeT7ywOWKBq9b38C2S9ZVAZNAjTQU8ennK9Ab_d0c80as-rjNtf-RTbC0BEbd-LzwU9Oeb7yN9NggQ3Ml2es6pkcNqcXxa5CTVPfOLkk1sDLM6TWB7SvcPtj7kIU34kQ2oDuZk/s846/IMG_4508.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="285" data-original-width="846" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9eAnLFeT7ywOWKBq9b38C2S9ZVAZNAjTQU8ennK9Ab_d0c80as-rjNtf-RTbC0BEbd-LzwU9Oeb7yN9NggQ3Ml2es6pkcNqcXxa5CTVPfOLkk1sDLM6TWB7SvcPtj7kIU34kQ2oDuZk/w640-h216/IMG_4508.JPG" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>It was Valentine's Day, and as it had been the last few years, I was lacking a valentine.</p><p>A friend had invited me to join her and her husband for dinner. The invite alone made me feel like a third wheel, but having nothing else to do, I accepted. I was late, as usual, and they were already in the dining room. I burst in, tossing my coat aside. I clumsily ran to the table, laughing, making excuses, apologizing. Immediately embarrassed by my lack of grace...</p><p>It was not just the three of us at the table. I took the last empty chair, seated directly across from a man I didn't recognize.</p><p>It was obvious that my girlfriend had arranged a blind date. I pulled up my chair and leaned over to her, whispering, “Did he know about this?” With an impish grin and a giggle muffled by a mouth full of spaghetti, she shook her head no.</p><p>I was silent and awkward, and then the room was as well, as if it was contagious. After a few moments of crickets, my friend launched into rapid-fire small talk. Thankfully relieving the discomfort, breaking the ice.</p><p>He ate quietly, not making much of me being there. I couldn’t tell if he was shy, or unimpressed. </p><p>I tried to be coy. I couldn't help but take in the sight of him... I realized I was staring, and quickly lowered my gaze, afraid his eyes would meet mine. He wore slightly faded jeans. A blue button-up over a dark heather gray t-shirt. I wanted to study his face, but just looking at him made me nervous. <br />And sitting across from him intensified my girlish anxiety.</p><p>As the night went on, the awkwardness subsided and we both began to relax. The conversation wasn't effortless, but it was comfortable. We chimed in, tenuously. Still, he was reserved, and I was hesitant. Coincidentally, we spoke more fluidly and with more enthusiasm when it was about music.</p><p>Now I'll have to fast forward a bit... Because, admittedly, the rest of the night was unclear. So blurry that I had a hard time recalling much detail of it. Probably too much wine at dinner... I peered out from the master bath and surveyed the surroundings. Ah, we were at a hotel. Music and laughter echoed through the halls from a brunch-time crowd in the lounge. </p><p>I looked out at him, once again trying hard not to stare. He was wearing those same faded jeans. I leaned against the frame of the door, brushing my teeth and watching him fasten the last few buttons of his shirt. Just the motion of it was enough to wake the lingering butterflies, make them multiply.<br /><br />I swooned, but tried to be casual, aloof. It’s a good thing that doorway was there. My conscious scolding, <i>Jesus, Crista, get ahold of yourself.</i></p><p>He wasn’t stunning, not model material. Not the kind of guy that turned heads as he walked down the street. A plain kind of handsome. Unremarkable. I think it's what made him so modest. And available. Most women wouldn’t see through to the handsome. </p><p>He was peculiar, but not in a bad way. He was cautious. Cynical, even. He had been burned; perhaps as much as I had been over the years. But underneath the cynicism was a dormant yet obvious sweetness. </p><p>We spoke as we were getting ready to leave. About what, I can’t remember specifically. My head hadn't completely cleared. We were kissing, too. But cautiously. Somehow I knew we hadn’t done anything more than that during our time together. And although the kiss was delicate and careful, it was still laced with power, temptation. An exhilarant spark. Was I the only one who noticed? </p><p>He apologetically had to rush off. To where I'm not sure. Work, home... I didn't ask. I couldn’t get a read on him, and that was more than frightening. Especially considering the way I felt when I looked at him, touched him... My steadfast intuition failing me.</p><p>As he was leaving, he grabbed me by the arms. Pulling me to him, almost forcefully. Not even an inch between us, I craned my neck so I could see his face. His eyes had gone dark, serious. </p><p>“Are you my in-the-way girl?” His voice was deep, his tone slightly harsh. I was puzzled. I considered it... <i>In the way girl? What the hell does that mean</i>? And as it donned on me, I was instantly offended. A familiar, reoccurring hurt. Like every other time I had felt a natural affinity that wasn't returned.</p><p>I pushed away from him, defensively. “What does that mean, exactly?” The injury simmering in my throat, apparent on my face.</p><p>I resisted as he drew me back into him. His voice softened, recognizing that I had misunderstood, and he explained. I don’t remember exactly what he said, or how he said it, but I remember the sentiment...</p><p>"In the way"... Temporary, inconsequential, casual. Not interested in a real connection. Not wanting a partner. Someone in the way of what the other truly desired, saught out. In the way of what might have been found, had the time not been wasted trying to make something from nothing. </p><p>Thankfully he still held me tightly; I had become weak with relief. I sighed, breathing easier.</p><p>His hands left my arms and cupped my face. His voice became soft... “So I’ll ask you again, are you, or are you not, my in-the-way girl?”</p><p>I smiled, trying to conceal the tear that fell to my cheek... I clung to him and kissed him through my grin and damp eyes. </p><p>And then I woke up. </p><p>I was smiling. And crying. <br />Comforted, full of warmth, eagerness, affection. <br />And overcome with sadness as I realized it had only been a dream. <br />Struggling to accept the illusion, desperately wanting not to. <br /><br />I'd been hoodwinked. Subconsciously swindled. <br />A valentines-dreamt-up-never-realized love story.</p><p>P.S. I'm not sure who "he" was. Honestly, it could have been anyone. Someone I've known before. Or maybe someone I had loved. Or someone I've yet to meet. <br />Perhaps he didn't represent a person at all. Just an emotion. The void.</p><p>My apologies for this being so ridiculously opposite to my usual satire. It sounds like a romance novel. The dream was that way, too. That's just the way my brain made it. Disgusting! Damnit!<br />It's stupid and ironic, considering I prefer sci-fi and fantasy, and I loathe romance novels. <br />And because I'm a scorned, cynical, jaded, non-believer of love. Shut up. It's true.</p><p>Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go get ready to celebrate anti-valentine’s day with my girlfriends, my "galentines." We are headed to the greenhouse, where I will buy more plants that I'll most likely kill. And then we'll head to the bar for dinner and drinks. </p><p>I’m really not much of a drinker. But I might be today.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/pOyeuwQsVKc?modestbranding=1&title=&showinfo=0&rel=0&controls=0&disablekb=0&autohide=0&play=0&hidden=0&playsInline=1&iv_load_policy=3&mute=0&enablejsapi=1&background=1&html5=1" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;"></iframe><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Wicke Game<br /> Crista Grace/TheHappyGrouch</i></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-60571573385056443772021-02-01T11:05:00.009-05:002021-02-01T11:18:59.821-05:00Everyday Heroism<div class="separator"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJSOttiHt-VTTPV01oeJsgboC0lRQxvqGUTzSrcjoMAYX8xbZxYV7-e_Ct3kEW76YLCg_ymTcQ5mlbdjgt8RtbIFeK6O159rFaoMLnR4YmQSTJCP2y05YwMT-gzAwubJRcrONGI4HUfk/s780/210128132523-02-snow-storm-covid-vaccines-oregon-exlarge-169.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="347" data-original-width="780" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJSOttiHt-VTTPV01oeJsgboC0lRQxvqGUTzSrcjoMAYX8xbZxYV7-e_Ct3kEW76YLCg_ymTcQ5mlbdjgt8RtbIFeK6O159rFaoMLnR4YmQSTJCP2y05YwMT-gzAwubJRcrONGI4HUfk/w640-h285/210128132523-02-snow-storm-covid-vaccines-oregon-exlarge-169.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><div>BANGOR, ME — February 1, 2021</div><div>Crista Grace</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div>I know it is frustrating to see the vaccination process roll out so slowly. Even more frustrating is to see "blunders" during that process... A freezer malfunction at a hospital in Seattle, a supply vehicle stranded in a snowstorm in Oregon. Both with vials speeding towards expiration.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the stories that accompany those are what make the blunders okay. More than okay. Inspirational, uplifting. </div><div><br /></div><div>In Seattle, it was the wee hours of morning, before dawn, when the cold storage malfunctioned. Nurses, doctors, medical assistants, janitors, secretaries, volunteers, all texted and called every person on "the list," desperately trying to get people in to administer the vaccines before they expired. When that list of people exhausted itself, they started calling and texting anyone they could think of. And with a small remainder of vials left and only minutes to spare before their expiration, they took to the streets vaccinating anyone they came across. There were just over 1,600 doses compromised. And thanks to their determination, none of them were wasted.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Oregon, public health workers were leaving a vaccination clinic, with only a few vials remaining. Travel was treacherous due to a snowstorm, and the van went off the road, leaving them stranded along with other motorists. The staff went out into the blizzard, walking from car to car offering the vaccine to other stranded motorists. Even though there were fewer vaccinations in this "blunder," none of them went unadministered. </div><div><br /></div><div>Any controversy around these "out of turn" vaccinations comes from the cynical, the selfish. There is no controversy. No unfairness. Only valliance. </div><div><br /></div><div>The very example of everyday heroism from people who acted swiftly and efficiently, admirably, while facing extreme circumstances.</div></div><div><br /></div>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-6622205118153790062020-12-15T11:12:00.021-05:002021-02-04T09:20:59.753-05:00Pandemic Mental Health; The Silent Crisis<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZaTZ9-0-vwKoHP7bgzZIOF5qh3OFB0QzhUxiyFHdmXXo58Z9oZZAzaEnChtyYSC6dnuqfk3BQkYE_O0r9hU6kl4lP_DEnECRryZXAUOxh6NFmI7TsUmOS2-gsXfz5M0f1T-bg2bNvpU/s1902/IMG_3372.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="932" data-original-width="1902" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZaTZ9-0-vwKoHP7bgzZIOF5qh3OFB0QzhUxiyFHdmXXo58Z9oZZAzaEnChtyYSC6dnuqfk3BQkYE_O0r9hU6kl4lP_DEnECRryZXAUOxh6NFmI7TsUmOS2-gsXfz5M0f1T-bg2bNvpU/w400-h196/IMG_3372.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>BANGOR, ME — December 15, 2020<br />Crista Grace<br /><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">It seems that everything I read/hear/watch lately, no matter
where or who it comes from, has something to do with COVID (well, other than
the election conspiracy theories, but that’s an entirely different article). That’s understandable, given the gravity of things. And I’ve learned a lot about the human condition, as I'm sure many have. But the predominant part of the narrative is what I like to call "The COVID ideology." And that ideology is, overwhelmingly: Stay
home.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In addition to that, is the requirement to judge, criticize, and/or criminalize everyone,
including your friends and/or family, who violate the pandemic ideology.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Scold and/or chastise violators, argue with violators, judge violators, unfriend/unfollow violators on all social media platforms, unfriend violators literally,
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">tell them that they are the sole
(or at least the biggest) reason for the pandemic spreading (even though it is
a contagion, and that’s what contagions do, regardless). And most importantly</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; text-indent: -0.25in;">—</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> tell them that they are murderers.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 1in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level2 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Which brings me to the meat of this article. And poses an honest question... And considering
the obscure rationale above, it is a legitimate one.</p><p class="MsoNormal">If people who violate the COVID stay-home-creed are the sole
propagators of the contagion and are murderers, do the others consider
themselves murderers of the countless (and increased number of) people who are dying from suicide or overdose?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Seriously. Simply based on the logic of it, it is a <i>Fair. Fucking. Question</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, my responsibility is not to list statistics for the
increased suicides and opioid-related deaths and their relationship to the
pandemic. That you can discover on your own by putting in a little effort. And
it won’t require much; because even though the mental health crisis is much
quieter than the physical one, it still exists on a very large scale. And whether
or not you agree with or believe it, is an equally dire emergency.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What I will tell you from personal experience, is, that everything about this pandemic has intensified, agitated, amplified my
clinical depression and bi-polar emotions/tendencies. SO MUCH MORE than “normal” people trying
to cope with the effects of COVID. The fear, anxiety, anger, sadness, the isolation, the suffering.<br /><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We” are used to fear. And anxiety. Anger. Sadness. And <i>suffering</i>.<br />
Do you know why? Because we have always lived with
those things, <i>every</i> <i>damn</i> <i>day</i>. Those things took up
permanent residency within us LONG before the pandemic came along. And the isolation... We’ve always lived with that. The physical <i>and</i>
emotional isolation is <i>always </i>a part of us.<br />
<br />
We cope with these things every day, our entire lives- because these things are parts of an illness, no matter what you may think or believe. An illness with symptoms that do not just go away or resolve
on their own. The best we can hope for is that our medications, or counseling, or behavior modification will help to quiet our
symptoms. It is a constant struggle, a raging battle. And most of us
survive it at the end of every day, only to get up every morning, feeling the suffocating
weight of that war all over again. And again, and again, and again. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can’t expect you to understand, or even <i>imagine</i> how
we must be feeling in the current climate. Without actually experiencing this state of mind, this
capsule of dread that we live in, one cannot <i>possibly</i> relate. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Additionally, many people don’t even have the <i>desire</i>
to <i>try</i> and comprehend it. Either they don’t believe that mental illness
is a thing, or they are just not willing to look it in the face. And I can <i>almost</i>
understand that. Because it is difficult to acknowledge the things that we don’t
understand, or the things that make us uncomfortable. So, just ignore it, instead. Make it
invisible. As if it were the elephant in the room that they’d prefer to cover with a blanket. Or a brick fucking wall.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And during this unthinkable crisis, we are going to see our counselors, our psychiatrists, our doctors. We are
still attending group therapy sessions. And unexpectedly, some of us, I presume
many, have taken to social activities, outings, shopping, or gathering with our
friends or family… <br />Just. To keep. From dying. But not with COVID.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But those violations of the COVID doctrine are unacceptable.
Those actions are not understandable, or forgivable. And even though they might
even be necessary for those of us suffering from mental illness, they are not
considered necessary to “normal” people.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Speaking of "normal people..." Am I suggesting that every person going out and about are battling some kind of mental illness? Of course not. But, no matter their stance, how far across the aisle they are from you, or how much y'all want to fight about it, I'd be willing to bet my last dollar (and I'm just about
there), that the real reason lies in the bottom of that barrel of discord. <i>They </i>are
doing it to maintain a certain level of sanity, <i>too</i>. And who
are we to tell them they cannot or should not mentally care for themselves??</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>
Nobody</i>. That’s who. So in that case, never you mind about it. Nonya business.
You do you, let them do them.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Anyway...</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m still here. I’m still going to sleep at night knowing
that tomorrow will be just as hard, sometimes harder, than today was. My meds have increased in dosage, and every day I resist the urge to self-medicate. I come from a long line of alcoholics, and that temptation is always with me. <br />I recognize how “fortunate” I am (if any kind
of addiction can be considered better than another) that my crux isn’t
cocaine or heroin, or anything worse. Either way, they're all destructive, and they’ll all kill you.
Booze might just take a little longer. I know, because of my dad.<br />But like many others, I am getting by.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I am still meeting with my psychiatrist and doctors. And
yes, oddly enough, I <i>have</i> taken to more socializing. It’s odd because most of us
isolate when we are at our worst… I know, ironic. I don’t even understand that
myself. I’ve been shopping (much more than I should, considering I’m unemployed).
I visit my friends. I visit my extended family. I go out to eat. And if I were
a believer, I’m sure I would go to my place of worship for reprieve.</p><p class="MsoNormal">There are many who <i>don’t </i>survive it. Some just cannot bear the thought of living with it for even one more day. It was already intolerable, but the pandemic has made it <i>so</i> painful, <i>so</i> torturous, that our only relief is to make it stop. The permanent solution that so many people cannot understand, is the only one that makes any sense to us.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Some of those desperate situations include our youth. COVID is killing our children. But again, not how you might be thinking. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve seen/heard/read opinions lately from people who are certain
that remote learning has <i>not</i> affected children academically or
emotionally. Going so far as to claim that they are <i>thriving</i>. <br />I think that, perhaps, those are the same folks who cover the elephant with a blanket, or brick wall. To them, I ask... Are you a child psychologist? Are you unbiased enough by your political affiliation to actually LOOK at the statistics surrounding that? Do you even <i>have </i>school-age children??<br />My son graduated last
year. I <i>personally</i> <i>watched </i>him fail academically during remote learning
at the end of the year. He was damn lucky to graduate. I also watched
the emotional and mental effect it had on him; not being with his friends,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not having graduation, not playing team sports… It was real. And it was <i>frightening</i>.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Consider, for example, the local 16-year-old
boy who killed himself this month.</p><p class="MsoNormal">He couldn’t see his friends. He couldn’t play football. He left a note stating
how horrible the pandemic was making him feel, how alone and isolated he felt, and how he
just couldn’t take it anymore.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>He died because of COVID.</i> <br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">He is just one example of the quiet mental health crisis. An example of how the pandemic is not only killing those infected with it. It is killing people
with mental illness at a rate faster and higher than ever before.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You could take his example, or my personal experience (which
would resound with <i>so many others</i> like me), and open your eyes, show a
little compassion, some empathy, some understanding, and certainly a lot less judgment and criticism. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Or you can just pretend it’s invisible. Get the blanket for
the elephant. The brick and mortar.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-59155831935663626822020-12-02T21:59:00.006-05:002021-10-27T00:32:51.083-04:00Can't<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11tH6MJDnKxq4BnVnr-_LaGZ59LJ017uLhGNcf1IEpp9dVsawrsv3NyfL0qDQ2kkXCkJUZHe4_LpoB0kuJsvkTSLFTVvB-JB80wlvNYUrU2ZcjGgQ6BcVSBovp6m2OC-t9E4EfEllgow/s1000/reflective-signs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="1000" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11tH6MJDnKxq4BnVnr-_LaGZ59LJ017uLhGNcf1IEpp9dVsawrsv3NyfL0qDQ2kkXCkJUZHe4_LpoB0kuJsvkTSLFTVvB-JB80wlvNYUrU2ZcjGgQ6BcVSBovp6m2OC-t9E4EfEllgow/w487-h190/reflective-signs.jpg" width="487" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Can’t</p><p><br /></p><p>You can’t stand the alone <br />so you go for a drive<br />The alone is a thing that lives with you<br />you want it to leave <br />try to make it move out<br />But you can’t</p><p>You wish the children were here<br />Like it was a decade ago<br />When you were important<br />to them<br />To someone</p><p>You should call your mother<br />but she is tender<br />you can’t make her worry<br />Your father was too tough for worry<br />He knew you<br />You wish you could talk to him<br />but you can’t</p><p>You drive two towns over for an ice cream<br />because you don’t drink<br />or do drugs<br />You wish you did<br />but you just can’t</p><p>Voices of men you’ve tried to love<br />are your passengers<br />reminding you of the alone<br />that you won’t know love<br />that love won’t know you<br />You push them away<br />try to shut them up<br />But you can’t</p><p>Your ice cream melts <br />but it’s dark<br />You can’t eat ice cream<br />and smoke a cigarette<br />and shuffle your playlist<br />and cry<br />and drive<br />in the dark</p><p>So you drive faster<br />you should slow down<br />but you can’t<br />The yellow lines blur<br />while you imagine <br />a moose <br />a drunk driver<br />a severed brake line<br />or just a slip of the steering wheel<br />with your ice cream hands<br />if you just could<br />But you can't</p><p>You tell yourself that thing again<br />That thing you recite<br />over and over<br />every day <br />every moment like this...</p><p>Don't.</p><p>You can't</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="334" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qVV2Vm4SozY" width="402" youtube-src-id="qVV2Vm4SozY"></iframe></div><br />Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-3017075034804713342020-11-28T02:01:00.004-05:002021-02-01T10:57:08.313-05:00Verklempt<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVIhDf0-h50QQHXMOUjgNwju1iDl44gJCEM0i3zkSxMT5mIz3d1Ds0QsHesYEQ8l3CT7vdKcrRz3nKLv_BLNO9LTyeqh1rBSLJUgO0koWnD908f5f7daBUzT8t4vyEk6rqQlnDoTN31o/s2048/IMG_2316.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1338" data-original-width="2048" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVIhDf0-h50QQHXMOUjgNwju1iDl44gJCEM0i3zkSxMT5mIz3d1Ds0QsHesYEQ8l3CT7vdKcrRz3nKLv_BLNO9LTyeqh1rBSLJUgO0koWnD908f5f7daBUzT8t4vyEk6rqQlnDoTN31o/w400-h261/IMG_2316.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span face="Segoe UI Historic, Segoe UI, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Walking through downtown after my gig tonight, already verklempt with the holidays and being alone... Then this remake came on the radio. And my mind formed a parade of all my old lovers, bringing the hurt and bitterness to the surface. Probably because I still love them all in some way or another.
Somebody That I Used to Know
Three Days Grace</span></span><p></p><p><span face="Segoe UI Historic, Segoe UI, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span face="Segoe UI Historic, Segoe UI, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #050505;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Segoe UI Historic, Segoe UI, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #050505;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="409" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7ZdZJPX-5GI" width="491" youtube-src-id="7ZdZJPX-5GI"></iframe></span></div><span face="Segoe UI Historic, Segoe UI, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #050505;"><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><p></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-16910682182542784692020-11-12T21:37:00.025-05:002021-01-26T14:25:09.045-05:00Fear<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzk2xJbltUiLlsu8vxx7_19IpC_buXEUqv5C8P5ri1eme7P_tvu9nEAu4o6xPftFY3OuWMnuHj2GwnzKNSShV_D5JloGOA07oet6jSiac2yw0uTPbrFWd5WoDsjINhIc5hd8OSz_bEsY/s2365/IMG_2007+BLOGedit.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1017" data-original-width="2365" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzk2xJbltUiLlsu8vxx7_19IpC_buXEUqv5C8P5ri1eme7P_tvu9nEAu4o6xPftFY3OuWMnuHj2GwnzKNSShV_D5JloGOA07oet6jSiac2yw0uTPbrFWd5WoDsjINhIc5hd8OSz_bEsY/w640-h277/IMG_2007+BLOGedit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I haven’t written much lately. My last blog entry wasn’t even
written. It was a time lapse video of an abstract painting I did in Adobe
Fresco. And by abstract, I mean terrible. I’ve always described my artistry as
simply- I sing, I write, and sometimes I think I can draw.<o:p></o:p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Anyway…</p></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A
terrible “abstract” painting set to the background of one of my recent
recordings, “Stay” by Rihanna. A terrible painting, that I titled identical to
the song I was singing. A terrible depiction of a woman, on her knees, terrified
of being alone, begging the man standing over her... <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Stay.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’ve
been accused more than once, multiple occasions, actually, of only writing
depressing things. Well, evidently I also only paint depressing things. Or, I think
I can.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">As
far as writing, I’ve just felt uninspired lately. It’s not like there’s nothing
to write about. As I’ve said a hundred times, there’s always fodder. There’s
just not always inspiration.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>I vaguely
remember, in a recent creative writing class, a classmate saying she had
written her piece late at night, when she was tired. And someone mentioned (maybe
it was her, I don’t recall) that that’s when they’ve done their best writing.
That they wrote best with a tired mind.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">And
I thought, I do not write well when I’m tired. I write my best when I’m <i>drunk</i>.
Unfortunately, I rarely get drunk. But fortunately, I also write my best when
I’m manic, or depressed. And those things, I am, much more often than drunk
(when I’m manic, Jeezus, I could write the manifesto). But I don’t write well
with a tired mind. It’s not creative, it’s just... tired.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">So. Fucking. Tired.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">So
tonight, I listen to my “Blue October’s Mellow Shit” playlist on Spotify,
crying into my wild berry Truly. Frantically turning the house upside down for
a pen while running around hap-hazardly throwing up Christmas decorations.
Starting the 14<sup>th</sup> household task on my list, scolding myself for not
finishing 1 through 13 (but I will, oh yes I will, even if it takes until
sunrise). Smoking my 34<sup>th</sup> cigarette of the day. Imagining where I
might move to next. Thinking about what new car I might buy tomorrow. Blabbering
my flight of ideas to the dog.<br />
And, writing the manifesto.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">But
I’m not manic tonight. I’m just depressed. Or am I drunk? I am on my second
Truly, after all.<br />
Oh, imagine the art I could create when inspired by all three! The trifecta! A
hat trick! In truth, I’m probably two of those things, and perhaps on my way to
the third. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
guess I was also inspired tonight by a conversation I had earlier with three of
my girlfriends. We were talking about the holidays. How different they will be
this year.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Ohhhh,
the holidays. Mother always says that’s when I struggle the most. Any time I’m
having a “moment” (and by moment I mean a day, a week, a month) she will say, “Remember,
it’s the time of year; this is when you have the hardest times.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And sometimes it works. Not always, but sometimes
it does mitigate my delirium. Like many children, I’ve always detested
admitting she is right. Like all the times she’s said, “You can’t help who you love.”
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Anyway…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>The girls, the
conversation, the holidays, how different they would be this year. <br />
No, not different. <i>Difficult</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">One
lost her father this year. It’ll be her first Christmas without him. Another
has a young daughter who recently left the nest to Florida, and isn’t coming
home for the holidays. The other has a daughter in Portland. Closer, but still
not visiting for the holidays. But not because she can’t or doesn’t want to,
but because her mother’s health is “vulnerable,” and they both want to be safe.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I get that. I get
all of that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
didn’t lose my dad this year. He’s been gone almost seven years. I couldn’t
bring myself to tell her that, even as the years pass, it doesn’t get any
easier. I too am an empty nester. Although, my kids don’t live out of state, or
even out of town. I am a half mile from one, and about 8 minutes from the
other. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">And
I will fortunately spend the holidays with them. But I don’t see them much more
often than those or other special occasions. Okay, maybe not <i>quite</i> that
infrequently, but nowhere near as often as I long to. I talk to them daily, I
see them occasionally, and I get to spend the holidays with them. And for that
I am thankful.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">You
know, no one really warns you about the empty nest. Sure, you hear about it
from time to time. But a lot of those times, it’s from a wife or a husband,
focusing on one another now, on their relationship, reconnecting. Or a retiree,
enjoying their hobbies, their social gatherings, traveling…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">But the <i>lonely</i>,
they don’t warn you about empty nest.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Of
all the men who’ve broken my heart over the years, the worst heartbreak of my
life has been my son’s eventual choice to live with his father. The cool parent.
The parent with the big house, multiple garages, dozens of recreational toys, bonfires
and beers every Friday and Saturday night. I never could compete with all of
that. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Maybe
I needed him <i>too much</i>. And maybe he felt that. Maybe I sucked the life
out of him. Norman Bates’s mother syndrome. Ha. Ha. But that’s another blog.
Actually, I’ve probably written over a hundred blogs about that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I digress.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You know what the one thing my
girlfriends <i>didn’t</i> say about the holidays being difficult?<br />
The <i>loneliness</i>. Yes, they expressed their sadness about the holidays.
They miss their children, their parents. But they never specifically mentioned the<i>
loneliness</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is the second holiday season
I will spend alone. No kids, no companion. The first did not prepare me for this
year, and I doubt that this year will prepare me for the next. And so on, and
so on.<br />
I wonder why I am <i>so affected</i> by being alone. By being <i>lonely</i>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Why do I fear it
so?<br />
Why is that all I can feel?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">And
while writing that, I throw my glasses across the room, wipe my face, a sob
escapes me. And Justin Furstenfeld sings one of my favorite Blue October songs,
“Fear.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;">All my life<br />
Been running from a pain in me<br />
A feeling I don't understand<br />
Holding me down<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 1in;">So rain on me<br />
Underwater<br />
All I am, getting harder<br />
A heavy weight<br />
I carry around<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Oh,
Justin. How do you always sing the words of my heart? <br />
Maybe it’s just the Truly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>These
moments</i> are the inspiring ones. The pain that pushes your pen. Seeps out
onto the paper like sweat from a feverish forehead. Till finally the malady
leaves you. Spent, exhausted, defeated.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">And you wash down
four Benadryl with your third (fourth?) Truly. Desperate for sleep. Just needing
to be unconscious for a while. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Even
though the more you drink the better they taste, these things are still
probably just as terrible as my painting. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
don’t even <i>like</i> seltzer.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="356" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rfWPss5zstU" width="428" youtube-src-id="rfWPss5zstU"></iframe></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p></div>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-67304800066555764182020-11-08T11:04:00.003-05:002020-11-08T11:05:16.993-05:00Stay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFCQdtx-3a5NnfgeKSpm4Q_VV7EM8iGOiK50O_5V4WKlrVdPsAZi6VAJVdNQFDNOVATMLphmpC-tcusy6j5z8IBiZrl1H3AIEx29Vnw-cULGL_E4qW-5mo3ciXRU7R37J-DvnHHRbinXg/s2048/Stay.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1583" data-original-width="2048" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFCQdtx-3a5NnfgeKSpm4Q_VV7EM8iGOiK50O_5V4WKlrVdPsAZi6VAJVdNQFDNOVATMLphmpC-tcusy6j5z8IBiZrl1H3AIEx29Vnw-cULGL_E4qW-5mo3ciXRU7R37J-DvnHHRbinXg/w400-h309/Stay.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I had a bad (sad) dream this morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was about a man. A man leaving. I think I know who it was, the one I loved this year. <br />But honestly, it could have been any number of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Normally I'd write about it. Some lengthy blog, a short story, a poem or epigram.</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning I opted for a different creative outlet. <br />Thank you, Adobe Fresco and Adobe Premier Rush.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sigh.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='667' height='554' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy7jRcyVSJCGt11dmUbq4GRylz1M3l2uKCxlKvLFeSQ6MVZErx6B-6JY5SwATVBA-1rcNaSSaMj4DJyIOiF6Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgep4W2uD5qRbJB2b-y1c707uGLfSokV1e6oiiAjRX0F2BsQtR_HSVKuoUhUuaU9E8dDMseHWu7fLTzuVuK82DKue58pzoT1B9Dl6uW15k90r5MYGR3P6VzOcnFn661w3wWSJ3n_KFnUbk/s2048/Stay.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1583" data-original-width="2048" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgep4W2uD5qRbJB2b-y1c707uGLfSokV1e6oiiAjRX0F2BsQtR_HSVKuoUhUuaU9E8dDMseHWu7fLTzuVuK82DKue58pzoT1B9Dl6uW15k90r5MYGR3P6VzOcnFn661w3wWSJ3n_KFnUbk/w640-h494/Stay.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6707639793629220167.post-13258776345322691332020-10-08T09:26:00.005-04:002020-10-08T10:14:28.699-04:00A Letter to Gov. Mills, From an Ex-Bartender...<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLAvIF0hwpzFF-c32NAgD0aOv_SsBVjFsm_vTpBBKhL2V6HbQnDxNsp4G5WoIOWHgU41sZHvzOFH1bdwwWoFwGGgwybwA-l5LkFpV7TuWsf_hFUSFd1DW-Iihk68zxdTutvs0uQbmdER0/s2048/IMG_7611.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1149" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLAvIF0hwpzFF-c32NAgD0aOv_SsBVjFsm_vTpBBKhL2V6HbQnDxNsp4G5WoIOWHgU41sZHvzOFH1bdwwWoFwGGgwybwA-l5LkFpV7TuWsf_hFUSFd1DW-Iihk68zxdTutvs0uQbmdER0/w400-h225/IMG_7611.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo of the author, owned by the author</span><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">By Crista Jakacky<br />BANGOR, ME — Thursday, October 8, 2020</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>(I also submitted this for another op-ed. Hopefully they'll publish me again.)</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">A Letter to Gov. Mills, From an Ex-Bartender...</p><p class="MsoNormal">I have never once, that I can remember, regretted voting my
party. Until the year 2020, when the pandemic took over the world, and my
industry. You might remember me, I recently wrote the op-ed "Death of a
Bartender." But you probably don't. I don't think you even notice us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This spring, the little neighborhood pub I worked for closed
for three months. We couldn't afford to be take-out or curbside only, it just
wasn't financially possible for us. We reopened in June, and only survived for
about a month afterwards. We were permanently closed by the end of July. I have
been out of work and proactively job hunting ever since. But, after being a
veteran bartender of almost 20 years, I will not get back behind the bar. I
will not return to that industry at all. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was just going over your phase four checklist for
restaurants and for the re-opening of bars. I thought your checklists before this
were ludicrous, and that I couldn’t possibly be more shocked or offended. But
oh, how wrong I was. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I won’t get into the impossible checklists imposed on us as businesses and employees, or the backlash we received on a daily basis from
our customers. We tried to remind ourselves every day that they were angry at
you, and just taking it out on us. That checklist and that animosity is no
longer my problem, thank god. But now, even as a patron, I am subject to your
unrealistic and unreasonable tyranny. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I may not stand at the bar. I may not stand at my table. I
may not walk around. And forget about dancing! If my friends are there, I may not
socialize with them, because they are not in my original party. I may not enjoy
live music. I may not sing karaoke. I may not have a group larger than eight.
So, I guess I can forget about having birthday dinners out. Or employee dinners.
Or bachelorette parties. Or Friendsgiving. <br />Or anything fun. <br />At all. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not only am I an ex-bartender turned patron, I am also a
musician. So, in addition to killing my small business and my industry, you’ve
also killed my only other source of reliable income and the one thing that has
kept me sane throughout this catastrophe. The musical community hangs on by a
thread. We are dying, too. A few of us are fortunate enough to continue safely performing
at establishments and private parties, but far less often than we are used to.
I seriously hope you don’t take that away from us as well. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You’ve already taken just about everything else that makes
us whole. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sincerely, Ex-Bartender<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/uP-6zQAwXwo" width="320" youtube-src-id="uP-6zQAwXwo"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://youtube.com/user/chicsingr73" target="_blank">The Happy Grouch on YouTube</a></div><div><br /></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p><br /><p></p>Cristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12345212286913359266noreply@blogger.com