And Still I Don’t Sleep

I started going through perimenopause in my late 30’s. I won’t go into all the gory details and changes my body has gone through, especially in the last year, but I will mention my problems with sleeping.

I’m the kind of person who falls asleep pretty quickly. Sometimes, in the morning, I can even recall just when it happened. For example, say I’m trying to stay awake for Letterman’s Top 10. I lie there in bed, waiting patiently. He mentions that he’ll do the Top 10 “after these messages.” I start telling myself then, “Just get through the commercials. It’ll only be a couple minutes before Dave is back on. Just hold on.” I’ll hear maybe a car commercial. And then a commercial for, say, a show that’s coming on tomorrow. By then my eyes have closed and I’m struggling. I hear the strains of the next commercial and then … nothin’. I’m out. In the morning, I chuckle to myself about just how quickly it happened.

But sometimes it just doesn’t happen. Like right now.

It’s been a fairly busy week for me. Monday wasn’t too terrible a day, but I had a hard time staying asleep. I knew I had to get up earlier than usual Tuesday to go vote (for all the good it did) and to take my car in a repair. Because of my fear of oversleeping, I kept waking up. First at 3, then 4:30. Then 6. Finally, at 7:15 I got out the bed.

I was the “late person” at work yesterday, so I wasn’t due to be there until noon, but because I had plans to go to lunch with a friend later, I went in early to make up for my hour break. This would’ve been fine had I had a normal eight-hour shift. But when you work in news publishing, you never know what time you’re going to get outta there. I didn’t leave until 9:30. I was dragging by the time I got home, but could I fall asleep when I went to bed? Nope. First 11:15 rolled by. then 11:35. Then midnight. And then 12:30. I finally dropped off to sleep somewhere around 12:45.

Today, I got off earlier but I went to the grocery store afterward. When I got home, I cooked two time-consuming dishes. The risotto took forever and required constant attention — as risotto usually does. The other dish — slow-roasted ribs with turnips and onions — required some prep work but once I got it in the oven, it just took a couple hours. Meanwhile, I was running back and forth to the basement of our building to do laundry.

After all that cooking, I decided I didn’t like the risotto (it’s now in the trash), and I really don’t want the ribs. Occasionally I go through these periods during which I don’t want to be bothered with food. I don’t want to cook it, I don’t want to eat it, and I don’t want to clean up behind it. And meat is especially icky to me during these times. I only cooked them to get them out of my freezer so I wouldn’t have to see them anymore.

Meanwhile, it’s 12:01 a.m. and I’m waiting for that last load to finish drying downstairs. I know that I’m sleepy because this post is nothing than one poorly written ramble. But it beats just lying there staring out at the darkness.

Time to check the laundry.

As I Was Saying

I know I’ve done a lot of talk about change and the whole cycle of seven. And I have to admit: Sometimes I wonder if I really feel this stuff or if I’m just pulling stuff outta my ass to rationalize this … lull. But then the universe finds a way to confirm that my intuition is indeed on track.

Like today. I got a two-for. The first was today’s Daily Om, “Exploring Our Readiness.” Here it is, slightly edited:

It could be argued that life is more about the time spent waiting for something to happen than it is about something happening. What this means is that the big events in our lives are preceded by many days and nights of dreaming, planning, organizing, and waiting. The times of waiting in between the big events actually constitute the majority of our lives. These in-between times are anything but uneventful. In fact, they are rich with possibility and filled with opportunities for reflection and preparation. Like a pregnant woman awaiting the birth of her child, we have a finite period of time in which to prepare internally and externally for the upcoming event that will define a new chapter in our lives.

When we find ourselves in an in-between time, we often can’t help but feel impatient for the impending event. We just want to get to the future and have the new baby, the new job, or the new house. And yet, there is a reason a pregnancy takes nine months to fulfill itself. . . . Materially, a space must be created in the home and resources must be set aside . . .; psychologically, a shift must occur . . .; and emotionally, the heart must open wider to embrace and fulfill a new love.

Whenever you find yourself in such a time of waiting, you might want spend time exploring your material, psychological, and emotional readiness. . . . This way, you will remain fully engaged in the present as you await your future, savoring the in-between time as a vital experience in itself.

Note that italicized part up there. It goes along with what I’ve been saying about the groundwork being laid. And it acknowledges my restlessness, my impatience.

Things got more interesting when I saw my Astrodienst horoscope. The one for today is the underlying influence from October 15, 2009, until July 31, 2010:

If you did not clear away the structures and patterns in your life that were working badly some seven years ago, this influence will be quite difficult. The old failures that you have not handled properly in the last several years will make your life exceedingly difficult now. However, everything that you have handled well will reach a culmination and prove more fruitful than ever before.

In your work you may reach a peak of success, which will be accompanied by increased responsibility. In that case you will work extremely hard but very successfully. On the other hand, you may receive abundant evidence that you are working in the wrong area altogether. This would be manifested by extreme difficulties in your work situation, such as finding your efforts blocked by coworkers or superiors. If your superiors disapprove of your performance, you should completely reevaluate your work. Even if you are doing good work, this may be a signal that the job is inadequate from your point of view. This should not be an occasion for self-doubt and despair. Rest assured that you are supposed to be doing something else.

In a similar way, relationships that were not straightened out several years ago will also prove very difficult at this time and may very well break up completely.

If your affairs are working out positively, this influence represents a material peak in your life. By this time you have made the impact upon others that you were supposed to make. It is as if you have said to the world, “Here is what I am.” Now, during the next fourteen years, the world will reply, “And here are the consequences of what you are.”

Did you catch all those references to the cycles of seven — the past seven years? The next 14? Yeah, it tripped me out too. It also really tripped me out that the horoscope applies through the end of July 2010. I say this because one of the changes that’s happening next year is that I’m moving from my current place, the lease for which ends July 31, 2010. It is my hope that I’ll be moving into a place I will have bought. I’ve been working on my financial situation for the last few years to — pun very much intended — get my house in order.

* * *

In other news, I’m heading to the Barnes Foundation tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to it. The museum houses work by many of my favorite artists. I was also hoping to explore the surrounding arboretum, but it’s supposed to rain tomorrow, so that probably won’t happen. But that’s OK; I’ll be perfectly content — and dry — indoors. It is going to be a lovely day.

OK, OK! I Get the Message!

Not long after yesterday’s post, I called my friend Ren. I try to call at least once a month to check on her and, I hope, to brighten her day. What usually happens, though, is that she brightens mine.

She has led the most fascinating life, so when she asks me, “What goes with you?” I stumble in my attempts not to sound lame. I try to turn my attention back to her — “Are you painting today?” “Are you getting enough sleep?” — but yesterday she was having none of it. So I confessed to her what I confessed here yesterday: that I have become boring.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” she asked pointedly.

I told her that I didn’t know, and I confessed to her that part of the holdup had to do with my debt payoff. (This was also humbling. We never talk money. She is very financially secure, so this was embarrassing for me.) She instructed me to stop allowing negativity in my thoughts, to stop seeing hurdles and to focus only on the positive. If I can’t afford to do the things I want to do, she said, do free things. She told me I have too much to offer not to share. “There are groups you can join.”

And she told me to write.

She loves my letters and has often urged me to write more, as have others. But yesterday it went beyond her usual encouragement; it was more a … directive. And it was the first three events yesterday that amounted to a whack on the head from God.

Next, I heard from a friend I hadn’t talked to in a long time. She’s actually the one who recognized my interest in editing and gave me my first job in publishing. We hadn’t been in touch in a while — just the occasional e-mail — but yesterday she called me to catch up. In the midst of laughing at a story about my parents, she said, “You should write.”

It stopped me in my tracks. “You’re the second person who’s said that to me today,” I told her. It stunned me because earlier in the day, after talking to Ren, I reflected on all she said and thought to myself, “If I just hear from a couple more people, I’ll know it’s a message from God.” (Oh ye of little faith! Always asking for proof.) When Vic said that, I thought, “Well, that’s two.”

We talked for a couple hours and before saying goodbye, she asked if I would be interested in joining an online writing group she’s starting. She even gave me the option of lurking for a while before participating. After the conversation I’d had with Ren, I took it as a sign. I said yes.

And then it got trippier. After all that, I received a comment regarding my online photo journal. She mentioned that she admired me from my words and pictures and said, “You have a lot to say!”

I don’t know why I felt that I had to hear from three people. Maybe I just wanted to see if the universe was listening.

It was.

The B Word

Yeah, yeah, I know. I haven’t written anything in a while, at least nothing substantive. There’s a reason for that: I’ve become that most dreaded thing:

Boring.

I haven’t written because, frankly, I haven’t had anything interesting to share.

I wear practically the same thing almost every day: jeans, a black or white top, and depending on the time of year, either flip-flops or boots. Sure, the warmer months are better — more skirts and sandals and colorful fare — but from September through April, a person could make major bucks on betting on what I’ll wear from one day to the next.

I used to be a fashionista. Now? Most of my clothes are several years old and showing signs of wear.

My job is boring. Don’t get me wrong — I like my job. And I’m grateful for it. But I don’t think anyone would fault me for saying that reading about taxes all day every day is boring. While my former job at the art center was a lot more stressful, and even though I was paid extremely little and was regularly taken for granted, it was an art center. There was always something new and interesting going on. There were exhibitions, artists, black-tie events, exhibition opening receptions, wine tastings, art shows …  I’m shy so I’m not the type to go to such things on my own, but because I worked there, I was able to partake of all those things without feeling awkward. I had an in — I was an employee.

Now? I open a tax news story and edit it. And then I open another tax news story and edit it. And then I open another — you get the idea. The last party I went to was my current employer’s holiday party. It kinda sucked.

My vacations are boring. I usually go home to visit my parents or my mother comes to visit for a week. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy my folks, but those are not vacations.

I’m not taking any interesting classes; I have no social life, really, to speak of; and my love life has stalled.

Boring.

I know that the major hangup in jump-starting my life is that I have no extra money. I am down to the last 358 days (or less) of reaching my goal of being debt free. With such a huge chunk of money going toward paying off that last balance, there is nothing extra left for new clothes, exciting vacations, or yoga and pottery classes.

And I know that I am laying the groundwork for better things, that by making sacrifices now, the rewards I will reap will be all the sweeter for having worked my ass off for them. How much more fun that vacation will be when I won’t have to worry about how long it’ll take to pay for it! And even the day-to-day living will be sweeter when I don’t have to obsess over every single dollar.

But right now? I am boring.

Pout.

I really wish I had a best friend.

Cut! Take Two. Action…

I had a major haircut a couple days ago and I’m kinda sorta freaking out.

It’s not the first time I’ve done this. My hair is fine and it retaliates against chemical abuses by breaking off at will. And because there isn’t a chemical process out there that I haven’t tried, I’ve had several major haircuts over the last 20+ years.

Seven years ago, though, I realized that I’d done so much to my hair that I didn’t know what my hair looked like. So I had all but about 3/4 inch cut off to start fresh.

But then last summer I had it professionally colored. It wreaked havoc on already damaged ends and by this summer, I had had enough. So two days ago, I had it lopped off.

Starting fresh for the second time.

In the end, though, it’s not really about the haircut — not all of it. To be perfectly honest with you, I’m not entirely sure just what it is about. Just what it isn’t. That this MAJOR haircut has happened a little over seven years after the last one hasn’t been lost on me. I feel like some kind of phoenix, only instead of emerging fresh from the ashes, I rise from cut strands of hair.

I like that I’ve had the courage to do it. However, I am not unaware of the importance that is placed on a woman’s hair. We are expected to have long, flowing locks. My hair was never going to be the type that flowed, but to the world, I should’ve at least tried for length. Instead, I have what amounts to a small cap of curls.

What. Have. I. Done?

* * *

In other news, my mother is visiting for a week. So far, all is well. The trick is to keep her busy. By the time this week is over, I’ll need a vacation from my vacation.

Pity, Party of One

It’s like being slapped in the face with a cold, wet fish.

I’m talking about this whole midlife thing. Maybe I’m still reeling from last weekend’s shredfest. Or maybe my hormones are in overdrive because of PMS and (very late) period. Whatever the trigger, I’ve been in an odd place.

My health issues — minor, really, in the greater scheme of things — have been a hard adjustment for me this year. Not to be indelicate, but if there was one thing I’d always been able to count on, it was the regularity of my digestive system. At first I thought it was the antibiotics I took for my bladder infection that ended that. Nope. In the end (pardon the pun), it’s just one of the many side effects of growing older.

The sensitivity issue; the digestive disruption (and its related issues); the periods that come when they feel like it, be it in 21 days or 45 — they’re all just unpleasant effects of growing older. Like my graying hair.

It is all so unseemly. I’m a girly-girl and it embarrasses me to confront these detestable problems. Even living alone. While I haven’t always been the biggest exerciser,  at 5′9″ and about 140 pounds, I’m in decent shape; I have pretty good eating habits; I don’t smoke; I have never done drugs; I only drink socially, and since I rarely socialize, I rarely drink; and I’ve never been promiscuous. And yet my body is still betraying me.

And as for the love life, well, it’s like a plane out there on the runway that doesn’t seem to be taking off any time soon. At this point, I don’t see why I shouldn’t cancel the flight. But that’s a story for another day.

I had such promise for this year. I thought I was starting a new cycle of seven. I thought construction on something big and wonderful had started. The most I can hope for at this point is that the rest of the rubble is being cleared and construction will start next year.

Next year is going to be full. For one, I will finally — finally! — be debt free. Second, I will be moving from my current place; I am even seriously considering trying to buy a place. Third, there’s the grad school deferment. If I can get my employer to help with tuition, I will go to school. Maybe I’m just meant to get some rest this year to prepare.

Let’s go with that.

ISO: Connection

In my last post, I debated whether I should shred my old journals. You can see from my picture the results of my decision.

I didn’t do it haphazardly; I reread the entries first. It wasn’t easy, though it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I went through my last year of high school and first couple years of college. After, I had to decompress, so I went for a walk in a garden park for a bit. On my way there, it hit me that the theme that screamed the loudest was my search for connection. A person, a place, a purpose. Something — anything! — to make me feel connected to this life.

Those journals were from 20+ years ago. I’m still searching.

All the boys I’ve had crushes on over the years, even in recent years. All the emotional energy spent agonizing over if they cared about me too, and if not, why not.  But in the end, it was never about them, individually. It was about my loneliness and my drive to end it. I just wanted somebody to love me.

And then there were my friendships. But I’ve mentioned that enough.

Another constant that runs through my journals is my unhappiness, sometimes overwhelming unhappiness. (OK, let’s call a spade a spade: I have suffered chronic depression for years, practically since birth. There, I’ve said it.) In some cases, it wasn’t so much that I was unhappy as it was a lack of happiness, if that makes sense.

And my home life sucked so much that all I wanted was a way out. Instead, I made mistakes that have trapped me into a life of mediocrity.

With the exception of a few saved passages, I shredded three journals. There are many, many more, and I don’t know when (or if ) I’ll have the emotional energy required to go through the ones started after those I went through today. I shredded stuff up until when I met DC. Even though there are many bad memories included in my time with him, memories are all I have since he’s dead. I can’t shred that so easily.

It’s Labor Day weekend. Friends are out with boyfriends and girlfriends, visiting family, going to the beach. Enjoying cookouts. What am I doing? Freeing ghosts. I’m going to have to find something beautiful and constructive to do this weekend to keep my mind occupied and the ghosts at bay. Maybe they’ll get bored and go away.

To Shred or Not to Shred

That, dear readers, is the question that has been plaguing me for a couple years.

I’ve kept a journal pretty much since I was 13. I’m now 40-something. This means that I have a lot of journals.

Now, that may sound impressive until you hear this: There’s really nothing enlightening in them, not much anyway. I’ve mostly written in them to pass the time or vent my frustrations, unhappiness, or anger. The subject matters have not changed much over the years: issues with my parents; issues with money (I always want more); or issues with my (usually crappy) love life. Occasionally, issues with work or friends come about, but mostly it’s those Big Three.

The only thing that has changed is my age. Evidently, keeping a journal for almost 30 years has not made me better equipped to handle the Big Three or anything in between.

For the past few years, I’ve been thinking about getting rid of them. I never reread them; I hate to see how little progress I’ve made or to experience again whatever pain I was going through at the time that prompted an entry. Also, some entries are just so mind-numbingly dull! Another thing that occurs to me is that I would never, ever want anyone else to read them. For one, I come off as a pretty lame person … pathetic, even. For another, things said in the heat of the moment regarding any loved one would be painful to that person, even if what I felt in that flash is no longer fresh.

That they are taking up a lot of space and I don’t want to move them again just add to the reasons to get rid of ‘em.

In doing a little research to help me decide what to do, I came across this link here. What I found especially helpful was the following:

Ultimately, your decision to keep or dump your journals should be based on your answer to the following question:

Why did I write the journals?

Once you figure out why you wrote in the journals, you should easily be able to decide what to do with them in the future. Here are some examples:

• If you wrote them for therapeutic reasons, as a way to work through problems in your life, then go ahead and burn them.
• If you wrote them as messages to your future self, then keep them.
• If you wrote them as a record that you were alive in that moment, then keep them.
• If you wrote them to vent your frustrations, then burn them.

There are hundreds of reasons why you may have kept them, but once you identify why you did, the next step should be clear.

The first and the last answers definitely apply to me. I mean, what does it serve me to hold onto all that pain?

Still, there are some experiences chronicled that may be worth holding onto. And for that reason, I’m thinking about going through and pulling those pages that may have some relevance. I can keep those and shred the rest.

But if anyone out there has an opinion, I’d love to hear it.

Back Down Memory Lane

God gave us memories that we might have roses in December.

~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922

I’m not psychic. (If I were, I’d have foretold some winning lottery numbers by now and would be writing this from my villa in Spain.) But I suppose you could say I’ve had some psychic moments. I didn’t know at the time that what I was thinking or feeling would come to pass, but I’ve had several eerily prescient thoughts.

For example, several months before his end, DC called to tell me about his new sports car. He was so happy about that thing, like a little boy with a new toy. He bragged that just the night before, he’d gotten it up to 120 mph on the highway. He expected me to be impressed; instead, I was furious. He felt I was overreacting and we argued about it. He was fine, he assured me. What was I so worried about? In the end, I told him, “When we hang up, call Bobby and give him my phone number so that when you kill yourself in that thing, he’ll be able to call me.”

Seven months later, Bobby made that phone call.

I think about that conversation often. But I have other, happier memories of him, too. One in particular has stayed with me, partly because of the comfort it brings me, but also because of why I remember it.

He’d had an absent father and a difficult relationship with his mother and found it difficult to express himself emotionally. And issues with my father and the effects of my parents’ relationship on me and my relationships didn’t do our relationship any favors. We were two damaged people who were afraid to be vulnerable in front of the other. But every now and then, out of the blue, he’d grab me and hug me as though his life depended on it. No bravado, no reserve. Only love.

One of those hugs happened one night on the couch. He just pulled me to him and held me. I lay there in his arms, hugging him back, feeling his heart beat against my chest. Suddenly I thought, “I need to remember how this feels for later.” I squeezed him tighter then, like my life depended on it, too.

That was a few years before he died. Back then, I still thought we would get married, live in Chicago, and take our twin boys for walks along Lake Michigan. I could see it so clearly that now I wonder if I’m remembering something from a parallel existence.

It’s been almost 15 years since he died. I think about him every day. Every day. I could be doing something utterly mundane. Like tonight when I was painting my toenails. I’ve never been able to do it without thinking of him and the night he thought it would be fun to paint them for me. He labored over it and by the time he finished, my toenails were a disaster. But it was such a sweet moment between us. I can still see him bent over my feet, brush in his hand, concentrating on his task.

He still visits me in my dreams occasionally. Sometimes I wake up and think for a second, “I wonder how he’s doing. Maybe I’ll give him a call.” Eventually the fog of sleep lifts, of course, and I remember.

But always, always I remember that hug.