Music and Emotion

Do you ever hear music that hurts you?  That feels so big and so overwhelming that it rips you apart?  Or that makes you laugh for the pure joy of being alive and feeling the sun on your skin.  Or that makes you feel fierce and powerful, like you could destroy your enemies and emerge whole, bloody and victorious?  

The theme music for the movie Interstellar does this to me.  It wrecks me.  It crashes over me like a tidal wave and it tears my heart into shreds.  Part of it is that it's inextricably connected to a friend's death.  I saw this movie for the first time very soon after I found out Astrid had slipped through the Veil (sobbed through the entire film).  Part of it is the film's themes...Loss, global climate change and the resultant desolation, the vastness of the cosmos containing our oh-so-tiny pale blue dot, science and the eternity of love, hope and hopelessness, and the truth that much of what we go through, we ultimately go through alone. Most of it, though, is just the music, the raw, emotive power of the music.

There's probably something a vaguely science-y and mathematical behind this power, tones or keys or modes or somesuch, woven into the music.  Curious certainly, but it doesn't really matter when Im left with tears streaming down my face, my fist pressed to my sternum, feeling like Im keeping my heart from exploding, and struggling to calm my hitching breath.

I will likely watch Interstellar again.  I will certainly listen to the theme music again. But not for awhile, not until I feel strong enough to go through the pain once more.

-W 

8.15.2020

Wanting to heal

Im struggling. 

Im struggling to hope and to believe that my breast is going to heal.  Someday.  It's been about 2 and a half years.  I have had an open wound on my breast for two and a half years.

I had my 4th surgery a few weeks ago, on November 2.  Instead of the ugly dimply scar running along the edge of my areola that I used to have (from the first three surgeries plus the one that started this whole thing more than a decade ago), I now have an ugly 3 inch long incision starting at my right nipple and extending in toward my sternum.  The wound isn't healing properly and I suspect I'll likely be having surgery again down the line.

NCB recently expressed frustration at me not taking care of myself post-surgery.  I thought I was taking it easy one weekend.  I was being kind of lazy and having coffee and reading and Netflixing.  Every once in awhile I would get up and start a load of laundry or put dirty dishes in the dishwasher.  Not doing a lot, just trying to do a little of my weekend household stuff, not going overboard, just needing to feel useful.  I thought I was doing a pretty good job of taking it easy.  He pointed out how much I was doing and was kind of...mad that I wasn't asking for help.

Now, this led to a whole conversation about how I am a strong, independent woman who lived alone for a long time and who is perfectly capable of doing things herself.  Make me a list, he said. Wives have been giving husbands honey-do lists since the beginning of time.  I shouldn't have to, I said, you live here too.  But, I said, you also aren't a mind-reader. 

And now Im struggling with this. I don't want to have to ask.  Some things are *my* issues, and I don't want to inflict them on others.  But if I don't ask, how will he know it's important?  Don't get me wrong...NCB is a wonderful husband and partner. I think it largely comes down to communication styles.  I just need to find some balance between my independence and tendency to just 'do the thing and get it out of the way real quick' vs empowering him as my equal.

Fast forward to this past Friday morning.  It was the day after Thanksgiving, and I went to a yoga class with my amazing cousins. I wound up unable to do pretty much anything and wound up mostly sitting quietly with my eyes closed, trying to meditate, and trying even harder not to feel lame and broken and worthless.  Class ended and as I was talking with C, I broke down in tears.  J came and cuddled around me and held me while I cried.

I realised Im feeling incredibly betrayed by my body.  Im so frustrated.  No one understands why Im not healing.  Three surgeons, two wound care nurses and assorted other medical people. NO ONE can figure it out.  Im not diabetic and I don't smoke.  I eat protein, I take a multivitamin, I get plenty of sleep.  There is no infection....my breast just won't heal.  I have to wear a bandage all the time. I have gauze packing inside my body all the time.  I have doctor visits at least once a week.  I want to visit my parents out of state but haven't been able to save up any vacation time because of all my doctor visits and surgeries.

And now I have this to struggle with....how do I love my body?  How do I trust her to heal and get strong again when she seems determined to stay broken. How do I make friends and let her know that I love her and believe in her strength?

And how do I do that when Im trying to figure out how to do the other stuff??  How do I do that when Im not taking care of myself like other people think I should be and when Im angry, frustrated, and betrayed by my body and the floor needs to be cleaned and there is laundry to do and the dog peed on the floor and the credit card needs to be paid and the next surgery will probably just start the whole not-healing all over again and Im struggling with all of it.  How do I hope? It's just too much. 

How am I supposed to do that when I am scared?  I've asked numerous times, what happens if my breast Just. Doesn't. Heal?  No one has an answer for that. Is it any wonder Im scared?

Is it any wonder I am struggling?

"The Old Ways are lost" you sang, as you flew...and I wondered why.

This line makes me so sad. The song starts out sounding like it's about star-crossed lovers, maybe one of the Shining Ones and a human maiden. But with this line, it changes...it isn't our lover leaving, it is our Goddess. We search for her...things around us have changed and we can't control them, they're slipping from our grasp and we're not quite sure what's happening and no matter how hard we try to hang on, we can't. The new ways have come and the old are forgotten. We mourn what was. We remember... dancing by the Beltaine fires, loving in the woods, living free...we remember the crashing waves like a heartbeat. And when we remember, we slowly begin to feel that heartbeat again...to hear the ritual drums calling us to dance and our bones remember.

Perhaps this is a needed reminder that She never left us...She has simply stepped back and waits for us to remember...to come home to Her and to remember Her into our new ways. To hear that heartbeat in the wave and remember the drums. To remember who We are.

That, then, is the struggle, isn't it? Remembering the Old ways and honouring them in the New, striking that delicate balance. How does one engage the wildness inside while still paying the bills and making sure the kids get fed? How do I give the wildness in me a voice while not having my boss look at me like Im nuts?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CYrKQbQ1Aok

Locker Room Talk and the approaching apocalypse..I mean, election.

Do you people (and you probably have no idea who you are) seriously hate Women and PoC and our poor and our soldiers and our disabled and our children this much? Are you this fucking clueless? Do you really give that little of a fuck about us? Are you seriously so fucking frightened about the possibility of the oppression of equality that you're okay with The Orange One being SUCH a douchebag, such a nightmare, being systematically horrible, seemingly going down a to-do list of What Not To Say When Running for Public Office Or Just Being A Decent Human Being. He's just checking shit off a giant Let's Piss 'Em All Off list. Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK?! You people GLORIFY that horror!

My body parts are NOT up for grabs. I give precisely NO shits who you are or who you think you are. My size, my shape, my skin colour, my educational level, my income, any of the other things you think you can categorise me according to...none of those matter. None decrease my value and none will mitigate my rage. And don't you fucking DARE tell me I shouldn't be offended by 'locker room talk'. Or anything else, quite frankly. *I* get to decide what offends me, you sanctimonious asshole.

Do you not understand that Herr Orange doesn't give a shit about YOU? You white men and women who think he's going to somehow change your world for the better? That he's going to "make America great again"? None, that's how much of a shit he gives for anything or anyone beyond his own brand. Does he actually have to walk up and dickpunch you for it to sink in? Wake the FUCK up! If he's given the power, he's going to mow you down like the disposable pissants he thinks we all are.

*stomps off to rage*

Fuck you all. You assholes.

Webinox 2015

It's that time of the year again. Another Webinox has come and now passed, and we've been given this beautiful tabula rasa on which to paint our days. Schmoop and I spent a peaceful day together. Just being together, enjoying each other, being a couple and spending some time alone. Our home is so busy and time moves so quickly. We spent the night up in the foothills at a sweet B&B that was so incredibly quiet. There were no kids, no tappytappy pets needing attention, no fingers on keyboards, no fishtank burbling just........quiet. So quiet we found ourselves almost whispering most of the time.

I found myself reflecting that, for as much as it seems like each day is a struggle, that finances are tight, that work schedules are long and frustrating, in many ways we have so much, Our home is small, but we found space not only to adopt our Petunia this year, but also to bring Ron's bonus son to live with us while he works toward making his life better. We have a roof over our heads and warmth and dinners together at the table. We laugh, we have friends, and we love. And when it comes right down to it, what more is there really?

My hope for all of us, for this shiny new year, is that we continue to have this abundance. That our homes stretch to fit more love, that our hearts stretch to fit more hope, and that our hands stretch to reach someone else's.

I love you. Thanks for being in the world.

Stressmonkeys and Thoughtvomit

(11.2.15)
My life has largely devolved into little more than working, eating, sleeping, and trying to keep the house in some semblance of nontoxic and livable.  I come home from work and am so mentally tired some days I don't even feel like I can decide on pizza toppings, let alone anything heavier.  I've been told in the past that Im 'guy-like' about my work.  It's a critically important part of my self worth and I suspect Im at risk of completely exhausting myself in my attempts to do everything it requires of me of late.  Suffice it to say, there are supposed to be 2 people doing what I do, but there's been only me for most of the last two years, and it's getting really hard to keep going.  The parts of my work that I really love, I barely get to do anymore.  I don't particularly like that my life has gotten this narrow but Im not quite sure how to change it.

There has also been a lot going on the last few years with the Vampire.  She's had some rough stuff happen to her in the past which carries understandable shit and baggage with it.  She also made some really bad decisions.  Really, really bad.  The last year has been much calmer, but still very challenging. Yes, Im euphemising.  She's a teenager with a shit egg-mom and a bad boyfriend picker and Im the strong-willed stepmonster.  You do the math. 

Im currently battling the urge to get rid of everything and start living very minimalistically.  When there's too much clutter in my home, I start feeling.....well..sort of trapped.  It feels chaotic and out of control.  I did a mini-purge of my bookshelf and that helped.  I went through the junk and utensil drawers in the kitchen and purged a bunch of crap and that helped.  My closet is next.  I've already got a box in our bedroom waiting for me to fill it with crap that needs to go down to the garage.

(Continued 11.4.15)
Tonight I had a mini-meltdown.  Another night of coming home mentally exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed. Talking with my beloved, I tried to explain what the running dialog in my brain is like.  He asked me to try to share.  I spewed random slung together nonstop thoughtvomit, virtually without breathing, for several minutes.  Various themes of "Im frustrated professionally" and "Our pets are frustrating me" and "Im worried about my health" and "The chaos in our home is worsening my mental chaos and inability to chill the fuck out." All very self critical, of course, but with some real stuff too. Part of what makes it so hard to take is that I KNOW I am strong and capable of handling whatever gets thrown at me and rising to the challenge and fuck-all Getting. Shit. Done.

After my brain purge, I attacked the closet and within a few minutes I had two boxes of clothes ready for garage storage  Then Schmoop and I got rid of a little bit of clutter in the living room; stuff that had been lingering in a corner collecting dust has now been sorted into keep/chuck/donate and removed from the living space.  And a random bag o'crap from our previous car, Stella, has been sorted and chucked/filed.  That stuff helps.  Taking action almost *always* helps.

The struggle just gets so old sometimes.  It is hard to be the strong one all the time.  I know I don't have to be, but even when I break down, it's knowing that I can't let it happen for long because I have shit to do. Im getting better at asking for help when I need it, but I still prefer to do things myself and not inconvenience anyone else/appear weak.  Sometimes I wish I could have that mental breakdown that D thought I would have so many years ago.  Sometimes I wish I could be an asshole and really not give a shit about anyone else without feeling like I need to soften my rage with humour (I've been called the "The Nicest Pissed Off Person"). I don't do that all the time, but I do think I do it unnecessarily sometimes, plus I dig making people laugh and Im incredibly fucking funny.  I also grok Im struggling with my depression.  That bastard comes and goes, so I know his visits are temporary, but he does wreak havoc when he's here.

Sometimes I wish I could run away and live in a cabin by a lake. 

I feel like something has to change, but I haven't quite figured out the what or the how.

Why the fuck don't I write more?  Im a good writer. 

What the hell, Webba?!