Watching Me

I've never been a proponent of pointing out my bad qualities on the off chance that the respondent hadn't yet noticed them but it is probably glaring to you as it is to me; my writing has lost some passion. It's like I'm phoning it in, as they say in Bikram yoga, a euphemism for going through the motions. I am trying to figure out why that is. I am not completely numb although I am less prone to the extreme emotions I had been feeling. Many of the fears are old hat. I've built up defenses I didn't have before; defenses are like muscles and what I wasn't in emotional shape for in September is cake to me now; like running over the Brooklyn Bridge or camel pose in yoga class.

I won't lie; I cried the cries of hopelessness and despair when I received the information for Remicade in the mail (Remicade is the only colitis drug I haven't tried; it's like dialysis, you go to the hospital and get it intravenous every week) which according to their checklist, my level of illness makes me eligible for. Then I promptly threw the literature out. Same thing when I got the bill for my hospital stay which informed me that my insurance had decided against covering it. What else am I supposed to do? What are my other options? Regarding the hospital stay, I was told they were 'keeping me.' It wasn't like I decided to sojourn in the hospital for fun. It wasn't like being in a spa as my sister tried to convince me. And I don't care about what my insurance company says; I'm not paying. I can't get all up in arms about this stuff because it keeps happening. It keeps happening and I've stopped being surprised, stopped feeling victimized by it, stopped caring. So the fuck what. It doesn't faze me. And not because I can't allow it to but because it is relentless. And you can get used to anything if it it is relentless, unstopping and out of your control. Like when it rains every day for weeks and weeks you stop being surprised by the weather and stop cursing whenever you umbrella flips inside out. Gradually without thinking you mold your life around the new addition while trying to keep your life as normal as possible, normal meaning not giving the new addition too much time and too much thought and too much control.

Part of my loss of passion is that I am tired. I've mentioned that exhaustion is my latest manifestation of the disease. I have many theories for that. Number one is that it is validating to be told you are supposed to be tired that it's normal to be more tired than the average person when you have my condition. Suddenly years of faking it have come to an end and I can finally 'be' tired. Additionally, there are the after effects of the pneumonia. I know it's been a month but supposedly I am still in the recovering time frame and I've never been more bone tired exhausted than during the pneumonia and the weeks since. I also believe K's theory has some credence, that I've exhausted myself. I've been relentless and unstoppable since August. Life has thrown me lemons and I've exhausted myself catching them in my bare hands, bobbing and weaving and allowing them to hit the ground, I've managed to pick up a glove and put it on to weather the force of the fast ball, I've tried to employ pinch catchers, I've tried to convince people that I am being thrown lemons; sometimes it seems like no one sees them but me. I've used the lemons for tequila shots. I've thrown them back too but as I have no aim and 'throw like a girl' and can't see through the fog where the lemons are being thrown from that hasn't been successful. Ultimately, I've also made some bombass lemonade. I now drink lemonade without thinking, without tasting. It's like water to me now. It's just part of life. I would be more surprised were there to be no more lemons than I would were there bigger, sourer ones thrown at me. Throughout it all I have worked at being a good friend, grateful daughter, loving sister, runner, yogini, lawyer and writer.

It's kind of like my computer being broken. Suddenly I can rest. Suddenly when I get home there isn't the pressure to record. And I didn't know how much I needed the rest, how tired I was, how refreshing and restorative this rest is for me. Not having the computer makes it alright not to write. I can't watch television when the computer is staring at me; I must open it up and write. It isn't a thought process; it's a compulsion and it is gone now that I don't have my computer. Now I can read and watch my Netflix movies and wash my dishes and go through my closet and pick up my laundry and sleep. When I got diagnosed with the pneumonia after weeks of feeling like utter shit suddenly I allowed myself to complain and feel how I actually felt. I was tired. So tired that getting out of bed didn't feel natural, getting dressed didn't feel like something I should be doing, leaving the house to go to work seemed risky. But I did it. And up until the night before I was hospitalized when I was on the phone with my uncle who asked me how I felt, I gave my standard answer, "That's a loaded question, you know," and he pressed, so I added, "you know it's all relative; I've felt better and I've felt worse." Without the validation of a new diagnosis why detail the the fact that I was too nauseaus to eat anything until noon-ish and then had to force it and food tasted weird and I felt I was moving through pea soup or peanut butter, that I had tremendous shortness of breath and dizzy spells and the unbearable, unbelievable fatigue. Meanwhile when I asked him the same question he told me he had been nursing an upper respiratory infection for six weeks. I told him to feel better and then passed the phone to my father who had hours earlier arrived home from the hospital following his heart surgery. The next day probably because I could no longer put off my feelings as my dad had safely arrived home from the hospital, my feelings forced themselves out and I went to the hospital and was immediately diagnosed with pneumonia. As soon as I heard the diagnosis I let my head drop on the stretcher and allowed the nurse to cover me with a sheet and I fell into a dreamless slumber one which I had been dreaming about for weeks and weeks and weeks, waking when my mother showed and immediately falling back down after greeting her.

So it isn't that I don't have the passion per se, it's that I am taking advantage of the opportunity my sick computer has given me. I am resting. I am napping. I am living outside instead of inside my head. I am storing up stories to tell once I get my computer back. I am giving my soul a break from the contant stretching and flexing and scraping I have been doing to it. It is weary. I am giving myself a break from trying to convince my family and friends to come for a visit to my world. The less I have to focus on where I am, the less disappointed I can be and the less I am forced to realize over and over and over again that I am here alone. So fuck GHI and Remicade and Dell; they didn't beat me. I'm tired but I will be back; every time I run no matter how rare it is it never fails to be a warrior princess run. Whenever I miss yoga a few days in a row, I come back stronger. I kick ass. I'm not worried. So let me sleep and don't judge my latest publications as a testament to my writing. I'll be back and I'll be stronger than I was before.

Ballin'

I guess I will slow down and or grow up when I have to. Some of my peers have no choice, they are married and or have kids and have mortgages and responsibilities I don't have. There is no need for me to restrict myself until I have a good reason to, something to take the place of the living I've been doing. Something that makes it worth my while to stop being 19 and start being 30; my newborn baby's first smile, the sight of my husband lying next to me.

I spent from August through November living a joyless, spartan, rigid lifestyle that not only was scary and awful but just wasn't me. I hate a routine. I hate a regiment. I hate a gazillion rules. I hate feeling powerless. I hate being scared. But there were all those factors that necessitated that lifestyle. But now I have my health (fingers crossed) practically on auto-pilot or cruise control, if you will; so I see no reason not to live in color again. I am ready for broad brush strokes of vibrant color across a huge canvas as opposed to the painstaking precision in pencil I was mandated to work with before. The sky is once again the limit. I don't know what the future holds but once again, the optimist is back; I just have a good feeling. And I never question those.

Lately, the month of December to be exact, I have been dabbling in all of the excesses of my youth the excesses I am prone to, the excesses that cause me to lose control go way off the deep end; the excesses that get me in all kinds of trouble. I usually end up indulging in this stuff as an escape. Maybe denial over what's going on in my life and how I feel about it or rebellion or resentment towards choices I made or my lifestyle or who I wish I was. Frustration, anger, disappointment, what have you. I spent the majority of 2005 partying like I did in college. Crazy late nights, adventures, ending up at late-night parties with people I didn't know, having late night conversations with people whose names I couldn't remember the next day and never saw again. In 2005 I was doing it because my heart was broken. I was acting out. I was going out. I was freaking out. I was faking it. I was hiding it. I was submerging it. I wasn't having fun. I spent a lot of money, had a lot of hangovers, didn't get enough sleep and gained nothing except weight. It was purely negative and self-destructive. Now, as much as I have all of these vices back in full force, for the first time ever I am actually enjoying them. They are not negative anymore. They are me celebrating my ability to live big again.

The food. When I can eat, it's marvelous. Yesterday I had a burger and fries and then bought mint oreos, ate as many as I could stuff in my face and once I was nauseated, threw the rest out. I loved every bite, ever lick of the mint creme, every fry double dipped in mayo and ketchup. It was outstanding, amazing perfection. It was exactly what I wanted. I used to eat my feelings, like the old fat girl cliche. I don't know how much enjoyment I got out of it but it was a way of coping and then I felt extreme guilt and self-loathing afterwards. Now I don't. I think part of it is because I am so grateful now. My point of view has changed. I am not obsessed with my body or my weight or my appearance and I am obsessed with my happiness. So if it feels good I do it. And it doesn't feel good when done every day in excess. So I don't worry about it anymore; I trust myself to know that I won't do it every day so there is no reason for me to freak out about it. I savor it and then go back to my normal eating habits.

The drinking. It's started up again. I know I am not supposed to drink. But feeling good makes me feel like my old self and my old self could and did drink. I don't think it's bad to do once in a while the way I've been doing it. It also has a very different effect now. I haven't quite mastered it. It's like starting over which is a lot of fun. Anyway, like the food, it isn't something that I can always do so when the moment's right, why not.

The late nights. Fantastic. New Year's Eve I got home at 10:00am. There were some extenuating circumstances involved and I imbibed a little more than I should have and a little of what I shouldn't have but it was New Year's Eve and it was nice to give myself over to the spirit of the night. At one point ML and I were discussing getting married on a glacier in Canada and the Inuit names we would give our children and whether or not we would procure our children the old fashioned way or adopt, because you know, we are old friends who don't fool around. Yikes. We decided if we were going to be married, we may as well have sex but that we'd wait until after the wedding. Farf decided we needed a lot of ice sculptures to adorn the ceremony and some ice fishing would somehow be involved.

The end of the night had A and I in 'the red room' (not sure why we were calling it that) with two guys that we've never hung out with before but known forever and ever. The randomness of surrender to the night is something I've missed, knowing and trusting myself to let go is something I've missed. Not being scared of the consequences of a break in my routine is something I've missed. Now I can enjoy these nights because of the wonderful, fun surprises they bring. We had a party in 'the red room' after the New Year's party yet at the New Year's party. I used to surrender because I didn't want to go home because I didn't want to deal or face because why not have an adventure so I can tell my crazy story tomorrow. But it was also something I hated myself for the next day. The next day I'd be too hungover to work out and end up eating a lot and not being at all productive. Now surrender has a different texture. It's about taking chances and discerning choices and seeing opportunities and being open to new directions and reveling in the unexpectedness of having a lot of fun with these two guys we've known forever but never hung out with before. And again, I only do it when it feels worth it; I say no when I want to go home and stay out when I want to stay out. New Year's Eve it was definitely worth it.

Bad habits and old defense or escape mechanisms can also be used for good. It's liberating to do and give yourself exactly what you want. When you do that, you realize that you aren't as bad as you think you are. Maybe you don't take the ball and run with it like you feared you would. Instead, you learn to seize the fun moments and bag the ones you think won't be worth it and go home and go to bed instead. I just have to watch myself. When I see myself going to the dark side, all of the aforestated vices will have to go the way of the shopping. I know when I am out of my league.

Artificial Sweetener

I think I am completely nuts. I have finally toppled over into real insanity. I am finally home watching Sex & The City season one, episode 9, trying to calm down, trying to slow down the beating of my heart. That show is a pacifier for me. How many times have I seen every episode of that show? This is after I extended my line of credit on one of my credit cards. I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked a couple. I haven't smoked a cigarette sober in years. Even when I drink I can barely smoke one. But today, no problem. When I'm out drinking, I always think I want one until I have a drag and it makes me feel nauseaus. This smoking is after arriving home drenched, heart pounding with the shopping rush, hands shaking with the shopping rush, not knowing what to do first; do I try everything on again? Do I make something to eat? It is almost 11:00pm and I haven't eaten since noon. I forced myself to methodically hang up my wet coat in the bathroom then change into sweats, leave the bags at the door, wash my hands and make myself a grilled cheese and then park in front of the TV.

I had shopped and I shopped and I shopped. It was raining. I had an umbrella but didn't use it. I didn't care if I got wet. I didn't even feel the rain. I walked and I walked and I walked. I shopped until the stores closed. I bought two new bras. Now I am officially a 34D. New size so I guess I needed them? I bought silver and gold tights. I don't think I needed them. I also bought hot pink lace tights. I definitely didn't need them. I bought a couple of sweaters; one, a grey cashmere blend v-neck is almost identical to one I bought last week. What the fuck is wrong with me. I am veering off the deep end. And the music in the stores doesn't help. It's like they were all conspiring to keep me there by playing my music from my generation as if they knew we were their target shoppers, not that I needed the help; but I was happily singing along while unzipping my boots in the dressing room and pulling on black cordoroys. When the Cure is playing in the Gap, suddenly I wanted to stay there and needed new sweatpants and some thermal shirts and brown velvet shorts.

I couldn't get on the subway. I couldn't go home. I couldn't go home. I wanted to but I couldn't. I passed one F stop. I kept walking and I passed another. I couldn't go home as much as I was starving and drenched and carrying a lot of bags with a lot of stuff I don't need. Is this my rock bottom? Do I have that seasonal disorder? It is the shortest day of the year. Or was that yesterday? I don't know what to do. I don't know what's wrong. I feel like I need a shopping intervention. I feel so disgusting right now. I feel like I need to hide the bags from myself. But it's all my mess. It's all the hole of debt I keep digging myself deeper into. I was off the wagon for awhile and since that first pair of grey Paper, Denim & Cloth skinny jeans I've been back bingeing like crazy. And the Christmas season and Christmas shopping doesn't help. It's like one for you, one for me. One for you two for me. The madness must stop. I have the yoga. That's a great outlet. I have the writing. That's a great outlet. I have a job which keeps me busy during the day. What is missing? What is making me act out like this? I am giving myself December and then it's over. I know I will want something sassy for New Year's Eve and I will allow myself to purchase whatever that is. But the buck stops on January 1. Cold turkey. That's the only way I can do it. I can't be a sometime, as I need something shopper. I am either a shopping maniac or I don't go into stores and don't check my shopping websites and don't even window shop. I can't.

But again, what's the real problem behind this compulsion? Because it is a compulsion. I should be getting that rush from something else. But I don't want to. I remember quitting my staff attorney job at the big firm to work at the criminal defense firm; a move I did for love. My staff attorney job was higher paying and stress free. It just wasn't remotely satisfying or fullfilling. Meanwhile today I was sitting at work, listening to TV on my discman (Oprah had the cast of DreamGirls on her show), thinking there is nowhere I'd rather be, nothing I'd rather be doing. I don't want love. I want to be bored and safe from being completely consumed by work and given nothing in return. I want to be bored and safe from being completely consumed by a bad relationship. I don't want to be stressed out at work, even if I do like what I'm doing. I don't want to allow some guy to infiltrate and rob me of my hard won completeness. So I shop? Is that where I am getting my fullfillment? Is this my reaction to the reprieve of being consumed for so long by my ailing health and being scared that I am going to die? Is this the flip side of being numbed by too much shit happening at once? I should know better. I do know better. This is one of my vices that I thought I had risen above. There has to be a better outlet for whatever this feeling is that I am submerging. Guess all that talk about clarity and 30 being a smarter, less frantic version of 20 was just talk because one of my worst vices is back and it's worse than ever.

Maybe I just need to go out more; I definitely need to show off those pink lace tights. They'd look hot with the short black sweater dress and the Michael Kors boots. It's official. I am insane.