3/31/10 - A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

I recently finished a new book entitled A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. It’s a memoir he wrote almost 10 years ago about the time surrounding the deaths of his parents (both from cancer and within 5 weeks of each other) and how he took on the job of raising his younger brother at a relatively young age himself (he was about 22 and his brother was 9). It was a Pulitzer runner up and I’d remembered hearing really good things about it when it originally came out. And given my current proximity to cancer, I thought it might prove a good read. And it was, but I was exhausted by the time I finished it.

It was almost 500 pages of stream of consciousness. Given the fact that I’ve cranked out at least that many pages over the last 16 months of writing this blog, I have a certain affinity for stream of consciousness writing. But this was as if he had, at some point, sat down and in one sitting written the whole thing based on recollection and how his various neuroses happened to color those memories and the people within them. It was beyond raw. It almost felt unedited.

There were definitely pieces that I related to right about now. And there were pieces that just made me roll my eyes. There were pieces that made me laugh out loud as well as tear up. There were even some point where I seriously considered giving up and putting the book down. The writing is lovely and smart. I alternately thought about wanting to have a beer sometime with this author (if for nothing else than to have a voice to put with the words) and wanting to send him a check for therapy.

Altogether, I’m not entirely sure what I think of the book on a whole. While I’m not sure I would ever read it again, I’m very glad that I read it. It was nice to know, once again, that I am not alone in this parental cancer journey. Also? It’s really good to know that I’m not alone in some of my more neurotic/dramatic/silly/morbid thought processes.

One of those Days

I wanted to do nothing but lie on the couch, read and eat cookies today. Alas and alack, that’s just not allowed when you have a 3 ½ year old dictator nipping at your heels constantly for food, drink and entertainment. I mean seriously, when is this pup ready to get her own damn juice?! There are just days that are harder than others to remain civil when The Girl asks for the umpteenth time for a snack or a different show or exclaims in her best Scarlett O’Hara impersonation that she is bored. Today was one of those days.

Today was one of those days that when The Boy’s school called mid-afternoon to tell me he had a fever and would I please come pick up my germ infested child and The Girl was dawdling in getting dressed that I found myself screaming at her to please just put on some pants already. How hard is it to just put on pants?! Because she had switched out her pretty princess nightgown for the infinitely more weather appropriate shorts and a t-shirt. In February. When the high the last week hasn’t been above 30 effing degrees. Today was one of those days when little things like that simply drive me over the edge.

Today was one of those days when I was resentful to have a sick kid. A day when I found myself fervently praying that his fever breaks tonight because if I have to keep him home tomorrow then I don’t get my alone time while The Girl is in school. And my sanity is demanding alone time. Plus I haven’t even really started this week’s story for 52 in 52. I have the general premise in my head, but no clue as to how I’m actually going to write the sucker.

Today is one of those days when I am crabby and find myself teary while reading a story to The Boy before bed. One of those days when I would have been happy to not have to talk or listen to anyone. One of those days when my best bet would’ve been to lie on the couch, read and eat cookies.

Writing Crazy

Ok, so I figured out why I’m having a hard time rectifying these crazy stories I keep writing with who I am. Get a cup of coffee because this is going to be a little on the personal side.

I’ve spent most of my life having to convince myself and everyone around me that I am, in fact, NOT crazy. I had an exceedingly hard time growing up and racked up a pile of therapists, psychologists and psychiatrists. All of which threw diagnoses at me like clinical depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, bipolar disorder and oppositional defiant disorder. Those are some pretty hefty diagnoses to be throwing at a teenager already carrying around the baggage life has thrust upon her back. I tried medication after medication and talk therapy after talk therapy session. Until at the end, I just decided to go to college and figure it out on my own. And it’s taken me until today to get to where I am now (funny how that works isn’t it?) and I know I will struggle with this whole “I just don’t exactly fit” thing for probably the rest of my life. But after 33 years, I’m ok with that. Truly. I’ve made peace with my own odd-duckness and I even have days when I embrace it with gratitude.

And then I try this experiment with writing fiction and a whole bunch of crazy comes streaming out of my head. Crazy characters, crazy stories, crazy self-doubt. A whole bunch of crazy that I had no idea was there. And it freaked me out a bit. To the point where I’ve been holding back in the stories, second guessing myself and my readers. Which is not really the point of this writing project is it? The point is to push my own boundaries, to make myself grow as a writer in ways that I simply can’t do other than by doing what I’m afraid of. It’s gotten to the point where I can more easily talk about my mental health history than to let a femme fatale serial killer have free reign in a story, how silly is that?

Well. Not anymore. The filter is coming off.

Wall

Ok, so apparently I’ve lost my mind. Or hit a wall. Or something. Because it appears that my current options are either crying mess or harpy. Lovely. Exactly how I wanted to kick off my week! I just cannot seem to pull it together. I’m trying to just be, as uncomfortable as it may be, in the hopes that all of this will just work itself out and I can go back to my own version of functionality. Because bursting into tears every time someone asks how I am is just not acceptable. And neither is screaming at my children just because they happen to be breathing in my general vicinity. I’m being ridiculous.

People keep telling me that I need to refuel myself so that I can keep being strong. And while there is definitely part of me that would like to take that advice and would definitely like to go back to being strong, the me that is right now just laughs and throws dirty looks when I hear that advice. Because right now it feels like it would take years to refuel. That laying on a beach with no responsibilities, no expectations, no nothing for several months straight would do nothing but scratch the surface. And there is no part of me that feels strong right now. I feel like I could very well disintegrate on the spot. Like a stiff wind could just blow the pieces of me away like brittle leaves.

And I wish I could say that I was being dramatic. But that’s how I feel right now, brittle and hollow. And that just really sucks. Mostly because it came out of nowhere. I was doing so well! I mean, yes, I’ve had a couple of crabby days and a bunch of rollercoaster riding, but I never expected anything like this. To just be laid flat with grief and stress before my dad actually died. I don’t know what to do with this. But I’d like for it go away now. I’ll click my heels, wrinkle my nose, apparate, Calgon take me away, whatever it takes I’m more than willing to try. Just no more crying or yelling please.

On the Edge of Panic

We’re home again. And I am really, really crabby for some reason this evening. The drive was fine. The roads were, by and large, fine. I got to listen to a good portion of the awesome CD’s that D made for me. But I got home and The Boy was just bouncing off the walls hyper and full of attitude. And my husband told me about he had to call his parents and ask for money because we couldn’t make our car payment this month. And even though they, of course, graciously offered to help us out, I was mortified that he had to call and ask (their generosity has known no bounds the last few months but it’s one thing to have them send us money because they want to and an entirely other thing to ask for it outright). And I know the reason we can’t make our car payment this month is because of things like me driving back and forth between my parents’ house and home, having a powerful need to eat (can you name the movie?) and unfortunately needing things like shampoo all at once. It’s ridiculous that things like gas and groceries can screw up our entire budget. This whole awful bankruptcy process was supposed to make this better and instead we are still in dire straits. And I feel like I’m inches away from just succumbing to this state of panic and coming apart at the seams. Panic about my dad, panic about our finances, panic about what my mom will do after my dad goes…

And I have this idea for this week’s 52 story but I can’t quite get a handle on it enough to actually write it out. It centers on a woman who gets caught in this sort of dream loop/jump, popping from one dream to another without any control, rhyme or reason. I won’t spoil the end for you, but if I can get it all to work out on paper it could be pretty cool. If not then I don’t know what I’ll do this week, but hopefully I’ll come up with something.

Hopefully some quiet time tomorrow will lend some focus.

Utterly Irrational

I have a totally irrational hatred of Tom Brady. The man just brings out the worst in me. I cannot bring myself to think positive thoughts about him regardless of how nice he is or how well he plays the game of football. I mean I am sitting here watching him literally have a record breaking game where he just threw 5 touchdowns in one quarter. Not one half, not in the whole game, in one freaking quarter. And I cannot bring myself to be even mildly amused by this. I find myself screwing up my face and sticking out my tongue at the TV.

Keep in mind that I still feel this way about Tom Brady knowing that I have nothing to lose in my fantasy matchup this week with him. I can’t even explain it away that way. One would think I’d have the same kind of wrath towards Drew Brees at least for this week after watching him have yet another game of his life annihilating the Giants as I watched him rack up points for my opponent. It’s painful to lose like this granted, but Drew Brees is a good comeback kid kind of guy so even though he single handedly assured my loss this week, I still kinda like the guy.

Every time I see Tom Brady’s stupid name in the headlines I cuss him out under my breath. It makes me crazy that his pretty face married a supermodel. Even his sweet baby irks me. It’s totally irrational. To the point where I have never even had a Patriot player on any of my fantasy teams. I just don’t want any association with him (although I’m about to break that rule by picking up Maroney as a possible workhorse running back).

The only thing I can come up with to even come close to explaining it is that it’s all just so cliché. He’s the star quarterback pretty boy who always gets the job done and always gets the girl. He’s “humble” and easy going. He’s charming and professional and oh so focused. And it’s always a given that he’ll win.

He may as well be a cardboard cutout.

Crabby is as Crabby does

Crabby. Crabby, crabby, crabby. Ccccrrrraaaabbbbaaaayyy.

That is me today. I had a headache for most of yesterday which made the migraine turn by late afternoon. I went to close my eyes to try to steer clear of blindness and woke up almost 3 hours later. And I have just been out of sorts ever since. I didn’t sleep for anything last night and woke up soooo much later than I regularly do. So my discombobulation is just compounding on itself. Which is translating into mucho crabbiness.

Crabby because my mom cannot stop coughing (you know, because a heart attack wasn’t enough, a chest cold had to find her too). Crabby because it’s hot. Crabby because I can’t get a moment of quiet. Crabby because I’m tired of cooking. Crabby because I just can’t seem to pull it together enough to get us to a farmer’s market. Crabby because it’s the end/beginning of the month and I don’t quite know how to get all of our bills paid. Crabby because I can’t find a job and just don’t understand why. Crabby because The Boy keeps asking me the same questions over and over again. Crabby because The Girl is insisting on wearing winter clothes in the middle of summer and then complains about being hot. Crabby because all the dogs need baths. Crabby because I should just get over being crabby and can’t.

I sort of feel like the whole last week, that I have spent organizing and keeping track and monitoring with little trace of crabbiness or over reaction, has just come crashing down on my head. I feel like all the fatigue, sadness, fear and trauma all landed squarely on my chest all at once. But it’s not translating like any of those emotions. It’s just translating into me being uber-crabby. And I can see my mom and husband trying not to engage the crabbiness that is me right now. I can see them just taking deep breaths and moving away from my crabby bubble.

And maybe they have the right idea. Maybe I just need some quiet time to decompress. Maybe I just need to be left alone for a couple of hours.

Crazy Spring

Spring is such an up and down kind of time. We have 70 degree weather one day and then a string of rain and clouds. Gorgeous sunshine for a week and then a vicious snow storm out of the blue.

All of the erratic weather tends to do a real number on people’s moods. Mine included. I have a love/hate relationship with the weather generally. I love the sweet kiss of sunshine on my shoulders, but I hate being hot more than anything else in the world. I adore the way walking in the rain feels, but too much of it gives me serious cabin fever. I even sort of love the dastardly and abrupt spring snowstorms merely because they keep me guessing.

But I do have to admit that the crazy weather occasionally does a number on my mood. Less because the rain makes me depressed per say as that when it does rain and all I want to do is curl up on the couch with a movie, I have two children riddled with spring fever bouncing off the walls and whatever part of me they can wrap their hands around. So I find myself wishing for sunshine so I can kick us all outside.

I look forward to the bounty the summer holds (minus the heat). I love making a weekly tradition of going to the farmer’s market. I love going to the People’s Fair and The Renaissance Festival around my birthday. I love watching the children help my husband in the garden. I love having all the windows open at night so there is a fresh breeze that blows over my face while I’m falling asleep. I love planning meals around whatever happens to be in season and smelling gorgeous that week. I love watching the kids play in the sprinklers or the fountains. If it weren’t for the bloody heat, I’d want it to be summer all year long.

So I guess in a way that bearing through spring and its ups and downs is the price we pay for the splendor of summer and everything it offers. And it’s worth every up and every down. Except for the heat.

Idiosynchratic Love

I have pretty much always been a big ol’ ball of idiosyncrasies. It’s just part of who I am and over the years I’ve grown to embrace them. Relish in my little quirks and kookiness that sets me apart, or fits me right in. So I thought what better place to detail a bit of my own inner wonkiness than here?

I still sleep with my baby blanket. And it really is my baby blanket. I’ve tied it into knots to re-attach the pieces that insist on falling off and my mom used to sew it back together for me. The woman who used to watch me when I was little called naptime “mimi-time” and as that was the only time I was allowed to have my Mimi, I named it after that most glorious time of day. I took it with me to Germany and I’m sure I would still take it with me on any long trip.

When I was little I used to favor my left side. I figured that since I was right-handed that I should give my left side some extra special treatment. So I would always put my left shoe and sock on first. I would use my left hand to hold my utensils. Pretty much anything that didn’t require writing would be given to my left side to take a crack at first.

Whenever I spread anything on bread, I have to make sure it reaches the very edges of the bread. SH refers to this behavior as mania, but to me it just makes sense. I mean who wants to eat a lovely piece of toast with butter and jam (or Brötchen with Nutella) only to have the jam run out on the edges?

I can’t stand having my feet restrained while I’m sleeping. I also am not particularly fond of having my toes touching while I’m trying to fall asleep. It’s so distracting that it will keep me up for hours. The thought of sleeping with socks on is my own personal nightmare.

See? Don’t you love me just a little bit more for knowing this particular perspective on my crazy? I knew that you would.

A Little Slice of Crazy

This is me giving momentary voice to my own personal brand of crazy today…

Therapist: So how are we feeling today?

Me: Pretty fucking crazy, you?

T: Well, you know I’m not what we’re here to talk about. Tell me more about this crazy.

Me: Well, let’s see. I feel like I am going a million miles an hour and having to wait for the rest of the world to catch up is making me slightly homicidal. My mind is full of color and words and racing thoughts and wishes. But mostly I think my crazy is coming from the fact that I’m realizing that I’ve spent the past many years living with one foot on the throat of my true voice and the other on the accelerator. Racing to suffocate myself. Hence, the pretty fucking crazy.

T: How about you tell me about how this feeling makes you feel?

Me: How does it make me feel? How do you think it makes me feel? CRAZY! It’s one of those words, like fuck, that can be used in a thousand different contexts. Like waking from a coma and finding out that you could have woken up at any time, but didn’t know that you could. So you’ve spent all this time withering away in this stupid hospital. Waiting. And then you finally wake up and you’re filled with all this crazy because you wasted all this time. Waiting. And now there’s so much to see and do and make up for, but you have to do it all set to this predetermined pace that makes sense to the rest of the world. And all that does is make the pretty fucking crazy person, pretty fucking mad.

T: I see. So what you’re really saying then is that you’re feeling anger?

Me: Hell yes I’m angry! I’m angry and put out and fed up. Angry that there are rules to be followed. Put out that no one else took a big fucking shovel to my head to wake me up sooner. Fed up with accepting standing still.

T: Well, I think we’ve made good progress today. How are you feeling now?

Me: Still fucking crazy, you?