A week of six (6! WHAT?) posts can mean only one thing: I am still rationing my Twitter-time. Too, it was a week when the temperature reached 70 degrees and there was also the only so-called snow storm of the season. I continued my personal chef-ing roll, creating meals and cakes of my own recipes for dear ones, and my healing soul-realignment continued even as the mysterious rash that started all of this has yet to be diagnosed or disappear. What follows is a brief re-visit of each post and a look into the conversation my selves are having about here, where I am, going.
Nature seems to be flim-flamming us (and itself) with one week so warm the flowers bloom and the trees bud, only to be shock-blasted in the next week by hard freezes and the first measurable snow of the season; all of which seemed metaphor for the current political situation. Although we’ve far to go, we’ve come such a long way in the march toward equality for people of color, women, and the LGBTQ community, and the flowering of those freedoms now feels threatened by the ignorance, fear, and vitriolic vindictiveness in power. But freedom, equality, and Love, are as tough and resilient as nature; we will flower again. And again. And yet again.
My second post of the day was prompted by a notice from WordPress telling me it was this blog’s fourth anniversary. I looked back and found I’d had progressively fewer hits with each year; I was losing readers. This discovery brought to the surface an event I’d been ignoring; someone I was “seeing” in a casual way had discarded me. That musing opened the long tightly shut vault of feelings about being left, losing people, broken connections. I didn’t walk too far inside that vault, it was awfully full of things at which I need to look, but right now, this healing of the soul I’m having and the reactions of some people to it, has already energized my disconnect and hermit buttons. So, happy Charlie needs to be careful about how far and how fast he delves into the things he’s kept locked away.
Tuesday’s contemplation about where I’d been four years ago when I started this blog, where I’ve gotten, where I’m going, and being left or leaving sent me into a mini-spin based in fear. So, I did what I have often done in my life: turned to music and icons and po cultural imagery to express myself. From the youthful comfort I took from Miss Judy Garland and my Dark Shadows obsession, through my love of Little Edie and the ways in which she resembled my Sissie, to my fear of aging, my fatigue, and my love of Christopher Isherwood as well as my identification with the pitfalls of falling for a much younger someone, to my Blanche DuBois/Tennessee Williams-esque shaping of the story of my life into a three act play, and the shadow of a Tarantula Arms lusting to which I’ve sometimes succumbed, through my horror story dark side prone to lashing out in violent, irrational hatred when he feels unloved, unseen, victimized, and my Neely O’Hara “don’t you know who I am”-ing, which took me to another O’Hara, Kelli, and her beautiful, yearning delivery of a different kind of see me — which seems in retrospect as I give you all the “between the lines” to have been the theme of the post which concluded with Sarah Vaughn’s delicious rendition of Embraceable You — with its quieter, simpler “See me,” and, at last, the witch-nose-wiggle, that I might magically clear up all the between the lines things plaguing me that day.
As had Tuesday, Wednesday also brought two posts. This second was in response to the first in which I’d been feeling a trifle sad, less loved than I wanted to be, and after a tiny wallow in some envy, and missing some Twitter folk, and yearning for a life I’m never going to have, and blah, blah, blah, I was inspired by the shiny pennies in my pocket to turn into my Mom and say, “I’ll give you something to cry about! Now get it together.” And so, I did, and devoted my energy to appreciating the gifts in my life.
And like Tuesday and Wednesday, Saturday brought two posts, too. Seems it was a week of doublespeak-ish.
This first post was long and all about a din-uncheon I’d hosted for one of my dearest friends, and, also, I got very honest about my near-lifelong depression, the story about how I’ve finally agreed to medication and how it’s changed my life (and made me able to look back at my life with some forgiveness and grace) and, too, my decision to absent myself from Twitter — which is actually a much bigger deal, to do with much larger issues than those I think and tell myself prompted my absence, and which I don’t know that I can quite deal with yet — because it feels like I’m losing someone way more important than the buddy from the Four Years and 931 Posts Later entry. Who, by the way, has reappeared, explaining his absence, wanting back in.
The final post of the week was the natural progression of the things about which I’d been thinking all week: my depression, how I am recovering from it and learning to live in a more forward-looking, positive thought-pattern sort of life, the relief of not thinking every single day, “I wish I was dead,” and not having to hide that sorrow from people, the relief of not having to pretend to be happy; and the new but manageable issue in my life: having to consider that I might deserve happiness, love, and might be able after all to achieve dreams denied, to say, out loud, “I want,” without fear of reprisal and scoffing and “people like you don’t get to do/be things like that.”
And so it went (and here I am, going)
That was my week — or, the parts of it I felt comfortable sharing. I don’t know if this blog will make it to a fifth year. Having some relief from a life of depression and having the energy available to me I once had to use every day to fight my sorrow, is like having to learn to live again. As I go through my days, as I deal with people and things, as I write, as I work out, as I do anything and everything — I recognize patterns and habits and coping mechanisms formed because I was always dealing with the huge weight and blockage of my depression; now that it’s somewhat assuaged, I can approach life differently — but it is an effort, NOT a bad effort, but, it’s as if after years of riding a bike, one day your body forgot how to do it, and you have to learn again.
I’m learning how to be happy. Which I guess sounds ridiculous. But, there it is. And part of the process is being a better advocate for myself; not expecting to be hurt or left or sub-Tweeted or bashed; and, too, accepting and being grateful for the gifts in my life without believing I am going to have to pay for any joy or goodness with twice the amount of sorrow and bad shit.
Ah Charlie, Young Happy Charlie, help me out here, where we are, going.
Love and Light, dear ones.