This week there was a solar eclipse. And I made another visit to my doctor.
I don’t know if there’s a connection.
“I think it’s my adrenals,” I tell my doctor. Who rolls his eyes.
“Medical professionals don’t believe adrenal fatigue is a real thing.”
This is completely the opposite of what my naturopath tells me. But then again her suggestion that all things can be solved by cutting out wheat, dairy, and taking a thousand dollars in vitamins and supplements could also just as easily be BS.
“Maybe it’s hormonal?”
It comes out like a question because I don’t know what’s going on. All I know is that I’m tired, and anxious, and depressed, and I can’t sleep, and I’m breaking out, and my stomach is massive even though I’ve cut out wheat and dairy and exercise and do yoga.
Worst of all I’ve suddenly become red wine intolerant.
Good bye, dear friend
Also I can’t remember anything. My hands shake sometimes. My pores are enormous. My chin has sprouted a thicket of hair. I can’t concentrate, and find myself reading the same line over and over. I imagine terrible scenarios so clearly they keep me from being my normal, free-wheeling self. Even when I boycott “real” news.
My doctor pretends to write something in my chart while I’m listing off my symptoms. “How old are you?”
I tell him and he sighs again.
“I need help,” I tell him, pleading.
He tells me it’s a year’s wait to see a medical plan-covered psychiatrist. I can see a counsellor within three months, but they’re all students doing practicums.
Just imagining a 20-something year old student pretending to understand and sympathize with my life makes me cry harder.
Imagining the free advice: “Like, maybe you should try some positive visualizations,” makes me rock back and forth on the examining table.
My doctor offers me an antidepressant. Like he did last time. Which I made the mistake of taking because who wouldn’t love to believe that complete mental health is just a pill away. But the prescription was just a guess on his part and ended up having a terrible effect – one of the reasons I’m back here, sobbing in his examining room.
A month ago a friend of mine drank a bottle of wine and took a bunch of pills. She woke up in a private room in a medical health facility where she got a team of doctors, tests, a thorough examination, daily one-on-one cognitive therapy, free morning yoga classes, meditation classes, art therapy, water therapy, access to a nutritionist and a career counsellor. She got meals – which were not great – so she opted for juices – which is basically like doing a cleanse. Which I’d have to pay a couple hundred bucks for.
She came out a month later looking fabulous, rested and healthy.
I visited her a couple times. “Imagine a cross between Orange is the New Black and the Scandinave Spa,” I tell my husband while trying to sell my plan to almost kill myself.
“God,” I yell as he walks out of the room. “You never let me do anything!”
But I’m determined to get healthy so I draw on the acting classes I took in college. Who knew they would be so useful for effectively navigating Canada’s medical system.
As it turns out – it is impossible to access any capable mental heath professional unless you get fully into character. My inspirations include a toned-down version of my schizophrenic aunt and the video of Britany Spears when she shaved her head and attacked a car with an umbrella.
“Do you have thoughts of suicide?”
Best not to answer this question directly in case I over do it and end up being hauled off to the psych ward against my will. (Which happened to a colleague of mine) So I just burry my head in my hands and hyperventilate.
“Do you have a plan to kill yourself?”
I go the manic route – “More like I fantasize about not existing. I’m sure I’ll be fine once I get some sleep. All I need is a rest. I just need to calm my brain. Because it keeps racing. It just keeps racing, you know?”
… I’d like to thank the medical academy
I am immediately referred to the same outpatient assessment and counselling program, I’d been informed was impossible to get into just a week ago.
I can’t believe I don’t do this professionally. Although I guess as long as I try to get to the bottom of my possible adrenal/menopausal/thyroid/depressive/exhausted/wheat and dairy intolerance issues – I actually am.
I’m at home with a super gross kidney infection. Of course, my mind goes to very dark places when it feels like my body is breaking down. For some reason, I drew a parallel between my health and my recently deceased washing machine. First, the drum went, and we paid $300 to get it fixed, then something went wrong with the motor and then and then. My husband regretted wasting all that money on repairs, “When one thing breaks, it’s a sign that the whole machine is in decline. We should have just bought a new one.”
It’s the eve of my fifth wedding anniversary. I like to begin some mental preparation in advance of the actual date because every year I create little secret amendments to our wedding vows.
This year I’m wondering why we didn’t rewrite the originals to swap out “from death to us part” or “cherish and obey” to “I will make every effort to initiate exciting and surprising sex until we can no longer physically have sex.” Or “When I feel a relationship rut coming on, I will use this an opportunity to deepen intimacy between us in some cost effective, yet lovely way.”
I know it’s a total boner-killer to announce that these are the new relationship objectives and then demand my husband do his bit to meet them. (sometimes it would be so much easier if my marriage was much less democratic) But it’s also foolish to think that I can get anywhere without his buy in. I also notice that I’ve got to renew my own spiciness before I can bring it into the bedroom (or the shower, or the kitchen table).
For these sorts of things feng shui is the most useful tool I’ve found so far.
For those of you who are unfamiliar, feng shui is the ancient Chinese art of placement. Although I’ve noted that every culture has their own form, I believe feng shui is the only formalized, widely practiced version… Please, tell me if I’m wrong.
Anyhow, it basically operates on the idea that our homes are a direct metaphor of our internal landscapes. For this reason, changes made to our living spaces, impact our energy, feelings and attitudes, which then attracts things, opportunities and people who reflect back your own energy, feelings and attitudes. Basically, it’s a very powerful tool for manifesting.
All you have to do is lay this Bagua Map over your floor plan. Line it up so your front door opens into Knowledge, Career or Travel. Then choose one or two areas you’d like to improve.
First, I look at what’s there and how it makes me feel to look at it or be in the space. Then I make an objective assessment if this is an accurate reflection of the quality of my experiences in that area.
For an example: This is what my relationship corner looks like this morning. It used to have our pee-stained couch in it, but we had it taken away and now the space is filled with this nearly-broken lamp and an assortment of kid’s toys. Next to the basket of toys, is a table which houses our cable box and iTV.
Can you detect a problem here?
Looks like Charlie Brown’s lamp — and I’m certain that guy wasn’t getting any action.
So clearly there are some issues.
Now, I’ve got to create a space in my relationship area that makes me feel the same quality of energy I want to create in that area of my life.
It is also possible to fuck this part up. Alice called me over to her place a few weeks ago. She was feeling intensely frustrated by the men she was currently dating. “They either put me up on some insane pedestal and then get all pissed off when I turn out to be human or they are just super immature. It’s like they’re looking for someone to look after and mother them.”
Alice had three framed pieces of art work hanging over a single arm chair.
When I asked her how the paintings made her feel, she said, “Sad and lonely, but they’re so beautiful. I just love them.”
Turns this is exactly how she felt about the men she’d chosen.
My space feels neglected and pieced together, but it is in transition. So I’ll keep you posted.
What’s in your relationship corner? Is it an accurate metaphor?
So, I’ve been asking for some guidance lately because it’s very clear that something in my thinking or in my world view needs to shift if I’m going to create a better life than the one I’m presently blowing up.
Here’s who showed up:
I met this guy through Alice. They’ve been friends for a very long time and she kept telling me
“You’ve got to meet my friend, Henry. I love him. He’s wonderful and he’s basically your male counterpart.”
So, of course, this has got me all curious because
- it’s a relief to know there are other people wandering this earth with the same brain as mine
- someone else thinks that brain-type is cool and not a big horrible mess.
The day finally comes when I get an invite to Henry’s apartment. Alice and I show up and this guy answers the door – eyes totally bloodshot from smoking pot since 9am. He ushers us into his suite, which is completely decorated in SeaHawks paraphernalia and porn.
“It’s not porn,” he says a little defensively. “It’s art.”
Someone please show me the gallery that sells this “art”. Because to me – it’s just a lot of shaved pussy, unnaturally perky tits and women looking over their shoulders, with their panties around their knees and their air-brushed butts thrust out.
I give Alice a long, hard look because really? This is what you think of me?
Turns out, Henry really is a sweetie and to prove it, he generously offers us some very high-quality weed and a beer, which I accept because it’s 12:01. The idea is to get into a happy frame of mind and then head off for lunch.
As we settle in, I start prattling on about my crappy job (that I hadn’t quit yet). I’m a little ashamed to say most of my sentences start with poor me-type phrases. Until I notice Henry shooting Alice a long, hard look like he’s saying, “Really? this is who you think I resemble?
Aren’t I corporate enough for you???
Finally he gets completely fed up, throws my jacket at me and says, “If you’re not going to shut the fuck up, then at least let me take you shopping.”
He leads me to a stripper supply store and makes me pick out a pair of go-go boots and a top that looks super slutty on the rack, but under a blazer is actually pretty passible. I also pick up a necklace that has just the tiniest hint of S&M.
My assignment, he tells me, is to start wearing this stuff to work, mixed in with my usual business wear and then let him know if it makes any difference. And because I was caught off guard and stoned (which sometimes makes me do reckless things), I agreed.
The next day, I wear my new boots to work. As I walk, I notice my posture change. My shuffle becomes more of a strut. Knowing I’m wearing something a little naughty makes me want to thrust my chest out. By the time I walk into my little cubicle, I’m feeling playfully flirty.
I flirt with a prospect and get past his gatekeeper to arrange a face to face meeting (which is pretty hard to do). I talk to a stranger at a line up in Starbucks and end up having a lovely and playful exchange. The folks who usually delight in micromanaging me, seem to sense this might be the day to keep some distance.
In short, I’m blown away. Because this guy I’d written off as being a pervy stoner actually saw and recognized something in me, I hadn’t in myself.
Years before, I’d been told by a therapist and on another occasion, by a psychic at a shopping centre, that I was a closeted dominatrix. I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. But now, because of Henry and his stripper challenge, I suddenly understood. Some of my power comes from playfully playing with power. I don’t need to shrink and cower in the face of opposition or even when people wield their authority cruelly. I can respond with attitude. The very attitude I feel when wearing a pair of boots and a necklace that was designed to attach to a piercing in my clit. (which I would never get, btw).
I just want to send out a big thank you to the man who was wise enough to direct me to the perfect tools to awaken what I’d suppressed. I’d never considered the playful aspect of my sexuality and how it might just be the power I needed to wiggle out from under the oppressive weights I’d placed on myself.
Now that it’s unleashed, it’s out for good. In this one act, he reminded me how to make discomfort a bit of a turn on. He made my life a lot more fun.
So I called Alice and thanked her for the compliment.
Who are the teachers in your life right now? And are they people you’d expect??
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The reason I lost my friend
I hadn’t heard from Alice for a while, so I popped over to her apartment unannounced with a bottle of wine. The way friends do when they’re hoping for a good gossip session.
“You can’t come in,” she said blocking her door.
When I looked hurt, she responded in a stage whisper.
“There’s a mouse living in my couch. It’s why I’ve stopped having people over.”
I don’t invite people to my place either. Not since we bought a new hide-a-bed sofa from Ikea and after the first week, I walked in on my son standing on the arm rest pissing onto one of the cushions.
Now I don’t even remember what colour the sofa was originally . It’s become a collage of ketchup and milk smears, pen scribbles and something that looks suspiciously like blood. I just chose to ignore the whole thing until my mother-in-law came to visit and requested a towel to put down so she could safely sit on the sofa to watch tv.
It was then that I took a cold, hard look around my apartment, assessing all that I’d accumulated over a lifetime and realized everything I own is crap.
This is never what I intended for my life. I always wanted to be one of those people who searched out unique pieces, lovingly handcrafted by artists and journeymen. So that I could fill my space and my life with beauty. People would say, “Oh my God! What an amazing couch.” I would wave my hand and say, “Oh I got that little piece after lightening hit a tree next to the hut where I was staying and a master craftsman carved it into this two-seater.”
But this little dream was dashed to pieces when I realized good stuff costs money. And so I’ve usually opted for the cheapest possible option – especially since having kids and realizing those little fuckers destroy everything.
Where all my kids’ shitty birthday presents end up.
The last time I went to Ikea, I had this unsettling vision that everything I was looking at was destined for the landfill in a couple of years. That’s all I’m doing every single time I buy loot bags at the dollar store or a toy at Toys R Us – just adding another layer to that floating island of garbage, strangling sea life out in the Pacific. Last time I heard, this garbage island was the size of Texas. It’s fucking depressing. And now I’m in a funk.
If I continue to live with the crap I have, I’ll be too embarrassed to invite people over and my family and I will live an isolated life. But if I buy new stuff I can actually afford, I’ll just be part of the problem.
And then I think I’m basically an asshole for caring about any of this at all. I also know I’d better be careful what I start inviting into my life with an attitude like that.
I once knew this woman who was basically a hoarder. She was also basically a witch. One time she invited me over to her house for a full moon ceremony. Since I was in one of those head spaces where I was just saying yes to everything, I went along. After casting the circle and calling in the “energies” she asked that all the clutter be removed from her house and from her life.
Three days later her house burned to the ground.
So I’m just going to put a funky looking tablecloth over my sofa, call up some friends and stop being such a pussy.
Deal with it. This is my fucking couch