On sleep, or a lack thereof

I'm a procrastinator. I have always been this. I have tried to break the cycle, but it is so hard. Everything else becomes so much more interesting when I have a project to do. Even this post is a form of procrastination as I have writing projects sitting on my desk staring me down. They lurk in my subconscious, quietly whispering "come to us; come work on us." And I ignore them, kind of. The guilt, though, ratchets up, the deadline looms closer, and I realize that, once again, I'm staring an all-nighter in the face. For the third time that week.

I thought I would be done with this kind of thing after grad school, or after being a student at least. But this isn't the case. Instead, I fall into the habit of put it off, work all night, see the sun rise, go to bed, sleep until 2:00 pm and then get up and start the cycle over. Sometimes bed isn't even an option. I have to push through, suck it up, and realize that this is completely a self-inflicted wound.

Perhaps this is part of why I wanted to work from home and worked so hard to be able to do it. I can keep weird hours only known to insomniacs, programmers, gamers, writers and students. There is a reason we are socially awkward. It's those weird hours. They do something to us.

The dark circles under my eyes are a permanent fixture. Sleep deprivation combined with allergies make me look bruised. I also feel bruised. There is a feeling in the body when it is running on no sleep. Everything aches, my skin hurts, I feel like a shell of myself. Sounds function differently, a bit too sharp, a bit too loud. My brain processes slower, sluggish. Dexterity fails. When I was younger, I would run into things or simply fall over because of this. Then I really was bruised. I would lose conversations within my head and start in the middle of one, completely confusing everyone around me.  The irritability kicks in, and I am all sharp around the edges. Brittle in body and demeanor.

I remember my freshman year of college when I lost almost a full day. I was several days without sleep, and I kept finding evidence of things I had done but had no memory of. I found rice, completely cooked, in my microwave and had no memory of making it. A movie half watched on the computer, and no memory of it. I called people asking them if we had been together or if we had talked, only to have it confirmed that we had, in fact, spent time together. It was terrifying. A friend wondered if I had been given something. I hadn't. It was purely sleep deprivation. It was a terrifying realization.

I can understand this as a form of torture. Keep people awake long enough and their defenses quickly begin to erode. Three days in, and the processes aren't functioning. A week? I'm not even sure; I've never made it that long. The body, though, hates it and fights to sleep. Black spots--not sleep--just holes in the memory begin to form. One thought doesn't coherently connect to the other. Admit to whatever those questioning wanted, whether true or not.

Eventually I collect myself for a small change in the schedule, but I eventually slip back into the pattern. I don't even know if it is so much that I don't want to do the work as much as it is an inexplicable fear of sleep. If I go to sleep I give up control. I surrender the small amount of power I have, and weirdly that terrifies me. I'm not scared of the dark; I'm simply scared of the dreams I have--vivid, alive dreams that suck me in completely. I don't dream these things as much as I live them.

And so, I live with the bruises, both obvious and painting my skin and the hidden, aching pain.

The February slumps

February always makes me low. It's the hardest month to struggle through: still broke from the holidays, it's dark, it's cold, the days are still short, and my body just wants to sleep (and sleep and sleep and sleep). It is hard to motivate, but in our world we have to motivate. February is a hinge month; we're gearing up for the next thing (spring, summer, tax season, whatever) and we need the energy to do this, but it's just. not. there.

I'm facing down big things right now, and I have to get them done, but it's soooo hard to do them. It's small steps at a time: write 50 words today, grade 3 papers this evening, apply for that 1 job, do this 1 project tonight. Even getting up, showering, making coffee, and dressing (in that order) are so damn difficult right now. I always think it's depression; I do not suffer depression, but these funks sure feel like it. Just let me stay in bed. Everything feels like it weighs a ton. I feel like I'm moving through water, forcing that foot to step, that food to be eaten, that word to be typed. I don't stagnate, I just simply slow down. Significantly.

It's also the month of indecision for me. I need to go to bed; I don't want to go to bed. I feel whiney, whimpery, and childish. I want to throw tantrums (about what I don't know) and I just don't have the energy.  I'm angry that it's winter still, but I resent the flowers that are already appearing in my yard (it's too early, stupid flowers; you're going to die!). I am resentful and angsty. For no good reason! It's truly bizarre. And it happens every year. And each year, I can't figure it out until someone reminds me that it's the February funk. "What's wrong?" can only be met with "I don't know. Things just feel...off."  Then I suffer through the "ugh, I'm a terrible person because there is nothing really even wrong and I'm complaining." It's a nasty spiral. Blerg.

I think it's probably good that I don't have a full-time, in-office required kind of job life. I'd use all of my sick/personal leave in February. As it is, I just sit and give the papers and things needing grades the stink-eye. "Go grade yourselves," I mutter as I give them a good shove. Write yourself, blog (yeah, we've seen that this blog is not self-motivated to write itself...stupid blog).

The Lenten season give-up

For Lent this year, I decided to part ways with Facebook and bread products. The bread thing already fell through with JaCiva's cupcakes and petit fours, but Facebook is still on. With giving this up, my goal is to focus on writing more, so expect some blog posts over the next forty days!

The lot was cast and then I drew, And Fortune said it shou'd be you.

There have been a few discussion in my life lately regarding marriage and why and how people choose to make this leap and stay together. My mother says it's a covenant for her, friends fall in love and marry for love, some marry for the green card, others for practical reasons. I'm watching numerous friends and family plan to marry and listening to the hopeful ways they think marriage will play out. I'm also watching the first of friends divorce. Engagements are such a hopeful thing, rather idealistic, and so full of promise.

The number these days seems to be that 50% of marriages fail in America. We rely on love--that funny, fleeting, belly dropping, swoony feeling--to coast by on, to drive our sex lives, to make us feel wanted, needed, and oh-so-special. We have friends who married in the "bunny-hump, baby-I can't-get-enough-of-your-hot-body" phase. And when that fades? They wonder what happened, awakening from this drunken, hyper-sexualized place they've been in. And it's a magical, wonderful place. You lose weight, you glow, you feel amazing. And then life hands you a big ole' wake-the-hell-up dose of reality at some point. Hello!

We've been lucky in our relationship. We work hard to be happy and have taken drastic measures to do this at times (our moves are often related to this).  But we've been rather careful, too, in the decisions we have made to keep us afloat. We don't have children; we haven't bought a house; we have odd jobs that allow us to be together and take off suddenly the way we want. We are carefully plotting and planning the next phase, our next steps. We have worked hard for what we have. We had hand-me-down furniture for the first seven years of our marriage. We were broke for most of the thirteen years we've been together. We didn't rush into things (some might say the marriage, but I don't think so: we didn't live together before, we didn't have a shotgun wedding, but we did get married young). We never followed the Joneses or needed everything others had. We didn't jump on bandwagons (kids, houses, cars, boats, dogs, and whatever else). We created our own goofy little niche.

We married for practical reasons. We also left the caveat in our relationship from the beginning that if life took us different ways, we'd be ok with that. We got married because taxes, school, and things like that made more sense to navigate together. We also really liked each other. We got along splendidly (we still do), and we had and have a very healthy dose of respect for each other. I used to think people found someone who could put of with their BS, but now I think it may be more that you find someone who respects your BS and helps you figure it out.

We spend a lot of time supporting each other. Not a day goes by that I am not told that I am loved. Not once, not twice, but many times each day. Not a day goes by that I don't say I love you; again, many times over. Sometimes I need a gentle reminder to put the computer/Kindle/book/distraction away to pay attention to who is right in front of me. And behind that gentle reminder are the words telling me how smart, creative, interesting I am. I don't seek this, but good grief, in a life that batters, tramples, and can be down right difficult and deflating, it's nice to have someone remind me of that, and to remind him of it, too.

It's Valentine's Day--a holiday we generally don't celebrate. Instead, we celebrate our meeting. Thirteen years now. And that is a long time and no time at all.  We've left some stages behind us, but we've found balance, longevity, and a comfortable place to be. No games, no hidden agendas, no faking the single life (ugh, please stop doing this, other people), no friends to keep up with. We still get annoyed with each other, we still fight. Our fights, though, are ridiculous and so self-deprecating, and I've had to break up with tequila because of this. It's not a pretty sight when I'm a mess, his feelings get hurt because I'm picking on the way he cut the limes, and I'm crying that things are so great that the only thing I can pick on is how to cut the damn limes for Coronas. Yep, ridiculous, embarrassing in hindsight, and kind of (admittedly) cute (even though I did not look cute with my wobbly eyes).

I didn't expect my marriage to fail (who does?), but I am a pragmatist and a realist, and I knew that the possibility was always there (it is for every relationship). I'm also stubborn as hell, though, and not afraid to fight for the things I want.  I know what works and doesn't work for my relationship, and I suppose that's the secret, isn't it? Patience, respect, and a huge amount of humor seems to get us through most things we've faced thus far, and I imagine it will be these things that sustain us.


Addendum: I came across this again today and felt others might enjoy reading it. I read it years ago, sitting in a quiet library in the heart of a cold Colorado winter. It's enough to warm you through:
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2006/02/true-love/slater-text/1

Ides of March

2012: the year it ends (supposedly).

A recap:

January: cold and wet, trip to Oklahoma, busy
February: cold and wet, bought tickets for spring break trips, busy
March: omg!!!
    March warrants three, yes three, exclamation points. March was the destroyer month, the month that lives in the "what doesn't kill us makes us stronger" arena, the "I can't even cry this is too much," the "if I can hold on just one more day," the turn our world upside down month. March was hell and we are just recovering from it.

We received notice in February that our rent was going up. Not much, but enough that we did not want to pay it. We began looking. Around March 5, we found a place, we put the deposit on it, we made arrangements to begin moving in on March 15. Great! We love the place! It's funky, it's quirky, it's really small but big in a weird way!

On March 8, the little black car was totaled. We were fine--shaken, stirred, and confused, but fine. We didn't see it coming. We were crossing an intersection, freshly brewed coffee in hand (iced for me) when suddenly Scotty shouts out...I don't know what he shouted out. Curses? Gibberish? Sound? The loud bang and sudden force of my body being jerked forward, up, and to the right. My coffee exploded. It was like the scene in Apollo 13 when they squeeze the food out of the packaging: slow motion, large amoebas of liquid contracting, expanding, falling all over me. Our car stopped on the sidewalk; the other car limped into the adjacent parking lot, radiator fluid pouring from its busted hood. And I sat there, mouth hanging open, holding my empty coffee cup. Scotty turned, asked if I was ok, and got out of the car. I continued to sit with my mouth open, holding the empty coffee cup as I ran through a quick inventory of body, mind, and car. "We're on the sidewalk" passed through my head. I gaped at the others sitting in their cars staring back at me. I crawled out of the car, stood, and quickly leaned back against it. My legs could barely support the rest of me. A  woman rolled down her window, asked if I was ok, and then they drove away once they received confirmation that I was, in fact, well enough. The light turned green and everyone drove away. They did not stay to give a report, act as a witness, offer testimony. Nothing.

And so began an anxiety, stressful, ridiculous, exasperating wait/hurry/wait/hurry of rental cars, insurance, loan application, car shopping, wrangling, chiropractic care, with the final verdict: 0% at fault for the wreck.

We finally found the car after much deliberation, shopping, consulting, angering used car salespeople (always men), and tears over the loss of the little black car. It was heartbreaking to see it broken, wheel askew. That had been our first big purchase as a married couple, had been all over the US, was paid off, had been our home on wheels, and more. We loved that little car that could (seriously, it went everywhere! even places it never should have--I'm thinking of you Telluride mountains). We upgraded to a Honda CR-V EX-L (not, as I sleepily told Scott one day, the SE-X package). We like it, but it has been an adjustment. Little black car could park anywhere; it was a compact. This new car, Bella Blue Car, is not. I pop curbs like crazy in this thing because I still drive it like the VW Golf; it is not. It's roomy with plenty of storage and still gets good gas mileage.

Amid all of this, we were also packing up the apartment for a move midmonth. Apartment to house upgrade is really nice! We signed for a mid-month move-in and opted for an end of the month move-out on the apartment, so that gave us technically a two week window to shift. Technically because we were both headed out of town the last week of the month.

The house has a white picket fence and it is the cutest thing--tiny with this amazing backyard with raised garden beds already in place (more on this later).  There is a backhouse, the casita as a friend calls it, that we are using as my office. I am pretty sure it was a mother-in-law unit since it has a full bath and kitchen in it. Our house has two kitchens!

We are fully moved in and settled now. The settling took forever. But we each have space: my office in the casita, Scott's studio in the basement in which he has a screenprinting studio set up and ready for work.

It's nice when pieces fall back into place. I learned, again, that I am certainly not a drama kind of person. The anxiety, stress, and all really takes a toll on me. I like a quiet, calm kind of life. Let's hope there is not another like March 2012.

On reproduction

We found out a good friend is pregnant, and not in that "Hey, we planned things out and we are so over the moon happy about it" but more in this "holygodnoway still in shock" absolutely unplanned thing out of nowhere. Admittedly, I found this to be such a relief--her uncertainty, her fear, her horror, and that tiny bit of amazement at it all. And part of my heart felt like it was breaking at the same time.

It's an inexplicable thing, this sadness that I feel about this (and don't get me wrong, I am incredibly excited for this undoubtedly gorgeous baby of theirs and I am again astounded that we get to be a part of one more huge step in her life). Perhaps it is simply realizing that we are, in fact, actually growing up. That at this age there are big things, life things, adult things that are happening as I watch friends get married, buy houses, and have babies and feeling strangely not a part of those things. Not that I want them, really (except the marriage since I already fall under that category). It is more the divide, I think, that makes me sad. That here we are, still unsettled as we know we probably won't stay in Portland permanently, renting places with no desire to own a home, and having taken measures to absolutely not get pregnant. I I love this gypsy life.

I found myself walking into the bathroom the other day after talking with my sister and had this sudden clarity of "I don't want to care about something as much as you do with a child." I felt terribly selfish and awful for thinking this, but then I stopped myself. Why should I feel guilty about those thoughts? Why should I feel like I have to feel the need to care about something that much? I care about Scott; I love him with a huge love that overwhelms me and sometimes it takes my breath away still. But this love does not leave me exhausted mentally, physically, spiritually in the same way being a mother would. I have the energy to love him mightily, to travel, to hang out, to drink (and get rip roaring drunk should I so feel), to work ridiculous hours and then sleep until ridiculous hours (and I do love to sleep), to read a book from cover to cover in one day, to not have to live by certain school districts, to make rash, stupid decisions that will only affect the two of us.

I know women who want children, who have the need to have children. I don't. And it pisses me off to no end when another woman tells me "Oh, just wait. I didn't want them at your age either, but then my clock started ticking like crazy!" I want to slap her. And I think, "Thanks for making me feel like a freak, jerk, because nothing in me is ticking nor do I need to race my expiration date (heaven forbid!)." Because let's face it: a woman's worst enemy is other women. It's solidarity until one of us makes the other jealous or makes the other feel uncomfortable about our choices.

Yes, I do like children. I babysat from 12-28 as a primary form of earning money and I was really good at it. I adore my niece and nephew and can't wait to have more of those. I adore my friends' children. They are bright, cute, funny, and snuggly. I love buying and making them gifts. But I can walk away from them because they are not mine. Mommies are probably right that I "just don't know what I'm missing," but, really, I don't think I'm missing anything (I feel pretty complete...). In fact, I am so in love with my life the wonderful, strange, beautiful way that it is right now that I simply don't want to share, and I don't have to. Not to get too geeky here, but children are like little horcruxes: a mother loses a bit of herself (I won't go so far as to say she loses a bit of her soul each time, but she does lose something) each time she has another child, and she gets further and further from the woman she was. And she should. Children should change the trajectory; parents should change because of this. It is a necessary, and perhaps natural, form of self-preservation.

I likened the pregnancy thing and having children to an ocean liner trip: All these friends are buying tickets and climbing on board the ship, taking this wonderful, amazing, thrilling journey, and I am on shore waving them goodbye, crying, knowing that I am going to miss them. I have no desire to buy a ticket and board that ship. I may never want to buy that ticket. I may have a completely different journey in my future. So mothers, wave goodbye to me from the deck and I'll wish you well. I hope you do the same for me.

A Marking of Time & Lucky Things

Today is our 9th wedding anniversary. Scott, being ever so aware and thoughtful, gave me an orchid to brighten up my work space, brought me chocolates from Jaciva's and Thai food for dinner, and hid a gift certificate for an herbal body wrap under my pillow.

And what did I get for him? Nothing.

I got him nothing for our anniversary because I am simply not as good as he is. I forget. I tend to not be as sentimental, as touchy, as open with others as he is. He is truly my better half and has been for some time now.

I met Scott when I was just 18 and still in high school. I was job hunting and went further out of my way than I had planned to look for work. I ended up in a small CD Warehouse on a whim, looked through albums for a minute and asked for a job. Jason hired me on the spot, much to the frustrations of my male friends who wanted, and had applied for, that job.

I met Scott while training. I didn't like him. I was confused by him. He wore raver clothes, knew his music like no other, and drove a purple Camaro.  Before long, I began to run reports that I knew would take a while to process, just so he would have to stay late while I closed up the store. If we worked together, he always stayed with me.

One night I headed home only to notice the purple Camaro on much of my drive and pulled up next to it at a stoplight. I honked my horn, grinned my goofy grin, and waved, to which I received the same from him. Only his car didn't brake and he bumped into the car in front of him. It caught me so off guard that I sped away when the light turned green.


I had a boyfriend, I was dating other people, it didn't matter. I went on a date and convinced the guy I was out with that we needed to eat at TGIFridays and that we had to sit outside. My date talked at me and I watched Scott across the street closing up the store for the night. I found reasons to visit the store at odd hours or to drive by to see if the Camaro was parked out front.

I finally found the courage to ask Scott out. And I was stood up.

He had dental work done, took some painkillers, and fell asleep, only to sleep through the time to meet.

We went out one night and found ourselves in downtown Oklahoma City. We got caught in the late night park sprinklers and spent the next small eternity running through the water. Dripping wet and laughing, we eventually collapsed and lay there talking and watching the stars. I never wanted that moment to end.

Our time was short as I was headed off to college out of state in August. We met in February. I think this made the time that much sweeter since it was precious. If it worked, great. If not, we had a great time.


And now, here I am eleven years after all of this, and nine years into a marriage with him. He won my heart with, "You have a beautiful soul" and I have tried to live up to that every day since. I have dragged him around the country (four states in nine years), asked him to give up so much on my behalf. He left school and worked an awful job to put me through grad school. I know there were times when my family wondered what he was doing and that he wasn't "supporting" me the way he should, but he always was.


And so, here is my anniversary gift:

Scott, you have made me a better person than I ever could have thought I could be. You show me endless love and you love endlessly. You have given me my freedom and quelled my fears of being held down or tethered because you have never asked or expected anything other than what I can give and who I am.

You have held my hand through hard times, tough times, scary times. You have carried me when I could not. You have cheered me on. You encourage my crazy whims and indulge my strange hesitations. You listen to me, and I mean really listen to me. You laugh with me and lovingly at me. You see me better than I see myself.

I am ever so grateful for whatever brought me into that cd store that day. I am grateful for the long nights, the trips, the sacrifices, the hope, the love, the neverending patience, the wonderful giving and generous spirit, and the ability to call me back from the edge. 

I love that you are not committed to growing up and that you keep me from it. I don't want to grow up; I just want to grow old with you. You are the beautiful soul; the bright spot in my days.

You are my always and forever.

Happy anniversary, my love, my light.