On Flailing

What happens when someone who should properly be in a looney bin starts to tailspin? 

Excellent question. And one for which I have an answer because my mind is nothing if not currently spinning its tail...

This someone starts flailing.  And flailing is not necessarily a good thing.  Especially for me. 

I am generally a non-violent person.  I don't yell in anger, only in enthusiasm.  I don't hit anything unless it's called for in sport or game (kicking your foot up to love-tap someone in the bum does not, to my mind, count as violence).  I hate dodgeball. 

But then one of those spectacularly dizzying tailspins begin and I find that I want to smash every mirror, break every reflective surface; I want do dig my heels in somewhere, open my mouth and let out a wail to challenge banshee's.  I want to take all of this essential nonviolence and channel it into a vicious, uncomfortable show of rage.  I want to break bones and hearts and become the Fe Fi Fo Fum giant.  I want to lash out at the people who love me and I want to dive headlong into badness because I don't want to be me anymore.  I don't want to see me anymore.

None of this, however, is appropriate when you are staying in someone else's condo.  A word to the wise- it is generally considered impolite to break things that are not yours.

You can't shatter a world that doesn't belong to you.

So you (I) close your (my) eyes when you (I) brush your (my) teeth, you (I) don't look down in the shower because the crisis brought on by that vision is more than you (I) can bear; you (I) grind every inch of yourself (myself) back into place and plaster a smile on your (my) face.  You (I) drink out of plastic cups.

You (I) pray at the end of every day that the next will be better.  That you (I) will be better. 

And then you (I) wait. Because tailspins do not, in fact, go on forever.  They end eventually- either in a spectacularly dizzying crash, or a quiet slowing-down.

Until that happens, though, here's to plastic cups.

Sometimes My Emails Become My Blog Posts-

-Because I'm sometimes a better writer than even I expect, without even thinking it through.

Earlier today a good friend allowed me to preview something he wrote (he's far wiser than I and his writing proves it fairly consistently.  Although, to be fair, there are toddlers who are far wiser than I) and it started my gears turning.

In response, I sent him an email:

I find myself getting irrationally mad at people, lately.  

I find myself doing this because people are still treating me like I should have a fainting couch or something.  

First of all- I have never fainted, not once.  Passed out cold from lack of sleep during a way-too-long layover in Heathrow Airport, yes.  Fainted, no. 

I have these moments when I just want to start yelling at people- that it doesn't matter than I'm sick- it's MY SICKNESS TO HEAL AND IT'S MY FIGHT TO WIN (or lose as it were)- that it doesn't matter that I was frail for a little while, EVERYONE IS FRAIL AT SOME POINT! 

Again, probably not the response you were truly looking for, but a response nonetheless. I think your line about owning your scars brought it on.  I love my scars.  Each and every one of them, whether self induced (yep, got a couple of those) or from falling down stairs (more than a couple of those) or some other mischief.  I love them because they make me feel strong and they remind me of all the grand trouble into which I have gotten myself.  They are as important to me as my passport stamps. 

Does that make any sense whatsoever?

xo,

K

And in the end, I stand by my email.  I stand by it because Frustration, Loneliness, Fear, Irritation, and Clouded, Lousy Judgment are all a part of life.  And they are beautiful parts of life which reveal the grandeur and depth of the human psyche.  We are allowed to be frustrated, to feel lonely and scared, to find ourselves irritated- both at ourselves and at others.

It is the luxury of being spirited- having feeling.  And we can, and we should, feel all good things and all bad things.  And all things in between.

Until next time.

Two Outta Three Ain't Bad

Once upon a time the first boy who, I think, really ever loved me, asked what I wanted in life.  He was my college boyfriend- my first boyfriend, actually- but not yet when he asked.

When I recall this moment in time, I am often surprised that he pursued me after I paused… and then answered:

"All I want in life is a dog, a jeep, and a house on a cliff by the sea."

All my 20-year-old self wanted in life was a dog, a jeep, and a house on a cliff by the sea.  She did not care about much else.

I wonder sometimes that he did not see the far-away look in my eyes.  Already half a world away, the thought of a simple, graceful life set me light years away from him and from me, from that moment- in the cool evening of North Carolina fall.

I look back on that moment at this moment and think 'well hell- I've got the dog and the jeep.'  And two outta three ain't bad.  And it's nearly three out of three these days because the present Kate would amend that all she wants in life is a dog, a jeep, and a house in the mountains.

New Hampshire is nothing if not mountainous.

These past few days, my first real days has a resident of New England, have proved challenging.  What housing I can afford won't take dogs, what housing I can't… merrily welcomes animals and pets of all nature.  Apartments that are too far away to be realistic and places that are too close to be truly available.

And on top of that, it's still winter in New England- in late March.  Which means Mud Season is yet to come.  Which means both said jeep and said dog are going to be filthy for a good long while.  The jeep does not matter so much, but the dog gets some kick out of jumping on me.  Which means I am going to be filthy for a good long while.

But I still have my boy.  And the jeep is still kicking it.  And the snow, for now, is still bright and beautiful and deliciously deep.

And at the end of the day, it does not matter how dirty, how frustrating, how disconcerting this move proves…

It matters that I am here.

Much love, Friends and Family, and more to come.

Mark It

My life is a carefully measured cocktail of nonsense.

And for the next year, it is going to be an exceptionally well-chilled cocktail.

After many moons of holding back and bolting forward and globe trotting (just because), I am finally making the move north to my beloved New Hampshire.

To be clear- I have been warned: not once, twice, nor thrice, but on more occasions than I can count.  I have been warned that I am being over sentimental and nostalgic.  I have been warned that I am moving at the wrong time for the wrong reasons.  I have been warned that I will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, freeze to death.  Or, at the very least, lose my circulatorily (I did make up that word, yes) delicate digitalia to the cold.

I have been warned.

And yet, here I go.

But I go with a promise to myself (and those of you who follow this blog with some faith know how I feel about making and breaking promises to myself)- a promise that I will give it one year.  Stick it out for exactly one year.  If, after one year, all has gone to hell, then I get to flee back south with tail proudly NOT tucked between legs.  I get to flee to warm weather and four solid seasons.

If, however, I can stick it and NOT freeze, loose fingers or toes, die, etc… I might just try to make it work.

So that's it, kiddos.

Mark it.

My year begins on March 23, 2014.

Yet Another Conversation...

Mom asked me an interesting question the other day while discussing my impending move to New England, the support network I am building for myself there and what to have for lunch:

"Can they handle this ['this' being disordered illness]?"

I paused before responding (which I think shows just how far I've come- both the pregnant pause and the carefully pondered answer) "No one handles it except for those of us with it.  And the only people who can handle us are the ones who love beyond loving us."

To which she replied… "you're not wrong."

I love perfect use of pseudo-double negatives.

More soon, my Dearest of Dear Hearts.

I Am

Annoying
Brutal (sometimes Broken)
Cunning, Coy, Careless, Careful, Calamitous, Chameleon
Diseased
Eloquent, Essential
Fearless, Fearful, Full of It
Grateful
Healing, Hating, Hurricane-like in my Power of Destruction
Inquisitive
Just Shy of Dead (Once Upon a Time), Jealous
Kathrine Seyfried
Lucky to be Loved
Malicious
Nervous and Neurotic and Not a Little Nuts
Obsessed
Powerless and Powerful- Proud
Questioning
Raging
Simultaneously Sinner and Saint and Something in Between
The friend you have who often causes you to roll your eyes
Usually Useless
Vagabond
Weathered
X-many things to X-many people
Young, Yours
Zealous

And that's just the beginning.

The L Word(s)

As I considered an obsessions List for February, I realized (and just now realized this is Valentine's Day month.. how apropos for the title) that so many of my current Loves feature significantly the Letter 'L'.  Seriously, it's a bit weird.  

Let me start with four musical obsessions on the agenda this month.  

Labrinth.  Love this dude.  He has not yet released a full album but what he has released is deliciously contagious and perfectly danceable.  Check out Earthquake.  Trust me. It is the song that first turned me onto him.  

London Grammar.  Okay.  They are drama, and they are pop-y and ridiculous and so melodramatic it almost makes my teeth hurt.  But Sights…. Boundlessly beautiful.  And this gal can SING.

Lorde.  Yes, once again I am Late to the game on that one.  Her music is fun and funky and youthful.  Hello pop-music gladiator (yes, I am slightly obsessed with that Lingo Lately- as exhibited by my previous post), nice to meet you.  And Listen to you. 

Finally, I give you Bastille.  Yes I realize that his name does not start with an L.  It does, however, have the double L going on.  Plus, it is his song Laughter Lines that does something to my soul. This song is beautiful and epic and Lovely to the point of pain.  It is a song about aging and aging again, and remembering, remeeting, revolving around one-another; and the way in which love grows even as we grow up, grow old, together or apart.  I Love it. 

Moving on to other obsessions: this poem blows my mind.  A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day.  There's that pesky L again.  Lucy.  Love. 

Language.  Language is the skeleton key.  It is culture and belief and insight; Language is experience. And I want to Learn them all.  I may be setting myself up for failure, but I need to know! 

That's all for now, I think.  

Until next time.  L all around. 

Winner-Take-All

I cannot tell you why one hates oneself.  But I can tell you how.

Or rather, I can at tell you how this one specific self practices hate.

It starts with a mirror and ends with a gladiatorial battle of the wills (and in my own defense, this is not nearly as vanity driven as a mirror would have you believe).  Gladiatorial.

Because what I see in the mirror is not a person.  What I see in the mirror is a conglomeration- the gathering point of all bad things.  It begins as a person but then, with fracturing subtlety, mutates into a living list of all my faults.  Every horrible thought I have about myself becomes a limb; a strand of hair; an eyelash; a sinew.  My bones become coated with suffusive badness- the infrastructure of disease; the infrastructure to a demon.  Humanity subsides to said disease and demon.  And that demon is a bloody gladiator.

How do you hate yourself?  How do I hate myself?  With boldness and with boundless control; with vigor.  You break your heart, you break your soul, you break your spirit. And then you lose your mind trying to put them all back together with some semblance of grace and goodness.  And for every ferocious inch that you fight, that demon inside of you will laugh and take two back, if not three.  The demon that my body becomes in the mirror has won equally as many battles as I have.

I say equally as many because I am still here.  I struggle every single day and I fight every single day.  But I am still here.  For whatever reason, this damaged brain and brutalized heart, soul, and spirit have decided they, too are gladiators.

I suppose I am writing this because I have to fight.  And sometimes the writing is the only fighting I can do.

Until Next Time..

Charlotte to Logan

I love the unique social experiment of airport travel.

I love that wine bars open at 8:30AM and that the local tequilaria pours its first margaritas at 9... in the morning.  Tequila, afterall, makes the world go 'round.  And planes go up.

I love the lines at Starbucks; the women (guilty) who block bathroom mirrors at either end of their trips for the sole purpose of primping, pampering, and preparing.

I love the unusual dexterity and spectacular acrobatics born of dodging errant suitcases and overloaded carry-ons.

I love the Eastern European woman who cleans the bathroom and hawks compliments for tips- "Hello Pretty Lady," "So beautiful, Pretty Lady."

I love the inevitable mad dash from Gate X to Gate Y to make the connecting flight to Padukah, KY, and the Asian super-punk on the same flight (on every flight, really) for who-knows-what-reason.

I love the ideas of arrivals and departures- what better way to consider life?  Comings and goings.

I love the security agents- I always attempt to be inappropriately cordial to them.  They don't know what to make of unexpected niceness.

I love the people who drive the handicap trolley.  They are always so jolly.

I love that everyone watches everyone else and eavesdropping is proudly committed by all.

I love the anticipation.  And at the risk of sounding like a tag line from Love Actually, I love the anticipation most of all.

It is a triumphant thing- to see the giddiness on the faces of fellow travelers- the impatience to get where they are going to do what they will do and see who they will see.  What a beautiful image of fulfillment.

Everyone has a story.  And nowhere is that more obvious, nowhere are those stories more present, than in the airport.

A Living Canvas

Someone, today, posed the following question:

"While we're doing 'why's', why do you paint on your body."

And so I pondered.

Why do I get tattoos?

It began with a tiny red Sanskrit symbol on my foot- the symbol of OM, the universal vibration.  I wanted it for a specific reason.  I wanted a permanent reminder to myself that I am worth it.  That I am worth life, that I deserve to be amongst the living.  More than anything else, I wanted to see something profound on this body that I have (and had) so abused for so long.  OM, to me is grace.  I put the symbol on my foot so that I could be permanently grounded in grace.

Unfortunately that tattoo is an epic fail.  That's not to say that the theories behind it failed.  Or that I want to fall off the face of the earth without a trace left behind (albeit… sometimes these are both true).  It failed because I was about 89 pounds when I got it, frail and sick, and my body simply did not have the physical capacity to heal itself.  So now it looks like a brand or a scar more than anything else.  Which, I suppose, is fitting in its own way.

Here is what I wrote back to my someone with his question:

I paint on my body because it gives me pride in my body (in a very vain sense, it does make me feel a little beautiful, which is not to say that I think I am… but you know…).  It gives me a sense of wonder and love for this vessel- that it can be used as a canvas and it has such lovely potential to silently and beautifully project belief and art.  I have a flying witch and dancing witches.  Flight and dancing, movement and joy and REMEMBER KATE, YOU ARE STILL WORTH IT.  I feel like my tattoos are little celebrations of alive-ness.  I have the stag entwined on my ribs (that one… oh man, so beautiful and so much meaning behind it), runic text and symbols running down my forearms.  I see them and I feel present. And a part of something bigger than my own little self.
Does any of that make sense?

The Beginning of the Stag
Entwined. 

I guess the point that I tried to convey is that since beginning to get tattoos, my body has become something other than a body.  It is a living canvas, a breathing work of art.  Under the watchful eye and steady hand of Lee Greene, tattoo artist extraordinaire, I am a moveable gallery.  It is beautiful to behold these masterpieces on my self.

And I want people to know that I believe in grace.  That I am a witch, and an alchemical air symbol, and I love flight and dance and all things that are good.

Until Next Time, my Dearest Darlings.

Ps. I do have an upcoming consultation with Lee.  Little does he know...