I knew that. I told you that.

A new study shows that the full moon causes sleep problems. Really? You don't say... Here's the CNN article.

It doesn't pay much

There isn't much money in my savings account--almost nothing, really. If I offer it to you as payment to kill me, would you do it? I don't know you, you don't know me...

I know the most interesting, dynamic, strong, fascinating, creative, successful women. I am not one of them. It pains me that I can't be more, or at least more like them.

Failure doesn't make me sad. Mediocrity doesn't inspire me to work harder. It's only what I am capable of, and that's my reality. Wa-wa-wa...I can't even write my own blog anymore.

So, if I pay you, will you end my sad existence? I should mention I don't actually have any money because my debts outweigh my savings. But you come here, you check in, you're interested in what I have to say, so maybe you care enough to help a sister out? I mean really out?

No? OK. I will keep shuffling on, but please don't expect any actual results.

2008

I stepped away from my blog for awhile. I'm sure you noticed.

This week, I've been rereading 2008. I don't remember writing most of those posts, so when I revisit them, it feels like I'm peering into someone else's life.

Those posts are incredibly well written, funny, insightful, and painfully deep. Where did those thoughts come from? Why can't I write like that anymore?

Today I reread the post about Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath (45 Mercy Street). What part of my brain put these words together so beautifully? I feel I should clarify. I still think that way; I just can't write it down that way.

Stick with me. It's probably all going to come back.

Miscellaneous trivia

Things you probably don't know about me:

• I don't drink milk.
• I don't drink anything carbonated. Ever.
• I don't chew gum. Ever.
• I can't make it through the National Anthem without crying.
• I'm a terrible farmer but a halfway decent gardener.
• I don't take very good care of my car.
• I don't take very good care of myself anymore.
• I have some suicide-related thought every day. Not necessarily my own.
• I work my liver a little too hard.
• I'm allergic to cold.
• I can fly a hot air balloon.
• I rarely sleep more than four hours a night. This is a problem.
• I was engaged in my twenties. It didn't work out.
• I have eight email accounts and four Twitter accounts.
• I believe I am wholly unloved.
• I think cilantro tastes like soap.
• I only dust the furniture in my house three or four times a year. I mop the floors less frequently.
• People think I'm smart, but I'm actually kind of stupid.
• I have a cabinet full of an exit strategy.
• I once almost moved to Portland, Oregon site unseen.

I'm tired

Throughout the history of this blog, I've written about my inability to sleep. My insomnia comes and goes, but never really goes away. It's frustrating. It's depressing.

I can fall asleep, but I'm usually awake within four hours. After that, I never really fall back into a sleep of any meaningful quality. I've read that this is not a physical problem; it's a mental illness.

How can someone who is so tired be so unable to do anything about it?

I have a lot going on and really, this is the least of it, yet, this is what is foremost on my mind.

I'm so tired.

I'm also depressed, but that, I think, is just my lot in life and the way my brain is wired. It's unlikely this situation will change, and I can accept that.

You know what I want? I want to sleep. Once I'm rested, I want money. I don't want to work any more. I don't want to be around people any more. I really don't want to work any more. I want to stay home, sit on my patio, read, make jewelry, sew interesting bags, travel, write, tweet, read some more, and then get all the sleep I need.

Mostly, I don't want to work any more. And I really want to sleep.

Whatever

I had a birthday on Sunday and I didn't really notice. That's OK. When I started this blog, I never thought I'd still be around at this point to even note a birthday.

There was cake.

Allie nailed it

By Allie Brosh, Hyperbole and a Half

One of the blogs I follow is Hyperbole and a Half, written by Allie Brosh. A lot of what Allie writes and draws is laugh-out-loud funny. Some is just puzzling. I always thought Allie came off as having a touch of the bipolar, but maybe she's just like me--prone to highs and lows, but not those highs and lows.

Hyperbole and a Half disappeared for a while. A long while. Before Allie disappeared, though, she created a post about the depression she was experiencing at the time. It was raw and honest, and sounded very familiar. She nailed it, really. The self-loathing, the inexplicable lack of energy and focus, the discouraging self-talk, all of it.

Last night, a tweet came across my Twitter feed indicating Ms. Brosh was ready to get her followers caught up with her latest chapter. It was worth the wait.

Allie wrote about how it feels to be depressed and frustrated about being depressed, and her take on that is painfully spot-on accurate. What really blew me away, though, was her description of how non-depressed people respond to someone who is going through that particular hell--and how they just don't get it. This, to me, was the brilliant part of her post. It was perfectly perfect.

I reread the whole thing three times. The pictures are, well, you just have to see those for yourself.  What I came away with was this: In two blog posts, Allie Brosh managed to articulate almost everything I have tried to express here over more than five years and hundreds of posts. There's no need for me to write about that aspect of myself ever again. I'll just refer people to what Allie created.

You should take a look.
Depression, Part 1 (October 2011)
Depression, Part 2 (April 2013)

It's the full moon

It's late. I want to sleep, but my brain is keeping me awake. Whenever I have a sleepless night like this, at some point I give up on sleep and get out of bed. I always stop and look out the back window to check the moon's status. Tonight, it's full. Of course. What is it with me and the full moon?

I'm so tired, but not sleepy. I worked out every day this week. I've earned a good night's sleep, haven't I? Wouldn't it be great if we could occasionally get a tune-up of the prefrontal cortex and the amygdala?

The stories I hear

I know I've been quiet lately--I've been making new friends and indulging my ADD on Twitter. That being said, I miss blogging and think about my blog every day. There are still a lot of thoughts in my head that need to be explored and put into some sort of order. I'm working on that.

In the meantime, I want to share something that has been making the rounds in my world of refugee resettlement. UNHCR asks the question, if you had to flee your country, what would you take with you? Why? I actually explore this question with the people who attend my seminars and presentations. What you think you would take is probably not what you'd end up with at all.

When I first looked at this slide show and read the stories that accompany the pictures, I broke down and cried. The reaction surprised me because I hear stories like this--first person accounts of loss and survival--on a regular basis. Only the names and locations have changed.

I encourage you to take the 15 minutes you'll need to look at these pictures and read the accompanying stories. Working with people like those profiled here is the core of my life's meaning. It's the reason I haven't killed myself, and it's the reason I get up on the days I don't want to. I try not to indulge that dark side of myself because I believe I have something to offer to those who who are in far worse circumstances than I have ever experienced.

I'm not sure if this will help you understand me better or not, but these people are exactly the kind of people I try to help every day. I can't change anything that happened to them, but I can help guide them as they try to navigate a new chapter to what has often been a heartbreaking story.

The most important thing
"What would you bring with you if you had to flee your home and escape to another country? This is the second part of an ongoing project that asks refugees from different parts of the world, “What is the most important thing you brought from home?” The first installment focused on refugees fleeing from Sudan to South Sudan, who openly carried pots, water containers and other objects to sustain them along the road.

By contrast, people seeking sanctuary from the conflict in Syria must typically conceal their intentions by appearing as though they are out for a family stroll or a Sunday drive as they make their way towards the border."

http://www.flickr.com/photos/unhcr/sets/72157632821759954/

Oh, that again

Whenever my stress gets high and my mood gets low, I get flare-ups of shingles pain. Almost five years after the initial episode, I struggle to accept this is something I'll be dealing with for the rest of my life.

I can't figure out if I have a very inefficient immune system or if my central nervous system is so sensitive that any prolonged stress triggers a shingles response.

May is not a happy girl.

Evolution

I need a new job. I've outgrown the one I have and it's choking me. It's cutting off my psychological circulation.

Time to go, but where? That's the question I can't answer. I think I may be finished with helping people for a living, though.

I'm tapped out.

I may be ready to call it quits all around. I've been treading water, and I'm tired. Just so tired.

And irrelevant.

I'm sad

I'm sad, I'm sad, I'm sad, I'm sad, I'm sad...

I think all the time I've been spending on Twitter has eliminated my ability to write or express myself articulately. Boo to that, right?

That being said, I don't need to write a long essay. I feel like crap. Change is hard. I'm lonely. I want to die.

OK, then, I think that about sums it up.