I just read an article in The Atlantic that discusses this behavior and some of the explanations related to it. I recommend it. The article is insightful--and validating.
Why We Cry on Planes by Elijah Wolfson, The Atlantic
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
I thought it was just me
I just read an article in The Atlantic that discusses this behavior and some of the explanations related to it. I recommend it. The article is insightful--and validating.
Why We Cry on Planes by Elijah Wolfson, The Atlantic
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Greetings from Pinellas Park
My mother had total knee replacement surgery last Wednesday. I've been here in St. Petersburg since last Tuesday. I don't go home until Saturday, but, holy fuck, I am exhausted.
My mother's house is a wreck. It's not that she can't take care of herself. She has always been a bad housekeeper, but when she became enmeshed in chronic pain, the clutter, dirt, and lack of maintenance became borderline hazardous.
The Home Depot near 22nd Ave. and 28th St. N. is like my home away from home away from home. I've been there a lot in the last week, and I know I'll be back before the week is over. I've also been to the Walmart on Park, a place I despise. My mom is currently in Edward White Hospital (which I keep calling Walter White Hospital) not working very hard at all on her rehabilitation. I leave on Saturday, Mom, step it up.
I am not an only child, but my life plays out as if I were. My brothers want nothing to do with this situation. If you've been following along on this blog, you know that this is the third surgery I've helped my mom through in the last five years. My brothers have been AWOL. After the first surgery--which I took off from work for without pay--my mom invited my niece to come visit and showed her the town. Me? I got to change the kitty litter and clean up vomit and find my own ride to the airport.
My family does not take me seriously. They see me as being someone whose job does not matter and whose personal life is irrelevant. This pisses me off. I'm hoping my younger brother can come and take over for me since I'm definitely leaving on Saturday. I guarantee that if he does come down, my mother will laud him to everyone she knows, talking about how her son cleared his schedule to take care of her. Me? Well, that doesn't deserve mention. Everyone in my family just expects me to be available and step in when needed.
I resent this.
I need a massage. I need my husband next to me in bed. I need some help getting this disaster-area of a house into habitable condition. God, it's a pigsty.
I had some really good things I wanted to say in this blog post, but I'm on my third glass of wine, so the words are now muddled. Fuck it.
Here's a picture of the dryer vent tube at my mom's house. I thought I could smell the dryer exhaust every time I did laundry, and this is why. My mother never noticed any such thing. this pretty much sums up what my week has entailed.
I hate Florida. Lizards, snakes, toad, roaches, rust, rot, blech.
My mother's house is a wreck. It's not that she can't take care of herself. She has always been a bad housekeeper, but when she became enmeshed in chronic pain, the clutter, dirt, and lack of maintenance became borderline hazardous.
The Home Depot near 22nd Ave. and 28th St. N. is like my home away from home away from home. I've been there a lot in the last week, and I know I'll be back before the week is over. I've also been to the Walmart on Park, a place I despise. My mom is currently in Edward White Hospital (which I keep calling Walter White Hospital) not working very hard at all on her rehabilitation. I leave on Saturday, Mom, step it up.
I am not an only child, but my life plays out as if I were. My brothers want nothing to do with this situation. If you've been following along on this blog, you know that this is the third surgery I've helped my mom through in the last five years. My brothers have been AWOL. After the first surgery--which I took off from work for without pay--my mom invited my niece to come visit and showed her the town. Me? I got to change the kitty litter and clean up vomit and find my own ride to the airport.
My family does not take me seriously. They see me as being someone whose job does not matter and whose personal life is irrelevant. This pisses me off. I'm hoping my younger brother can come and take over for me since I'm definitely leaving on Saturday. I guarantee that if he does come down, my mother will laud him to everyone she knows, talking about how her son cleared his schedule to take care of her. Me? Well, that doesn't deserve mention. Everyone in my family just expects me to be available and step in when needed.
I resent this.
I need a massage. I need my husband next to me in bed. I need some help getting this disaster-area of a house into habitable condition. God, it's a pigsty.
I had some really good things I wanted to say in this blog post, but I'm on my third glass of wine, so the words are now muddled. Fuck it.
Here's a picture of the dryer vent tube at my mom's house. I thought I could smell the dryer exhaust every time I did laundry, and this is why. My mother never noticed any such thing. this pretty much sums up what my week has entailed.
I hate Florida. Lizards, snakes, toad, roaches, rust, rot, blech.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Blogging on a plane…again.
A stream-of-consciousness post that is only a little about 9/11, my mother, or travel...
So, it turns out that Frontier Airlines now offers half-bottles of wine. Since I’m about to spend eleven days helping my mom after surgery—once again—I thought I would treat myself to this. It’s unlikely I’ll be able to drink when I’m in Florida, as I’ll have to be able to drive at a moment’s notice. At the moment, I’m very carefully timing my wine consumption so as not to finish while there’s still a lot of flying left to do, but not leaving myself in the position of having to swig down a lot of remaining wine at the last minute, either.
The light outside is rapidly dimming as we fly from west to east, into what is already night on the Gulf Coast. The sky below is a blanket of clouds with the occasional columnar formation that is probably pounding a thunderstorm on the land below.
I could sit here and post something about how resentful I am that my mother demands my presence in these situations, or how much I despise myself for always giving in, or how I know I’ll spend at least five days cleaning a house that likely hasn’t seen any housekeeping since I last took on the challenge in January, or what a truly entitled, ungrateful, and demanding patient my mother is.
I don’t need to write about any of that because I’ve done it all before.
We may be flying over the Gulf now, but in the dusk, all I can see is an endless stretch of slate blue. In a few minutes, there will be no way to differentiate between up here and down there. It’s a great metaphor for how I feel much of the time.
Sometimes I think I want to tell you my name. Not my pen name, but my real name. I‘ve never liked my name very much, but it’s still mine and an important part of my identity. I try to share this concept with the refugees when I struggle to pronounce their names. When I ask, “Did I say it right?” it’s not unusual for someone to say, “No, but it’s OK. You can call me that.” That’s when I say, “No. It’s not OK. This is your name. You’ve come here with little else, and the least we can do here is get your name right.”
I still can’t sleep. Maybe that should have been the theme of this blog all along: May’s Insomnia. If anything, the situation has only gotten worse. On a good night, I get six hours of sleep, but never six hours in a row. I should be psychotic by now. Instead, I’m gaining weight and losing mood points. Always losing mood points.
My wine is almost finished, but there’s still an hour of flight time left. My alcohol consumption is outpacing this fine Boeing aircraft. Maybe it’s an Airbus. I didn’t really pay attention during the safety briefing.
OK, here’s something I’ve never told anyone. I always buy a cocktail on the plane, regardless of the time of day. I also always eat a two-pack of Resses’s Peanut Butter Cups. It’s my ritual. The ritual seems even more necessary tonight, when it’s September 10, just a day before September 11. I allow myself these treats when I fly because I don’t take commercial flight for granted.
When those planes crashed on September 11, my parents called me that night. They had never really embraced my change of profession from cable corporate superstar to social worker for the refugee population, but on that night my mother said, “We’re just so relieved you aren’t traveling constantly for work anymore. That could have been you. How many times have you flown out of Boston or toward DC, or over Pennsylvania? It so easily could have been you.”
Until she said that, I had not personalized the tragedy. She was right, though. I used to travel on a near-weekly basis when I was a corporate soldier. Ever since then, I have made a point to enjoy—truly enjoy—a cocktail on every flight, regardless of the hour, and to savor my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, a true indulgence. If my plane ever goes down, damn it, I will go down having tasted pleasure and appreciated it on my tongue.
I usually fly Southwest. It was a bit of a jolt to get settled in and realize that Frontier doesn’t have onboard Wi-Fi. What the fuck? I’m composing this post in MS Word and I’ll upload it later. Still…Seriously, Frontier?
If they had WiFi, I’d have been on Twitter the whole time. Instead, I’m trapped here with a head full of thoughts because although I’m willing to pay $14 for a half-bottle of cheap chardonnay, I am too cheap to pay $5.99 for onboard television. It’s possible I’m trying to prove to myself that although I may have an alcohol addiction, I can still say no to television, goddamnit.
I tweet under my own name, or at least, something so close to it, there’s no actual masking my identity. About 100 people follow me on Twitter, and I’ve never figured that out, really. I only know six or seven of them. The rest? Who knows.
Are we there yet, are we there yet, arewethereyetarewethereyet?
No. We are not.
I wish I could sleep. I wish I could feel better about going to Florida. I wish a lot of things.
OK then. I am officially out of alcohol and attention span, but not flight time. Sigh.
There is one more thing I do when I fly, and it just occurred to me to share that, too. In the last 15 minutes of the flight, just before they tell you to turn off your electronic devices, I watch a video on my laptop. Yes, a video. It’s just as good and important as the cocktail and peanut butter cups. I watch the 2008 Matt Harding dancing video. It’s necessary.
I’ll try to write again tomorrow. I’ll be spending the day at Bayfront Hospital. See you then.
So, it turns out that Frontier Airlines now offers half-bottles of wine. Since I’m about to spend eleven days helping my mom after surgery—once again—I thought I would treat myself to this. It’s unlikely I’ll be able to drink when I’m in Florida, as I’ll have to be able to drive at a moment’s notice. At the moment, I’m very carefully timing my wine consumption so as not to finish while there’s still a lot of flying left to do, but not leaving myself in the position of having to swig down a lot of remaining wine at the last minute, either.
I could sit here and post something about how resentful I am that my mother demands my presence in these situations, or how much I despise myself for always giving in, or how I know I’ll spend at least five days cleaning a house that likely hasn’t seen any housekeeping since I last took on the challenge in January, or what a truly entitled, ungrateful, and demanding patient my mother is.
I don’t need to write about any of that because I’ve done it all before.
We may be flying over the Gulf now, but in the dusk, all I can see is an endless stretch of slate blue. In a few minutes, there will be no way to differentiate between up here and down there. It’s a great metaphor for how I feel much of the time.
Sometimes I think I want to tell you my name. Not my pen name, but my real name. I‘ve never liked my name very much, but it’s still mine and an important part of my identity. I try to share this concept with the refugees when I struggle to pronounce their names. When I ask, “Did I say it right?” it’s not unusual for someone to say, “No, but it’s OK. You can call me that.” That’s when I say, “No. It’s not OK. This is your name. You’ve come here with little else, and the least we can do here is get your name right.”
I still can’t sleep. Maybe that should have been the theme of this blog all along: May’s Insomnia. If anything, the situation has only gotten worse. On a good night, I get six hours of sleep, but never six hours in a row. I should be psychotic by now. Instead, I’m gaining weight and losing mood points. Always losing mood points.
My wine is almost finished, but there’s still an hour of flight time left. My alcohol consumption is outpacing this fine Boeing aircraft. Maybe it’s an Airbus. I didn’t really pay attention during the safety briefing.
OK, here’s something I’ve never told anyone. I always buy a cocktail on the plane, regardless of the time of day. I also always eat a two-pack of Resses’s Peanut Butter Cups. It’s my ritual. The ritual seems even more necessary tonight, when it’s September 10, just a day before September 11. I allow myself these treats when I fly because I don’t take commercial flight for granted.
When those planes crashed on September 11, my parents called me that night. They had never really embraced my change of profession from cable corporate superstar to social worker for the refugee population, but on that night my mother said, “We’re just so relieved you aren’t traveling constantly for work anymore. That could have been you. How many times have you flown out of Boston or toward DC, or over Pennsylvania? It so easily could have been you.”
Until she said that, I had not personalized the tragedy. She was right, though. I used to travel on a near-weekly basis when I was a corporate soldier. Ever since then, I have made a point to enjoy—truly enjoy—a cocktail on every flight, regardless of the hour, and to savor my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, a true indulgence. If my plane ever goes down, damn it, I will go down having tasted pleasure and appreciated it on my tongue.
I usually fly Southwest. It was a bit of a jolt to get settled in and realize that Frontier doesn’t have onboard Wi-Fi. What the fuck? I’m composing this post in MS Word and I’ll upload it later. Still…Seriously, Frontier?
If they had WiFi, I’d have been on Twitter the whole time. Instead, I’m trapped here with a head full of thoughts because although I’m willing to pay $14 for a half-bottle of cheap chardonnay, I am too cheap to pay $5.99 for onboard television. It’s possible I’m trying to prove to myself that although I may have an alcohol addiction, I can still say no to television, goddamnit.
I tweet under my own name, or at least, something so close to it, there’s no actual masking my identity. About 100 people follow me on Twitter, and I’ve never figured that out, really. I only know six or seven of them. The rest? Who knows.
Are we there yet, are we there yet, arewethereyetarewethereyet?
No. We are not.
I wish I could sleep. I wish I could feel better about going to Florida. I wish a lot of things.
OK then. I am officially out of alcohol and attention span, but not flight time. Sigh.
There is one more thing I do when I fly, and it just occurred to me to share that, too. In the last 15 minutes of the flight, just before they tell you to turn off your electronic devices, I watch a video on my laptop. Yes, a video. It’s just as good and important as the cocktail and peanut butter cups. I watch the 2008 Matt Harding dancing video. It’s necessary.
I’ll try to write again tomorrow. I’ll be spending the day at Bayfront Hospital. See you then.
Friday, July 26, 2013
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.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
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.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
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.
There was cake.
Allie nailed it
 |
| By Allie Brosh, Hyperbole and a Half |
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)
Friday, March 29, 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?
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?
Thursday, March 7, 2013
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/
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/
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