Words in, no words out

Every day, I compose blog posts in my head, usually while I'm driving. By the time I get to work, the thoughts are in the ether. The return commute finds me too exhausted to sit and write. Write, write, write, May. Do it.

Instead, I've been reading. I also play a lot of Scrabble on the Nook. Among other things, I recently read all three books in the "Hunger Games" series in a week. I read "Wicked." I've been reading magazines--"The Atlantic" and "The Economist," mostly.

But I haven't been writing. Bear with me, I think it's all going to change soon.

New year, same me

It has been quiet around here. It has not been quiet in my head because the words are staying there, running through patterns and sentences, forming complicated thoughts that no one will hear because the thoughts remain unspoken.

There are two reasons for this. First, I am not a person that other people choose to talk to. I think about this a lot. Maybe I talk too much, or I talk about the wrong things, or I say the wrong things, or I don't seem sufficiently engaged in the conversation, or I ask too many questions or just the wrong questions. I can't really say why I live in mental and social isolation. If I knew, I would change it. For now I assume that I am not the person anyone seeks out for meaningful, worthwhile, or interesting exchanges.

The second reason the thoughts stay in my head is I believe it is futile to try to lay out the ideas. Nobody cares. Nobody is listening. What's the point? Eventually, everyone drifts away, and no matter how satisfying the time spent together was, eventually, the time comes when once again it's just me and the head full of thoughts.

I realize that self-esteem is not what I do best, but I think that in order to have good self-esteem, one needs to have more to work with than I do. I've been an unpopular dork my entire life because I lack the looks, social skills, and savvy required to be better than this. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. This is simply reality. Certainly, there are people who are exactly like me but who shrug their shoulders and act like it doesn't matter. I've tried that. It's an exhausting, sisyphean task with an outcome that never varies.

As the new year rolled in, I contemplated making resolutions. Lately, I limit all aspirations to no more than 15 minutes of commitment at one time. Anything more than that feels overwhelming. Anyone can stick to something for 15 minutes, right? In the end, I resolved not to aspire to anything in 2012. I'll feel too defeated if I don't succeed. I've had enough of that.

I wonder if there's ever an age when I won't care who likes me, what I weigh, or what I look like. Yesterday I was working my way through my current skin regimen of cleansers and peptides, serums and exfoliants, and I tried to imagine the youthful glow that would eventually result. Then I realized I wasn't trying to wash away the visible signs of aging so much as I was trying to scrub away the homeliness. Another sisyphean task I've been toiling at for over 40 years.

Lately the personal parts of my days have been spent doing routine activities: Folding socks, reading advice columns, watching TV (a lot of TV), playing Scrabble and Angry Birds on my Nook tablet, paying bills, cooking, running errands, and watching even more TV. Sometimes I read. Usually I don't read, though. I try not to put more thoughts into my head.

I think I have officially started to abandon any sustained efforts at self-improvement. There is simply no payoff.

To be clear: I'm not depressed. I realize it probably sounds like I am, but I'm not. Then again, I don't experience happiness, although I have put in a fair amount of attempts at choosing joy. I never found joy. Occasionally amusement, but certainly not joy. Not for lack of trying. Frankly, I'm tired of trying for any emotion. In 2012, I'd like my emotions to be more spontaneous and organic.

I'd also like to stop being so fucking invisible.

Enter, stage right.

I'm here, I'm back, and I have a lot to say. Well, tomorrow. For the moment, I'm trying to give my husband the gift of a clean and tidy house, but I'm three sheets to the wind (in the holiday spirit), so really, not tonight.

In the meantime, please stay up late and enjoy one of my absolutely favorite things tonight: Darlene Love's annual performance on Letterman. Also, you can see a mashup of all of her performances to date by clicking here. Sorry, there's no way to embed it and you'll have to endure a commercial first.

Until Christmas Eve...

Not really gone

I'll be back very soon. Stay tuned.

Welcome, guest

If you come to visit me, it is likely you will be reasonably comfortable. If you come to stay in my home, I will have a place for you--an actual bedroom dedicated to the purpose of giving my guests a space of their own for as long they need it.

You'll have your own room. It's small and we still haven't painted it, but it will be clean: dusted, vacuumed, and mopped. You will sleep on a bed. It's not an old bed passed down, worn out, and then relegated to the guest room. No, it was purchased new for the guest room, it's a queen size, and it sports a firm pillow-top mattress, soft 100-percent cotton sheets, a fluffy comforter, and, unless you kick him out (feel free), a large, grumpy tabby cat. You will have plenty of pillows of varying density and fluffiness. These are no lumpy, flattened, old cast-off pillows. They are hypoallergenic, new, and intended to help foster a good night's sleep--and there are lots of them.

You will not have to live out of your suitcase. There is a dresser--completely empty--and most of a closet with more hangers than you're likely to need. Line up your shoes on the closet floor. There's plenty of room.

I will not expect you to bring a travel alarm clock or to use your phone for this purpose. No, you'll find a stylish Sony clock-radio on the bedside table, next to the fresh box of Kleenex and the TV remote.

Yes, you have your own TV. It's connected to cable and it has a nice sleep-timer feature. If you prefer to read, you'll find a stack of current magazines at the foot of the bed, along with crossword puzzle books and a sharpened pencil. Should you need them, there are disposable earplugs in the nightstand drawer.
If you stay at my house, you won't be tossing and turning on a rock-hard futon that you had to wrestle into the bed position. You won't have to climb over storage boxes, craft supplies, or a dusty treadmill. You will, however, have to share a bathroom. There's nothing we can do about that until we save up the $10,000 it will cost to gut the half-bath connected to the master bedroom and turn it into a bathroom with a shower.

If you forget your toothbrush or any toiletries, don't worry; I'll have whatever you need. I'll show you the extra pillows and blankets in the guest room closet, and I'll put a nightlight in the bathroom so you don't have to fumble there in the dark. You'll have fluffy towels, and I'll show you where to find more towels and washcloths if you need them.

I'll make sure that your favorite morning beverage is on hand, and you'll have access to a healthy breakfast.

I will not ask you to strip the bed or even make it up. Don't worry about it--I'll do my laundry. It's my house. You are my guest. Relax.

All of this was on my mind when I went to visit my mother last week. She doesn't just insist I come, she demands it, and yet, she doesn't make any effort to create a comfortable space for me. Her "spare room" is used for storage. The futon was an after-thought. The guest bathroom is crammed full of knick-knacks, and although there are four full sets of towels hanging in there, they are only "on display." The hand towels are off-limits, too. There is a roll of paper towels under the sink for hand drying.

I've made a fair amount of visits to friends and families over the years. I try to be a good and unintrusive house guest, but I'm sure I don't always succeed. I do make an effort, though. As a houseguest, I deeply appreciate being made to feel welcomed and knowing that someone put some thought into my comfort. Please don't make me sleep on a couch. I have an AeroBed. It's nice. I'll bring it if you have no other space for me. And here's the thing--if you don't have space for me, I'm OK with staying in a nearby hotel. Don't demand that I stay with you while also expecting me to be OK with being terribly uncomfortable.

To those friends who get it, thank you. Thank you for the real bed, the space for my stuff, and for acknowledging that adults require a certain amount of privacy. Thanks for checking if I needed anything. Thanks for the heads up that I might need earplugs given the kids' noisy morning routine. Thanks for welcoming me. I hope I can do the same for you someday.

May is a tired girl. I just spent five days in Florida. First, I visted with a friend from college who I rarely get to see. We had to arrange it covertly and then break the news to my mother that I was coming to Florida, but she was going to be forced to share the time. She wasn't happy, but she got over it.

I got home late last night--around midnight, along with a cold and an earache. Ah, the hazards of air travel during cold and flu season. At least it hit me on the last day of vacation and not earlier.

The weather was simply perfect. Walking into the 35-degree night air outside of the airport here made for a harsh return. I'll get used to the cold temperatures, but as long as I live, I will never get accustomed to living so far from the coast. For me, it's all about the water.

St. Petersburg, Florida

Dark days

The fall is hard for me. I can't pin down what it s--the change of seasons, the shortening of days, the drop in temperature, the frenzied pace, or some other unknown quality. Fall makes me sad. It also aggravates my SAD--Seasonal Affective Disorder.

I recently ordered a fancy wake-up light so I can go back to using my SAD light for its intended therapy. Currently, it's connected to a timer and I've been getting awakened by a big blast of photons every morning. It works, but I'm going for something more natural and subtle so as not to start my day startled and surly from now until May.

Intellectually, I know I"m not actually depressed. Unfortunately, my brain chemistry wants to tell me otherwise. I'm not taking the bait.

The right to die

Dr. Oz and Montel Williams took on one of my favorite topics. Here's the link to watch it online, in case you missed it: http://www.doctoroz.com/videos/do-you-have-right-die-pt-1

Update

I haven't stopped blogging. I just got tired of talking about myself, but I haven't yet found something else to discuss that I know as much about.

It's just that time of year

I have been doing the same exact work for 15 years. One-and-a-half decades. I don't mean, working in the same field, I mean, quite exactly, the same two jobs at the same exact place. Well, except for when my office got moved down the hall, which means my location changed the distance of half of a city block.

I don't dislike my job, exactly, yet I feel restless and bored. I've done all I can to make the tasks at hand as interesting as possible, but by now it's all just variations on a theme. Fifteen years is a long time with the same job title in a job that has absolutely no opportunity for advancement.

That didn't come out right. I'm not interested in advancement, just variety. The work needs to be interesting. It needs to engage me. My current jobs are something I could do in my sleep, although, to be clear, I don't phone it in.
Aside from the bad economy, a shrinking work force, blah, blah, blah, I'm 50 years old. I can't reinvent myself. Even if I could, what in the world would I do for a living? And by that I mean an actual, income-generating, mortgage-paying income.

May needs to win the lottery. No--the Powerball.

Who would hang on for me?

For the past week or so, I've been thinking about my darkest days and things people told me about my condition.

One thing I heard again and again was that I had to get better because people needed me. Refugees here need me. People at work need me. I have an obligation to be there for the people who need me.

Some time ago, I balked at this notion of me owing anyone anything. I don't owe anyone anything. Just because I'm generous or the kind of person who seems to have a pathological need to help others or people are accustomed to me being there as the go-to girl doesn't actually obligate me to do any of it.

I was thinking about this and the notion that some have shared that I was obligated to stay alive, to get well because people were counting on me being there to help or simply to be interesting. Really? I always contended that I was merely a convenience that would be missed--not a person whose absence would be mourned. I still think I was spot-on in this conclusion.

While taking a shower one day this week, I thought about this bizarre concept of being obligated to keep giving, helping, and sharing simply because people are used to it. Then I thought about it in terms of me. I wondered who would feel obligated not to give up on him or herself because May would suffer.

The truth is, the people who know me, both those related and not, just expect me to be OK, to get over it, to soldier on, to survive my own thoughts. I can't think of one person who would ever reach the depths of misery I have and then think, "No, I must hold on-- May won't be OK without me."

The truth is, there is not one person on this planet who would hold themselves to the standards of survival and resilience to which I have been held. In fact, I believe I'd be the last person anyone would consider when taking stock of their own life.

It's a lonely life.