I met a woman who has never felt a day of depression in her 91 years. “It must suck,” was her response. All I could think was yes, yes, it does. She continued to ask me, “Why are there depression commercials?” My response was,”I don’t know.” My head went to a different place. Everywhere we turn, there are reminders, commercials, pills, quick fixes, etc. Worse yet is the new oddity of the open person who is applauded for their bravery for coming out and sharing the story of the sadness, despair, and their first world worries that lead them to not enjoying life to the fullest. They do a journal, go to yoga, talk to a pricey shrink, and are cured. So applaud if you will, but I am more of a lifer and do not want it, I just want this numb feeling to go away. I have been relatively numb for thirty years off, and on. Mine is not caused by getting the nanny I wanted or having to travel business class or not having enough me time. No, mine is more. Most of the time, it is very controlled. No one knows the high functioning depressed type. We are low-key and a chameleon by necessity as it hits for days, not years in a row, just a rollercoaster of numbness. No attention is needed or wanted. Just relief. So, I am going to write. Alot. In this blog. Remember, it’s cool, and in my essay book. Still messy, chapters out of order and truly represents a life that is a little numb that wants an awakening that might just come through, yes, the process. The work that must take place to stay away from the sad I feel for absolutely no reason. So work I will. I know I am not alone, and perhaps my out of shape body, mind, soul, and chapter book will finally come together.
Category: book
Joe
I was Joe for years. I have no understanding as to why technology placed my number under this moniker. But so be it. My dad was happy, it made him laugh, and that is what I lived for, his laugh. It was big and Joe made him laugh. Sometimes. I still have his last message and kick myself that I waited a day to give him a call but I did not expect death. No one does. I cry at odd times and need to see a shrink. I am a mess. We were an odd couple with a deep father- daughter bond with distance, understanding, and a likeness that was odd since I never grew up in the same zip code, state, or on the same coast. No ill will. Just a reality that made our times, good and bad, more poignant. The last time I saw him, I let him read part of my book, aka the heap of papers that I am rewriting and asked his permission to use his addiction story but no name. No big details just enough to tell my own co-dependency story. He loved it and agreed. But it sits. Every year, it is the books year, with more of an effort on the type of cover picture than the words. This is a problem and a pure sense of delay in my own healing and perhaps the two others that purchase the book. It is not the sales, it is the completion.
So, this is the year and while I should dedicate it to “Joe” whoever that technology snafu friend was, it will be dedicated to my Clem.
Nothing
I got nothing but a picture of my hubs on a Willy Jeep. I have sat in front of my computer and/or phone to write, something. Anything. I got nothing but lists of ideas that go nowhere. None are informative or entertaining. Just nothing.
It’s called a drought. I blame this on the book that is completed, in a rough first draft, that I am not ready to go back into it to finish the final draft. Why? Well, after the final draft it goes to a million of my close friends to rip apart. Lovely. But necessary. Not ready. It is a hurdle in which you need to wear your big girls panties and muddle through everyones thoughts. It sucks. However, it is growth and gives innate confidence that makes you feel like you were just cast for a RHONY. Ok. probably just me, but if you watch this Bravo series these ladies are confidence central. I don’t live in NYC, hate the cold, and my mortgage would get me a 500 sq ft studio. So, there’s that. But I love RHONY.
So onward, with these rambling thoughts, and the baby steps I take to create the final copy and a blog with something.
This Thing Called Life
The book is to be completed this summer, and I have more on the burner. This blog is to keep me on track and remind the husband for money to self-publish. Yes, self does not mean self. It means money, money, money. I think he is good for this one. Then I will go onto the Neebish children’s book (no title), but I have already asked the kid for the photos, since my artistic skills are low, very. Also, I want him to be part of the process, as Neebish will always be part of his life. So, pictures will be first, then the story. Yes, also more money. Next up, “Mrs. L’s World, Stories from A Tired Teacher.” I got that one and have a deadline by the end of summer 2024. For this year’s summer writing haven, the original manuscript had to be lost than found. Next, I filed it, and today, a year later, having the guts to look up the basic format of a traditional book and creating time in my not so busy summer to sit and write. This was easy. Setting up page one and the file. Simple. Using just one space after the period. Difficult. I am actually going to have to count. I am so old-school. So, I have relatively high hopes for all of these writing ideas to come to fruition, if period placement and spacing is my biggest issue. Which of course it is not. The work is tremendous, but it is exactly what I need to force myself through. If I did it once. I can do it again, this time with the added editing and the making changes, which will be many. “This Thing Called Life,” is my life. My memoir. My sarcasm, in spades. I promise laughter.
Stress Combative
About Things.
Chapter 1
Once upon a time a little girl was born into chaos. Loving chaos. But chaos. A million years later, I like to think that it was just too much love, and only one child. Sharing was not an option, in this scenario, and agreeing on my fate was not an option. Sounds odd parents and grandparents surrounding a baby bassinet wondering who would be the best parental figure. The players in this mini-drama were my grandparents and my parents, the latter more like Romeo and Juliet, soon to part ways, and both addicted to alcohol. Spoiler. Great people. Just lost in their own lives and trying to make it on their own. Plus me. It was too much and that gave the opening for my Silvia and Sam to swoop in and care for me. Best idea ever. I am in their debt. I had the raisers, the friends, the playmates, and the biological parents lost in their own lives. Complicated. Yes. Awful. No. This is my beginning. My stories. My life. And now onto the characters…
No Title.
Epilepsy is a modern mystery left to man and an exhausting condition on its best days. Please note I am not complaining. Not my style. And I know I am lucky. I have it all, an advanced degree, career, driver’s license, and one kid. That was all we were granted, and probably the reason I teach. I also have an unnatural desire to organize toys, anyone’s toys. Not epilepsy related but it’s as if my mothering was done before my time. I was always longed for more children but one and done was logical. So if you got toys, give me a call. Or if you need additional mothering as my kid would like a break. Let me know. He is a good sport.
My story like others begins out of true fear. No one teaches epilepsy in school. Diabetes, yes. Epilepsy, no. My first experience was riding on a city bus to my figure skating lesson, oh yes. I was sporty too. A woman burst on the bus and screamed, “I am epileptic move.” Now, I was eleven and currently experiencing auras on a daily basis in quiet fear. While I thought the declaration was over-the-top, she scared me for many reasons so I moved the hell away. I got off the bus and walked the rest of the way to the rink in tears. I knew I would be that woman. Better dressed, less vulgar. But that was me. With every step towards the rink and a coach who had already called my grandfather for my being tardy I had apologies coming to many but mostly to myself for my living in fear.
As the story goes I had times where I lived in a bubble that would not break open, until ready. This confinement impeded my speech. Actually, stopped it, but left me in the living to be able to hear all around me. Initially, the episodes were short, no one ever knew. However, with time, each getting longer and longer but my fear and lies covered them up. Not well. But my ability to focus on the world around me caught everyone off guard as once it passed no one could tell the difference. Silent periods continued to grow longer with each passing episode but my odd ability to jump back into the conversation, with increased slurred speech, worked. I chalked everything off to fatigue and exhaustive days between school and the rink. Others, just shook their heads and labeled me as a rebellious teen. The game was exhausting as was the daily fear of what was around the corner and who would see it and when would my academy award winning acting breakthrough to the obvious secrets I was keeping. I was scared.
My first big seizure was in a bathroom. I just fell, seized alone, and bit off my tongue. Just clumsy right? Yup. Got a week off of school, lots of rest, ice cream, and my game was extended. Not even EMTs felt I needed hospitalization. My grandparents became like hawks circling their prey and waiting for a misstep. They knew. I knew. We all buried the truth as who doesn’t want a perfect kid. And it was such a heavy badge to wear and at that time late 70’s not one
A week later. The curtain came down on my show. The seizure was witnessed and hospitalization followed. Now, I knew what the tests would show. My grandparents kept talking in hushed tones of C words but I told them they had nothing like that to worry about. I was right but the doctors made my diagnosis like a death sentence, meds, no driving ever, no kids, university too taxing and on and on and on. My grandparents listened with tears streaming down their faces.
As soon as the doctor left I looked at them and said. “Whatever he said, we are not doing.” Let’s get these meds and get the fuck out of here.” I got a life to live, and I am gonna live! My grandfather laughed and my grandmother almost scolded me but beating the big C was good enough for her. I promised to take my meds, stop driving for a year, but I would go to college and I was going to stage a sit-in at the hospital until they agreed. They did. I was sprung and my first course of treatment began.
My story starts there. Today is a bad day. My mind scrambles into a million pieces trying to find the calm my brain needs to slow it down and focus on anything that is not repetitive in sound or feeling. On days like this I write. I listen to music, I do yoga, I watch movies. Anything to remove my brains overdrive and fixations. My sensory overload is at its max. Thus, hearing daily sound in stereo. The toaster, the baggies opening for breakfast goodies, the refrigerator door, the butter opening and closing…the insanity is my sanity on bad days and the view of life it brings me is priceless. Loud, priceless, and a gift that took me years to embrace and overcome the looks from an uneducated public not understanding that it is not a sentence of death or oddity but one of heightened life.
This is not a book about epilepsy. It is one about life and the removal of obstacles.
I Got Nothing
I started my book.
Not a real beginning or ending, but a random start, that may just end up somewhere in the middle.
Writing must be a journey for the insane.
It must.
I got nothing but random thoughts. No streams of consciousness in grammatical correctness. Nope.
My outline looks as scarce as this blog. Yup.
But, I have one. That is a start.
At the end it will be a series of short vignettes all tied together with a thread of humour, as I tell the stories of my life.
But for now the book is held together by nothing more than a dream and has plenty of space for growth.
I Have a Title
The book which I wrote, then lost and now found, and currently stares at me every day, now has a title. It always had a direction. My writing is a bit like my anxiety driven mind. On some days, I feel I can create a children’s book, but then I wake up and realize I cannot write about a woke unicorn. Nope, but a Neebish Island children’s book is a must. Need an artist or maybe my photographer in the family, will lend me his talents. My writing for children will sound old-fashioned, and while the book will sit on shelves, with the other woke less books. It will be sold out on the island. A summer to do! I actually do have an outline. Just not sharing. But not my first to do. Nope.
I thought about writing a fitness, cooking, self-help, or a how to do anything book. I think not. Not fit, can’t cook, and my help would just result in headshaking and confusion. As I have dabbled in many of the serious topics and mastered none, can I teach that? Again, I think not.
Politics. Nope. Nope. Nope. I have too much respect for those who give of their lives to move the needle of change. But I might share a few fun facts I learned from the political road I traveled. Still no tah-dah moment. No title, no main idea, no nothing or is this everything. Perhaps. Nope.
School. Nope. Overdone.
So, I am going with the book I already wrote, and now found on real paper. An amazement. It is my memoir that goes down my rabbit hole of life. I have been down an interesting road of addictions, multiple family divorces, and living with a quiet disease. Again, fascinating stuff that will be written to give others a laugh during a time they might feel that their life is breaking while struggling with their own life and the deck of cards they have been dealt. We need to know how others survive and learn to have a sense of humor about our lives.
So, while not back to the drawing board. I have to go back through the book. This will hurt. So, if you buy the end product, I will let you know when it is out on Kindle. Believe me, I will probably buy my own ads all over social media but please note, I am suffering for the content. Writers should suffer. Right? But for my future two or three readers, it is worth it. I am retaking a trip through a collection of stories, all real, with some occasional embellishments, for entertainment. It is my real life sprinkled with stories that force us to see the wonder and humor in the bizarre situations that I have called “This thing called life.” That is the title and the perfect direction for my first book, Neebish will be second.
I love the fact that it is no longer untitled. Projected completion Summer 2023!
Silver With Stories 