Me, My Mother, and I

Therapy this past Wednesday was intense work. Quite a lot of time was spent in a postmortem of the disastrous date with Cal. (As you may recall my last therapy session was to get ready for my date with Cal). See Cal, we're still trying to figure out what went wrong, and how to make it right.

It seems there are times I channel my mother and not in her finest moments. But she was fierce and honest about her feelings. She was opinionated and forceful, always direct to a fault. And she was mischievous in a mean and teasing way I always hated. The flip side of not liking that is the wit in her barbs. She was quick and sometimes glib. And though I saw her as my tormenter when I was young, she was also my mother whom I adored.

Everything that I have said about her that you would think of as clearly cruel and careless has a flip side. She said she wanted to make me tough. She has succeeded. I'm not only tough, I'm strong and, so I'm told, intimidating, scary. I have her voice, her vocabulary, her taste in clothes, esthetic, intelligence and hunger for knowledge.

She was the very picture of Ms. Robinson--older woman seduces younger man. She had an almost inextinguishable sex appeal even into her 70s. And she was a political operative and leading edge feminist organizer in the 1960's in Salt Lake City, an inhospitable environment for the women's movement. She organized and led pickets of the Mormon temple on the weekend of General Conference which is when the temple grounds are packed with the faithful who have come from across the country and from other countries. It's like a biannual trip to Mecca. I have never been so scared protesting for anything anywhere in my travels, as I was marching with my mother to protest the Mormon Church's apposition to ratification by the State of Utah of the Equal Right's Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. We were threatened with death by young mormon men and we were spat upon. Never have I felt so vulnerable to violence. We had a permit, we were outside the Church's property on a public sidewalk, but I felt scared. That was when I first realized my mother's power and strength as a woman with a cause.

My mother organized the Utah Chapter of National Organization of Women, the Utah National Women's Conference. Gloria Steinem slept in the bed I inherited. So did Betty Freidan, and Andrea Dworkin. Every famous feminist who came to speak at the University of Utah was picked up at the airport by my mother, driven to this house, partied at this place. My mother was a woman with a rich and interesting life. She sat on the Board of Directors of the Utah Chapter of the ACLU and board meetings were held in this living room. Our last Mayor was Rocky Anderson and I knew him during his days as an ACLU attorney.

When Maggy lived in Santa Barbara she served two terms as a member of the Santa Barbara Grand Jury. Right up until the end of her life she was still flipping people off and saying "Fuck You." Fierce spirit. A savage woman, unwilling to live a life without breaking all the rules.

And what does all of this have to do with therapy? I will now acknowledge the gifts my mother gave me. They are undeniable and not all bad. But I would rather be gentler than my mother, more sensitive to other peoples feelings, especially if they are kind, well meaning, generous people. I have seen my mother hurt someone else very deliberately. And I have asked her, "Why did you do that?" And she has answered, "Because I could." I do not want to become that woman. So I must take care.

So here's to you mother. It's late in coming, but I do forgive you. I did admire and adore you even as I feared you.

Adagio for Strings With a Twist

I Took Your Advise

I went outside, pulled weeds with my naked hands, now my back aches and my hands are like sandpaper. Are you happy now? I came in for ice tea and in bending down to find the slice of lemon left in the veggie bin I got a good whiff of the inner depths of my fridge. It was not pleasant. I pasted up a sign on the front that labeled my fridge "Denmark" and opened the freezer to get some ice. It was a jumble of haphazardly thrown in portions of everything freezable. Little single servings of one bone-in pork chop, one skin-on ribs-in chicken breast. Two unopened bags of peas, frozen pineapple, blueberries, raspberries, vodka, old ice cream that got tossed right away since who wants ice cream with an inch of frost? So I moved from the mess in the garden, that still doesn't look any different, to the refrigerator which I can't remember cleaning in the past year.

One of the neurosis I caught from my mother was the always packed fridge, as if she were cooking for a family of four even when she lived alone. Crammed with every condiment known to man, exotic oils, bitters, capers, gibson onions, three kinds of pickles, four varieties of jelly and jam, beer, vermouth, soft drinks, milk, mayonnaise (which I consider a food group) mixed greens, green pepper, sliced portobello mushrooms, wilting celery, green onions, one limp jalepeno pepper, a small wad of liquifying cilantro, and so on. The cupboards are similarly stocked. I could feed unexpected guests though there will never be unexpected guests. Anyone unexpected will never get through the gate without having the dogs let out to greet them. No, there will be no unexpected guests.

Well now the fridge is clean, I discovered a collection of small containers of some kind of left-over way at the back of the second or third shelf, and they were completely unrecognizable, so covered in furry mold were they. Out damn spot! Yes, I can hear you making that universal sound of disgust. I will pretend I didn't hear that, but I did.

The freezer is now clean too. I feel ever so well provisioned now that everything that's in there is actually edible and not reeking either.

But I cleaned the whole thing without using gloves. I used water with a little soap and enough bleach to chap my hands further. Now there are little cracks at the end of a couple of fingers. And my back aches. I did fix myself the most delicious dinner. Pure comfort food. Milk soaked breast of chicken, breaded with flour and cornmeal, seasonings, fried in peanut oil and butter, mashed potatoes, chicken gravy, and peas with dill and butter. Uummm. It was great.

I'll take one of my 800mg ibuprofen, a 5mg diazipam, and stretch out for an evening of channel surfing and chain smoking.

I did not visit the blogs today. If I could drag my computer into my bed, I'd be reading and commenting up a storm. But the tips of two of my typing fingers have little red fissures and my computer is not a lap top. It hurts to type. Can you hear the whine in my voice? The fingers will get the hydrogen peroxide and bag balm treatment. A good night's sleep and I'll be right as rain tomorrow. Then I'm going to talk a bit about therapy. I've been mulling it over.

I'll Be Outside Getting Some Sun Today

Seems I have a number of Jewish Mothers out there. And just for all of you, I'll post evidence of my time outside, because it would be so easy to lie to you and say I did when I didn't. I can be a stubborn contrarian. But I do feel that your suggestions that I get out and about are meant to do me some good. I should not always rebel against everyone just on general principal. When I saw Rebel Without A Cause, I really understood the impulse implied in that title. And having spent a lifetime wanting to be the best girl in the world, and so pissed off that at the same time I wanted to be perfect, I also wanted to say "fuck you" to every person who ever tried to tell me what to do. This might have something to do with the three failed marriages.

Anyway, If you want me today, I'm out in the garden.

Thanks for the email Soairse Daily2

Falling Slowly

Yesterday's Trip Out Into The World

Despite the before and after pictures, yesterday went very well. I think what wore me out was all the gadding about before the therapy, and the trip to the bank and the grocery store after. But the therapy itself was very productive and helpful. However the journey to and fro was almost more interesting then the therapy itself.

I am a notorious recluse. So any outing where I bump up against other humans is sometimes a mine field for me. I don't like people much in the abstract, but I do run into people I like instantly, like the three sisters who run the gas station where I got my fill-up. These are three of the funniest, warmest women I've ever met at a gas station. I will now never get my gas anywhere else. They have made a loyal customer.

I was washing the 8 yards of thick fabric I cover my couch with at the laundry across the street from the gas station. So while my fabric was washing I went next door to fill my gas tank. I pulled up to the pump I wanted and discovered my tank was on the other side of the car. I repositioned the car and found the pump was out of order. So after three tries I got pulled up to a working pump, then I couldn't find the release for the cover of my gas cap. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I bought this vehicle last summer from a neighbor and I drive so little (and even then don't go very far) I have only put gas in the car twice before, and each time had to get some guy to show me where the gas cover release is. It's embarrassing. After about five minutes of searching I finally figured that out. Then I put the chosen nozzle in the tank and couldn't figure out how to start the pump. I spent five minutes trying, then headed into the store thinking that maybe I had to pay before I could pump. I usually hate to ask men to help me since I don't like to see myself as an idiot woman who can't do anything for herself, so I was expecting some young man to be manning the cash register who would give me that look that says, "idiot old woman", but instead I was greeted by three women who were in the midst of a jocular banter with one another. Turns out they are the women who run the place and were cheerful about giving me the gas pumping tutorial. Then while I was pumping gas, two of the sisters were leaning against the building smoking. So when I finished filling the tank and washing the filthy windows, and emptying the ashtray, I walked over to thank them and ask if I could take their picture. They cheerfully agreed. The photo above is of me and one of the smiling jocular sisters. I'll never buy gas at another station. That's what cheerful customer service gets you--loyal customers.

This is the first time I've taken my camera with me on an outing. I have a fairly large digital camera and it's not like whipping out a cellphone with a built-in camera. And then I have to carry its case slung over my shoulder along with my purse. But yesterday I wanted to take pictures of the Valley Mental Health facility where the Masters Program (for bipolar patients over fifty) is located. But carrying your camera around with you makes you want to take pictures of almost everything. I'll link to Picasa and post these photos of the commercial district in my area called Sugarhouse and then south to Valley Mental Health. Later when my head clears and I've had my second cup of coffee, I'll tell you all about the hour and a half session with my therapist and the half hour with my psychiatrist. All good. No medication changes.

Here are the photos I took of my trip to get my head shrunk.

Therapy Today

I was awakened two hours earlier than scheduled by Ms M, whose room mate makes several noisy trips back and forth on the ancient creaky oak floor from her room to the bathroom, opening and closing the bathroom door, running water for a bath and so on. Usually Ms M sleeps late on her day off, but this morning she came walking into my place at 8:30 straight to the big bowl sized cups for her morning latte, which would have been my latte and I would have been drinking it at 10:30. I said, "Is the pot empty?"
"Yes."
"Make another pot, okay?" Then I asked her what the hell she was doing up, but didn't say, "And walking into my place as if..."

She made moaning noises as she drank that cup of coffee. I thought that was rude. Keep it down with your pleasure over my first cup of coffee.
All of this human interaction got me up and ready to head out into the small portion of the Salt Lake Valley I think of as my neighborhood. From here to The Masters Program at Valley Mental Health, and back with several stops along the way. (There will be photos at a future undisclosed date.)

This is me on the way out the door.








This is me when I got home.


Details later.

I'm The Very Picture of Sloth

Greed:	Very Low
Gluttony:	Medium
Wrath:	Very Low
Sloth:	Very High
Envy:	Very Low
Lust:	Low
Pride:	Very Low

Take the Seven Deadly Sins Quiz

The reason I've posted this is that after nearly a month of avoidance I'm now cleaning my house. Then I'm going to therapy. Pictures later.

Hey, Technorati! Why So Fickle?

I know it's crazy to pay any attention to a little thing like a technorati score, but ever since I installed that damn widget, I can't take my eyes off it. It teases me by changing almost daily--up one point one day, and down one the next. It was only six months ago that I became aware that there was such a thing as a technorati score. The widget lists favorite tags, and I guess if I really wanted to, I could get smarter with my tags. I could pay attention to the momentary fashion of popular tags and label my post with a key word that would jack up my technorati score artificially, but that would be dishonest, and I hate the fact that I give a shit what my technorati score is. I have recently caught myself in so many instances of shallow, foolish, and perhaps hurtful, word flinging, that maybe it's time I put myself in the corner and told myself not to approach the keyboard until I am ready to be smart and witty and write well just for the fun of it, and not give a damn what technorati thought about my tags.

Technorati, you are like the evil stepmother in Snow White with a magic mirror. One of these days, I'm going to take you off that wall, because you've been really pissing me off.

And by the way, Comrade Kevin, my widget really loves you.

A Strong Cup of Coffee

Awarded by
Spadoman
to Utah Savage

Thank you Spadoman. I am touched by this award, as bracing as the coffee I drink every morning. It comes with no strings attached, no chores to do, no obligations. This is an award I can embrace, and it will always give me a jolt of energy to see it here. Blessings like this make life a momentary pleasure that can be repeated whenever the need hits for a cuppa Java.

This is the Bella Award, Coming to Your Blog Soon

Heads up, you know it's coming your way and soon, since this one comes with the responsibility to link it to fifteen, yes, that's 15 deserving bloggers. What makes one a deserving blogger? That I'll leave up to you. I like encouraging new bloggers (yeah like I've been around a long time. I may be old, but I've only been blogging a year and a half. It is now my biggest addiction. It gives me that warm feeling of community that being a recluse prevents in the "real" world.) I feel very close to those of you who visit and comment. I know there are readers who never say anything and I wonder what prevents them. At any rate, if you're new to me I plan to pass this sweet little prize on to you.


If nothing else it makes you pass it to fifteen other bloggers all linked up and friendly like. It came to me from PENolan, of Menopausal Stoner. She and I might be related--if not in the DNA, then in the spirit. She's good people. And here are fifteen others.

Doctor Monkey Von Monkerstein--he's not new, but he knows and has in his hip pocket a great new site posted on his site right now.

StarSpangledHaggis is one of my favorite reads. E writes on a variety of subjects. I'd call her an eclectic writer--always worth the visit.


The Attentive Aphorist otherwise known as TheMom or Moms Nuts. I want her banner. Read That banner or header or whatchacallit for the Attentive Aphorist. Cracks me up every time.

The Lazy Iguana because I was just there and there is a quiz I've got to go back and take.

WeeMousie has a link to a new information site. I'll head back there to pick that link up and bring it home.

Mr. E is the newest smartypants I know. This is going to burden and embarrass him but we'll see if he's got game. He's got nerve and hutzpah to spare, but does he have the chops to link to sixteen bloggers? We'll see.

Spadoman Peace man. Love that photo of the youngest member of the clan. I know this is a girly looking award, but you're secure aren't you.

Shallow Coffee is young and pretty and maybe bipolar too. I think one of the younger bloggers who knows I'm bipolar pointed me in your direction. So far I see lots of spring fashions on your site and god knows I could use a push in the direction of a spring spruce-up, so... I hope this award is welcome at your place.

Telling Secrets is a title I especially like bacause it's what I do. I tell all my secrets. It's a way to exorcise my demons. The problem for me in being a secret teller is that I sometimes tell other people's secrets as well.

Treybald, because I prefer baldness to many of the alternatives men choose when coping with the slow or rapid creeping hair loss that is their lot. You, Treybald have embraced the classic look of the very self confident. Kudos!

Take Your Medicine isn't a new blog, but relatively new to me. Lulu Maude has a lovely voice and a point of view I find simpatico, so that's all it takes to get an award from me. Now take your medicine Lulu Maude.

Mootpoint Neither Here Nor There
Because we have more in common than meets the eye and you are new to me, so this is a way to get to know each other better. I'm not a big stickler for the rules, but the nice thing about doing this linking thing is it brings new people to our attention.

Giggles at Wits and Wiggles who is a great commenter. Thank you for pointing out to me that my therapists terrible taste in clothes and bad hair might be a sign that he is secure with his appearance. But why? is my next question.

Ingrid's Blogger's Roundtable, is not the newest kid on the block but is a wealth of wisdom and good and timely news stories and practical advise and a hell of a twitterer.

LeeAnn's Under The Apple Tree I give you this award for your extraordinary personal generosity and kindness. And because you bake the world's best pumpkin bread.

Details

Stone, a new leaf from the
Chestnut Trees, dirt work
Done on ones bare knees
Stones the color of rust, Color of weathered wood, Color of my Mother's pale Blue eyes but warmer
A cool pink like a sleeping Baby's cheek the leaf
A pale lime green
Stripes in stone, like veins
Pulsing at the throat

Heart Like A Wheel

Alone With Longing

Life left me alone with longing
Pretending I need nothing more
Knowing why I am unloved

At heart an unmet need like hunger
Eats at me and I grow fat on pain
Leaking tears like famished babies

Old, alone, no longer wanting joy
Cracking jokes that no one hears
Waiting for the end of one more

Days of empty longing deaths
Freedom from this rending sorrow
Nothing mends nor ever will

This heart keeps beating without
Meaning why awaken to do nothing
Lasting or redeeming transformation

All the work with time undone
And in the end left to crumble
Alone at last with longing

Peggy Pendleton
5/1/19

What Kind Of Wolf Am I?

I could have answered this question without taking a quiz.

Your result for The What type of wolf are you test...

The Loner

9% Social-ness, 40% Leadership, 9% Morbidity, 82% Lonliness, 40% Inferiority and 20% Beta-ness!

You are the Loner (aka, the Lone Wolf). You don't seem to get along with others, so you prefer to keep to yourself and watch from afar.

Take The What type of wolf are you test at HelloQuizzy

Mint In My Garden

I'm now finally able to drink my favorite beverage--fresh mint tea. This is the patch at the edge of the two steps up to my driveway. This is the time of year I really get my hydrating cleanse on. Mint tea hot, mint tea iced, mint tea mixed with Earl Grey, milky and sweet. I put mint in salads. And when I walk through it as it's everywhere in my garden, it smells great. Dogs come into the house fragrant with the scent of mint. I realize I will never be able to plant a garden where I get a bit of sun because the mint will overtake it in no time at all. I have spearmint, peppermint, and lemon mint.

A Poem In My Pocket

Picked up at Mauigirl's Meanderings this evening. It took my breath away. The post that introduces this poem is also breathtaking.

Assault

I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.

I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

My Therapist, Fred

Fred returned my call yesterday evening just as President Obama was starting his press conference. As you might have guessed, when the phone rang, I checked caller ID and seeing that it was an "unknown caller," I picked up and hung up since it was the hour of day most nuisance calls are made--telemarketers, insurance companies trying to tell me I MUST have insurance coverage to get the most out of my medicare coverage (lying, opportunistic bastards). I wonder why they think calling while most people are sitting down to dinner is a smart idea? If I'm not watching something that's really important to me, I like to tell them what asswipes I think they are. I try to keep them on the phone as long as possible while I tell them the truth about their smarmy business. But last night I was watching the President, so I just hit on and then off so it was obvious that I was not just ignoring the call but actually hanging up. The phone rang again almost instantly, so I thought I was going to have to yell at someone.

Turns out it was Fred calling from The Masters Program where discretion is important, so no caller ID. Since this was a call I really needed to take, I cranked down the volume on the TV and Fred and I talked about my appointment with my internist yesterday. In my conversation with her while she was checking my clotting factor, I told her I'd figured out that what had begun as a mild upper respiratory infection has turned into a mild case of mood disorder heading toward depression. We talked about the specific drugs I'm on for bipolar disorder and she suggested that rather than switch to another antidepressant I might just need an increase in the dosage of my major antidepressant. I like this idea, since the antidepressant I'm on (Doxepin Hydrochloride) doesn't usually interfere with my sleep cycle and allows me to dream. It does add weight. So far it's put 30 pounds on my normally slender frame. If I were still modeling this would be a deal breaker, but now I don't really give a shit about an extra thirty pounds. What I do care about is this volatility, this whipping around of my moods, this creeping downturn into cottony dumbness and drifting off to sleep in the middle of the afternoon. A half hour nap in the mid afternoon would be terrific, but once asleep, I can't wake up. And whether or not I take that three hour "nap," I'm waking up at 4:30 in the morning with a killer headache. For a woman who was never a morning person, this is way out of character for me. I hate being wide awake when it's still dark outside. I hate Morning Joe. I was raised by a person who thought early morning was the best time of the day, and anyone who disagreed with her was an idiot. I guess we already know I'm an idiot. But the dark before dawn is highly overrated in my opinion.

Anyway, I have an appointment next Wednesday early afternoon. Fred is a civilized man. He may have some serious image problems (that I could fix if he'd only listen to me) but even though he looks stupid, he's smart. He used to be my Group leader. I was skeptical at first, because how could anyone with a combover and scraggly shoulder length dingy gray hair, wearing a really ugly Hawaiian shirt, black polyester pants, a belt with a big round buckle (almost covered by a pot belly) and cowboy boots be smart? If this sounds familiar to anyone reading it you know this thread in my relationships with men marks me as shallow in the extreme. Come to think of it, every man I've loved and left got a makeover.

My Garden On The 29th Of April

Spring Garden evidence that I do go outside and enjoy the sun. I took all these photos today.

Riding the Bipolar Roller Coaster

It's been a long time, in bipolar terms, since I experienced a real depressive episode. But I remember, now that I've been going through it again, that depression sometimes presents as organic illness. I start to feel sick. Feeling sick is not my normal state. This feeling sick sends me to my internist. And in the early phase I might have some mild and transient illness that can either be treated or waited out. But I don't bounce back. Feeling ill lingers. Not sick enough to simply stay in bed, but not well enough to want to do much of anything. It's a headache that's hard to get rid of, or a bowel disturbance, or low grade fever, or a slow, creeping stupidity that scares me more than anything. It's the transitions from one pole to the other that are the most dangerous. It's when we, the bipolar, realize depression is bearing down on us and we still have the energy to do something about it, that we know we can't stand it again. That's when we think about suicide. If I were suicidal, I would not be talking about it, so relax. I'm not suicidal. But I have been there, more than once. It's why I don't fear death by cancer or heart disease or a fatal car accident.

In Salt Lake, under the umbrella of medicare, we have Valley Mental Health. And within Valley Mental Health is a group called The Master's Program. You have to be bipolar and over fifty to qualify. I think calling a program for the old bipolar patients The Masters Program is both funny and apt. If you've lived past fifty and you are bipolar, you're damn special. You have survived a very difficult life. And I'm always amazed how many of us there are. We are often treated for substance abuse(self medicating) which might result in a bit of trouble with the law, especially for men. Men are more likely to be incarcerated than women, since men are more likely to be violent against others, where as women are more likely to be self destructive.

We can be extremely charming, and we can be horrid. I would not choose a bipolar friend to hang around with. In my opinion many of us are more trouble than we're worth. And in transition we can be seething with barely suppressed rage. In a manic phase we can seem as if we're taking large doses of amphetamines--motor mouthed and loud. I sure wouldn't chose to spend my time with anyone like me. But for the person experiencing a bit of mania it's damn fun. We all live for the hypomanic phase of the illness. But, like the way down, the way up is also dangerous.

All this to say, I called The Masters Program today, got through the gate keepers to the psychiatrist's nurse. She said she would get back to me tomorrow when she'd had a chance to talk to Dr. Issabela, whose booked two months out. So I was instructed to call Fred, my therapist, set up an appointment on a day Dr. Issabela will be in the office. She will look in on me between appointments, consult with Fred and between them they will decide if I go off Doxepin Hydrochloride and back on Zoloft. I have over the course of my life dealing with this monster illness found that not that many of the drugs to control my illness are tolerable to me. They all have some side effects. And some are worse than others. This drug gives you tremors and this drug makes you fat, this drug makes you stupid and this drug steals your dreams. Go ask Alice. I'm guessing she was bipolar.