Today would have been ...

... my 23rd anniversary.  Marriage #1, that is.

Not sure how I feel about that.

Other than sad.

Survived.

It's intermission.

Our show was third of four, so I am DONE for the evening.

There will be time for post-mortems later; for the time being, all I know is that I survived my ten minutes on stage without screaming, crying, or throwing up, and since those are my default fall-back positions ... that's pretty good.

Anxiety Dreams: Greatest Hits

I was exhausted last night; didn't think I would have any problem getting to sleep.  And I didn't, so not only did the anxiety dreams surprise me, their breadth and scope did, too.

What a retrospective of almost everything: dogs (one of Melvie's eyes was shut and when I went to clean it it was matted with blood and pus), Felix, a lake house (kind of like his cabin) my daughter and I were ostensibly buying to replace the camper (a hand-written note by the absent owner said the price was $600,000 firm), the new Development Director at the station (who is from Finland; there were lots of references to Finland for some reason), sex, alcohol, cell phones (yes, I have a new one), rural highways (2?) and my inability to signal my phone number by holding up the correct number of fingers for each digit.

I made a special point of remembering to take my medication today.

Today is "The Chicken Hat Plays," a strange and fascinating way, devised by my ffriend Brian, to incite anxiety dreams in writers, directors and actors.  Writers got their "who," "what" and "where" prompts last night and spent all night writing; this morning at 8:00, directors drews scripts and actors out of hats and it's off to the races.  Shows will all be performed tonight beginning at 7pm.

I haven't done a show since 1993; which probably explains why doing my index cards kept bringing back memories of Karen's kitchen table.

I think I'm memorized; am trying to walk the line now between being under-rehearsed and making it tired.  We have our blockingg rehearsal in the actual SPACE in an hour ... but I think I will go and look through my cards some more and drink some more coffee and hope for the best. 

I didn't have any "forget your lines," "on the air without copy" or "showing up somewhere naked" dreams last night; hope that's not in store for me live in front of an audience tonight.

Mindfulness and Bullheadedness …

It's pretty simple, really. All I've had to remember in the last five, almost six years since my gastric bypass surgery is go easy on the ranch dressing, no more than a taste of ice cream, and don't schnobble when you bake.

Do. Not. Schnobble. When. You. Bake.

Or you will regret it.

Eating the wrong thing is like depression on speed: you want to die RIGHT NOW instead of sometime, eventually … you lie on the couch praying for death until the dry heaves commence. 'Nuf said.

I made peanut butter bars for Nora last night.

I had to follow up Saturday night's debacle with a phone call on Sunday, and when that conversation was cut short by the vagaries of Wisconsin's cell phone service, followed up the follow up with a message … and then another yesterday.

I suspect Steve is learning something I learned a long time ago: it's easier to be angry than hurt.

At any rate … in the wake of yesterday's bullheadedness … every muscle between my lower back and my ribcage is screaming with outrage … and that other muscle in my chest is letting me know I abused it again, too.

I'll make sure to hum a few bars of "My Way" while I'm hobbling around today …

Digging in my heels …

It should come as a surprise to no one (particularly my therapist and my father) that I can be a stubborn cuss when I choose to be. I don't think of myself as stubborn, of course; I think of myself as an eminently reasonable person with an unassailable grasp of reality. Which is neither here nor there; the point is, after eight years of stonewalling … it seems a few things might be sinking in.

For the last eight years, almost everyone I know has been telling me to get involved in some volunteer activities that I am passionate about (either the cause or the activity itself). For eight years, I have been resisting. After all, I am a single parent, can't do anything because I have no money and a strange schedule and sole responsibility 24/7/365 for my daughter and nobody likes me and everybody hates me and I guess I'll go eat worms. I plan to go to work and come home and sit in my chair and wonder why the universe doesn't send me friends and lovers and acclaim, and mope when they don't show up. Which, I still maintain, is not an altogether bad plan.

However, the universe has conspired against me. It started with some ideas for a blog I could write for the local humane society. Then our new station manager announced that each staff person would need to select an area non-profit that they were passionate about (her words) and help marshal the resources of the station to assist that non-profit. Before I knew it, I was coordinating an on-air and web campaign for the new shelter they're hoping to open in February, and stalking the group's executive director, leaping out at him from unexpected places trying to get him to look at my "media plans."

About that time, one of my best friends from high school showed up as our church's interim minister. As if a good friend who's going to be in town for two years isn't enough, as if a standing coffee/lunch/ginger-lime- arugula-tea date every Monday at 1:15pm isn't something to look forward too, she's asked me to help her set up her new blog. And since just about anything that lets me fool with computers and pick on other people's spelling makes me happy, this has been a lovely addition to my life. Now my Monday coffee with Gail and my Friday coffee with Jeff make the perfect Oreo -- with the creamy filling of Wednesday group.

The final Bronx cheer arrived in a bizarre confluence of events involving The Child's Father, weekend arrangements, Thanksgiving and my indefatigable friend Brian. Brian has been extending invitations for years to participate in a unique form of theatrical torture called "The Chicken Hat Plays." Saturday, eight directors and a bunch of actors show up, draw scripts and their actors' names out of hats, rehearse all day and perform all eight shows at 7pm that night. So after a 15 year absence from the stage … I'm gonna go back – for twelve hours.

So despite my best efforts, I find myself authoring three blogs (including one of the Ten Best Mental Health Blogs on the Web, not that I'm excited about THAT or anything), assisting with another and plotting my next, just as soon as I can catch Jim in an unguarded moment at Cub Foods. Or his doctor's office. I'm thinking about all the cool things we could do at the station to help the humane society, and I'm feeling an energy and excitement about work I haven't in a while. I still don't have a lot of people to talk to, but I have standing dates with two good friends every week and a chance to hang with the funniest group of depressed people I've ever met in between. And although I won't be doing the full-fledged production of "Hedda Gabler" I used to fantasize about, I'm gonna hang with theater people again and put on a show. Volunteering with causes and activities I'm passionate about and which used to give me joy back in my old life … contributions I can make working from home … the regular delight of time with old and new friends….

Brings to mind the old story of the little boy who dived gleefully into the pile of manure shouting "I know there's a pony in here somewhere!"

As a matter of fact, my saddle is downstairs, resting on a makeshift saddle rack of wedding-dress boxes (that's right, plural). That's right; I did used to ride, didn't I ….

No, it's not, actually.

I was healthy enough to go to Ashland.

I was healthy enough to see B in her show.

I was healthy enough to see the other kids.

I was healthy enough to know that when their father came in with them and took the seats two rows in front of me, that I wanted to take charge of the initial meeting.

I was healthy enough to walk up and say hello to him in person, for the first time in two years.

I was healthy enough to go back and sit in my seat and notice that my hands weren't shaking too much.

And I was healthy enough to know that the night was supposed to be about B's drama ON stage ... not my drama OFF stage.

And since there would be no way to avoid him after the show backstage ... I fled at intermission and came home.

It's a wonderful life indeed.

You can't be a severely depressed person without wondering if anyone would notice if you were gone.  Not only do you suspect that the world would be a better place if you'd never been born, you're pretty sure it would be a better place if you opted out.

I made six calls from the road, trying in vain to find someone I could talk to -- my father was the only one who picked up, and I soft-pedaled the whole Steve thing; he has enough problems of his own without his 47 year old daughter going all junior-high on him.

So that sums that up pretty clearly, I guess.

I was healthy enough to decide against alcohol and/or any of the myriad bars along Highway 2 ... came home, wrote some emails I probably shouldn't have, and then watched TiVo until 12:30 and went to bed.

Today, this is my horoscope:

You may need a day of retreat and there's no reason to deny your wish. Following your desires isn't always the smartest thing to do, but now it could have great significance. Staying in the present moment can be difficult today, for you may still be holding on to habits and beliefs that are already worn out. Be ruthless as you eliminate the past to make room for the future.

So.  Probably not going to get any cleaning done ... may not even get any laundry done ... going to practice mindfulness and move very slowly so all the shattered glass inside me doesn't cut any more.

I am so, so tired of ... this. 

Highway 2 revisited ...

If my life got any more ironic, I wouldn't dare get near magnets.

Took the dogs and met the child to have our holiday portrait taken with Santa today -- a fundraiser for the local Humane Society.  So since I'm in "full hair and makeup," and gas is almost $2.00 a gallon even ... I'm heading east on Highway 2 ... back to Ashland.

Luckily, I've been back once before since that January day almost two years ago when I drove away from what I thought was my family and was never to return, as it happened.  And we spent all summer making the trip between here and Iron River, so I'm hoping I can make the rest of the trip with a minimum amount of trauma/drama.

I'm going to see my almost-daughter in her high school performance of "It's A Wonderful Life," the classic story of a man who is granted a vision of what the world would have been like without him in it, and discovers that he really has made a contribution after all.

I've run that scenario over and over about my own life, and as usual, I'm thinking the only difference would be one more available seat at the show tonight!

But maybe the other kids will be there.  And I miss them so; I've seen B since, but not the little kids, and maybe they will be there and I can hug them.

I'd like that.

More later.