...is the enemy unseen.
I sit here at the computer wanting to write about the crazy. I feel like, if I could just describe a bit of the anxiety, put a name to the unknown, maybe that could weaken its hold on me; not a lot, just a little. Just enough to let me breathe. But, nooooo. I am frozen at the keyboard. All I want is to bleed the voices out of me - just a little - so that maybe tomorrow will be a little easier than today. But I don't know where to start.
And now, I come back to this screen after almost 20 minutes of staring at NBA 2K14 and no new words have magically appeared. Imagine that.
So I focus on my irritation. I focus on (what I perceive to be) the obstacle that so deftly, so expertly, so intimately keeps me from writing. Calling that obstacle "voices" was just... uninspired. Complacent, if we're being honest, because I don't really have voices in my head. "Voices" is a cop-out. "Voices" is me being lazy. The only actual voice in my head is mine. I know how many there are - one - and I know whose it is - mine.
That's not the problem.
Here's the problem.
Voices in your head, no matter how many there are or who they sound like, are not constrained by the restrictions of the physical body. Space and linear timelines are anachronisms in the realm of head-voices. Just because there is only one voice doesn't mean there aren't a million tracks of that one voice all playing at different speeds and volumes, reflecting a million different moods and voicing a million different opinions. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't mean you can trust it.
Hell. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't even guarantee that you can understand what it's saying. With a million different tracks playing simultaneously at different speeds and volumes while concurrently sampling a million different moods and proclaiming a million different opinions, the end result is a cacophonous clamor. A discordant drumming. A raucous racket.
My own personal Tower of Babel.
There is some kind of pseudo-intellectual, faux-philosophy
connection between the biblical story of Babel and my current state of insanity,
but I can't quite verbalize it, at the moment.
Oh, but if I could.
The most fearsome thing is the enemy unseen.
True dat.
Hells to tha' yeah.
Fo'sheezy.
Daaaaarn tootin'.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Sunday, October 4, 2015
?TMI? Again, You Can't Say You Weren't Warned...
THIS is a crazy side-rant in the middle of what, I am quickly becoming convinced, is a minor nervous breakdown. But it is a really positive crazy side-rant, and I *really* need the positive right now, so don't say you weren't warned about the upcoming crazy-laced TMI rant.
Women under the age of menopause (and any many in or hoping to be in a long-term relation with a woman) might secretly fear "the Change" more than any other biophysical event outside of dying. Let me demonstrate my point. Set a timer for 45 seconds, then close your eyes and think about the ways menopause has or is impacting your life. What might the future hold for you when you finally stare the Change in the eyes for the first time.
How could it not send icy cold shivers down the spine? Considering Hollywood's portrayal of older women, (women of any age, really) pharmaceutical advertising's constant reminders about the heat, moods, and moisture (or lack thereof) associated with the Change, and the ever-present stoic, matronly mother/aunt/grandmother/friend's mother/church pew neighbor/sweet little lady next door archetype, what else are we supposed to think? I've always imagined a grim Transformation (I'll stop speaking for the majority of women now) resulting in a shell of a woman, a ghostly shadow of her former self. Every joke, ad, and movie reinforces the idea that menopause is PMS-on-steroids.
I see things a bit differently now.
I would like to point out a few things 1) in no conceivable way did my 3-month, chemically-induced, stress-drenched menopause experience resemble what I understand to be the "average," "natural" menopause reality, information admittedly gleaned mainly through furtive, short conversations and late night Google obsessions. 2) In no universe do I think it's possible that my "Change" is complete. 3) In no realm of the imagination would I EVER be so vain ~ or disrespectful ~ as to superimpose my experience onto others. What I write next is my experience, thus far, and I must assume that it is mine, alone.
But I dearly, truly hope not. :-)
I look back now at the barely-contained angst that consumed me during the months after my diagnosis, but before... well, today, and my first instinct is to stoically smile, just like I've seen a million other white-haired matron smile. For months that seemed like *centuries,* I could not, in my relative innocence, imagine me without my "Drive." And that's the big deal about menopause, right? You lose your "Drive," and then you go crazy. "Drive" has played a heavy hand in my Universe for almost 40 years. The thought of it simply disappearing (because that's what happens, right?) was so inconceivable, so... unspeakable that I spent many nights/early mornings alone on the couch, trying desperately to not-disturb my 16 year old son or my boyfriend ~ of *7 very short months* ~ as I immersed myself in imagining who that woman would be. There is *nothing* to prescribe, no exercise to overdo, no proven remedy for the loss of... desire. How... boring that must be, I thought. So empty. Dead. And anyone who knows me intimately understands that boredom is my kryptonite. I was scared to death. How in the HELL was my already-stressed-to-the-max-7-month-old relationship going to handle THAT?!?!?!? It was already juggling work, children, grandchildren, family, bills, daily life, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yeah. And breast cancer. Put menopause in the mix? You could say I was scared. To death.
Fast-forward several months later to now... I am emerging into the next phase of this. I am coming to understand that Drive and Desire are two often-very separate things. The absence of "Drive" is not a vacuum. To be left empty, the core quality of the human spirit would have to be "Drive." Somehow, in my pre-menopausal way of assuming the worst (something I have NEVER done before), I had decided that "desire" equated the "Drive," that they were one and the same. It is a Need, a Necessity, ultimately, a biological imperative. It is Sex Drive that has allowed the human race to procreate and survive. Drive is produced largely by estrogen and in the hormone's absence, Drive all but disappears. This would be a terrible tragedy if Drive and Desire were the same thing. I am coming to see they definitely are not.
Desire involves interest. It involves enticement. Desire equates *want,* instead of need. Yes. The stripping of estrogen from my body would leave me bereft of Need. But Desire, I can now see, has nothing to do with estrogen. In fact, it's had an almost inverse affect on me. The death of Drive has left all kinds of room to filled in with Desire. (That is about the cheesiest-ass thing I have *ever* written.) Being able to let go of "have to" and embrace "want to" has been amazing. Enlightening, really. I look back at my menopausophobia, and I can't help but laugh at my irrational fears. Interestingly, I think I'm glad I was given a healthy fear the Change. In some ways, the looming threat of <<<menopause>>> kept me on my toes. It never let me forget for too long that nothing is permanent. The zombie-esque future I face as an aging woman often inspired(s) me to acts of great fun and foolishness. Desire, unfettered by "Drive," is trans-formative. When sex sheds the weight of "must have," "want to have" all but takes over.
Remember that 45 seconds of imagining menopause? Close your eyes, again, but this time imagine what wanting feels like without the pressure of "must." Wanting the one you love, not because a gland in your brain is flipping internal switches your body can't ignore, but simply because... you want them. You don't have to have them. <close your eyes!>
You *WANT* them.
;~*
And that, my friends, is *hot.*
So when half-joking, side-stepping inquiries about the HELL of menopause come my way, I think a calm, reserved smile is probably the way to go, don't you?
Women under the age of menopause (and any many in or hoping to be in a long-term relation with a woman) might secretly fear "the Change" more than any other biophysical event outside of dying. Let me demonstrate my point. Set a timer for 45 seconds, then close your eyes and think about the ways menopause has or is impacting your life. What might the future hold for you when you finally stare the Change in the eyes for the first time.
How could it not send icy cold shivers down the spine? Considering Hollywood's portrayal of older women, (women of any age, really) pharmaceutical advertising's constant reminders about the heat, moods, and moisture (or lack thereof) associated with the Change, and the ever-present stoic, matronly mother/aunt/grandmother/friend's mother/church pew neighbor/sweet little lady next door archetype, what else are we supposed to think? I've always imagined a grim Transformation (I'll stop speaking for the majority of women now) resulting in a shell of a woman, a ghostly shadow of her former self. Every joke, ad, and movie reinforces the idea that menopause is PMS-on-steroids.
I see things a bit differently now.
I would like to point out a few things 1) in no conceivable way did my 3-month, chemically-induced, stress-drenched menopause experience resemble what I understand to be the "average," "natural" menopause reality, information admittedly gleaned mainly through furtive, short conversations and late night Google obsessions. 2) In no universe do I think it's possible that my "Change" is complete. 3) In no realm of the imagination would I EVER be so vain ~ or disrespectful ~ as to superimpose my experience onto others. What I write next is my experience, thus far, and I must assume that it is mine, alone.
But I dearly, truly hope not. :-)
I look back now at the barely-contained angst that consumed me during the months after my diagnosis, but before... well, today, and my first instinct is to stoically smile, just like I've seen a million other white-haired matron smile. For months that seemed like *centuries,* I could not, in my relative innocence, imagine me without my "Drive." And that's the big deal about menopause, right? You lose your "Drive," and then you go crazy. "Drive" has played a heavy hand in my Universe for almost 40 years. The thought of it simply disappearing (because that's what happens, right?) was so inconceivable, so... unspeakable that I spent many nights/early mornings alone on the couch, trying desperately to not-disturb my 16 year old son or my boyfriend ~ of *7 very short months* ~ as I immersed myself in imagining who that woman would be. There is *nothing* to prescribe, no exercise to overdo, no proven remedy for the loss of... desire. How... boring that must be, I thought. So empty. Dead. And anyone who knows me intimately understands that boredom is my kryptonite. I was scared to death. How in the HELL was my already-stressed-to-the-max-7-month-old relationship going to handle THAT?!?!?!? It was already juggling work, children, grandchildren, family, bills, daily life, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yeah. And breast cancer. Put menopause in the mix? You could say I was scared. To death.
Fast-forward several months later to now... I am emerging into the next phase of this. I am coming to understand that Drive and Desire are two often-very separate things. The absence of "Drive" is not a vacuum. To be left empty, the core quality of the human spirit would have to be "Drive." Somehow, in my pre-menopausal way of assuming the worst (something I have NEVER done before), I had decided that "desire" equated the "Drive," that they were one and the same. It is a Need, a Necessity, ultimately, a biological imperative. It is Sex Drive that has allowed the human race to procreate and survive. Drive is produced largely by estrogen and in the hormone's absence, Drive all but disappears. This would be a terrible tragedy if Drive and Desire were the same thing. I am coming to see they definitely are not.
Desire involves interest. It involves enticement. Desire equates *want,* instead of need. Yes. The stripping of estrogen from my body would leave me bereft of Need. But Desire, I can now see, has nothing to do with estrogen. In fact, it's had an almost inverse affect on me. The death of Drive has left all kinds of room to filled in with Desire. (That is about the cheesiest-ass thing I have *ever* written.) Being able to let go of "have to" and embrace "want to" has been amazing. Enlightening, really. I look back at my menopausophobia, and I can't help but laugh at my irrational fears. Interestingly, I think I'm glad I was given a healthy fear the Change. In some ways, the looming threat of <<<menopause>>> kept me on my toes. It never let me forget for too long that nothing is permanent. The zombie-esque future I face as an aging woman often inspired(s) me to acts of great fun and foolishness. Desire, unfettered by "Drive," is trans-formative. When sex sheds the weight of "must have," "want to have" all but takes over.
Remember that 45 seconds of imagining menopause? Close your eyes, again, but this time imagine what wanting feels like without the pressure of "must." Wanting the one you love, not because a gland in your brain is flipping internal switches your body can't ignore, but simply because... you want them. You don't have to have them. <close your eyes!>
You *WANT* them.
;~*
And that, my friends, is *hot.*
So when half-joking, side-stepping inquiries about the HELL of menopause come my way, I think a calm, reserved smile is probably the way to go, don't you?
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