Thursday, January 28, 2016


I think I'm okay, then I know I'm not.  I'm not okay.  I'm not better.  What was I thinking?!  Stupid girl. Stupid.  Wait...

My luteal mind is getting me mixed up.  I know I feel detached and I see things wrong.  I feel things wrong.  I convince myself I am fine.  I am okay. I am alright.  And when the negative phase of PMDD comes back to me, once again, I know I'm not any of those things... I'm really a mess.  And I act like a big mess.  I think like a big mess.  I feel like a big mess.

The world looks different through these eyes... my luteal eyes...  I try not to look in the mirror, because when I do, all I see is a reflection I don't recognize...
I know her well.
I know my reflection:  I see all the dirt and grime and filth on me.  And I keep wanting to wash it off.  I keep taking hot showers, or baths, and I scrub my skin clean, as if the water can dissolve time and sadness and ugliness.

When I am under the water, and rubbing my skin, I feel like there is some hope I will emerge, face the mirror, and be happy with what I see.

But truly, I do remember, even in my worst state, that my reflection doesn't matter.  Truth is what matters, not perception.  Does it matter what some people think about me?  Does it matter how others have treated me?  Does that define me?  Of course not.

Yes. It does:  Right now, it does.

You see, I look in the mirror for all the reasons people in my life don't want to be close to me.  I see why people leave.  I see why people shove me away.  I see why I'm not worthy of their attention.  What I can not wash away is visible.  It is so clear, when I am so crazy.

Monday, January 25, 2016


It's been a week with no alcohol.  I feel fine.

I can't focus on something to write, though... I started sentence after sentence and I realized that none of them were sufficient in expressing what is whirling through my mind...  And there are things I can't write, guess...

I broke the habit of drinking which was an attempt "stop feeling sad," or to block the sadness.  Of course we all know that alcohol only makes you feel more sad.

I wrote a lot when I was sad, didn't I?  It was a different kind of sad, though... different than what I was escaping by drinking in the first place.  It was a shallow sadness, a numb sadness, a tearful sadness sometimes, but my thoughts were sedated, and couldn't really think...  The thinking, really thinking and being completely aware of what is truly sad... that's hard to handle.

I want to be healthy, and yet, part of me wants to be numb, and not think so much.  I can control how I show my emotions when I don't drink, when I am sober, and "healthy," but I can't control how I feel.  And sometimes I don't want to feel that deeply.  Honestly, I didn't want to feel deeply for 5 years, really, about the things that were hurting.  

I was never an alcoholic, but I did become dependent on the escape, or the promise of escape, which often never really came... every time, I believed it would sweep me away, sweetly, into a better place in my mind. I believed my heart would suddenly not be broken, or be filled in, the huge gash would fill in and it would be held together, and I could breathe, and... things would feel something else...

Ah, I knew better.  

Wednesday, January 13, 2016


Aw, and look how they enhanced our lives...
At this time, 9 years ago, I was in labor with twins, and laying next to a window, watching snow fall heavily on the flat hospital roof.  It was induced labor, since Stella was having some trouble with the fluid in her amniotic sac, so it was painful, but not natural, in any sense.  It was controlled by doctors.  At this point, I was still able to walk around or sit in a purple leather recliner and rock, and not just lay in bed.  I would have to get into bed every two hours, and be "woken" every two hours to have suctioned, pad monitors placed on my belly to make sure the twins weren't in distress.  They weren't.  In fact, Michael was often sleeping when they were checking for movement and proper heart-rates and they'd have to wake him with this vibrator thing, poor little guy.  I'm sure it was quite an ordeal for him, the whole induced labor and birthing process, since when they finally decided to do a c-section, he was in "shock" and took a moment to breath.  He kept his eyes shut too, like, "Fuck this shit, why'd you pull me out of my happy spot."

So in these hours, and all night I was in labor and they finally pulled me of the labor inducing medication they were using as a first line of "attack" because it was bring them on two hard and two fast and I was dilating...  I was alone most of this time... Sam was sleeping and I had been awake since 8 am the day before.  I hadn't slept at all the first night.  I kept taking hot showers, and letting water beat onto my belly and back... it felt good... and I liked being clean...  Otherwise, I rocked in my chair and listened to music on an iphone and tried to breathe through the pain in the darkness of the room, and hoped it wouldn't be too much longer... I was ready for my babies...

I wasn't dilating, though, even after they broke my water, and put me on another medication through an IV, which rendered me to my uncomfortable bed, and three monitors on my belly, which made it impossible to move, or they'd have to re-adjust them to find the heart beats and the contractions...  I was trying so hard not to move, I remember.  It hurt so much more, not to be able to shower, or pace through the pain, or listen to music and rock.

My babies were never in distress through it all... my body just wasn't opening up for them to come out.  I am betting I would have carried them to 40 weeks, even though 38 weeks is full term for twins.  I might have even gone over.  They were already huge babies for twins.  They would have been even bigger.  Gees.

I remember Sam was just telling me we couldn't have them on the 13th.  I had to wait until the next day, the 14th.  Even numbers were better, but we especially didn't want a birthday on the 13th.  Sigh...  I hadn't eaten in a few days, only clear liquids, so I am sure I just stared at him like, "Yeah, buddy, you do this shit."  This night, the 13th, I was awake all night.  Sam slept, and I was awake.  The next morning they drugged me, and gave me an epidural to make me sleep.  I was so weak and tired.

But this night... I was just waiting for my babies, and listening to music... I couldn't wait to meet them...

And the snow accumulated outside... a big January snowstorm...  And it was peaceful in the maternity wing... it was just me...  and I waited patiently to meet my little friends.

Saturday, January 9, 2016

Wait... Really!

I really do feel better.
I do.

I do get dark and low sometimes, but I was looking back at my journal from late November through mid December, and Holy SHIT!  I was really, really messed up.  So, I am feeling better.

I am feeling 100 times better than the journal entry where I described crying all day and all night, knowing my children saw me crying, and remembering how I saw my mother cry when I was a little girl and what it felt like to not know how to help my mommy... but that I still cried... I wrote that I cried my guts out, I cried all my blood down my face:  I cried out everything inside me until I was empty and dried up and gone.  I wrote I was already dead.  I was already dead.

I don't feel that way, now.  I don't cry all day.  I haven't cried at all, for at least a few weeks, except tears of gratitude for my family, and my friends.  I have felt alive.  I haven't felt dead.

I haven't been the Joanna I was, when I was teaching, and I didn't have PMDD, and I wasn't so very tired so often, and I was ready to take on the world and anyone standing in my way, but I am a good version of Joanna.  I'm doing the best things for my health and trying to do the best things for my family...  And I'm letting dark and depressing things go... I'm putting them behind me... and I'm moving forward.

So when I thought, "I guess I'm not really doing that much better," because I laid in bed reading all day, I was wrong.  I compared days like that to the ones I was experiencing quite frequently...  for many months before... and now I know I'm doing pretty damn good.

Oh, and Ice Cube is hilarious.  WTF.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Na, na, na, na.

So, any time someone groans in my family, someone else (not me) responds:  Na, na, na, na...
Sam taught them that.  It's from a classic rap song, by Master P, I think.  I don't know...  Whenever they are whining in that "Uhhhhh," voice, this is what happens...

I'm not sure why I keep writing here: in a blog.  I'm not sure where I write anything down anywhere that can condemn me in another's eyes.  When I can't do anything else, I still can write most of the time.  I keep writing and writing and writing.

I write to try to get shit out of my head.  I write, imagining an audience, but I know there is no one... No one...  It's strange... I used to be a talented writer, yet now I write things that no one wants to read at all...

People come across this when doing an image search?  Certainly no one comes to this site and thinking, "I want to read every single thing this girl writes," and spends the day studying each post.

I deleted my blog, once.  I deleted everything.  It was a few winters ago....  Sometimes it's empowering to just erase everything that can remind one of anything crappy or in the past that I need to forget.

But isn't it difficult to erase all your thoughts and ideas and artistic expression through writing?  I find it hard to do that.  I know I need to.  I need to stop writing, because it is just something I do when I can't do anything else...  Nothing else...  but I worry I will lose my truths and feelings, which were so real when I composed them... and don't I communicate best in writing?

Maybe I'm better in person.  Live and in person.  Maybe.  

Monday, January 4, 2016


I want to just stop:  Just stop drinking.

Then I kind of thought I should taper.

Ha.  What am I talking about?  I might be drunk right now.  Oh, how I wish I could be stronger.

Sam bought wine.  We drank far more than a tapering amount.  I didn't mean to.  I don't know what happened.

I thought this might be my first completely and totally sober day in a long time...  a year... but no...  I drank the wine.  I don't know how else to escape, you see, when I feel like I'm losing control.  I am terrified of what it will feel like to have no way to hide.  Yes, I know alcohol makes people lose control.  I guess alcohol does that to me... it numbs my feelings, and thoughts so I can't think them.  It takes over.  And I don't have to try so damn hard.  I hide behind that.  I hide and I feel better, even when I know I'm hurting my body in the long run.  I mean, my Calcium level was low: Lower than what is considered normal!  You know what can cause that?  Alcohol consumption.  I don't remember a day where I didn't drink this year.  What does that make me?  I don't even want to think about it.  I'm scared.

I'm scared.  I'm scared.  I'm scared.

Sam made a new desk.  He made a new desk and keeps adding things to it, like mounting the screen to the wall, and adding a swinging wall lamp.  He likes it down there.  He has wanted a desk of his own forever. He has built endless desks, spending endless amounts of time at this work.  And there you go.  He did it. And he likes being there.  And I sit on the bed.

I was feeling better, I really was.  I was out of bed, and I didn't have any desire to be in it one bit.  I actually wandered around the house looking at everyone, and everything, wondering what I was "supposed" to be doing, because I was so used to being in the same place, in my spot on the bed, and I didn't know where else I belonged or how I fit into this life.

I'm Luteal/PMDD again, so I'm back in my spot.  I keep writing and writing and thinking and thinking and trying not to drink, and hoping I can be stronger than I have been so far.  I write in a journal.  I write in Google Docs, I write here.  I miss my art desk and sewing spot.  We moved it all to the basement for the holidays, to clean up the house...  I did have stuff everywhere:  Fabric, and pastels, and pins, and paint brushes.  I had one project, then another, and I...  it doesn't matter.

I'm tired.  I'm tired of this spot, and of PMDD, and of drinking.

I'm tired of hiding.

Help me.

Saturday, January 2, 2016

I'm Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover.

This was the song my nanny said played the morning after her wedding.  I think that's what she told me.  I remember she told me it was playing on the radio.  

It was Grampy and Nanny Topsy's song...

One of the four leave was overlooked before...  but he's looking it over now...   The other leaves were sunshine and rain and roses, but the fourth... what was the fourth?  The fourth leaf was the one he had overlooked.  By the jaunty tune, I'd say the singer was glad he noticed it, because he's pretty happy about looking at it now.  It's the one he adores...

                                               I'm Looking Over A Four Leaf Clover

I'm looking over a four leaf clover
I overlooked before
One leaf is sunshine, the second is rain
Third is the roses that grow in the lane

No need explaining
The one remaining is somebody I adore
I'm looking over a four leaf clover
I overlooked before

I'm looking over a four leaf clover
I overlooked before
One leaf is sunshine, the second is rain
Third is the roses that grow in the lane

No need explaining
The one remaining is somebody I adore
I'm looking over a four leaf clover
I overlooked before

I'm looking over a four leaf clover
I overlooked before
One leaf is sunshine, the second is rain
Third is the roses that grow in the lane

No need explaining
The one remaining is somebody I adore
I'm looking over a four leaf clover
I overlooked before
I overlooked before
I overlooked before

Overlooked.  Is she lucky he finally noticed her after admiring the sunshine, the raindrops, and roses?  What was she?  She was "somebody [he] adore[d]," as he describes her... not simile or metaphor...  No need explaining.

No need explaining.  Should we have to explain?  Should we have to write sweet love notes, or just say, "No need explaining."  I love her.  I love her.  No need explaining.  I love him.  I love him.  No need explaining.  Didn't Edna say, "It's the way his hair falls on his forehead..."  Did she need to explain why she loved Robert?  When you truly love someone, is it even possible to explain, in words?  Mustn't it be shown in kisses and touch and the way eyes meet and can't let go?  They lock love.  They lock two together.

Friday, January 1, 2016

Such Great Heights.

Everything looks perfect from far away...  Come down now... Come down.

We missed the ball drop.  We were up and the kids were up, but somehow we missed it, busying ourselves with other activities.  It was 12:16 before we noticed that the year 2016 was upon us.  12:16 exactly.

And 2015, all of it, is behind us, isn't it?

I'm trying to remember how it even began: 2015.  Our babies turned 8 years old, not far into it, on the 14th.  It was a blur, really, after 2014.  It was a blur.  Didn't it go by so quickly?  Didn't it flash by?

Some days, I felt like I was going to die in 2015.  I remember that.  I remember wondering how I would survive it all.  Yet, here I am.  And my children are brighter and more clever.  And Sam is here, holding onto me... holding me, I mean.  He didn't let me disappear.

And the 2015 calendar, filled with notes for every day, will be put aside for something clean and empty of words like, "Brain Nausea," and "Bad day," and "PMDD," and "Numb," and maybe be filled with something else... at least less of that other stuff, and more of something else... Like, "A good day," and "Feeling better."
I realize that even when I wrote that I wasn't feeling so very much better, I was still feeling better than I was, for so many days in 2015... when the calendar was filled with notes of symptoms and darkness and emptiness.  I am feeling more like myself, whether it's what I want it to be--which is "ALL BETTER!  NO MORE BAD THINGS,"--it is still a sense of better... better than before...

I know I have to take each moment for what it is, and breathe it in, and hold onto it, and not forget.  I have to remember the good, and even remember the bad.  How else am I supposed to know what is good... good for me... if I don't remember what is bad for me?

Time marches on.  Time marches on.  Time marches on.  And we must stay in step and not try to float above it, or stand on a mountain, looking down, and thinking, "It can't touch me."

Everything touches us and changes us.  Everything and everyone we experience, change us.  Change is good. Change is good, and proper.  Change is growth.  We learn from mistakes and heartache, and triumphs and beautiful encounters.

We learn to drive stick shift in a parking lot.  We learn not to hide our feet.  We learn when to try, and fight.  We learn to give everything we've got.  We learn to take risks.  We learn when to stop trying.

We come down.