Anxiety

There is a bubble inside me

It lives just below my chest cavity in a place called the pit of my stomach

I always know it’s there, but I don’t always know what it wants

It wants a piece of me

It wants to devour me whole

Sometimes it rises up and wraps its carefully manicured claws around my ribs and rattles my bones in an attempt to escape its cage

It clings just behind my sternum and hums menacingly next to my heart and in between my lungs

Heart racing

Rapid breathing

I can hear the blood, FEEL the blood, throbbing in my neck! Singing in my ears!

Can’t you hear it, too?

I mean, if I can hear it – it’s deafening – how can you not?

But you look so even!

So calm!

You’ve got it all together.

No! I’ve got ants crawling up and down my body just underneath my skin and thoughts ricocheting off the inside of my skull like projectiles meant to harm and subdue with force but not to kill. Never to kill.

They’re killing me slowly.

And wouldn’t you know that all of this is directly tied to my tear ducts?

Why are you crying?

Why am I crying?

You seriously want to ask that question?

Because I’m not sure you seriously want an answer.

No! Because nothing I can tell you will make you understand when I don’t even understand myself!

I’m fighting phantoms. Real but unseen. Unreal but felt.

Felt so intensely sometimes I can’t walk.

Or breathe.

(They call it asthma. What a joke.)

And when this bubble rises up, it can divide into a thousand tiny shards of glass, splitting me open from the inside.

Can’t you see me bleeding?

I’m screaming!

Writhing in pain and anguish.

But I’m a lake. Smooth and unruffled by breezes.

I’m a smiling, productive, loving, caring, church-going, wife and mother fighting every day of my life for just one single moment of true calm.

I don't even know what that means.

Is that what you see?

My thorough togetherness?

It’s a lie.

No! I’m living in a literal nightmare within my own body. Within my own house. And the chaos is going to sweep me away.

Pray for me. Light a candle for me. Dance skyclad under the dark of the moon for me. Remember that when I tell you I’m fine I’m not. But DO NOT tell me to calm down and that everything will be OK because you don’t know. You cannot know.

I never know.

I’m fragile.

I’m strong.

Seriously?

That seemingly fragile bubble is made of titanium spiked with shards of glass held together by the glue of the waters of time and the blood of my own brittleness.

Take me seriously.

Feel sorry for me.

Or don’t.

I don’t care.

But don’t expect me to be someone I’m not.

By the way, the name of my bubble is Anxiety.

(by me, written October 12, 2018)

My own worst enemy

I may only be able to think about you and wonder how you are.

Maybe the best I can manage is to reach out, just a little, by text or by email, just to let you know you're part of me in some meaningful way.

But then again, maybe I can bring you a Diet Coke, or chicken noodle soup, or lasagna. I want you to be okay. 

But maybe I'm scared. Afraid of what I might see, think. Feel. Oh, feelings are so hard. Especially when I love you. It might be easier for me to play ostrich; stick my head in the sand. Pretend there isn't anything wrong. Doesn't mean it's the right thing. The fair thing. But what if that's the reason I don't call? Visit?

I want to help, but I'm overwhelmed with my own awfulness. My own drama. My own self-imposed and selfish issues. My own brain gets in the way. 

Except you matter. I might not do the right things. Say the right words. Be who you expect me to be. Be who I expect me to be. I am who I am. Right or wrong. Love me or hate me.

I've been more disappointed in myself than you could EVER be with me.

But oh, the green of the sky after sunset, before full night takes over to make us wait for the rising of another day. That green means opportunity. It means I have a chance tomorrow. To succeed. To fail. To just barely make it through. 

I hate failing. So I'll be here tomorrow. Pushing forward. Even if forward is only an inch. Even if I only think...and don't act. 

TTFN

JMS

ADD and Fine-Grit Sandpaper

There are days when I'm fine. There are days when I'm not. There are days where I feel like a ping pong ball - bouncing relentlessly between the rubberized paddles of "Fine" and "Not Fine," - blows on each side - wondering which one will win. (That makes me think of an A.A. Milne Poem, Waiting at the Window. And then, after thinking of the A.A. Milne poem, I think of my Grandma Tennie, who instilled in me a love of of poetry and antiques, among other things. Geez - I need to get caffeinated, I'm all over the place today; gotta reign in this ADD. I guess there's a reason this blog is called ...Off on a Tangent.)

Today, I am not fine, and I have no explanation for it. Nothing happened. No one said something. No one did anything. I got enough sleep (I think). But, when someone asks, "How are you?" and you burst into tears for no apparent reason, you're not fine. When that person asks, "Oh my gosh! What's wrong?" and you cannot explain any reason for your tears, you're not fine.

How do you explain something to someone for which you, yourself, have no explanation? You cannot. So therefore you say, "I'm fine," through the tears and walk away leaving the other party very confused. I care, and yet cannot care, about that.

So, today, I will tune out. I will plug my ears into some music (current selection: Turnpike Troubadours - a very recent addition to my beloved collection) which will hopefully act as fine-grit sandpaper and smooth out my rough edges. I will throw myself into my work and pray that when I look up, it will be time to go home and, further, that I am able to say I have have done my job in a manner in which I can be proud.

I will go home to my family.

I will do whatever needs to be done.

Today, I will "Do it anyway."

TTFN
JMS

Scrambled Eggs and Poetry -OR- Writers vs. Forgetfulness

JEN'S POEM 

This is all in my head,

Kind of scrambled up, like eggs.

You might think, she’s so dense,

But at the end, it will make sense.

(Yes, this I sure did write. I hope I wrote it right.)

***

It occasionally occurs to me to say, "No, I can’t help you," – but rarely. 

I read something the other day about how writers are forgetful when it comes to dates and appointments and meetings and such, but they remember things like how you smelled on your first date or the way the light hit your hair the first time you kissed.  You know; the important things.

As much as I like to sometimes consider myself a writer, I’m really not.  I like to write, it makes me happy, but if someone were to ask me, “What do you do?” I would never go so far as to actually answer, “I’m a writer.”  Such a response would be a blatant falsehood.  Because I write does not make me a writer. 

Writers are people like my friend Allie Larkin, who wrote a book so beloved to me I cry every time I read it.  Pick up Allie's book Stay if you get the chance; I promise you won’t regret it.  And, even though I’ve never met Allie in person, she's one of my favorite people.  After years and years of communicating online, I do consider her a friend.  

Writers are people like all the folks who will show up in my “Jen’s Library” posts.  

Writers are people like Maya Angelou.  People like Garrison Keillor.  Not to mention some of my favorites like Hans Christian Anderson or Henry David Thoreau or Robert Louis Stevenson or Robert Frost or John Steinbeck.  Oh, the list is practically endless.

***

Because I can, here’s just a snippet – a tidbit – from the beginning of Robert Louis Stevenson’s book A Child’sGarden of Verses (1885): 

TO ANY READER

As from the house your mother sees

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far ways,

And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on the window, call

That child to hear you.  He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear; he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.

Sorry – I couldn’t help myself.  And, particularly, I cannot help myself when it comes to children’s poetry.  A Child’s Garden of Verses is another of the myriad books my Grandma Tennie read to me – at my insistence – over and over again when I was small.  Sometimes she even sang them.

I now read – or sing – these same stories and poems to my children.

***

Anyway – back to my point.  I am not a writer, but I play one on this blog. 

The other point I was trying to make is that yes, I sometimes feel all the dates and times and details of everyday life – the “important” stuff I’m supposed to remember – gets lost in all these beautiful details that I see every day.  For example: I remember my friend is getting married – and I even remember the date and time – but where?  Now I have to ask her.  It’s awfully embarrassing.

I remember I am part of the new puppet ministry at church, but unless someone reminds me – and even though it’s on the same day and at the same time every week – I’ll forget.  I want to be there, and I want to participate, but it doesn’t matter.

People (you know “People” the same way you know “They”) say, “If it was really important to you, you’d remember,” but this is simply not true.  At least not true with me.  I think part of my problem is that too many things and people are important to me which is why stuff slips through the cracks.

Which brings me back to my opening sentence regarding saying “No” occasionally.  I am making a concerted effort to begin to say “No” more often because, though I feel bad about it, I’m not Super Woman; I can’t do everything.  And when I try to do everything, I only become stressed out and stress just makes my forgetfulness worse.  And then, once I’m stressed and forgetful I begin to feel terrible about myself; I'm such a horrible, awful person.  And it is then, once I feel terrible about myself, I begin to slide back into a black, sticky depression which is hard – so very hard – to crawl out of.

It’s a vicious cycle.

So, if you notice me forgetting, or saying “No” it’s not because you aren’t important.  You are important.  And so is whatever it is you’ve asked me to do/attend/participate in.  But then again, so am I.  And sometimes, being selfish (even in the form of forgetfulness) isn’t so much about being mean or uncaring as it is being better to myself.  With apologies.

TTFN

JMS

SERIES: Jen's Library (#2)

A.A. MILNE'S WHEN WE WERE VERY YOUNG
& NOW WE ARE SIX 

These lovely little books are poetry compilations, and they are the foundation for my love of poetry.  The book When We Were Very Young was originally published in 1924.  I tried to choose my favorite poems from WWWVY, but I failed; I love practically the whole thing.  The book Now We Are Six was originally published in 1927 and probably my favorite poem from that book is King John’s Christmas, followed closely by all the rest.  I really have difficulty choosing a favorite.  I love watching the faces of my kids (and others) when I read them a poem or two from either one of these books.  I read one about a knight whose armor didn’t squeak to my 11 year old son the other night and watched his face light up with laughter.  I think these poems appeal to kids and adults alike.  These little gems are whimsical, nonsensical, lyrical and fun, and the reason why I’m such a goofball most of the time.  And while we’re on the subject of Winnie the Pooh, please don’t give me Pooh with the red shirt.  I prefer original, “naked” Pooh Bear - before Disney gave him clothes.

TTFN
JMS