Aging Sucks.

For the last couple of months I've been waking up with stiff and swollen-feeling hands and wrists. Sometimes, the sensations diminish as the day progresses; sometimes they don't. When I mentioned it to my husband (the medical provider and, IMHO, most brilliant diagnostician I've ever met), he asked me several questions, examined my hands, then told me I had RA - rheumatoid arthritis.

Oy.

In case you were wondering, RA is a debilitating auto-immune disease which targets the joints, usually starting with the small joints (hands, wrists, feet, ankles) first. It's two to three times more common in women than in men, and usually starts between the ages of 40 and 60. (I'm almost 44.) There's also a genetic component; in my case, both of my parents have it.

And there is no cure.

Swell.

The best I can do is begin to take medication to stave off the pain and swelling, which will slow down the debilitating and disfiguring effects of this disease.

I'm a bit at a loss with this; yeah, I know I'm getting older (gray hair doesn't lie), but I hadn't expected anything like *this.*

This sucks. It really, really does.

Finding My Way

I've been doing a lot of soul-searching lately about happiness, life, and what I can actively do to make sure the two are not mutually exclusive.

They have been, of late; I've been so caught up in angsty contemplation of the vicissitudes of life that I'm forgetting to actually live.

How's that for a brain buster?

It boils down to this: there are so many would'ves, should'ves, and could'ves that cloud our vision, that prevent us from actually enjoying the innate happiness and peace within each of us. In Buddhism, this is reflected in the Four Noble Truths:

1) Life consists of suffering.
2) The origin of suffering is attachment (our desires, cravings, etc.).
3) The cessation of suffering is attainable.
4) There is a path to cessation of suffering, through the right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. (These are called the Eightfold Path.)

I guess you could say I've just fallen off the path.

It's time to find my way back.

Timing is Everything

"You gotta know when to hold 'em,
Know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away,
And know when to run...."
- Kenny Rogers, The Gambler

Knowing when to make an exit is a valuable skill, whether it involves a party, a visit to a friend's home, or the fellowship of a group.

When your participation in any of the above causes you more grief than it does pleasure, you know it's time to go. The cause of that grief may or may not be aware of what he or she is doing; in the best of all possible worlds, we would all have the introspection to realize when our behavior is toxic to others. Unfortunately (with apologies to Dr. Pangloss), this is not the best of all possible worlds, and confronting the source of the conflict often does more harm than good; in that event, the only other option is to remove yourself from the situation, which is exactly what I have done.

Kenny Rogers had the right of it. Now, if only I could get that damn song outta my head....

Getting My Mojo Back

Magic. Mojo. The Groove.

Call it what you will, "it" has been noticeably missing from my writing life for the past...well...years. All the joy I once had for writing was totally and utterly kaput; every session at the keyboard was filled more with angst than productivity, or even enjoyment.

Ever since my divorce I've been on a journey of self-discovery. Most recently, it's been that my writing troubles do not stem from the emotional gulag that was my marriage and divorce; they go back much further, to my family of origin (FOO). Getting through this process has been akin to clawing my way through a labyrinth of thorns - horribly painful, but there's no other way out.

As a result, I'm writing again - and enjoying it. When I sit down at the keyboard, all that matters is the story in my head, and getting it out onto the screen. It's the first thing on my mind when I wake up, and even when I'm at my day job. Trust me - this hasn't happened in *years.*

Now, I'm not saying I'm cured - far from it. My Inner Editor, fueled by a lifetime of casual, hateful criticisms from my narcissistic mother, still has the power to cripple me. At least now I can recognize this roadblock for what it is; I'm becoming more and more adept at blockade running.

I suspect this will be an ongoing battle; writing, as a process, will never be as easy for me as it is for some. But it's MINE again, at least for the moment. And I couldn't be happier.

Redefinition.

When I was 10, I started writing stories about characters from my favorite TV shows. I filled notebook after notebook with longhand pencil scrawl. I never finished anything; all my scribblings were just for fun, and centered around the immediacy of getting scene ideas out of my head and onto the page.

That's what I really miss about writing - being so into just one scene, one idea, that I can't wait to get it down on paper. Never mind scene structure. Never mind plot arc, character arc, or any other writing rules. Just pure, unadulterated fun.

When I was writing for publication, writing became a chore. Despite my best intentions, I struggled to meet deadlines. Although I produced some fine stories, it wrung me out. The joy disappeared from my life.

Now, I have very good friends for whom the opposite is true: they produce fine stories, can write quickly, and are having the time of their lives developing their writing careers. I am tickled pink for them; they deserve to enjoy every single moment.

The point of all this rambling is that I've taken a very hard look at my life, at all the angst I've been putting myself through over writing, and have come to the conclusion that I'm happy with my life the way it is right now. I enjoy my day job; I enjoy it much more than I ever did my writing career, such as it was. And I want to rediscover the joy that I had as a 10-year-old, bent over a notebook, scribbling away, oblivious to the rest of the world.

So for now, I'm content to be a recreational writer. No goals, no pressure, no expectations. When an idea strikes, I want to be able to write about it for its own sake and have fun doing it. I may never publish again, and strangely, I'm okay with that. My writing is once more my own.

Is it time?

Since I started this project at work, I find myself devoting all my energy to that career, as opposed to my writing. Even on the weekends, which should be prime writing time, I find myself drawn more to reading, to exercise, to socializing - to everything BUT writing. When I do set time aside to write, I end up producing perhaps one or two pages, getting frustrated, and firing up the mah jongg program instead.

Every. Single. Time.

I know that other authors have published their novels while also holding down a full-time job, but the question I'm asking myself is: has the time come for me to stop trying?

I have no illusions about my prospects. My divorce left my writing ability - and my confidence - a crippled wreck. The economic recession has made the publishing industry even more insular, and the monetary rewards smaller. To top it all off, I still haven't discovered what I really want to write about.

And I'm tired. Tired, frustrated, and cynical about the whole damn thing.

So perhaps it's time for me to get off the merry-go-round.

Let the Games Begin.

I knew this would happen. Therefore, you'd think I would have been more prepared for the backlash of jealousy that accompanied the announcement of my promotion at work. So far it's been snarky comments ("Two promotions in a year? What's your secret?") and sullen, resentful silences accompanied by dagger glares.

On the other hand, there was also an outpouring of congratulations. Ya know, on second thought, I would really prefer to focus on that right now, instead of my insecurities. Already my self-doubt has begun to sabotage me on this project, and I don't want to give it any more ammunition.

Happy holidays, everyone.

Update to WTF

I don't want to reveal too much in such a public forum, but suffice to say that we must be under the Chinese curse of "may you live in interesting times."

WTF?!

DH just called. The convo was tortuously brief:


DH: Oh. You're home.

Me: Yep. Just got here. What's up?

DH (in a low voice): Um...I'll have to tell you later.


WTF?! He was going to talk to the answering machine, but can't talk to me? Or doesn't want to talk to me....

All of a sudden I have a hideous lump in the pit of my stomach. Send good vibes my way - I have a feeling I might need them.

Today's the Day

Today my husband makes good his escape. And he reports, to my great amusement, that Wolfram & Hart is giving him an exit interview, and that his NP supervisor has given him a "script" to spoon-feed to his interviewer.

Anyone else see anything wrong with this?

At any rate, he's torn between following the script and telling this corporate interviewer what really happened. I told him not to expect any approval for telling the truth; from everything I've seen, this company is a legend in its own garage. They don't want to hear the truth; their version of reality has no basis in fact, only in spin. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him think.

I'm so glad he's finally getting out of that toxic environment. Now, maybe both of us can relax a bit, and shed the horrendous headaches that have dogged us both for the past few days...weeks...even months.

Here's hoping....

Gloom, Despair, and Agony

A very, very, very bad day today. I can't seem to connect with anything I write. I'm on the verge of tears even as I type this.

At what point do I just give up and say, I can't do this any more?

At what point do I stop torturing myself?

I don't know the answer. Maybe I never will.

You Can't Fix Stupid

I've been going a little crazy at work this week, all because of my boundaryless, clueless, inept, insecure, hygienically-challenged bitch of a co-worker. We're in the middle of what's been euphemistically called a "knowledge transfer experiment": for three cycles of two weeks at a time, certain members of the department switch desks in order to "shake things up" and see if we as a group learn anything new from having a new set of cube-neighbors. BCIIHB, who previously sat in another room (and thus her crazy was contained), has been sitting kitty-corner from me for the last two weeks. And I'm just about ready to snap.

In addition to butting in to conversations, eavesdropping, prying into things on your desk, making inane comments, and trying to act like she's our manager (she's not), she laughs at the dumbest things...and keeps laughing. She never shuts up. She might as well take a cheese grater to my nerves.

The kicker came yesterday. She thought she found a problem (it wasn't, but she was making it out to be the next sinking of the Titanic), and in the course of trying to locate similar items in my work, I realized that I'd made a mistake. Not a big one, as mistakes go, but something I should have caught. I made some toss-off comment, the self-depricating kind intended to generate empathy, and BCIIHB started laughing like it's the funniest thing in the world. I stared at her a moment, gobsmacked. She laughed harder, and I realized she wasn't laughing with me - she was laughing AT me. I gave her my patented Stare of Death. She kept laughing. At this point, I started to get tunnel vision - not good. The last time that happened (in college), I almost got into a brawl. So I quickly looked away, excused myself, and took off to inform a manager of my error. The fact that I came so close to losing it entirely left me shaken.

Very few people have this effect on me. Yes, I have a temper, but rarely do I let it slip its leash. In venting to my husband last night, he gave me some valuable words to live by: you can't fix stupid. I shouldn't let BCIIHB get to me, because she's just a dumb animal. She is what she is; I cannot change it, I cannot fix it, and therefore I should just let it be.

Truer words were never spoken.

Lost - and Found

Wow. This is now officially the winter that Just Won't Quit. Now that we've dug ourselves out from the over 12 inches of snow that fell yesterday, I've learned that we're due to get smacked with two to six more tonight. Followed by a few more on Tuesday.

For f*ck's sake...enough, already!!!!!!!

Winter doesn't officially begin until Sunday, and already I'm sick of it. Yes, the snow is lovely and pristine, but trying to drive in it can be anything from annoying to (as I found out yesterday) downright dangerous.

*sigh*

I apologize for all the weather-related whining I've been doing lately. And yes, I do suspect I have at least a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). I know it's bad when I can't get into the Christmas spirit until the week before, and even then it's lukewarm. That, combined with angst over whether or not my full-time status at my job is in jeopardy (my boss assures me it's not, but can't commit until next year's budget is approved), and I've been a right mess.

What else is new?

Perhaps, with the advent of the New Year, it's time for me to take the principles of Buddhism to a higher level of practice. Enlightenment is a journey, not necessarily a destination, and I've been so focused on material things that I feel I've lost my way entirely. Time to go back to the beginning, methinks, and get a fresh perspective. It'll probably be accompanied by some fresh snow, but c'est la vie. This *is* the Frozen Tundra, after all.

See? I'm better already. :-)

Sleep = Made of Win

Have I mentioned how awesome sleep is? I'd almost forgotten, 'cause this past week I got precious little of it, what with either dreaming about work or laying awake in the small dark hours, worrying if the previous day's problems with this new electronic process had been fixed yet.

My husband tells me I obsess too much about things I can't control. He's right. And I'm really trying to correct that.

In the meantime, I intend to pamper myself this weekend. Like I said in my last post, I have absolutely no intention of getting out of my jammies today. Except to work out. But after I shower, it's back into the embrace of comfy fleece. There will also be much nappage. Yeah, it's a slug's life, but after the week I've had, I feel absolutely zero guilt about spending the weekend in first gear.

I'm off now for more tea, and the first decent breakfast I've had all week. About bloody time.

Lonely

Last night both my husband and I commented on how empty the house seemed without the cat. She's such an integral part of our lives; we're always aware of her presence, even when she's cuddled up in her bed as a seemingly headless ball of fur. Not having her there made everything seem much more...lonely.

My subconscious agreed; while they weren't exactly nightmares, I did dream all night about trying to find her. Things weren't any better when I got up; I went through my morning routine without a small insistent fuzzball throwing herself against the backs of my knees or tugging with her teeth at the hem of my robe.

She's having her procedure this morning. Barring any complications, she'll be home late this afternoon.

It can't come soon enough.

Angst

My apologies for being MIA on this blog of late. I've been busy, and honestly, haven't had much to say.

But not this morning.

Today I have to take SuzieQ to the vet to get her teeth cleaned. No big deal, right? Problem is, I have to drop her off this afternoon and the procedure is tomorrow morning. Which means she has to endure yet another traumatic car ride in order spend the night in a strange place, surrounded by strange animals and strange smells.

I keep telling myself that this needs to be done. She's always had tooth problems. Her gums are inflamed and tender from the tartar buildup, and there's no way she'll stand for having a stranger scrape the stuff out of her mouth when she's awake. Heck, given the choice, *I'd* elect for the dentist to put me out every time I go in for a checkup! But I still hate to have to put her through all this.

*sigh*

My husband tells me I'm too soft-hearted for my own good. Times like this, I tend to agree with him. Angst sucks.