Had my first visit with my tinnitus expert hypnotist and just as I suspected, I AM HEARING MY OWN BLOOD!
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| wikicommons image of red blood cells |
Yup. What I'm hearing is the blood rushing through my veins. She's teaching me methods of self hypnosis and relaxation to use whenever it starts to be too annoying.The key is, DON'T FIGHT IT.
You don't have to be all that Jung to understand the idea.
And the saying may also have some political application.
Just sayin'.
So glad I was sober for my last couple of days in Reno, even though I'd spent three days experiencing nausea, racing heart rate, and really annoying restless leg syndrome. That's what I meant by "cold turkey sucks."
Yet, even though weed is legal in Nevada and I was really uncomfortable, I did NOT succumb and go out and buy any.
So I am much happier now than when I left, and have been thinking about what Will could have done better. Even though I know I fell in love with him because he had many of the same good and bad characteristics as my primary caretakers, one of those characteristics, sadly, was considering me unattractive. He never told me I was pretty or beautiful. He considered the body parts that most men liked to be way too much (he considered Kate Hepburn's shape the peak of feminine beauty). My family growing up generally told me that my physical appearance was either ugly or just not pretty.
I also started hearing that I was too fat in sixth grade. I had begun gaining weight in fifth grade after getting glasses.
In eighth grade, my Mom told me, "Just make sure to never do what your sisters did and take Ex-Lax to reduce weight." Well, I never thought of doing that until Mom said it. Years of off-and-on bulimia followed. The only times I've ever liked my face and body have been when other people did.Which has been a relatively rare experience. In feeling I'm "not attractive enough" I have a lot in common with many American women.
But I won't whine too much because I've been listening to Only Say Good Things: Surviving Playboy and Finding Myself, by Crystal Hefner. It seems that becoming and sustaining work as the "perfect" beautiful woman is harder than anything I ever had to handle in my life. (She did so much cutting on herself from the age of 19, just to be perfect) Also, in retrospect, my sex life was so much happier than her required leadership of the five girl nightly performances in Heff's bedroom at the Playboy Mansion. I can count the number of "bad" sexual experiences I've had on the fingers of one and a half hands whereas it sounds like during her twenties she had ONLY bad sex. In the Mansion! Read the book!
Nevertheless, it's an axiom that what we feel we lack, we seek. But only if we know it's a lack. Perhaps if I hadn't been told over and over that I had a lack, or if society and my family hadn't told me that it was important for me to look a certain way, and that way was different from how I actually appeared, I wouldn't have missed being told I was attractive so much from the man I loved for fifty years. You know that scene where the hero takes the heroine's head between his hands, looks into her face and tells her she's beautiful? I always wanted that. Never got it. And of course, having less power than Will (the person who needs the relationship less always has more power), I couldn't ask for what I needed.
But right now none of this bothers me. Something got fixed on Monday. Something inside. The great hole in my heart had some salve slipped over the still-raw cauterization. Maybe now I can begin to "move forward" just a bit.
I woke up crying, missing Will. As I felt the grief rise I was okay with it and thought, "I'm going to cry for awhile and then be rid of the grief or maybe it's going to be a grief day. It's all good."
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| Still from a comparison video showing time and fortune happening to all |
I didn't go to the office because of ice on the road. Toked a doobie around 7:00 and did some housework (I still haven't done the floors for, ooooh, how many months now? But that is totally not grief related. I'm a bachelor without a housemaid.)
I met Trinity friends online at 8:00 and talked about Marianne Borg's sermon. I wound up, as I often do, in favor of the more ancient (ie, back to the Council of Nicea) choices -- ie, the full Episcopal (prayer book 1979) Lenten litany. Basically, Borg's sermon spoke against the full Lenten Litany I'd experienced on Wednesday at 7am. She didn't find it helpful to call herself "wretched" as in the opening prayer
Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing you have
made and forgive the sins of all who are penitent: Create and
make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily
lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness,
may obtain of you, the God of all mercy, perfect remission
and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives
and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever
and ever. Amen.
She also didn't like to be in a group confessing to wickedness as in:
"Indeed, I have been wicked from my birth, * a sinner from my mother's womb"
Instead, she presented Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass and a celebration of life and self as an antidote to the Book of Common Prayer. I disagreed so, so much. Marianne knows she and I differ in our theologies, as we wrangled before about the negativity in Nadia Bolz-Webber's Lutheran Theology. But I see very little wrong with privileged, white, Americans feeling bad about what they have gained through being privileged (and I speak for myself). I see nothing wrong with feeling culpable in part for my generation's further ruination of the planet. I also feel bad about the ways I hurt some people in my past. I also feel guilty for not giving away everything I have to the poor and I know I'm not going to do that so I feel like I'm sinning while I'm breathing. Fortunately, I understand "sin" as "missing the mark". So I'm missing the mark this time around. Not getting off the wheel this time! So the full Lenten litany (which I, by the way, understand as I understand ALL litanies, as theatre!) assures me that I am not alone in feeling guilty about, well, stuff. And then it frees me through JC's forgiveness! So right after mass, I made sure my ash was firmly in place, and then hauled ash over to Turtle Island Coffee Shop downtown to have some Gay Coffee (actually, a golden oatmilk).
So I told the group my thoughts about the litany and how I felt refreshed, not bad, after the service and went out to have Gay Coffee. I was nervous about expressing my point of view because, well, I was still high and I felt very strongly and I knew I was going against the ideas of several folks in the group. And I said so.
Anyway, the group folks who disagreed with me were awesome about understanding me while disagreeing and I was awesome back in the same way and we all showed love for each other and I felt good.
That got me to about 9:30. I still felt sad but putzed around for awhile, doing some housework, watching some facebook reels, waiting for my exercise class at Exercise Coach.
Went to class. Worked hard. I said my voach Cameron, "That was awful! Thank you!" They know I hate exercise.
Then went home. I felt myself fighting the urge to smoke again. I putzed around, cried some more. Told God how grateful I am to have a house, to have clothing, to have food, to have warmth. Told myself I have gratitude for all I have.
Then I went to my appointment with my new Therapist B. at the OSU counseling center. The counseling center lacks a receptionist. So I followed someone in through the "pass needed" doors but was walked back out and told to wait in the appropriate room. Back in the waiting room I saw a nice, small, poorly placed 8x10 sign about "feeling comfortable in our waiting area". I felt tigerish and angry that there wasn't a mammal there to greet me so I started pacing. the B. came to get me.
It was mostly a "get to know you" meeting where she laid out all the rules, explained the videotaping, and asked me questions and I asked questions back. She was really good at articulating what she was seeing of my behaviors and so good at active listening. We talked about my goals: 1. Get my mojo back 2. Get off weed. She listened hard to me and also heard me talk about being able to 3. Make connections with people. This was after I asked my question about "how can I be authentic and still have friends". She laughed at my jokes, was comfortable with my style of communication. In spite of her youth (and she's probably older than I think she is - most slender blonds are) she seems to have wide experience of geography, at least. She's a good fit for me and I hope she can help.
During the meeting I told her that a big reason I'm seeing her is fear. Fear fear fear. The anger I was feeling for everyone last year was covering it up. I don't want to be an angry asshole. One can't have friends that way. So now I am right down to the fear. Fear of quitting weed. Fear that people are lying to me when they say they like me. Fear that I'm incapable of functioning "normally." Fear that I really am a terrible, horrible, person. And, let's face it, just plain fear of other people. Fear of asking for help. Fear of being judged.
She said how strong I was to be so vulnerable. I felt myself looking down to the left and away. I wanted to scream, "DON'T TELL ME I'M STRONG. That's what people say when they don't want to deal with my weakness. When the weight of my heavy presence is too much for them to bear. When they are like my mother who behaved as if every time I was sad it hurt her so if I wanted her to be okay I had to stop sharing my sadness. I want my counselor to be strong so I don't have to be." But I didn't. I admitted I'm resilient. And I felt it.
Until she left my side and I walked through the parking lot to my car and started to cry. I was crying on the way home. Howling/crying in my car. Howling/crying in the house. Pacing back and forth. The need to injure myself growing and growing. So I drove out on errands. Walk the dog on a sidewalk that wasn't wet. Return uneaten dog food to Bend Pet Express. Drop off a 1962 Time Magazine with Karl Barth on the cover to church for Pastor Jeff but he had already gone home. He's been talking about Barth and the Barmen Declaration at the adult forum. I am three degress of separation from the great, modern theologian (who had a long-term mistress his wife knew about.)
Tried texting friends and my sister but for awhile people were busy. And people will always be busy. Another fear. Tried contacting Sarah. She had her daughter's birthday and I understood the importance of that. She said that she could call me in five minutes but I didn't want to take her away from family. My brain hurt worse and worse.
At Sarah's suggestion I dialed Deschutes County Crisis line but hung up because I knew I wasn't suicidal or homicidal so why waste their time?
Finally, responses from friends started coming in, making appointments for the future so I began to hold onto some hope. Then Lilli Ann called me back and asked what was happening and if I would like her to come over. I had texted her a few times and saw that she saw and finally texted a messy, passive-aggressive, "oh-god-I am-so-fucked-up-so-please-help-me" type of text. I said "yes, please come over". She was in a meeting but would be able to be with me in 45 minutes. That was great. I finally sparked up my second doobie of the day, when I'm used to three by then. I paced some more and watched some funny Bistro Huddy reels.
And then she was there and I felt okay again. She was proof to me that I wasn't a bad person. It was awhile, however, before I could sit down. She sat on the floor but I couldn't sit for about ten minutes while I talked and talked and talked. I finally sat down.
She didn't leave till she knew I was safe. I told her I was hungry and had to eat and asked if she needed anything but she didn't. So we said good-bye and she went home to do chair stuff.
I made myself a turkey sandwich (back to not being able to cook). While I ate it I watched Monday night's NCIS tribute to David McCallum as they presented a whole special show (with a specially moderated theme tune) about the death of Ducky Mallard. Michael Weatherly, as Tony, was a walk on (looked like he's had some "work" done). No Gibbs, though. I cried then, for Ducky. For David. For my lost youth when he was my big 8th grade crush. For the pain felt by the characters. My eyes were sore by then after a day of tears, so I didn't cry that much, and the tears I did cry were clean and not filled with self hate.
Lessons learned:
1. Help will arrive if I hold out long enough. I need to learn to ask for it more directly and to be more aware of the level of my fucked-uppedness.
2. I should not brag about being "okay." This is what is known as "tempting fate" or "poking Jehovah in the Eye" or, more anciently, hubris.
Well, I've tried calling three friends and Sarah and everyone is busy.
That's okay.
My howling can't be heard outside my car or house.
Sarah sent me the link to the Deschutes County Crisis Intervention line - 800-875-7364. I dialed but then hung up because I don't think wanting to cut myself and crying for an hour is a crisis. It's just fucking TUESDAY.
Okay. Time to get high again. Enough of this trying to quit for today.
Well, I'm gonna start cheating on Sarah. Hahahaha
I'm down to once a month with her. I think my grief is well controlled. But I have issues with lack of motivation and marijuana overuse. (They go hand in hand, don't they!) As my friend Stacey said, it's "sad" that I smoke weed and watch TV all day. So, I should do something about that so that I don't have to feel like I'm "letting the side down." I need to learn to care about something besides my animals, weed, church, and police procedurals!
Anyway, OSU is looking for guinea pigs for their counselors so I'm going to check in next week for the two problems mentioned above.
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| "Are all of you called Barnaby?" |
I had so many plans for "when Will dies." Plans made in the 1990s when I volunteered with Hospice.
Proven ridiculous now by my actual experience.
I had another epiphany awhile back that I haven't written about. Here's what I imagine, alternate timelinewise. If Will had died before his dementia, or say within 10 years of my hospice volunteering, I don't think I'd be such a mess still. That is if he'd died while I was working. I wouldn't have retired early, for one thing.
But that wasn't part of my epiphany. What I realized was that while Will was whole I always had a link to another universe. But once I started caring for him, he became the focus of my love as my in a way that wasn't true when he was well. My world narrowed. In the years of caring from 2014 - 2021, my eros lost its mojo as my love turned into agape.
My ability to hook up with others is gone, it seems. And I have no interest in anymore care-giving.
A cis-gender heterosexual male friend of mine noted the other day, "You're a desirable woman" and all I
Nobody visits Gibbs in Alaska.
I wrote a speech for some convention or other about the problems in the representation of workplace friendship presented in NCIS.
Last year I realized that my friend Stacey had been responsible for forcing a group of workplace people I thought liked me to include me in certain activities.
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| Leroy Jethro Gibbs, (c) CBS TV |
Turns out people tolerate me except for a few exceptionally kind people who like me in very small doses.
Yes, except for Will, it turns out I'm that guy - the guy people smile at while hoping will go away. Only Will could stand me for over a few hours at a time.
And that's ok.
If I'm the loud asshole in the classroom (and it seems I am) then it's a good thing I'm also an introvert and like being by myself. With that in mind, I think I need to start fishing again. EDIT: I had a great talk with Pastor Jeff this morning after mass in which I said, "All parts are important to the Body of Christ and I found out what part I am ... " he started laughing ... "and I need to do better at keeping it closed. ... but it's important for getting rid of shit."
Meanwhile:
I have a hat.
Dear Will --
Do you remember the first time we slept together?
It was Friday night, October 22, 1971. We had made love for the first time just the night before and Huldah had given me free tickets to go see the Fifth Dimension at the Half-Asstrodome that Friday and we left after the band sang a few tunes. I remember so well my excitement as we walked down the grassy hill, past the hospital, through the fall night to your apartment.
Did I tell anybody else? Did I call Huldah and tell her I wasn't going to be home?
I don't remember. I don't remember anything but the clear night, the cool smell of changing weather, and your hand in mine. And your critical and loving nature.
Do you remember the last time we slept together? December 15, 2021.
I miss you so much.
Especially now that it's February, month of anniversaries - the murder, the suicide, the rape.
I miss you holding me. I miss your skinny body. I even miss your crankiness.
I'm okay with the pain being this intense. I know it will fade.
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
The same thing happened when I went to the symphony in the fall ... I encouraged the person who had invited me to leave with me at the intermission.
I guess the high school auditorium is so imprinted with Will because the only reason I ever sat in those chairs was for the symphony, and that band wasn't in the high school till well after Will came to Bend. In Will's first years the orchestra was still an ill-rehearsed mess but then Michael came, turned it around and we became contributors and never missed a concert.
But last fall I just couldn't be there anymore and thought it was the symphony itself.
Turns out it's the fucking building.
The Bend High Auditorium is like New York City -- I haven't been able to go there, either, because it's linked to Will. But not completely. There was the New Yorker trip in 1975 and the American Studies Association in 1989 (I think) before Will and I started going every year, beginning with the post 9/11 pilgrimage in 2002. So maybe I'll be able to get back to the Big Apple.
And maybe the high school as well. I've got two more tickets to hear speakers at Bend High. I don't know if I'll try again or just give up for this year.
Stacey just texted that the Novel Idea speaker will be at Caldera High! It's new! Maybe that will be a test case. Is it the building or the happy crowds?
Enquiring minds ...
(Oh, and just for comparison, here's the front of MY high school:
When my best friend in graduate school, Mike Swan, died of auto-erotic asphixiation in 1986, I grieved for him through an entire quarter, 3 months. I knew him for 2 years, 24 months. That means I grieved for him 1/8 of the time I knew him.
I knew Will for 50 years and a bit.
1/8 of 50 years is 6 years and 3 months.
By my calculations I have 4 years and 2 months left to shape up and move ahead.
That's a load off my mind! And now I have the quantitative ability to tell people why they should just go fuck off when they tell me to move ahead.
Think I'll light up another one because it's 4:20 somewhere!
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| Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash |
Those guys made me cry on the way to the Haven this morning. One of their songs turned up on a favorite Sirius station. Which one of the three CW buttons on my list it was - Outlaw Country, Bakersfield Beat, or Willie's Roadhouse -- I don't recall. But I started crying in the car on the line, "Please don't tell me how the story ends." The lyric led me to thinking about the last time Will and I made love (in 2014) and how I didn't know it was the last time. And then I missed Will. And then the years of the misery of care-giving came back and then I just waited for the next song, which wasn't as sad.
I appreciate the sorrow and humor of classic CW tunes. Like the ironies in a song that will always bring me to tears, the George Jones hit "He Stopped Loving Her Today."
Happily enough, CW music also has happiness triggers! I worked in CW radio when the Outlaws were penning some of their greatest hits. One of which gave me and still gives me the sense that people like me have made spaces for themselves in the world before. Look at these lyrics by the late, great outlaw Waylon Jennings, "I've Always Been Crazy"
I've always been crazy and the trouble that it's put me through
Been busted for things that I did, and I didn't do
I can't say I'm proud of all of the things that I've done
But I can say I've never intentionally hurt anyone
I've always been different with one foot over the line
Winding up somewhere one step ahead or behind
It ain't been so easy but I guess I shouldn't complain
I've always been crazy but it's kept me from going insane
Beautiful lady are you sure that you understand
The chances you're taking loving a free living man
Are you really sure you really want what you see
Be careful of something that's just what you want it to be
I've always been crazy but it's kept me from going insane
Nobody knows if it's something to bless or to blame
So far I ain't found a rhyme or a reason to change
I've always been crazy but it's kept me from going insane.
Those lyrics pretty much articulate where I'm at right now. I met with therapist Sarah yesterday and we agreed that currently I feel like I am where I am meant to be. I am in alignment. We were talking about my weekend experiences of being the loud one in the room and how there are people who can ask me to tone it down and I accept it without feeling bad about myself because they are delivering the message with love but there are also people who tell me the same type of thing in a mean voice with a mean face and those people can just go fuck themselves as I'm no longer going to interact with them period. Sarah hugged me when I told her I am no longer chasing people who try to shame me for being myself.
One neurosis down, how many to go? (Looks like we got us a convoy!)
Through this winter I've been tackling the downstairs. Because I've decided to live alone rather than rent out one of the bedrooms, the cleaning hasn't seemed as urgent as it did in the past. I take time to reflect. Today I'm thinking about the little bits of Who-Will-Was that still inhabit the house. When I run across these bits and bobs, I sometimes cry, sometimes feel a weight on my chest, and sometimes just go, "hmmm."
For example, these pencils.
The basket itself was a reminder of one of the several times I decided to clean up and organize our space as stuff started to proliferate like tribbles, which, as everyone knows, are trouble.
The downstairs is mostly filled with a lot of MY stuff -- bits of unfinished art projects, books that survived the first three prunings but are still questionable as to the reasonableness of their presence in my space.
