My brain won't shut off, so here I am, awake at midnight and need to be up in 5 hrs. Blarg.

So many things on my mind. One thing I keep playing over in my head is the frequency I see commercials on TV for medications to treat depression. And how often I hear folks dismiss depression: "It's all in your head." Um, yes. Yes, it is. But that doesn't make it any less real. It's still a thing. I'm not embarrassed to admit that I have to take medication. With all that's happened the past year, it should be so surprise. But just b/c I take medicine, doesn't mean it's magical fairy dust.

Stuff is hard. Really hard. Some days, it takes all I have to get up and go to work. While I'm there, I am able to sort of peel myself away from other stuff mentally, but even work has its stresses.

Then there's the stuff that in my head I know I should do, or used to like to do, or might could do...but then I just don't. I'm exhausted once I get home. Physically and mentally. And let's be honest, spiritually. So ya, I feel like I ought to go to church Sunday, but I feel like a hypocrite, because although in my head I know God didn't make the incident with my dad happen, in my heart I'm torn b/c I feel anger that it happened, and anger now that dad continues to suffer, along with the family. I try to be strong for family, friends, work, me...sort of. I hold it all in, then just have a cry-fest. I just had one a few minutes ago. I have the sweetest cats, too. Grissom got up by my face (I was in bed) and just curled up, started purring, and rested his head on my face. I think he actually helped bring my blood pressure back down.

Yesterday, I was on the way to a close friend's wedding shower. Without traffic, it should have been a 20 minute drive. But b/c of so much construction on the interstate, I checked traffic early, and with the highway that dark red that Google uses to announce, "Hahaha! You just *thought* you were going somewhere!" I headed out an hour before the festivities were to begin. I took "the other way" to get south of the 820 loop, and sure enough, traffic there too. So much so, that I sat within the same block for an hour.

It seems like the smallest thing--that is unrelated to the biggest cause of stress--is the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back. Well, my straw happened to be a lady driving a minivan, who had *not* been sitting in traffic for an hour, b/c I saw her pull out from her apt complex. After sitting completely still through three more cycles of the traffic lights, there was movement ahead. A full car's length. I let the lady in. And the next 25 minutes were the lead up to what I can only imagine about a handful of Fort Worthians would describe is when "the crazy lady in the car near us went ballistic."

The lady in the minivan had no sense of urgency! She just sat there, unwilling to go when she could through the green light. So we sat through a few more cycles. On the fourth one of her just sitting, I lost it. I am not really happy that others saw my fit, but it was cathartic. I began beating the steering wheel, screaming, "Why?! Why?!" and "Lady, just GOOOOOOOO!!!!" all while bawling like a baby cutting teeth. There was shaking of fists and actual weeping and gnashing of teeth. If I'd have had a sackcloth, I am sure I would have torn my tunic and worn the sackcloth like in Bible days.

I was glad to get that out of my system although I feel like I could use about an hour of tantrum-throwing about now. By the time I made it to the shower, no one there knew I'd just had a melt-down in the car. Why? B/c I could hide it. Sometimes people with depression are good at hiding it. But those that know me well, they know better (and a couple of friends could tell I was "off" at the shower). And some of my dear friends check on me (thank you!), and make me laugh (double thank you!).

I am rambling, but I think that's what happens at 12:30 a.m. Why am I even sharing all of this? I am not sure. Just know that things aren’t always easy, or as simple as it may seem from the outside. Also, just know that I appreciate my friends and family that take the time to send encouraging words, virtual hugs, and actual laughs. <3

 

I just touched down in Boston at 1:05AM. I was supposed to be here nearly nine hours ago, but the travel gods had different plans. Despite the delays causing me to miss one of my best friend's birthday party, I couldn't help but take it in stride. I'm in a place lately where gratitude and awe seem able to buoy me against any deterrent.

We took off from Minneapolis directly into a thunderstorm. Perhaps it would best be described as an electrical storm, because while there was no rain that I saw, the sky flashed and shimmered in a strobe. The view from the left side of the plane - where I was sitting, luckily - was a thick wall of clouds illuminated by frequent and impressive bursts and bolts of light. It was terrifying, but exhilarating. I didn't dare look away. Have you ever seen stars above you and lightning below you? If I were to ever believe in a heaven like you see depicted in children's stories, it would have been right then and there. I tried to take video but I don't think it came out. And I don't particularly care. I saw it, and in my mind, the sky is flashing still.

I managed to doze most of the flight - a minor miracle, for me. As we descended into Boston, I observed the quarter moon dominating a clear sky, casting a long reflection across the face of the ocean. I felt at peace.

Lightning below and stars above - from being swallowed by in electricity to being bathed in moonlight. What a journey.

And to think: this is only the beginning.

I've been sick the past few days - the price I pay for an amazing week of travel, friends, learning and fun (and yes, the cold was worth it) - which means I've been mostly lying in bed, falling asleep and waking up at odd intervals. The travel plus the sick-at-home time have left me completely ignorant of what day or time it is. Hence, the title of this post: it's midnight somewhere.

Typing this from my iPad in bed, so excuse any typos or autocorrect mishaps please :-) Can't sleep. Not even the sound of my purring kittehs is lulling me to sleep. I'm feeling antsy. Or in a rut. Or both. It's gotten worse since I watched the season finale of Oprah the other day. She said that we should follow our passion, our calling, and bring positive energy to the world...I should email her and ask her to elaborate--after all she did give out her email addy and said to write her. I have a few things I'm passionate about. Just gotta figure out how to start or what to do. I do feel that itch I felt about four years ago that eventually had me find my way to Texas from oklahoma and about ten years before that from baton rouge to Oklahoma. Weird considering I hate moving. I do know that I have never quite felt like I've hit my stride here in tx. Professionally things have greatly improved and I've met some amazing higher Ed web folks the past few years. But personally, just have felt out of whack. Aside from frustration we all have, I try to remain positive at work, be the clown that cheers everyone. Smoky Robinson's words mean a little something more to me right now--not in the romantic way he meant them, but that clowns, or happy people, get sad too. I feel like the weight of responsibility I carry is teetering and I want to be strong enough to hold it together, other times I just want to yell at the top of my lungs and chunk it out the window.

It's been quite some time since anyone has posted to this blog and I'm not even sure anyone will know I'm posting to it tonight. I wondered how long we could sustain it with our busy lives. Although I have often been awake this late, I was too exhausted to even contemplate writing or typing one more keystroke from the long day of work before.

I've been off of work this week for Spring Break--a much needed break to be sure. I know many of us live the same lives essentially: working well past eight hours a day and then we tend to other obligations. Mine isn't a unique story. I planned on using this time off to clean out closets, deep clean the fridge and oven, and other such things that have been neglected for the past year. Yeah, year. What I've actually used this time for, so far, is to clean a little--not really much, but I can see the counter top on one side of my stove now where there were stacks of papers, mail, casserole dishes left at a friend's house and a random plastic deal that looks like it might be for making bubbles. Or a tennis racket for Jem (do you remember her? bigger than Barbie and with more sass). And honestly, I've done a lot of thinking. Many much thinking. And daydreaming. But more thinking that daydreaming.

Tonight was an especially wild roller coaster of emotions from thinking. While half-watching American Idol I pulled out a large box of papers and various other crap-tchkies (like tchotchke, but crappier) to finally sort through it. I've been toting this large crate-o-crap around from apartment to apartment, from state to state. At one time it only held "important" papers. Through various moves other things got tossed in the mix. Again, at first things that seemed important, so I would know where to find them. But then as time wore on and I no longer even remembered what was in the box, the crap crept in. Instead of just dealing with it, I kept lugging this huge purple plastic bin with me from place to place. There finally came a point when no more junk would fit, so I just wrapped packing tape around and around it, and moved it. It actually became so heavy that I can't pick it up myself. I can scoot it, but not lift it. Always had to have some strong friend lift it for me.

Tonight, I wrestled the purple abyss into my living room, sat on the love seat, and began sorting. I found a lot of old mail that I am not sure why I kept. Some went in the shred pile, some just tossed in a large trash bag--the extra stretch kind. I came across the rejects of a CD cover I made for a friend about five or six years ago. He hates, no loathes, the country band Alabama. So, of course, for his birthday, I burned him a CD chock full of Alabama songs and the cover was the band with one of the guys photoshopped out and James photoshopped in. Lots of fun and seeing the rejected CD covers made me laugh and I actually called James to catch up with him. We haven't seen each other in about three or four years. I continued to sort as I talked to James. Sharing some of the stuff I was finding along the way. A box of floppy disks--no clue what is on them. A boat load of cassette tapes. He made fun of me for that, but gave me a reprieve when he found out they were sermon tapes from about five years ago. I have no cassette player, so they really won't do me much good. Considering I never even listened to them the first time, I guess they did me no good then either. :-P

After we hung up, I continued to dig. I found a drawing my niece made for me when she was about ten. She's 18 now. I smiled, took a pic with my phone and texted it to her and my sister. Good memories. I also found a contact sheet for some photos I took with her brother, my nephew Davin, the last time I got to see him before he passed away from cancer. Good memories, but the kind that make you cry anyway. I'm tearing up again now thinking about it. I tried not to get carried away as I dug furiously through the bin, searching for the photos, or the negatives, or a disk. What frickin' camera did we use for these? Was it film or digital? I calmed myself and just decided to continue through the bin. I haven't found them still. I only have the torn contact sheet. I know people say the memories are in your mind, that we don't need to fill our lives with "stuff" to remember. But I do! Until I saw the photos, I'd remembered him how he was when he was about five. Had I forgotten what that bastard Cancer had done to his poor body? No, I *know* what it did, but I didn't remember him that way. Was that a good thing? Or bad? Right now I'm not sure.

I came across some recipes from my mom, sister, friends' moms. Some bible lessons that I guess at the time were poignant to me. A random book on weeds and berries. Two tests from my college physics classes that I was especially proud of. Got a 98 on a final. I actually remember that day, but that's a story for another insomniac night.

As I showered a little while ago, I started thinking that this bin really sort of represents baggage many of us carry. Mental baggage that I allowed to become physical. Some of it is definitely worth keeping. All of the other crap buried the good stuff. I filled it with crap, made others carry it or I would scoot it when necessary. No room for more. I've sort of done this. I'm full-up. Full of junk I'm hanging on to. Friends who've let me down, yet I hang on. And on. And on. Times I've let others down and yet I don't forgive myself even when they have forgiven me. Woulda, shoulda, couldas. Personal life? Ha! <soup nazi voice>No room for you!</voice>

As this is not a Lifetime movie, I am sure the transformation will not be overnight, or within the next 30 minutes, but I hope tonight's lesson sticks with me. I hope to start letting go of the crap to make room for more life. Good, bad and otherwise. All of it.

I'm on the Mass Pike on the way back from karaoke (after dropping someone off). God bless Monday holidays.

Karaoke was a scene. Someone's 21st birthday party, two instances of "Don't Stop Believin'" a guy in a cowboy hat, another guy with a mullet and a killer version of "Dream On." But even a mixed bag at karaoke is worth it, if only for the people watching.

Going to a friend's house for an early breakfast before they go cut down their Christmas tree. It's a lovely tradition, but it does require waking up at what for me is an ungodly hour.

I just wish the damned power plant didn't muck up the horizon like that.

http://news.tufts.edu/features/presidentelect

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I purchased the new biography of George Washington by Ron Chernow on my Kindle. I purchased it at 9 o'clock at night from my parents sofa, paid half as much as I would have paid had I bought it in a shop, and began reading it on the same sofa one minute after I bought it. 

While enjoying my new purchase, I thought to myself, "I should ask for the actual book for Christmas." But then I immediately thought, "Why?" The book is 928 pages long. It probably weighs about four pounds. Now that I own the Kindle version, would I ever actually read this paper behemoth? Probably not. And why was I so quick to think that the Kindle book wasn't an *actual* book? It is. Of course it is. Isn't it?

As fun as nostalgia can sometimes be, I don't like to rhapsodize one form of technology over another just because it's been around longer. And the book as an object is essentially a technology artifact, Patti Smith's recent heartfelt ode to paper, ink, and cloth notwithstanding. Surely the whole point here is <i>reading</i>, and I actually enjoy reading books on my Kindle even more than I enjoy reading them in print.

Yet I can't deny that there is a part of me that would love to see that George Washington bio up on my shelf.