I Only Smile In The Dark

~stolen from a lyric, band: Garbage, song: I'm Only Happy When It Rains, Album: Garbage, Release date: 1995

Yeah, yeah, I've still got my head in the 90s for pop music.  Whatev.

I'm happy.  Nearly deliriously so.  Riding a euphoric high.  Which, ridiculously, scares the hell out of me.  I have no idea where this particular aspect of my personality comes from, but even though I'm extraordinarily happy, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.  That things can't possibly, seriously, really be this good.  Can they?  I've had a great success professionally (and, sorry, that's all I'm going to say about that) and personally I am on an even keel even despite the shorter, colder, and greyer days we're experiencing in Ohio.  We have snow in the forecast this week, FFS.  But the depression is currently manageable most days.

I went to see my family doc last week, because my 'scripts for my allergy medicine and anti-depressants all ran out at the same time.  Because the anti-depressants are a maintenance med, I'm supposed to have blood work done periodically, and I knew that if I just called and asked for refills, they'd say no.

He and I talked about my dosage, and I told him what I've been telling you people for quite a while now: I accept that I may need to take this medication for the rest of my life.  I'm in far better shape than I was a year ago this time...see this post and this post for backstory there, if you're just joining us...but I've learned the very hard way that I'm not ready to step down the dosage or discontinue them by any stretch of anyone's imagination, certainly not mine or the doc's.  He did suggest tapering them, but I related an incident that happened on a day where I managed to take just a partial dosage (here's a hint: it didn't end well) that I blew far out of porportion over the summer.  Given that, he agreed with me that we'd revisit the issue of tapering the dosage in 6 months.  Fine.

In the meantime, where the hell is the sudden onset of anxiety coming from?  Breathe, Luce, damn.  How is it that I'm fairly unable to live in the moment, appreciate what's here and now?  Enjoy the success, build on it, take the congratulatory flourish that goes along with it, and start working on the next event on the horizon.  

How hard is that?

Lack Thereof

Patience has never ever been my strong suit. I'm pretty stubborn, too. My parents tell a hilarious story about 2 or 3 year old me taking a pair of kiddie scissors to puzzle pieces, in an effort to make them fit the way I thought that they ought to.

In the world outside of teh interweb, I'm waiting for something to happen or not happen. Anxiously awaiting news, one way or the other. Which is dammed annoying, frankly. Tom Petty sang, "waaaaaiiiitttinnnng is haaaaaaardest part" in a pop song in the 80s, and true dat, folks.

One of my favorite Sci-Fi authors, Anne McCaffrey, writes about a system of belief (I don't know what else you could really call it) that has vaguely Eastern overtones, and one of the basic statements is 'Never hurry, never wait.'

Far easier said than done.

{I must point out that I neither subscribe to this system of belief, nor do I completely understand it, because she never bothers to explain more than the most basic sorts of things about this faith, or whatever it is. See: Sassinak, Dinosaur Planet, The Planet Pirates, etc.}

We spend a lot of our lives rushing around, from one appointment to the next, or from one task to the next, and a whole lotta time waiting in queues for all kinds of things.

We've become mostly convinced as a society that unless we're multi-tasking, we're wasting time. Standing on line at the post office? Check your e-mail from your phone. Or write a grocery list, but be doing something other than just waiting. Goddess forbid.

The reason you end up rushing around then sometimes becomes that you were too busy multi-tasking to stay on schedule.

As I've waited (a seeming eternity, too, I must say) I sometimes get a little swoop in my stomach, like when the car is going fast over a little unexpected hill, a swoop of excitement, and other times it is a swoop of dread. I woke up this morning feeling like a ton of bricks had taken up residence in my tummy, along with about 300 butterflies. Does that even make sense? But I had hoped so that today would be THE DAY, and alas, no. The phone did not stay silent, instead it rang all day with other calls, and each time I'd look at the screen hoping that big important number would be popping up, and bummer, no. (Yes, I know what number will be calling me with THE NEWS, or at least I know the area code and the prefix, if not the last digits. I'm a geek. Of course I know the number that will be calling.)

Stomping my feet and fussing hasn't helped either. What a surprise.

I've tried to focus on other "stuff" and during the weekend, that's not so hard. But during the workdays, when you know everyone in the world is in their office, and freaking NOT CALLING ME, it is harder.

I'm fond of many curse words for the forcefulness of expression they provide sometimes. I've been trying to decrease the number of them that I use here and in the world unless I'm trying to make a particular point, because they tend to make people sit up and listen. But none of the American slang or curse words I could come up with are as expressive in this situation as is a Brit word, one that the average Yank wouldn't even recognize as a curse word.

No phone call today: Bugger! BUGGER!

Dear Applicant

Thank you for your interest in the position at Institution ABC.

The search committee has reviewed resumes and wishes to inform you that we have interviewed candidates and hired a candidate whose background and experience is more suitable for the position. We encourage you to monitor our website for further position announcements.

Thank you for taking the time to apply for the position and for your interest in the institution and making a difference. I wish you well in your job search.

Sincerely,

Jane Smith

Urgh. If I get another one of these letters this week, I'm going to run away, live off the grid, breed sheep, use their wool to spin into thread, and knit for a living. Or something.

Yes, the letter above is copied and pasted from my e-mail, with the name of the institution obscured and the position I was interested in removed.

The hell of all of this is that I'm starting to lose that most precious of human commodities, hope.

Each time I send my resume somewhere, I'm so hopeful that I'll be able to leave behind the job that I don't like. I get an interview, or I get a positive initial response, and the hopes raise higher.

Then I don't get the job.

The rejection tests my strength, often making me want to climb into bed and hide away from the world for a while. Some days I'm successful; some days not. I haven't lost all hope yet, but I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever be able to find another job. More importantly, will I ever find a job that I love as much as I loved my non-profit work?

I did get an offer for one I interviewed for last week. Unfortunately, I only went to the interview because it never hurts to stay in practice and have a chat with a potential employer. It was a waste of my time; I knew within seconds of walking in the door that I would never be able to work in that office. Full of overgrown fraternity boys and misogyny to spare. And then the job was to be an investment broker; thanks, but absolutely not. Ever.

I'm smart; creative, funny, polite (sometimes), eloquent, talented....I could go on. I've got a 4 year degree, speak 3 languages, am an incredibly quick study.

Too bad that I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I could figure out what to do with all that potential.

Perhaps I should say *IF* I grow up; at the moment, I don't think there's much danger.

This almost changes everything...

...we don't need to settle down
we live our lives upside down
to figure out
we are just like love and war, baby

...we wake up
break up
make up
fall asleep and do it all again

~Red Wanting Blue, Spies and Lovers, Pride: the cold lover, 2005

(An Oh-hia-ia based band)


Driving the other day, I woke up from zoning to note that I was on a familiar route; the same one I drove to take care of my Auntie when she was at the local hospice facility, with the above song playing on the iPod.

It made me think about how much time changes things. And how little time changes things.

When Auntie H was ill, it was fall, the most beautiful time of year here. The gently rolling hills are covered with blazes of red and orange, flashes of yellow fire, dynamic, vibrant colors. We even see the sun, a little bit, in the fall; when we do, the sky is an autumnal blue that you don't see the rest of the year, a deep, vivid hue. Combined with a crisp chill in the air, it makes me think of apple cider, Halloween costumes, new #2 pencils.






That same route in January is darker; the trunks and limbs of the trees look grey from a distance, sometimes tinged with small hints of red, but mostly dark. The farmer's fields are either plowed under, (the corn fields) or shorn of wheat. When there's no snow on the ground, everything looks dirty, from the overcast horizon on down, as if the whole world could use a good scrubbing. When there is snow, it looks clean, at least, but no less overcast.



And yet.

The road is still in terrible shape, it has needed paved for at least 10 years. The hospice still sits back a bit from the road, with a lovely view of soothing countryside. (If you can ignore the gloom; I'd probably draw the blinds rather than look out at the grey skies.) The gas station and pizzeria on the corners of the nearest 'major' intersection are still there, unchanged.

Time hasn't eased my grief a whole lot. I know I complain about this happening quite a bit, but I see people who at first glance I think are my aunt, and when I look again, there's no similarity whatsoever. That second look happens after your brain registers...'hey, there's Auntie H!' and you almost call out, and then reality crashes back down on you as you remember that she's gone. It hurts, a sharp stab that sometimes takes my breath away.

I can't help but wonder if that happens to me because my subconscious thinks about her, (with me mostly unaware as I go about my daily business) or if it is because of an explanation I like a whole lot better even though it is crazier; that there is some tenuous connection between this world and the next (if there even is an afterlife) and she wants me to know that she's all right. Because that first glance almost always shows me a big smile and I feel waves of reassurance.

The world keeps on turning, the days continue to pass by, and other things do change. Life continues, sometimes in predictable patterns...Pilates classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, nights with not nearly enough sleep, dinners contemplated and prepared, work attended to.

And then along comes something that is a change, something that does change things, or something that has the potential to make changes. We find new hope, or new ideas.

Is it as a culture, or as humanity in general that we hope for new beginnings and yet fear change at the same time?