How quickly two years goes by when you’re caught up doing adult things like working, laundry and falling into the dark bottomless pit of modern day life. All this time I’ve believed that my 2014 and 2015 posts had been deleted from the world forever but I have just learned that I was wrong. The internet is forever. All my crazy lows and personal thoughts, right there were I left them laid out in black and white inside those clear cat tubes. I won’t delete them, but I’m choosing to ignore them and just let them go and live in those cat tubes forever. One thing that I have learned these last couple of years is how to let go. Of friendships that weren’t meant to last, of thoughts that were unhealthy, and now, of black and white pieces of my past floating in cyberspace.
On the soon to be eve of a New Year I have realized that I’m going to be 40. Although I can’t say I’ve ever felt particularly like an adult there’s something about 40 that screams adulthood. WRINKLES! WEIGHT GAIN! RETIREMENT PLANNING! GRUNTING EVERY TIME YOU GET OUT OF A CHAIR! This can’t be 40. This can’t be my 40.
Apparently I have 294 more days until I will turn 40. I don’t like math so I won’t do the calculations but I believe that online counter is wrong. Surely I must have more time left than that. I intend to spend that time focused on my happiness, health and personal projects (yet to be determined). I want to be excited about life and have stories to tell.
I think 294 might be right. Oh God.
When I put the title like that it makes me recoil a bit at my cruel insensitivity but the more I think about it, the less badly I feel for it.
My grandmother had been in the ER since last night when all us family were called in because we were told this was it. We drove through the night and arrived here at 3am. In the last 28 hours I have slept for half an hour. My grandmother had another stroke, and a seizure and has been unconscious ever since. We removed her from life support about 3 or 4 hours ago and now she’s comfortable on dilaudid. Before last night she had been unhappy. She felt like it was her time to go and she misses my grandfather. She never wanted this. She made it clear she didn’t want machines keeping her alive. She’s just sleeping now. A gross sounding uncomfortable sleep and I just want it to be over for her. Over for everyone. What a horrible thing it is to just wait for someone to die. To sit beside them and hope that they would just die already.
I’ve sent my sleep deprived family off to my grandmothers house in the country at least an hour and a half away from the hospital to get some sleep. They are all much older than me and need to rest. I hope that she dies while they’re gone. I’d like for me to be the only one to have to see it. Even if it’s not peaceful, I will tell them it was to make them feel okay.
I’m tired and the bubbling sound of the sterile water bag moisturizing the oxygen sounds like a fish tank. I’m going to put my feet up on these horrible vinyl chairs and pretend it’s a fish tank. Maybe she can hear it and thinks it’s a fish tank. That would be nice.
This post is not about my thoughts on sex, this post is about the thoughts that come into my head while having sex. Unfortunately for me my brain is overactive all of the time. This is why I have difficulty sleeping and paying attention during long meetings. It is also a factor in why I have a hard time reaching organ.Thanks anxiety! You’re the best! Well, here are tonight’s highlights:
- He’s doing this because he feels guilty about not knowing me well enough to buy the right snacks.
- I could crush his skull with my thighs right now. He’d probably stop though so I better not.
- I could box his head with my feet like one of those small hanging punching bags. Hehe.
- I should have shaved my legs this morning.
- I shouldn’t have had that lemonade before bed. My stomach is making sloshing noises. Shit it’s loud. He doesn’t seem to care.
- Do I have to fart? Maybe the sloshing will mask the sound if one sneaks out.
- He doesn’t know I have a melatonin under my tongue. I hope we’re not having sex for so long that I start to fall asleep.
- Must block his tongue from my mouth, he might get some melatonin on him and fall asleep. That’s stupid and impossible.
- It doesn’t matter how much you spend on a bed, it’s always going to make noise during sex.
- It feels like his penis is poking through my stomach.
- Where is my t-shirt? I don’t want to get cum on the carpet. Again.
- Fluffy carpets are so ugly but they feel so much nicer.
- I should write about this in my blog. *process of recapping and embedding all the above thoughts into my memory begins.
- It’s cold in here, we’re going to have to turn the heat on soon.
- I’m sloshing again.
- (*hair pulling) that’s good.
- I’m having a hard time thinking of anything else now. I must really like that since it’s all I can focus on.
And there we have it, the summarized version of what it’s like having sex with anxiety. It’s much like the live version of the show Herman’s Head without the comedy writers and fantastic 90’s theme song.
Last night I spent two hours listening to an astronaut tell stories of his experiences, tell jokes, sing songs and show the photos he had taken from the international space station. He is one of those natural story tellers that keeps you ccaptivated from start to finish. I can’t remember the last time I was so interested in hearing another person speak. Part of the speech included a bit about focusing on the now, disconnecting and experiencing life away from social media. I couldn’t help but appreciate that small moment in time when I sat in the exact same venue with the exact same friend as I did 25 years earlier as an elementary schooler hearing another astronaut speak. I was grateful in that moment that I’ve had a friend for that long who is still a part of my life. That’s pretty amazing.
I learned an incredible amount of information last night. Here are a few highlights:
- Astronauts wear diapers (made by Johnson and Johnson that have little blue and pink rockets on them) on take off and landing
- Sputnik means “little voyager” in Russian
- Astronauts suffer from osteoporosis as a result of entering space but it reverses itself over time back on earth. Medical science is trying to study how it reverses itself.
- When an astronaut returns to earth they can’t stand up right away because their heart is unaccustomed and unable to pump blood from their feet to their heart
- Right after entering orbit an astronaut is likely to vomit. The barf bags have towels attached to them because the vomit bounces off the bottom of the bag and splashes you back in the face. The towels are so you can wipe off your face.
- There is a guitar that stays on the international space station because it is known that the arts are essential to maintaining positive mental health in a time of isolation
- The likelihood of death taking off in a spaceship is 1 in 38
Great stuff right? Now throw in some jokes and inspirational pictures and you’ve got yourself a great two hours. Afterwards I met him ever so briefly to sign a book of photography that I will give my father for Christmas. I’m convinced that he jogs. He has done so much with his life and contributes so much to many organizations that I know he jogs. I hate joggers. They’re out there in all sorts of shitty weather at ungodly hours making everyone feel shitty about their life choices. I get it. You jog. You’re better than me. Fuck you joggers.
I feel like I should amend my last post. I don’t hate IKEA. IKEA is fine, I have plenty of it in my house. Who’s house doesn’t have an IKEA bookshelf?! I just really didn’t want that chair. Good. I’m glad we’ve cleared the air, let’s move on.
Although sometimes it’s hard to see, my job does have a lot of benefits to it and one of those benefits is the freedom and flexibility to create new groups for the clients with addictions that I serve. Last week I had a meeting with some colleagues to map out a new therapeutic writing group that we’re starting in the fall. We discussed topics for various sessions and one of them had the following leading lines:
Initially the line itself seems rather simplistic and rudimentary. Hurt feelings is typically a term reserved for children, but the reality is hurt feelings happen at any age but the emotional pain seems to increase with age. People will disappoint you, crush your very soul and lead you to question things that you believed to be true. As adults we don’t often get the apology we feel we deserve. The purpose of the exercise is to release the painful memories of something you have been holding onto and to provide closure by explaining your own desired outcome. It’s a rather simple therapeutic process to a complicated problem.
I decided to test out this planned session on myself at lunch. That’s my writing. I knew exactly where I would start but underestimated the emotional investment I would put into the exercise. I fought back tears as I started writing but things got better and I made it through. Completing it was a good indication of some of the emotions that participants will be feeling in the group. To add to the closure piece, I destroyed my work when I was done. The shredder didn’t feel safe enough. Death by burning was my first choice but lighting things on fire is frowned upon in my office. This was its fate:
Farewell hurt feelings, it’s been real.
Public service announcement: If the photocopier jams with your copies, you need to fix it. If you don’t know how to fix it, ask for help. Walking away is not okay. I will find you and smear my toner stained hands all over your face. #cubiclerage
I’ve been hearing a lot about marital breakdowns amongst people I know lately. I think in this generation, people tend to seperate more often than in our parents generation not because they consider relationships as disposable but because they place a higher value on themselves and their happiness. Life is too short to waste time on people that make you unhappy. With that said, relationships are an investment and you get out of them what you put in. If you don’t water your goddamn grass it’s going to dry up and die.
A few days ago the 2016 IKEA catalogue arrived in my mailbox. My spouse pointed out the Poang chair as something he found comfortable. I said I didn’t like them and we weren’t getting one. Cut to yesterday when I come home from work to find him assembling said Poang chair in our living room.
I was pissed. I said no and he purposely went out and bought it knowing I didn’t want it. The made in China shit chair replaced my $800 made in North America chair. I spent my entire evening being angry, partly for the chair that I didn’t want, and partly that it was purchased knowing that I objected to it. I dwelled on it and it made me miserable.
Today I have decided that a chair is a chair. It is not worth getting into an argument about and making me unhappy. I can choose how I react to things and in the grand scheme of life, a chair is unimportant. I need to fucking relax and let it go. Someday I might even sit in it. Maybe.