It seems that something has not been right with me for a little while. Or, if you've known me for a long time you might argue that I've never been quite right, but that's another entry for another rainy day.
I know that my medication has some influence on how I feel throughout the day, both good and bad. I turn into a different person when I'm not on my meds, I'm an angry, emotional monster, and that is putting it nicely. So, though I resisted for quite a long time, I finally made the decision to take medication. It calms me, makes me relax, chill. But that makes me tired, but it is a different kind of tired. It's a listlessness, a sort of physical weakness. It's being drained all the time.
But over the last few months something else seems to be going on. I get really dizzy and nauseous in the afternoons. It feels like the entire room is spinning, like I just stepped off one of those wild rides at the state fair. And the nausea is terrible. I have not quite lost my lunch on my desk yet, but I've been damn close.
And the fatigue has been out of control, I feel like I can barely move most of the time.
I don't understand . . . I have been exercising, it's been almost a year since I started going to the gym. I've been eating well and I drink tons of water. I try to get enough sleep but I have kids, so, well you know how that goes. So what the hell is going on? I feel awful!
It has gotten progressively worse, I have even asked Mike to come pick me up from work early because I just can't focus when the room is spinning. Last Friday was the last straw . . . it was worse than ever. I have put off going to the doctor for a long time, I mean, I thought it would pass. Also, I am used to just sort of pushing through when I'm sick. If I have a cold, a sprain, whatever I still go about as usual, I don't let stuff like this get to me normally.
I'm probably just rambling now, I guess that's part of this whole deal, I just can't think straight for more than a moment or two. I've been leaving my keys on the counter when I go out to start the car, and I've been zoning out quite a bit too. Someone will be talking to me and I try to listen but it's like my brain just shuts off and the words, the sentences don't click. I hear it, but I don't understand it.
I'm only 35, so what does this mean? Stress? That's a give-in. I'm going in to get checked out Thursday.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Monday, January 18, 2016
Mystery in the dark
My drive to the gym takes me, in part, past a little mini-mall on the north side of town. By the time I go to the gym it is thoroughly dark outside (thanks, Winter Solstice) and the stores are closed, because, you know, why would any business want to stay open later than 7 p.m., right?
With the lights out (it's less dangerous?) the building blend into the scenery. Combined with my frequenting the route it has become little more than a landmark that tells me I'm almost at my destination.
But I've found something to look forward to here.
Most nights, with the exception of particularly frigid ones, an old man stands in near complete darkness on the west side of the building. He wears a thick blue coat and his hands and protected from the biting cold by black gloves. He also wears a dark blue hat, the kind with the little flaps that fold down over your ears. He holds a cane in his left hand, looking out toward one of the city's busiest intersections —watching? Waiting?
We have made eye contact more than once. I see him only for a brief moment as I turn right onto the road that passes his side of the building. Sometimes he is walking across the parking lot as I pass, heading toward his post.
He seems to be a gentle soul, the deep lines in his face tells me he's been on this earth more than most.
He does not appear to be homeless, but there are not really too many houses nearby either, which baffles me. Where does he come from?
I have so many questions. A part of me wants to stop one night and simply ask him if he is Ok. Does he have a warm place to sleep at night? Does he have enough to eat?
But then there is another part of me that enjoys this mystery and weird connection that we share (and, like I said, he does not appear homeless, his coat, hair, etc. are all clean as far as I can tell. If he appeared homeless there would be no question to stop or not).
He appears to be reminiscing, thinking, watching, but what and why? What is his story? Why does he stand there nearly every night? Is he lonely?
Now each night that I drive by I make it a point to look for him. My inner child plays with the idea that maybe only I can see him. Maybe he's some sort of earthbound spirit. I'd like to know . . . or maybe not.
Monday, October 12, 2015
The falling tree makes no sound
Some times, a lot of times, actually, I really, really want to write, to create something inspiring with language, to take letters and form words, sentences, thoughts, etc. It is one of the most therapeutic things I've ever known.
And yet, most of the time when this urge strikes me I really don't know what to write. It's not that I don't have a topic, quite the opposite, actually. I have too many topics and have a hard time picking just one or two to conquer in that particular piece. I have so much to say, but, as with everything else in my life, doubts quickly begin to surface.
For one, so many of the things I wish to write about are things you could not understand. Not in the sense that you are not intelligent to "get it," but in the sense that you have not lived some of the things I have lived, just as I have not lived some of the things you have lived, so if I were to write about those things I would be essentially be talking to myself.
Also, I have some very strong opinions about a few things, and I really don't want to offend anybody. More than once I have wanted to write about religion, but we all know that anything written about religion is immediately attacked and/or praised, which leads to nothing more than people arguing back and forth about something that ultimately no one understands. Sounds productive, doesn't it?
And yet, most of the time when this urge strikes me I really don't know what to write. It's not that I don't have a topic, quite the opposite, actually. I have too many topics and have a hard time picking just one or two to conquer in that particular piece. I have so much to say, but, as with everything else in my life, doubts quickly begin to surface.
For one, so many of the things I wish to write about are things you could not understand. Not in the sense that you are not intelligent to "get it," but in the sense that you have not lived some of the things I have lived, just as I have not lived some of the things you have lived, so if I were to write about those things I would be essentially be talking to myself.
Also, I have some very strong opinions about a few things, and I really don't want to offend anybody. More than once I have wanted to write about religion, but we all know that anything written about religion is immediately attacked and/or praised, which leads to nothing more than people arguing back and forth about something that ultimately no one understands. Sounds productive, doesn't it?
Saturday, September 26, 2015
Wise old owl
A few nights ago I found myself in a small Mexican village. I had been traveling in an RV and it had broken down nearby, so I wandered into town to find some help.
The townspeople were milling around and going about their daily lives, going to the market, chatting with friends — the storybook picture of a small Latin community.
There was a town square, and next to the square there was a very large and very old structure. It was made out of brick and was about three stories tall. It had a wooden, shake style roof. It resembled a church or government building. It was by far the biggest structure in town, and, although not ornate in anyway, it stood out against the rest of the town’s small shops and homes.
As I was passing by I found myself glancing up at the roof, pondering the use and age of the structure. A large silver and gray owl seemingly appeared from literally out of the blue, swooped down and landed on the roof. She was not a normal sized owl, she was large in a way that would make you believe she’s come from the “Jack and Beanstalk” giant world.
The townspeople were milling around and going about their daily lives, going to the market, chatting with friends — the storybook picture of a small Latin community.
There was a town square, and next to the square there was a very large and very old structure. It was made out of brick and was about three stories tall. It had a wooden, shake style roof. It resembled a church or government building. It was by far the biggest structure in town, and, although not ornate in anyway, it stood out against the rest of the town’s small shops and homes.
As I was passing by I found myself glancing up at the roof, pondering the use and age of the structure. A large silver and gray owl seemingly appeared from literally out of the blue, swooped down and landed on the roof. She was not a normal sized owl, she was large in a way that would make you believe she’s come from the “Jack and Beanstalk” giant world.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Library of souls
I have a really cool writing app on my laptop called Poe. I really should use it.
Last night I dreamed that I went on a cemetery tour. Well, it did not really start out that way, I was walking along a dark path in a kind of wooded area next to a canal in a city. Kind of like where the homeless people would walk along to find a place to sleep in the bushes, it was one of those sketchy kind of trails.
After I walked for awhile it seemed I had a small group with me. There was a woman, she was really skinny with stringy, dark hair. She was sad, she wanted to tell someone her story, she wanted people to hear her.
The path eventually led into a cemetery. So many of my dreams are in cemeteries. Weird, I know, maybe it is the Goth in me. All of the graves were fairly new, it was the most recent part of the cemetery, and there were people of all ages buried there. There were people visiting, some were walking and others were driving slowly by on the gravel lanes with the two tire paths and grass in the middle.
We sort of hung back and did not interact much with the mourners, we were not there for that purpose. After awhile it felt like the coast was clear, and we all loaded up into a van and drove to the older part of the cemetery. We drove down a road and through a tunnel . . . the older part of the cemetery was completely isolated from the newer, modern part. The graves there were the same ones we had seen before in the new part, they'd been moved there to make room for the new graves. It seems like the plots in the new part were constantly being recycled. Only the newly deceased were buried there, and after a few weeks or months the caskets were moved to the old part of the cemetery. It was almost like a retail store that is constantly switching out its season merchandise on the front racks.
Last night I dreamed that I went on a cemetery tour. Well, it did not really start out that way, I was walking along a dark path in a kind of wooded area next to a canal in a city. Kind of like where the homeless people would walk along to find a place to sleep in the bushes, it was one of those sketchy kind of trails.
After I walked for awhile it seemed I had a small group with me. There was a woman, she was really skinny with stringy, dark hair. She was sad, she wanted to tell someone her story, she wanted people to hear her.
The path eventually led into a cemetery. So many of my dreams are in cemeteries. Weird, I know, maybe it is the Goth in me. All of the graves were fairly new, it was the most recent part of the cemetery, and there were people of all ages buried there. There were people visiting, some were walking and others were driving slowly by on the gravel lanes with the two tire paths and grass in the middle.
We sort of hung back and did not interact much with the mourners, we were not there for that purpose. After awhile it felt like the coast was clear, and we all loaded up into a van and drove to the older part of the cemetery. We drove down a road and through a tunnel . . . the older part of the cemetery was completely isolated from the newer, modern part. The graves there were the same ones we had seen before in the new part, they'd been moved there to make room for the new graves. It seems like the plots in the new part were constantly being recycled. Only the newly deceased were buried there, and after a few weeks or months the caskets were moved to the old part of the cemetery. It was almost like a retail store that is constantly switching out its season merchandise on the front racks.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Who I am
I have been asking myself the same question that I think a lot of people ask themselves -- who am I? You think you know until you have to think about it, or until you confront something that makes you do some self research, that makes you wonder what's going on inside you mentally.
So I decided to sort of document my thoughts, both good and bad, about myself. Not really for anyone in particular, but for myself, to figure it out, to be able to actually look at it, if that makes sense.
I'm a bit of a tom boy, I grew up fishing, camping, hiking, hunting, riding motorcycles, snowmobiling, building forts, playing in the mud. I remember catching frogs in the river bottoms behind my parents' house in Blackfoot. We went to Island Park once with some family friends, and myself and another kid caught a frog and put it in a box and then put it in my dad's truck. . . it got out, so we tried to find it to no avail . . . I honestly don't know what happened to that frog.
My dad gave me a pellet gun when I was a kid, and I used to set up soda cans on a table in the backyard and target practice. I never shot at any animals, I'd like to note.
Also when I was a kid my dad taught me how to bait a fishing hook and cast, and I always baited my own hook, fish guts and all, and I always caught the first fish. . . it was an ongoing joke with my family for awhile . . . "Jenny will catch the first fish!" And I did, every time.
So I decided to sort of document my thoughts, both good and bad, about myself. Not really for anyone in particular, but for myself, to figure it out, to be able to actually look at it, if that makes sense.
I'm a bit of a tom boy, I grew up fishing, camping, hiking, hunting, riding motorcycles, snowmobiling, building forts, playing in the mud. I remember catching frogs in the river bottoms behind my parents' house in Blackfoot. We went to Island Park once with some family friends, and myself and another kid caught a frog and put it in a box and then put it in my dad's truck. . . it got out, so we tried to find it to no avail . . . I honestly don't know what happened to that frog.
My dad gave me a pellet gun when I was a kid, and I used to set up soda cans on a table in the backyard and target practice. I never shot at any animals, I'd like to note.
Also when I was a kid my dad taught me how to bait a fishing hook and cast, and I always baited my own hook, fish guts and all, and I always caught the first fish. . . it was an ongoing joke with my family for awhile . . . "Jenny will catch the first fish!" And I did, every time.
Learn to take a compliment
I have had some pretty amazing experiences in the last couple weeks, things that have made me wonder if everything falls into place, that nothing that could be attributed to coincidence actually is. Some things, some people, some experiences just fit. Stop second guessing it and let it flow.
My biggest issue, by far, is the way I feel about myself, particularly on the outside. Honestly I am not sure how to change that.
But a few weeks ago I was walking across the gym parking lot and I look up to see a guy holding the door open for me. I was still quite a ways away, so I started kind of jogging toward the door, and he hollers "You don't have to hurry!" I get to the door and it is this sweet Hispanic guy, probably in his 50s, and I tell him "Thank you." And before I walk in he asks, "Do you know what they call your hair color in Mexico?" To which I reply, thinking I'm smart and I know exactly what he's going to say, "rojo?" (red).
"Canela," he says, and paused a moment for effect while I tried to figure it out, "cinnamon." And then I am sure I said something super corny, I can't recall right now, but he just smiled, and as he started to walk away he smiled and said, "it's beautiful."
Now, if you know me well, you can imagine what that meant to me. Going to the gym is rough for me, I can't really wear a hat there, and there are so many beautiful people there. I damn near have a panic attack just thinking about going there. (But I am determined to conquer that fear, so I continue to go, but that is another entry for another day.)
It was sweet, and it was sincere. Of course I have had friends and family tell me I am beautiful, but c'mon, your friends and family are not going to tell you you're ugly, by association they kind of have to spare my feelings, no offense to those who have told me that, I know you mean well, and I try to believe, I really do! I promise! But this guy had no obligation, no reason to stop me and say that other than sincerity. It was just such a nice gesture.
I wish more people were like that, kind, honest . . . can you imagine how much better this world would be if we all gave a complete stranger a compliment once a day? Or just randomly did something nice for someone else with no strings attached?
And ladies, learn how to take a compliment. If a guy tells you you're beautiful, don't immediately think he is a creeper or that he is hitting on you. Chivalry is not dead, women just need to learn how to not think all guys are assholes or want to get into their pants.
My biggest issue, by far, is the way I feel about myself, particularly on the outside. Honestly I am not sure how to change that.
But a few weeks ago I was walking across the gym parking lot and I look up to see a guy holding the door open for me. I was still quite a ways away, so I started kind of jogging toward the door, and he hollers "You don't have to hurry!" I get to the door and it is this sweet Hispanic guy, probably in his 50s, and I tell him "Thank you." And before I walk in he asks, "Do you know what they call your hair color in Mexico?" To which I reply, thinking I'm smart and I know exactly what he's going to say, "rojo?" (red).
"Canela," he says, and paused a moment for effect while I tried to figure it out, "cinnamon." And then I am sure I said something super corny, I can't recall right now, but he just smiled, and as he started to walk away he smiled and said, "it's beautiful."
Now, if you know me well, you can imagine what that meant to me. Going to the gym is rough for me, I can't really wear a hat there, and there are so many beautiful people there. I damn near have a panic attack just thinking about going there. (But I am determined to conquer that fear, so I continue to go, but that is another entry for another day.)
It was sweet, and it was sincere. Of course I have had friends and family tell me I am beautiful, but c'mon, your friends and family are not going to tell you you're ugly, by association they kind of have to spare my feelings, no offense to those who have told me that, I know you mean well, and I try to believe, I really do! I promise! But this guy had no obligation, no reason to stop me and say that other than sincerity. It was just such a nice gesture.
I wish more people were like that, kind, honest . . . can you imagine how much better this world would be if we all gave a complete stranger a compliment once a day? Or just randomly did something nice for someone else with no strings attached?
And ladies, learn how to take a compliment. If a guy tells you you're beautiful, don't immediately think he is a creeper or that he is hitting on you. Chivalry is not dead, women just need to learn how to not think all guys are assholes or want to get into their pants.
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