Um...

...yeah, so, super-viruses. We has them.

Looking at my blog, I just realized that I was sick for over a month.

#healthfail

Death Virus 2009 (Spring Edition)

So...I still suffer from the death virus, which means nothing much has been happening. I'm stuck at home and I'm even beginning to be bored by the internet. It palls after, say, two weeks. Or less.

In good, non-sicky related news, I made some more stuff for Etsy and I'm hoping to get out and do a photo shoot this weekend, if the lovely, lovely sun holds and doesn't turn back into the freak snow we got night before last. Seriously, Winter, what the crap? Anyway, it's not knitted. And I love it so much that I wanna keep one or two pieces for me! Which I think is a good sign. :) Oh, and I wanna get my men's vintage pieces up, too.

James is wanting to get in on the Etsy action with his art pics now. I think we're going to put our heads together over that tomorrow. Oh! And I bought seeds (40% off Lilly Miller Organic seed packets at Fred Meyer yesterday!) and starters so that we can start our garden! I love spending time with this man. Plus he's getting me back into playing music, which has been really good for me since I'm so disgusted with Seattle theater politics anymore.

I may also be doing this awesome project. It looks pretty exciting, and I can see how it will be good preparation for the extended version of Hungry Ghosts (which I've given myself a two-year timeline on). I think it'll be a great way for me to stretch my wings and stuff. And I miss collaborating.

Sicky.

All quiet on my front...because James gave me some flu-like disease. Possibly the flu.

I have major cabin fever to go with my high-temperature-type fever, so I've been on the internetz a bunch, pimping my Etsy page. In the last two days I've been featured in two "Treasuries", which are a big way that you get noticed by other sellers and buyers on Etsy.

The links only stay up for a few days, but the first one is about natural, green items and the second is because I'm a good writer (no, really!). Anyway, that's been the highlight of my week on the couch.

Oh, the cognitive dissonance of it all.

Anyway, I've been trying to lose weight lately. It seems that I've been successful: I've lost about 6 pounds in a month (plus a little more before I actually decided to start losing weight), which is a healthy rate. Now, I knew that BMI (Body Mass Index) was dumb: I have been in my life very muscular (though less so now), so it's never applied to me. I've mostly ignored it. I'm at just over BMI 27 at the moment (5'4"+ and about 158 lbs) ; the cutoff for women going from "normal" to "overweight" is 24 or 25, I think. So, I'm overweight.

The current thinking in the health community has more to do with hip-to-waist ratio for health. Mine is 0.73, as my waist is 30" and my hips are (dear me, it sounds awful, but I know that it's just my bone structure, I've never been less than 39"-40") is 41". Normal for women is under 0.86. So, I'm quite healthy. Um...

My hips (41") measure an American size* 12/14, my waist (30") a size 8/10, and my bust (36") a size 6/8. Huh?

I'm taller than average (though just barely) but "petite" dresses fit me better, because they're short in the waist, like me. Hmm.

And now I just read that the average American woman is something like 163 lbs. (more than me? but just barely...) with a waist of over 33" (also more than me? by kind of a bit!). What?

Add to all this my extreme body dysmorphia: to myself, I look exactly the same when I'm 115 lbs and 190 lbs. I can only tell when I gain/lose weight by how my clothing fits, but I always look chubby to me, whether I am or not. Sigh.

I have no idea what's going on anymore.



*Or more, or less, depending on the designer/brand.

January is Personal Insomnia Month.

Although I find that I can't get enough sleep in December no matter what I do, as soon as it hits January (or perhaps the solstice? do I register the light change that much?) I become nearly incapable of sleep. I haven't been able to fall asleep before 4am for a few days, even when I get lots of exercise.

Speaking of which, I'm on a diet. Not just the thing where I avoid gluten and soy because I have to, but an actual count-yer-calories diet. I have gained 30+ pounds since spring. Sometime in fall I lost maybe 5 or so...but since I can't fit into most of my clothes, it is high time I did something about it!

Counting things brings out my lighter OCD tendancies anyway. James told me that I was being "manic", writing down every single thing. Whatever. He's gained weight, too, but since he's more of a gym guy, he doesn't quite get it.

I don't understand why one would need a gym in Seattle when we have all these incredibly steep hills. That's been my exercise: walking up and down the backside of Queen Anne hill, which hits aerobic and anaerobic exercise. The image above is one of the conservative grades up to QA. I live on the back side from downtown, which is really steep.

I'm a little too tired to report much else, maybe later in the day.

Yeah, but still.

Not much going on today. I am too lazy or too depressed or too unfocused to upload the picture of the gloves, although I did discover the difficulty inherent in a right-hand-dominant person taking a picture of a glove that in on one's own right hand.

My insomnia seems to peak during one of two times of the year. I think we're in that time now. Twice this week I have laid down to sleep and gotten up 45 minutes or so later. Last night I got to sleep on my second try, around 4:30am.

I have been writing some during these times, though. I've barely been able to put a sentence together in the last year but I've written a few pages of dialogue and notes and such. I have a couple things gestating; it's been too full of a year to be able to process much until now.

I think that I also, for the most part, hate theater people. This might be (probably is) nasty emotional detritus left over from this spring, but still*. Mr. ARS once told me that, in his opinion, I wasn't an actor at all, but a writer. Keep in mind that he never saw me act, although he had a great deal of respect for me as a writer if not as an actor (or a person). Anyway, I have an awful fear that, ultimately, this will prove true, and I am sick with the notion that I will never perform again. However, I have been toying with the idea that, maybe, I'm a solo artist, and that's all it is. I don't play well with others**. Not that I'm an utter social maladroit. Merely a partial one.

Or I could just be in a complete funk (read: depressed) on account of the recent bout with not leaving the house, which in turn is on account of the high winds and flooding rains of the past two days. It's dark all the time.

But I did get paid! I did a nice custom order for a lady in Chicago: an over-elbow pair of fingerless gauntlets (hand-dyed, fair-trade Suri alpaca, vintage buttons and ribbon) for her 22-year-old daughter's Hanukkah and received her check and thank-you note today. She purposefully overpaid me, as well. That made me feel a hell of a lot better; apparently I am not yet completely worthless in the eyes of American capitalism!

Man, I gotta ease up on myself.


*James maintains that "yeah, but still" is the ultimate end to an unwinnable argument, the final, desperate gambit when you know you have been proved wrong but are just too contrary to admit it. It is a common phrase in our household.

**This is an awful pun. I'm sorry. Completely unintentional.

Had myself a merry little X-mas.

The Great Storm of 2008 has now passed, as has 2008. The snow is gone and we've emerged from our holes, blinking in the sunlight, to return to work.

Most of us.

I'm taking some time off. From working, from my day gig, which has been at the Pike Place Market since April. I've really enjoyed it, but the first day that the snow came the buses from my house stopped running I was overwhelmed by relief that I didn't have to go in.

So I never went back. I didn't burn any bridges, I have a lovely mom-like boss who is very understanding (and saw it coming), so I'm okay.

This has been a long time coming. I'm tired, I need the breathing room, and I think I finally learned this year just how bad the SAD componant of my health is. Being outside when things are getting dark, not enough light...yuck. I was coming home in tears since October. I actually really enjoyed the snow: it reflected light into our windows and made everything seem so much more cheerful. I miss it...but I don't miss the fact that the entire city stopped working for two weeks.

However, the reason that I can do this is because of my amazing partner, James. We're living together in Fremont. It's not exactly the neighborhood that we want to be in, but we both love the place itself. Neither of us has ever really been homebodies, but it's easy to enjoy our house now. I feel safe to balance my medication and get my life back together now.

Also, we're online now! So being in contact with life will be a little easier for me.

More later...now that I can!

3 to 1.

I thought that I'd follow up my over-medication of women with anti-depressants with this:

And what do parents with hyperactive young boys do? They stuff them with Ritalin. They drug them so they’ll sit still and behave. The last time I read a number, Ritalin prescriptions were at least 3 to 1, boys to girls. But I don’t like to look at the numbers because it makes me too sad. It appalls me that parents would feed their kids pharmaceuticals. People managed rambunctious kids for centuries—just take them out to do stuff.

I'm looking forward to reading Kiley's article, even though I don't particularly care for his journalism.

Having just spent the past weekend with Matt's kids and Jinny's son: four young boys, ages 9 to 13, and one girl aged 6. Yep, boys sure do get nutty and bothersome when you keep them inside for hours on a nice -- or not so nice -- day. Enough to drive you mad.

We took them out and let them run around the park for an hour.

Problem solved! Went back, ate lunch, chilled out. It was a great time.

Parents are dumb.

A second adjunct: 1 in 8.

Re: women's mental health.

1 in 8 women are diagnosed with major depression, which is twice the rate of diagnosis in men.

Ugh. Too much I could say about this: women not being taken seriously by mental health care providers, improper diagnosis and treatment of illness, differing cultural stigmas for men (not encouraged to step forward) and women (over-encouraged) regarding diagnosis and treatment.

Via NAMI.org.

Did I mention?

I'm adjusting to new meds, too. But I think they're going to put me on lithium along with the citalopram...oy...

Why does my latte taste like the ocean?

I have wept in more coffee shops in the last year than the rest of my life combined.

Jake and I met at a Starbucks during lunch and talked about the possibility of me leaving the show. Today, a week before Big Love opens.

There isn't anyone to blame: I can barely function in rehearsal and Jake doesn't know how to tell me what I need to do to perform well. We're both at a loss.

It was strange to think, when I got cast, Oh, well, now I have to live until at least halfway through May. I can't let anyone down. But I'm still letting people down. I've never felt like I was doing a bad job before in a show, but I can't seem to get a handle on this character. And not just any character, the pivotal character of the show, the one on whom the entire spine of the play gently balances. I had a moment last night when I just cried out, sobbing in the stairwell of my theater, What am I doing? I must be such an idiot for thinking I could do this at all! Why am I here? Why don't I function properly inside, like other people? Why can't it make sense? Why, why, why?

It's exhausting, this constant crisis.

I'm meeting with Jake and Lou to work on whatever needs to be worked tonight. If I have to, I'll do it every night until we open.

I think I'd like to sleep a little now.

All this talk of love.

Sorry that I haven't posted more lately.

I'm in a show right now. Big Love.

I'm finding that this is the most difficult rehearsal process I've ever been through. My meds have been adjusted -- a higher dose -- and, after three months, I'm still anxious and rage-filled over nothing, shadows. If it doesn't work, I think they're putting me on Lithium, which scares me.

All I do is argue in rehearsal. Mostly with Jake, who is directing. Arguing with your director is one of the most unprofessional things an actor can do and I would have been fired by now if he wasn't my friend and didn't know what I was going through. Still, I have no answers to make it better and neither does he. Last night I cried because I got so frightened of getting hurt during a physical scene that I help things up for ten minutes. Then Jake and I went in the hall and argued more and I suddenly decided that I should never act again. Finally, Lou, our stage manager came back and held me for a bit and said that she understood everything that I was going through.

And then I got my face on and did a run-through for promo photos.

In the middle of all this, I met someone. I'll tell that story in another installment...

I'm feeling mighty lonesome
Haven't slept a wink
I walk the floor and watch that door
And in between I drink
Black coffee
Love's a hand me down brew
I've never know a Sunday
In this weekday room

I'm talking to the shadows
from 1 o'clock til 4
And lord, how slow the moments go
When all I do is pour
Black coffee
Since the blues caught my eye
I'm hanging out on Monday
My Sunday dreams to dry

Now a man is born to go a lovin'
A woman's born to weep and fret
To stay at home and tend her oven
And drown her past regrets
In coffee and cigarettes

I'm moaning all the morning
and mourning all the night
And in between it's nicotine
And not much heart to fight
Black coffee
Feelin' low as the ground
It's driving me crazy just waiting for my baby
To maybe come around... around
I'm waiting for my baby
To maybe come around

My nerves have gone to pieces
My hair is turning gray
All I do is drink black coffee
Since my man's gone away

Radio Silence, or Eleven Days and Twelve Nights In A Stone-White Room.

I'm back.

I feel...

...I don't know. I don't know what I feel.

I read yesterday in this book, a book on why people who commit suicide do so, that two conditions must exist for a person who can and will commit suicide (as opposed to the equally-dangerous if less premeditated accidental suicide by suicidal gesture): they must perceive themselves both as a burden on their loved ones and lacking a community, involvement and belonging, to something, anything.

I guess that's where I am. I do feel a burden, I do feel removed from meaning, from belonging.

On November 30th, 2007, I checked myself into Harborview Medical Center for severe depression and anxiety with suicidal ideation.

It was good for me. Right after I got out, I was feeling a little (okay, a lot) better. But now, almost two months out, my meds have stopped working and all of the wonderful people who came out of the woodwork to support me have gone back to their lives. For the which I can place no blame; they have their own lives which I do not want to interfere with. I haven't been able to see anyone to get my medication adjusted. I can barely go to my day job, I rarely leave the house, I see almost no one. A few months ago I couldn't sleep past 9am; now, when I sleep, I sleep until 1pm, sometimes waking only to stay in bed, quietly and warmly, and wondering what would happen if I didn't leave.

The sole bright point, the only thing to look forward to without the guilt of my own absurd existence marring it, is a writing project that I seem to have fallen into with Mr. ARS. A rock opera. We're writing a rock opera. Which, since that's the most absurd thing I could possibly think of to do, seems right somehow. Good. He saved my life, too: he was the one who talked me down at the crucial moment when I am almost certain few, if any, others could have. He knew what to say. He did not cry, or beg, or coddle, or tell me that I had so much to live for. Rather, he calmly stated that, although not a sin, it would be a waste. He knew he could not stop me; he could only ask.

I understand that what I have is a disease. I do not hold myself to blame. I hold my parents somewhat responsible due to their abhorrent parenting, though not entirely because of the overwhelmingly vast mental illness streaking through my family, running wild like a sophomore on Spring Break in Tijuana.

Neither do I hold anyone else to blame. How could I? I only wish that I were a healthier person in order to be a better friend or family member to them.

I feel? Grateful that I have such a beautiful life, angry at my ungrateful self that I do not or cannot appreciate it in all its beauty. Utterly alone at times, although I know in my head that is a lie I tell myself, like the lie that I feel empty.

I know that I'm going to get up tomorrow, eventually eat, knit for a while, and try to breathe and stay calm.

But I do, oh I do, wish that I had a reason to get up tomorrow.

Re: No fat Kiwis.

Good. Especially if I, sometime in the future, choose to emigrate there. Though one of the commenters has a great point: do they allow smokers? I think they must, because I know a hell of a lot of native Kiwi smokers.

Obesity and smoking are two major health problems that can honestly be fairly easily solved in comparison to, say, congenital heart disease. I've always thought that insurance companies should do more to allow preventative measures for complications from these problems, especially in America.

Also via ECB.

On third thought...

Yes. It is that I am not taking my herbs. I hate this terrible plague even more than I did before, because it makes me crazy. For reals. It's not that I hate every single person in the world (except for, like, five of you who know who you are), because logically I don't. That's ridiculous. It's that I'm currently incapable of distinguishing actual emotion from anger.

Jaime tells me that anger is not, in itself, an emotion, it's simply a reaction to an emotion. That made so much sense when I heard it that I could have cried. Currently my anger is a reaction to omg my hormones are punching me in the face and I want to die. That's an emotion shared by female sufferers of PMDD and FTM transitioners on an imbalanced prescription of testosterone.

On a related crazy-making note, I can't tell when I'm hungry any more. I blame the lack of gluten: I'm getting all the nutrients that I can from what I'm eating now, so I'm less hungry, but now I don't have the tell-tale blood sugar headaches that I used to get telling me that it's time to eat. So I keep forgetting. My co-worker Shirley Jane told me today that I had lost weight (I can't tell) and that I should eat a bigger breakfast. Perhaps.

Buried alive.

It probably doesn't help my mood that I haven't been taking my regular Chinese herbal constitutional while I've had this stupid, stupid influenza. I'm all cranky and hormonal.

I bet it's all me, in my head. Darn it.

Less sick now.

How exciting!

I'm totally less sick, except for this croup-y (yet productive!) cough. And a sniffle.

No thanks to meth. Or self-referential humor.

Sleep: it's a miracle drug!

Re: Meth Labs.

I am issuing a blanket apology for my post regarding meth labs. I should never have linked to a site that tells you what's in crystal meth. I am very, very sorry. Very sorry. In my defense I can only say that I was on Sudafed.

Don't mess with iodine crystals, kids. They're gross.

But this is still fascinating, from a chemistry perspective. These talented young people who run meth labs should make something of themselves, go into something useful, like chemical engineering.

You know, it's a good thing I'm a white woman from an East Coast politico family, otherwise who knows where* my sense of humor would get me?

the tussin, the tussin
put it down like it was nothing
robocop couldn't stop me puking and flushin
no balls to be bustin, no fightin, no cussin
just love for a drug called robitussin**

*Gitmo.
**Technically, that's dextromethorphan, the most ridiculous drug ever.

For example, this is how sick I've been:

I messaged the Rock Star and five minutes later forgot that I had done so.

Meth Labs: Ruining Influenza for Sober People Since 1993.

I hate how you can't get pseudoephedrine in Washington State any more without going up to the prescription counter. Stupid meth labs.

I'm still sick. I can't talk and walking four blocks to the store exhausts me. I have no appetite and average about five hours of sleep a night. I can't not work because I'm broke. I can't go to the doctor because crazy fuckwits in this country can't understand why universal health care is a good idea. (I do not have private insurance through my job.)

Bleah.

So, no good blogs from me until I feel less terrible.