PTSD: I parked my car next to my ex-boyfriend's in his condo garage on purpose, but why I don't know. Walking up the stairs instead of the elevator, I was donning a long black coat and wearing a hat so he wouldn't recognize me if he bumped into me. Naturally, he did anyway, and proceeded to introduce me to his new wife, literally rubbing it into my face how happy he was and what a great decision it was to marry her. In reality, I pity the fool who gets involved with him, in the long-term anyway. (Apparently, he's such a dickwad that his most current girlfriend couldn't even stand to be Facebook friends with him, and thankfully, I know nothing of his present romantic situation.)
Separation Anxiety: The song on the Flaming Lips' epic 1999 album, "The Soft Bulletin," that reminds me most of TOC is "What is the Light?" It's not gushy, and I'm not sure WHY it reminds me of him, and Lord knows the light around him isn't "chemically derived," unlike mine most of the time. I didn't know until this morning that the full title of the song is this:
"What Is the Light?" (An Untested Hypothesis Suggesting That the Chemical [In Our Brains] by Which We Are Able to Experience the Sensation of Being in Love Is the Same Chemical That Caused the "Big Bang" That Was the Birth of the Accelerating Universe)"
Hmmm. The universe proceeds to accelerate forward when he's away from me, but I feel like he's my center of gravity sometimes. My voice of reason when I go off on tangents, my non-judgmental cheerleader, my big human stress ball to mold with my hands. It's too much responsibility to put on him, and maybe he doesn't want to be burdened by it, but he's never voiced his opposition to it either. I think part of him likes being needed again, now that the kids are grown and independent. I dunno....
Anyway, in the dream last night, I sought his comfort after running into Chris, and he rejected me. When he's unavailable to me physically and emotionally in the real world, he appears as such in my dreams, which is disturbing and anxiety-laced. I've had similar dreams involving my father, who is perpetually out of reach for protection and comfort.
(iTunes Shuffle: a Chopin piano piece followed by Blondie's "Call Me." Oooh yeah.)
GI Issues: It's been a gastronomic nightmare this week. Everything I eat comes out one way or another, requiring a bevy of Rx-strength anti-nausea, anti-diarrheal, anti-pain meds and I have no idea why. It'd be terribly inconvenient to be hospitalized right now, though I'm blowing a call into my doctor this morning, who's been sitting on my refill request for the anti-nausea meds for 3 days now (I have one left). I threw up twice last night before bedtime, pleading with my son to please go to bed so I could rest. It happened again this morning, again with me pleading with my son, this time to rush out of bed and get ready for school because I was puking. "Do you have to go to the hospital?" he asked. "Yes, to WORK today. I'm not being admitted." Time will tell today. Hence, the part in the dream last night about the icky food in my college cafeteria (rotten, fishy sushi and no vegetarian choices, the nerve!).
I'm supposed to meet my spiritual adviser tomorrow morning for breakfast and our weekly talk, though we've picked a place where there's literally nothing I can eat. I'm not even sure they serve hot tea. It's one of those typical diners: eggs, bacon, hash browns, French toast, corned beef hash, all blech-inducing. I best stick to my Atkins bar and tea before I leave and just sit there while we talk. I've also traded my chiropractic appointment in favor of my secular mental therapist since my hand is essentially functional and I haven't been to therapy in 4 weeks because of being sidelined with my injury. Despite the fact I have to drum all weekend.
Which reminds me, one of the multitude of things on which I've been procrastinating is fixing my bass drum pedal. My brother noticed a tiny screw that was missing at the picnic, leaving the chain that holds the pedal in bouncing place askew. We rigged it up well enough for it to function, and I honestly hadn't remembered the problem until I remembered that I had spare screws in the glove compartment of my car last week for some otherwise inexplicable reason.
The Apple Thing is happening again at work. As previously stated, I begin eating my daily apple at the end of Break #2 in the afternoon. Walking back into the hospital, into the elevator, and winding down the hallway back to my office, it never fails that SOMEONE asks me about the apple I'm eating or about the subject of apples in general. Every time I get on the elevator. Every time anyone spots me consuming the apple in public, it sparks sociological interaction of a strange and mysterious frequency. Another litany of "On your lunch break?," "Is that a Honey Crisp?," "Aren't apples delicious this time of year, with so many to choose from?," "Did you pick that at an orchard?" or "How do you get to Entance B?" (Dude, my mouth is kinda full at this time, so excuse me if I just point you in the general direction.)
Fast forward to Friday: I meant to post this blog, but it was going nowhere, so I left it aside for the time being. Plus, Luke had embarked on a journey on my laptop to find spare Lego parts to build all the characters in HALO with Legos and was busy ordering shit with my credit card while I napped on the couch, so I had no access to my computer half the weekend anyway.
In the interim, I did indeed meet with my spiritual adviser, where I ate a bowl of Cheerios and had half a grapefruit, as well as some drippy, hard-to-pour hot tea, which sent me into a hypoglycemic attack by the time I had to drive to my therapist's in the city. She and I had a good session, mostly centered around the Luke being bullied problem, and I was coherent enough by the end of the session to drive home. As usual, my therapist did little but agree with me on all topics du jour and said the words,"Yes, exactly!" no fewer than a dozen times.
I fixed my bass pedal all on my own, without the help of any man, and rocked it out at band this weekend. No trouble from the hand...seemingly all healed. Church was great last night, and the more I get to know our new Pastor, Dave, the more I like him. He's younger than I am, and this is his first main gig at a church, and he's handling it well. His opinion of the band is that we're solid, our extensive practice time is evident in our finished product during the service, and he gets my irreverent sense of religious humor.
Friday's best surprise was a catch-up call from TOC on the phone. I prodded him for details about his trip to Florida with the wife, but he provided scant details, other than the fact that he ate a lot of fish, and proceeded to tell me what kinds of fish he ate. Otherwise, he offered no details about what they did together, if they had fun, et al. I still sense that he sort of wants to keep "their world" separate from "our world," either out of consideration for my feelings or just because it's THAT boring and he's THAT apathetic. But he literally picked the first free chunk of time he had since his return to call me, while he was making homemade pasta sauce (which I argued couldn't be as good as mine, though his is vegetarian and mine is meat sauce) for dinner and she was apparently not home from work yet.
He was far more interested in the happenings of my week, and I proceeded to tell him a lot about what I referenced above (including the GI troubles), about our stupid supervisor at work's new master schedule (which he gives 2 weeks to utterly fail before we go back to doing things the way we have been, which has worked out marvelously), about Luke and the bullying and weight problem, which he had good advice regarding, and about my wonderful trip to the preschool to talk about Curious George, which he saw the picture of and thought was the cutest thing on Earth.
I appreciate that TOC appreciates that I'm 39 and still sleep with a stuffed animal. I explained that I segued my sleeping with George into a discussion with the preschoolers about what animals or objects (blankies, et al) they all sleep with to keep them cozy and safe. I think I defended myself by saying, "You probably think I'm weird..." but he said "Not at all," and said "Aww' an awful lot.
He asked me again when my mom and Luke would be away, and we once again made plans to make plans (we roll like that) to go out for dinner while they're gone, something to which we're really looking forward. I've got the week mostly covered with plans with friends to get together for dinners, to keep me out of trouble and to make sure I eat, peppered in with some much-needed alone time, just to BE. So all good. I'll see the fabulous Super Juls, my girlfriend Anne from both high school and college, whom I haven't seen in 15 years, and a dinner with TOC.
This weekend is hard for him. It's his youngest daughter's birthday, and she's away from home for the first time, at college in Boston. This is their first birthday apart in 18 years, and he's not quite sure how to react, other than to be forlorn about the fact that she wants to spend her birthday partying with her friends, rather than Skyping over a virtual cake and candles with her parents. I told him the last little bird has left the nest, and that he needs to accept that and let her go. Which goes back to what I was saying earlier about him loving me because I *need* him. At this point, the kids don't really need him for anything (other than money and care packages), and he feels a little lost. Fortunately or unfortunately for him, there's always something going on with Hurricane Annie that requires his attention. Bless you, Tatus.
And here, I'd wondered and worried all week if he either missed me or was happy to have a break from all my bullshit and drama. From his intonation and giddiness on the phone, it was apparent that he did, in fact, miss me, and was joyful to catch up with me. So yay to that. We parted over the cellular waves excited for Monday to come and the chance to see one another again.
This Sunday morning, I'm trying to listen to clips from the Flaming Lips' "Found a Star on the Ground," their mammoth 6-hour long song adventure. I like what I've heard thus far, but I'm afraid I'd have to be doing an awful lot of drugs to get through 6 hours of it in one fell swoop. I can pick out drum patterns that Steven was working on acoustically, fiddling around with his son's drum kit months ago (I posted a video of it on my blog a while back, under "Because This Friend Makes Me Happy.")
Well, we're down to comparing the fat on Luke's stomach to the hanging skin, not fat, on my abdomen. I'd give my right arm to borrow 20 lbs from my son.
"Is this 'Let it Be?'" asked Luke. Uh, no, Luke. iTunes just shuffled onto "Angie" by the Stones. Close but no Cuban. I don't see the similarities in the 2 songs, other than the employment of a piano. Smartypants kids. "Why are all the songs you listen to so sad?," he asked, to which I had no answer. I listen to plenty of happy, whimsical songs, but the fact of the world is, there are more sad songs than happy songs. Because "Sad Songs Say So Much!" (No, that's NOT on my iTunes.)
Watching Luke organize Legos is fascinating. He's systematically organized over a dozen heads onto one platform, the same with sets of torsos and legs. It's an exercise in OCD that pleases my neuroses greatly. It'd be a much more pleasant task to behold if he's quit passing gas sitting next to me, but he is, after all, 11.
Ok, I desperately need a dose of fresh air....