taking arms against a sea of troubles

When your life is full of down-n-dirty, life altering, things will never be the same, shit just got real kinds of drama, it can be easy to lose any sense of perspective.  Little mishaps suddenly morph into major catastrophes.  The drama gets amped to eleven. 

Cut myself shaving = I’m a lousy excuse for a human being.  
Spilled coffee on my shirt = This is why nobody likes me.
Left my lunch in the kitchen counter = My life is a lie.

These minor calamities swirled in with legitimate disasters eventually result in a woe whirlpool from which there is little hope of escape. 

It spins the opposite way in the southern hemisphere.

I hate that damn woe whirlpool. 

Sometimes, if you are very lucky, the universe takes pity on you and decides to throw you a bone.  What I have learned is that when presented with such a prize you should cast aside any shreds of pride or humility (if you are lucky enough to still have any) and snatch that prize as greedily as a T-Rex would a tethered goat.  It could be a long time before such an opportunity to rise above your troubles arrives again.

Well, here’s my goat.

     

It’s a book.  And I happen be in it.  Last year the people at America’s Haunted Road Trip, who publish a series of books all about haunted places across the country, held a contest.  They asked people to submit a true ghost story.  So I did.  I wasn’t one of the three cash winners, but I was selected for inclusion in the book.  Kinda cool, huh?  Click on the pic to go to the publisher’s website where you can read the back cover blurb and order a copy (they are out of stock at the moment).      

My story, “What Dreams My Come” is on page 17.  I can’t post the story here because that would be violating copyright.  I can tell you that the story is about vivid dreams that my sister and I had on the same night.  Details from the dreams, when put together, coincided perfectly with an incident that happened to our grandfather when he was young.  An incident that neither me, nor my sister knew anything about, until later that day when our mother told us the story after we had mentioned our dreams to her. 

It’s not a million dollar, multi-book deal from a major publisher, but it is my name in print.  And that’s more than enough to keep me happy for now. 

dealing with it

We all know that sometimes life sucks harder than something that sucks real hard, right?  It’s not just me, is it?  Good.

There are those times when you are struggling to hold the reins of some raging crisis in one hand and the leash of an escalating drama in the other then life throws you a giant water balloon of hot mess and says, “Catch this!” 

Yeah.  I’m there. 

I won’t go into the details cause they involve other people very close to me and I want to protect their privacy.  But, I will say that last Tuesday, at my first appointment with my new chiropractor, I had what I can only describe as a nervous breakdown.  He told me the last disk in my spine was practically non-existent which explained why I hurt so much and why the only way I could get out of bed in the morning was to roll to the floor on my knees and crawl to the bathroom.  That was the straw that, literally, broke my back and I just started crying.  Sobbing uncontrollably is more like it.  In front of a doctor that I had just met while staring at x-rays of my spine.  Why does this crap happen to me?  Thank god Dr. Randy is an awesome human being and didn’t make me feel more like a freak than I already did.  Chiropractors are a special breed.  He let me blubber, gave me tissue and told me that everything was going to be okay. 

I’m much better now, both my back and my psyche. 

I can’t fix any of the issues that are stressing me out right now, but I have found a way to deal.  I made a scarf.

I had a bunch of old t-shirts that I didn’t wear anymore because they were stained, ripped or (ahem) too small, but I didn’t have the heart to throw them out.  So, I cut them into rectangles and sewed them together (cause I own a sewing machine and I’m a sewer now) into a scarf.  Kinda neat, huh?  Full disclosure - I got the idea for this from a catalog that was selling scarves made from recycled t-shirts.  My scarf is better cause the t-shirts actually mean something to me.  I’ve had that Spaghetti O’s shirt since high school.  Now I can wear it whenever I want because it is part of a mini security blanket that keeps my neck warm. 

Will this scarf help me to not make a complete fool out of myself in the presence of medical professionals?  That remains to be seen.  I’m willing to give it a shot, though.

ew, I got your drama on me

This whole week I’ve been stunned, eyes wide, mouth open like a squirrel that’s just realized his destiny is to become roadkill.  I now know that you should never, ever ask “what could possibly happen next” cause the answer will always make you redefine what you thought was normal.  

One minute you’re walking around your office knowing that so-and-so is a lying whore and what’s-her-name is a back-stabbing bitch, but you have learned to deal with that and go along with your day.  Then, someone does something that makes whoring and backstabbing look like charity work and you have to adjust your world view to accommodate this new data.  I’ve adjusted my world view so many times I think the threads are stripped.  

I won’t go into the details because we all have or had sucktastic jobs and I don’t want this to turn into a “my office is crazier than yours” contest.  That’s like arguing which circle of hell is this hottest.  Hell only has one fan, people, and it’s always pointed at the wall.  No one wins.  

What really bothers me about working in the absolute hottest circle of crazy office hell (it’s my blog, of course I win that contest, duh) is that it’s weakening me.  I’m becoming overly sensitive to all this drama. 

Once upon a time, when I was unwittingly made privy to unsavory happenings in my workplace (affairs, drugs, desk sex, unwanted advances, involuntary manslaughter, more affairs . . . ) I would stir my coffee, shrug my shoulders and go back to my desk.  I basically had a “sucks to be you” attitude.  It doesn’t affect me so why should I care?

But now, after so much irritation, my teflon exterior is worn through and the drama is starting to get to me.  Every day at work I get headaches, my stomach knots and I obsessively clock-watch, itching for the moment when I can be free.  This unease is also following me home and that is absolutely unacceptable.  I can’t be worrying about work crap while I am at home.  I got enough home crap to worry about! 

I don’t want to be this way, all weak and pukey.  I want my rock-hard shell back.  I’ve learned that not only did this shell shield me from caring about any office drama, it protected me from feeling dirty by association.  You can only be exposed to skeevy behavior for so long before it leaves an oily film on you.  And believe me, there isn’t enough Dawn in the world to wash that oil slick off. 

It is Friday.  I have the whole weekend to recharge, reconstruct my anti-drama force field and strike the words “what could possibly happen next” from my vocabulary.  I just hope that two days are enough.

Remember, you are just an extra in everyone else’s play. (FDR)

You are the main character in your life.  It is because of this that I find the phenomenon of “celebrity” so odd.  People who obsess over movie stars or musicians are giving a complete stranger precedence in their lives.  Why are these people so important?  They get paid to entertain us, nothing more.  World leaders should be so lucky as to have half the press that Madonna demands. 

Even though you are the main character in your life, as FDR said, you are just an extra in everyone else’s.  Your problems/ joys/ accomplishments are just news or gossip to someone else.  Your life is your own and all else is on the periphery, unless you choose to bring it in focus.  Lives become interconnected with yours like a Venn Diagram.  I have my work circles, friend circles, family circles and some over lap, but others never touch. 

I think it is important that people remember that even though we all have roles in life like Sister, Wife, Daughter, we are also just Girl #4 or Bitch Who Stole My Parking Space to someone else.  It’s good to feel insignificant every now and then.  It brings life into perspective.  And, there are many lives in which I am grateful that I only play a bit part.  I am not qualified to act in some dramas. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     Stephen thanked whatever god would listen that it was the end of July and Mark was the only witness to the puddle of blood Daphne left behind at the bar. Mark now sat on the coffee table, elbows on knees, watching the impossibly slow rise and fall of Daphne’s chest. Stephen just finished telling Mark everything he could remember after being led upstairs by the now unconscious woman. He accepted the rather fantastical story much better than Stephen had anticipated. In fact, he accepted it almost too well. 
     “This is awesome!” Mark said as he swung his legs over to the opposite side of the coffee table and spun around to face Stephen who sat in the chair. 
     Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
     “Man, don’t you see? This shit is exciting!” Stephen returned his enthusiasm with only a blank stare. “You’ve got yourself a real life adventure, here. This kind of thing only happens in the movies, but it’s happening to you!”
     Stephen leaned forward and stared at his friend. “Are you high?”
     “Aw, you know I don’t do that anymore. But, can’t you see the potential for how cool this could be?”
     “Uh, no, I don’t. It’s cool in the movies because it is scripted to end well for the main character. There is no guarantee that this will end well for me. Hell, I don’t even know if I’m the main character here. I could just be some disposable bit part!”
     Mark laughed. “You can’t be a bit part! It’s your life!”
     Stephen allowed his mind a moment to ponder the duality inferred by that statement. Everyone is the main character in their own life, but at the same time they play supporting roles, or minor ones, or none at all, in other’s lives. Although he definitely didn’t want to be the doomed “red-shirted ensign” of Star Trek fame in this situation, he did not know if he wanted to be the hero, either. What Mark saw as cool, he saw as frighteningly life-altering. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.