A Saturday

Apparently, some parts of Georgia got snowfall today.  Nothing here.  Completely unfair.

One week out from my acupuncture treatment.  I've had a headache every day (but two) since.  I'm doing as much as I can with the new dietary requirements, but can't, and really don't plan to, switch over wholly.  More fruits and vegetables, not a problem.  All the fermented stuff?  A bit more problematic.  And, as much as I try, I just cannot drink the amount of water she suggested.  I'm drinking more than I used to, but not near as much as I'm "supposed to."  Did you know each person is supposed to drink, in ounces, half their body weight in water every day.  Not that 8-glasses-a-day rule.  That's outdated and uncool.

Some random sentences generated by this artist's book I'm following:

"A stitch is dropped --- the sweater won't be born."

"The fan spins clockwise, moving air around."

"From nose to knees, there's too much me, and

My eyes have darkened taking in the view."

  

And one poem:

The river to the ocean runs,

The brook becomes the sea.

The pounds stack up until they're tons,

An acorn yields a tree.

How true, some great things start out small

And never dream the day

That growth will overtake them,

And Fate will have his way.

Pretty Much My Week to This Point

You?

Playing Through the Pain

My arm muscle, whichever it is, is damn serious about keeping me from knitting.  At knitting group last night, I got about 12 rows done before having to stop.  And the pain has continued through today.

This is not going to end well.  I'll either lose my sanity from lack of having something to do, or my arm will be shot from overuse.  

Hey, maybe they can come up with some sort of radical new surgery to deal with knitting-related injuries.  I could be the Tommy John of the fiber world!

On the DL

You may remember that several months ago, Hannah and I went for massages, and my right arm, which had been giving me trouble while knitting, got quite a workover.  As in, to the point of sort of hideous bruising.  That masseuse thought the problem was in my bicep, and gave me stretching and other exercises to help things along.

Well, in the last two or three weeks, the pain had returned, and was actually worse.  Hannah and I had, again, been looking for a date to go in for massages, and when we found one, we pounced.

This time, the masseuse decided the trouble was the deltoid muscle.  And he worked on it for probably half of our entire session.  Hurt (still hurts) like a mother.  And his suggestion was that I cut back on knitting.

Right?  Tell a knitter not to knit.  When that knitter is about to go away for a couple of days and knitting was one of the only three Trip Goals.  Tell a knitter not to knit when the Super Bowl is coming up?

But you know what?  If I knit for very long, the pain is all but unbearable.  Dammit.

Aaaarrrggghhh

I never, ever buy the yarn that a pattern I like is made in.  It's usually too expensive, and there is already so much yarn in this house, odds are there will be something that can be used to make just as lovely a garment.

Seldom, though, do I ever have precise matches.  The pattern I like calls for more yarn than what I have on hand. or the pattern calls for considerably less, which leads to the problem of leftovers and what to do with them.

A couple of days ago, I found Perfection.  Pattern I love, yarn I'd just bought with exactly the amount needed for the project.  I foresaw a garment in a new color, easily knit and put together, and I cast on with a smile.  A fancy rib back, just a rectangle, and two sleeves that are variations on feather-and-fan.  Couldn't be simpler.

I have started that freakin' back THREE times.  And have always messed up the stitch count.  So I decided to try a sleeve first.  

Yeah.

So the search for other possible patterns began.  But that shrug out of that yarn is IT.  It is ideal.  Why can't I get it right?  I think I'll try once more.  And if it doesn't work then, it's deep into the back of the stash with the yarn, and deep into the bookshelf for the pattern.

Temporariness

It struck me at some point over the weekend that most, if not all, of my headaches and knotted stomachs and a good deal of my depression has come from temporariness.

Since I last worked, in December, 2010, every aspect of my life has been unsettled.  My mother's health.  Her death, and having to deal with the estate.  Being unable to find a job.  Problems with my children's lives.  Them moving out of the house, then in.  Finances.  All of these issues have been ongoing, without any ends in sight.  I've been saying that it feels as though my life has flown apart into pieces, and those pieces are just circling my head.  I can't catch any of them and put them to rest.  Or think clearly enough for long enough to try and make sense of them.  My life has been, still is, up in the air.

And although I still have no idea how to deal with all of it, it's comforting to understand it a little more.

Memory

Yesterday was the first year anniversary of my mother's death.  I was the only one who remembered.  Which would have mortified her.  She was one of those write-the-thank-you-notes-the-evening-of-the-event-type.  She never wanted to look anything but completely together, with everything handled.

She was determined to be perfect, to stay on top of things because of pride.  She wanted to stand alone because of what she was capable of.  Her isolation was due to her idea that dignity was the goal, and dignity is usually a one-person-at-a-time event.

I find myself doing almost everything by myself.  Remembering dates, occasions.  My children don't have a clue.  Don't even show an interest in paying attention to anyone's lives/feelings/activities but their own.  I'm the only one who seems to realize that there are things that simply have to be done, just have to be thought about.  Even if it interrupts a DVD or a text or a phone call.

My isolation is loneliness.  An only child, never the best at making lots of friends, raised by a woman whose message was always "backbone" instead of "heart."

Stump

For some reason, both our dogs have been whining all day long.  It has driven me insane.  Rupert, in particular, has been persistent with his shrill yodel.  I have no idea what the problem/issue is, I just know I have a column of agony in the right side of my brain drilled from the top of my head down to my top teeth.

My psychiatrist refused altering my medications, though I begged him to.  He said, firstly, I am taking so many things, trying to pinpoint exactly what to change and how much would be almost impossible to do.  I can understand that, but I NEED HELP.  His answer was that since depression is such an isolating disease, I need to get out and with other people as much as possible.  I told him that I volunteer once a week, and have my knitting group every other week.  Nice "start," he said.  Add one more activity before the year is over was what he sent he me away with.

I could have punched him in the throat.  I am so angry and so tired and so devoid of hope.  And I am now in physical pain, which I trust will be lessened by a massage tomorrow afternoon.  (It is agonizing to even knit.)  I am running wholly and completely out of ideas here.

The Panic, It Devours Me

When I am having a particularly bad depressive day, or in this exact situation, several in a row, the feeling that lives inside me is that I am being torn to shreds.  Thoughts hurt, clothing is a nuisance, the sadness has depth, breadth and width.

These are the days that make The End (as in the righting of the ship) seem impossible to see, much less imagine.

I see people who care enough to get dressed, go out, keep their heads up, look others in the eye, talk, and I want to SCREAM at them "HEY! I'M DYING HERE!  And no one cares." I used to have my mother to pray for me --- now I'm not sure I even know anyone who prays.  My children are dealing with issues of their own (though they weigh exponentially on me), plus neither is of an age where anyone's world matters but their own.

I am sitting on this couch right now wondering how I will make it through the next ten minutes.  That's what my life is some days.  How am I going to make it through?  Why should I try?  Nothing interests me.  Nothing inspires me.  There are no conversations to be had.  There is no energy to be creative or proactive.  I just sit.  Sit on the edge of panic.  My throat closes and my heart races and I cannot take a breath and I'm going to faint and please don't let me faint and I break out in a cold sweat and I just want to now why this is still happening to me after all these years.  I've gone through therapies, I've gone through medications, and I have never been so low, so despondent in my life.  Nothing --- God help me, sometimes not even my children --- gives me reason to stay conscious anymore.

And yet, I keep waking up every morning.  And my first thought is always the same: "I hate my life."

Sixes and Sevens

I like jigsaw puzzles.  Except when my life is one, and pieces seem to have been blown off the table after I was just getting going good on putting the damn thing together.

Looking for the pieces would take energy and focus, and maybe even a hint of concern.

It was beginning to look like a nice picture --- one with radiance and warmth and hope and even a little happiness.  But now the pieces are all over.  Everywhere.  Some may be gone for good.  Do I try, as best I can, to search out those wandering pieces, and put the puzzle together, saying the holes in it "give it 'character'?"  Or do I start an all-together different puzzle, fresh out of the box?

Or do I abandon puzzles.

Never Count Yourself In

All week, once I'd made the decision to come to Tennessee, the panic had been building.  "I cannot go back inside that house" kept playing over and over in my mind.

Today, I went back into that house, and in less than two hours had my car completely filled.  And I had only worked in one room.

This is more than I can do.  I cannot do it alone, but even if there were a team of movers somewhere waiting for my call, I have no way to pay them.  And where are they going to take everything?  We don't have room in the house in Athens for even a sixth of this stuff.

So I found myself sitting in Daddy's room, sweating and sobbing, and begging him and Mama to forgive me.  I wasn't doing anything right by them, and I was so sorry.  I couldn't do all the things that had to be done, and I was so sorry.  I knew they were angry with my, and disappointed, and hurt, and I was so sorry.  It is just too much.  And I am so, so sorry.

Panic

I've suddenly found myself with a little bubble of time to get to Nashville this weekend, and I am already panicked through and through.  The thought of going in, even more of staying in, that house just sends me around the bend.  Why, oh why can't there be a way to finish all this up without me having to set foot in there again?

The answer, of course, is that when I was there sorting things out for the estate sale, the plan for Hannah to move up was still in place.  That's gone now, although it has been replaced with a strapping and mostly unyielding opposition to me selling the house.  Briton has come to understand the emotional and financial strain keeping it put on me.  Hannah may be there, too, but just won't admit it.

At any rate, I'm going up late, late, late tomorrow night and getting out as fast as I can Sunday.  (We thought we had Briton and Hannah's schedules lined up so that he could get her to and from each day, but that blew up about 45 minutes ago.)

This should be the next-to-the-last time I have to go in the house.  Briton and Hannah still want to go and say their goodbyes, and there may be an item or two that I simply can't bring back this trip. As unpredictable as their work schedules and temperaments are, though, I wonder if that can happen within any realistic framework.  If we're going to auction, I'd rather it be sooner than later, so that I can start the new year with one less yoke around my neck.

Elect!

Edited to add: The results of these contests have been removed on purpose.  In case anyone wasn't keeping up with these races today, the Finalists will be a surprise on Monday!  Have a great weekend!

Alright, folks.  Gut check time.  Down to the last four contestants in both Knitters' Chick and Knitters' Hunk.  Today's winners will vie for the titles come Monday.  And, the winners of the nominators' prizes will be announced!  Vote your heart and your knitterly intuition. . .

Pair Ninety-One

Pair Ninety-Two

Pair Ninety-Three

Pair Ninety-Four

Forward!

I hope everyone had a relaxing Labor Day.  We had some afternoon thunderstorms which made the animals pretty scarce, but it was an okay day.

Not a whole lot of voters yesterday, but those who did turn out moved Samantha Bee, Paul Rudd, Alan Rickman and Hugh Jackman ahead.  Let's see who'll join them, shall we?

Pair Fifty-Eight

Pair Fifty-Nine

Pair Sixty

Pair Sixty-One

Complete!

Well, after today, the first round will be history.  Only one more person (sorry, M.U.) has been eliminated from the nominators.  Who'll get the prize packages, and who'll join Anne Hathaway, James McAvoy and Meryl Streep in Round Two?

Pair Forty-Two

Pair Forty-Three

Pair Forty-Four

Pair Forty-Five

Forge Ahead!

We're halfway through the first week!  Is everyone holding up under the strain?  You chose Anna Kendrick, Jeff Daniels and Idris Elba as your winners yesterday.  Here are your choices today, and, in my opinion, these are the toughest yet.

Pair Ten

Pair Eleven

Pair Twelve

Position Paper

Completely unnerved by the murders in Colorado.  Not really sure why, but my stomach won't stop churning.  Why in the world a politician --- any politician --- won't sac up and tell the NRA and all other gun fetishists (as one writer called them) that we're sick of their nonsense is beyond me.  And that some people are actually saying that if other people in that theater had had guns it would have ended "better"?  Are you kidding me?  My God, what kind of country have we become?  And shut up about movies and video games.  If they were, indeed, inciters of violence, then every person who watched a film or handled a controller would be mowing people down.  That "explanation" holds no water at all.

The psychological explanations of murder are many and complicated.  But being able to sit in your house and order military weapons, battle armor, and thousands of rounds of ammunition off the Internet does no one any good.  A "sane" person has no need for any of that.  None.  An "insane" person can have no good need.  And please don't play the "only a crazy person would do something like that" card.  Check with folks you believe have a full and unwavering grip on reality and find out how many of them have guns in their homes.  And if shooters truly are insane, then they cannot --- legally --- be held responsible for their actions.  If they are crazy, we cannot punish them.  We must treat them.

And then send them back out into a society where anyone can buy any gun at any time.

Where's the crazy now?

Are You Like Me?

Do you keep checking your air vents to make sure cold air is coming out?  (Because it does not feel like you're living in an air conditioned house.)

Thursday Pastiche

Fewer and fewer gardenias now --- they're getting scorched in the heat.

Speaking of which --- over  100 degrees here the next several days, and Briton has no air conditioning in his apartment, and the upstairs unit here has stopped blowing cold air.  Doubt there's any chance of getting a technician out here tomorrow --- I would imagine they're slammed right now.  Hannah may have to move herself downstairs for a while.

Last Friday, she and I went to The Mall of Georgia, and I bought myself something I've been wanting for years --- cowboy rainboots.  Found them on deep clearance at Charming Charlie.  So blasted happy with them!

The picture of me knitting in public was taken at MoG, as I rested while Hannah shopped and shopped. I've finished the Wingspan since:

Love, love this pattern!

Torment

When your children are small, birthdays are easy.  There's a TV show or a movie that they're hooked into, so decorations and gifts are simple.  There are a handful of friends that they like to play with, so you invite them, and --- WHAM --- happiness abounds.

As they get older, it gets a little trickier, because character decorations are NOT cool, and the 2 or 3 friends that they seem incapable of living without are easy company, because they spend the entire time they're together as far away from you as possible.

Now, I have adult children.  And one of them has a birthday today.  I've spent the last week, week and a half pleading with her to tell me what she wanted as gifts, if she wanted a cake, what she wanted to do.    She didn't know, she didn't know, she didn't know.  Maybe get some of her Atlanta friends together and go to Six Flags.  But I never saw or heard her trying to get in touch with anyone.

Finally, she said that all she wanted was money.  She told her friends via Facebook that she wanted cash.  I knew this was going to be a bit of an issue with her brother, who never has any disposable cash, but I figured he'd somehow manage a card or something.

This morning, when I got up, I went to Starbucks and got her favorite coffee.  I gave it to her when I got back, along with a check for a good chunk of change.  We called her brother, told him to come on over, and we'd get the day started.

He came over grumpy and empty-handed.  The discussion about where to eat went on FORever.  People were out of sorts before we even got there, and, once seated, he said something (I didn't hear it) that had her threatening to go wait in the car.  It was a quiet, tense meal.

Afterward, she decided she wanted a cake from Baskin Robbins, and on the drive over there, she started sobbing.  "I only got one thing for my birthday.  One thing.  And it wasn't what I really wanted."  What did she really want?

A kitten.

A kitten.

Barely able to breathe, she went through how empty she has felt since last October, when we lost Esmeralda.  That she's tried to fill the hole with all sorts of things, and they didn't work.  She just wanted a kitten.

My mother's cat, Riley, spends every waking moment following Hannah around, waiting for her to come back when she goes downstairs.  I reminded her of that, but to no avail.  We were at Baskin Robbins now, and she wouldn't even get out of the car.  I just pulled a cake out of the freezer, paid for it, and we came home.

Where she started crying again.  And Briton had heard enough, and got violently angry about how dirty the house is with the animals we have already, and that she'd better not bring another one in.  She reminded him, forcefully, that he no longer lived here.  He said he knew that, that he really wasn't even part of the family anymore.

I had to physically stop her from pouring a drink on his head, at one point she stood up on the coffee table to shout her position. . .  It was just about as ugly as it's ever gotten around here.  Now he has left, she has escaped to her room, and I'm left, as always, wondering where in the world I went wrong, what I can do to help either of them, or maybe if, since they are both now in their 20s, it's time for me to step off and let them hurt, trusting that the pain won't be permanent and that they have the tools to manage it.