I renounce Project Runway.

Forever.

I love you, SissyBear.

I. Am. Pissed.

Which is a good thing, better than being numb or trying to remain numb. I have a hunch that shock, horror, disgust, sadness, and all the rest of the merry crew will be following eventually… but right now, I am furious, and not at the broken faucet or the husband’s whistling or the persistence of mismatched socks.

My displacement switch is OFF.

How I know my therapist is good

1. She extracted relevant information so smoothly and naturally I didn’t even realize how quickly she decided what was important… until afterwards, when I also realized she was exactly right.
2. She asked several questions which made something pop out of my mouth that I didn’t plan to say.
3. After they popped out, I realized they were true.
4. I was so busy rehashing the session in the car on the way home that I missed my exit.
5. While rehashing, I was moved to say things like,”God damn it, no!” And “Why do I keep on accepting the pile of dog crap?” Loudly.
6. She pointed out the very real difference between “calm” and “detached.”
7. She talked about the awful dissonance of responsibility without authority.
8. She didn’t let me self-edit.

I think it helped just to hear someone objective say that, yes, in fact, there is some crazy shit going on, and no, it’s not me. This time, anyway.

Oh, and for the record

George Clooney was robbed. Jesus. Want some eggs with that ham, Mr. Day-Lewis?

Falling in love again

On Saturday my hands stopped shaking for a while, thanks to sleep, food that stayed down, and yes, drugs, so I was able to try a new paintbrush I’d ordered.

Painting on a very small scale has distinct challenges, particularly when the surface is irregular. Generally detail work is all about pointing: the ability of a brush’s bristles to come to a smoothly tapered sharp end when wet. Kolinsky, squirrel, goat hair… high-grade soft natural bristles, expertly trimmed, make the best points and hold a proportionately large amount of paint. The problem is springback; I need a precise point, but I also need it to have some body, some bounce, in order to “draw” in different directions without constantly rotating the piece, and super-soft bristles won’t do. Synthetic fibers are better-suited, but even ones designed for miniature painting haven’t made me happy so far. They lose point quickly, split or curl or develop stray hairs, and I have a very, very light touch with a brush. Unbelievably frustrating, working around your tools.

Then, this weekend, the Silver Eagles came into my life.

No, not an aerobatic squadron – two little paintbrushes, with points worthy of dancing angel feet and enough spring to slap you in the face and make you want more. I feel as though I’ve been painting with a toilet brush until now… ahhhhhh.

Hello, my little love. Hello, you gorgeous 20/0 sharp round. With you in my hand, I can paint anything.

(Monday) Gearing up for the first session with my alliteratively-named therapist and I can’t stay away from these brushes – I keep running upstairs to do just one more thing, running downstairs to make phone calls, thinking of something else to sketch in, running back upstairs… it’s lurv, all right.

Irises

Thank you, JPolly. They are almost as lovely as you.

Crash

Reinforcements are on the way, but communications will likely be down for the weekend. It’s expected, it’s planned for, I’ll be okay. Damn it all to hell.

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

This I do, being mad:
Gather baubles about me,
Sit in a circle of toys, and all the time
Death beating the door in.

White jade and an orange pitcher,
Hindu idol, Chinese god, —
Maybe next year, when I’m richer—
Carved beads and a lotus pod. . . .

And all this time
Death beating the door in.

ESVM

…and a little more about me, me, me.

In the past few days, I have developed many symptoms of acute stress disorder, or as I think of it, Don’t Startle Me or I’ll Stab You With This Spatula Syndrome. These include:

• the previously mentioned exaggerated fight-or-flight reflex,
• nightmares, or,
• an inability to sleep,
• a feeling of unreality,
• constant “mini” panic attacks,*
• a new aversion to the color red,** raw meat, and closed doors,
• and most disturbingly, a recurrent image that comes up whenever my eyes close.

But never fear – my intrepid shrink is aware of what’s happening, and tomorrow I will be therapist shopping for the first time since college. I have three recommendations… oh, the flutter there will be in the local psychiatric community. Whom will she choose?

Time alone will tell.

*these include a sudden rush of adrenalin and light perspiration, which I resent strongly, being philosophically and vehemently opposed to sweating in any non-sexual context whatsoever

**and yes, I’ve changed the color of the theme, for now, but I hate all these other colors

Don’t go crazy

Feel free to become a substance abuser, though. In fact, if you are an adult with serious psychiatric problems, do the best you can to become addicted to something as soon as possible: crack, meth, heroin, anything… because there are five million treatment centers for adult junkies (or “recreational drug users” – how jolly) but not one damn place except the warehouse of a state hospital for a suicidal thirty-five-year-old man who is not actually pointing a loaded gun at his head at five-minute intervals.

How I am

I’m failing miserably at answering e-mails – but I am so grateful to everyone. Someone who knows who she is told me,”Don’t forget to lean on the people who love you.” So here’s my personal status report, plagiarized shamelessly from the lovely Lorelei:

I am leaning, baby. I am leaning like it’s the Leaning Olympics and my grizzled old leaning coach, tragically robbed of his own dream of leaning gold, is shouting from the sidelines,”Lean, you glorious bastard! Lean!”

In fact, right now I’m going to lean until I become horizontal and lean into sleep for a while.