Category Archives: Trust

A Dream

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I had a dream, a wonderful dream.  So wonderful that I didn’t mind having it.  I actually liked having it.

But then I woke up.  I woke up because I was so excited from the dream I thought that it was truth.  And I wanted to live it, with my swollen heart.

But.

It was just a dream after all.  Now it is reality, and I must somehow go back to my broken sleep.

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” ~ Saul Bellow

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Midnight Ravings Of A Madwoman

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I’ve had some shit going on in me lately, I haven’t been quite myself.  Or rather I have been, I’ve just been a self I don’t particularly care for, and usually have properly under wraps.

Paranoia.  It’s an ugly word, a much uglier feeling.  What am I so afraid of?  Better to ask what I’m not.  I’m afraid of leaving my room.  I’m afraid of speaking to anyone.  Two years ago it was so bad that I had a little device rigged up to cover the lens for the camera in my laptop.  Never mind if it was turned on or not.  And there has been more.  A lot more.

You can’t explain paranoia, nor can you really do much to treat it.  I carry diagnoses of generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), panic disorder (PD), obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).  Of all of these, I say paranoia is the worst.

In any case, GAD, PD, OCD, PTSD, these are all things that came along for the ride when my bipolar got bad — latent traits, recessive genes activated by my wildly dominant bipolar.  Or, in the case of PTSD, a trauma that was a result of a “treatment” for my bipolar depression (electroconvulsive therapy), and a trust violated.

Paranoia has been with me, in milder but truer form, since birth (to keep things straight, I do not believe that bipolar has, but that I have yet to discuss).  I have what a lifelong friend calls “a paranoid personality” (minus the disorder part, it makes an enormous difference).  And it’s true.  I read the big books young, cutting my teeth on gems like Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, and (of course) George Orwell’s 1984.  I even understood the evils of totalitarian societies when I read Richard Adams’ Watership Down for the first time when I was ten.  Oh yes, a book about bunnies and evil.

These books didn’t make me paranoid. I was drawn to them because they spoke to something I knew, something which was already a part of me.

Lately there have been so many people and things that have me scared. I’ll stick to the latter.  This thing, this internet, this “information superhighway” — it scares the fuck out of me.  Do you know how your information is being collated and collected and used and stored?  I think most of you know the bare bones of facebook.  But do you know that The Library of Congress is saving all of your tweets?  Do you know how tailored Google’s algorithms and tracking of pretty much everything you do online is? Do you know that the privacy laws (in the United States, at least) protecting information like your private, personal email correspondence are so incredibly loose as to be a joke?

(Do you know I am terrified to have ventured down to The Dungeon right now to post this? My wi-fi is out, so I have to connect to the modem in the basement directly and I feel utterly exposed.)

Do I know I sound like I’m raving like a madwoman right now?  Yep.  That’s what paranoia does.  I’m terrified to watch and read and learn more, but I’m much more frightened to look away, because someone has to be paying attention, goddamnit.

I don’t know.  I don’t know what I’m meant to do with this, what I mean with this post.  I have this magic brain — and not in the crazy, “magical thinking way”, in the unusual, really fucking amazing way.  It got me through years of horror and saw me out the other side.  It’s like there are two of me, living simultaneously.  And one of them would be hallucinating, and the other one would be telling that one, ‘This is a hallucination.  Those noises, that smell, those things you see and feel on your skin, they aren’t real.  It’s okay, don’t worry, all you have to do is to just wait it out.’

And I did.  That part of me saved me, it talked me through highs and lows and fears and crazies and got me to where I could be the happy, healthy, more-or-less sane woman I am now (maybe not right now).  Most people don’t have that, believe me, I’ve done my research here.  But my point is, that part of me is now wondering how to talk the other part down.  Or at least keep a lid on things until this episode passes.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Dust Off Your Highest Hopes

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Raise your hand if you’ve ever made a New Year’s resolution.  Now raise your hand if you have ever completely failed on one — or most.

Yeah, me too.  Actually, I think I got wise to the whole resolution game before I was nine.  That was how old I was the last time I made a New Year’s resolution.  And no, I don’t remember what it was.

The thing is, failing at a New Year’s resolution isn’t really a very painful experience, like failing at a goal you set for yourself some other time of the year.  Why not?  Because you know that countless other people are failing at theirs as well.  You aren’t alone.  It’s a time of year when we can actually all have a bit of a laugh and understanding for our failures.  It’s almost expected.  We do it together.

Well, I have a better idea for something we can all do together to begin this year.  I say we hope for ourselves.

In 2012, I got the thing in my life that mattered most, the thing I thought I had given up hoping for on any real, fundamental level.  After half my life dealing with raging mental illness, and the last six years (give or take) causing such acute suffering that I didn’t even know who I was anymore, I had given up ever seeing myself again.  I never gave up believing that something would help glue together the pieces into a semblance of myself, but that wonderful, beautiful, bright, happy, intelligent, crazy, head-in-the-clouds-and-hands-in-the-stars me. . . she wasn’t coming back.

Only she did.  She’s here.

Last March, one Sunday I woke up and I was the girl I’d been ten years ago.  And I knew that she would never go again.  I have to keep taking medication, yes, and I’ve had some hiccups, true enough.  But I knew that Sunday I had somehow fought through all of those years to get me back.  I believed it that first day, and I believe it all these months later.

So let’s do something else this New Year’s Eve, and let’s do it together.  Let’s hope.

I may not be the most interactive blogger when I write, but this post is designed differently (and take advantage of that, as it may be the only one!).  I’m going to share with all of you, my loves, the things I am hoping for in the year to come.  Things for me, in my life.  Yes, I hope for a kinder, more peaceful world, and I hope that my girls will continue to find the happiness in growing up and be spared as much as possible from the pain.  Of course I hope for those things.  Everyone hopes for things such as those.

I hope to do more things like this, with this lady (who has not signed a photo release) if possible

I hope to do more things like this, with this lady (who has not signed a photo release) if possible

 
 
In this post, though, the hopes I will share with you will be my hopes, for my life.  Things upon which I have some direct effect, and things upon which I may have none.  And I would love so very much for you to share yours with me in the comments.  As many as you would like.  You may find this a little scary, when you really get down to it.  I certainly do.  Because hope touches the most intimate and secret places in our hearts, and it is often something we don’t share with anyone.

 
 
But here I go:

  • I hope to be good and properly swept off my feet this year.  I’ve been in love, and I have even let my heart and senses get ahead of my brain (but not since I was 16).  I don’t care if it’s love, and I don’t care if it lasts for a year or a week.  I just want to lose all sense of “should I?” and go for it.
  • I hope to be able to get out and live on my own.  My parents are lovely to have taken me this far, but I need my own space in which I can properly enjoy being me again.  I don’t care if it’s a one-room studio, or if it’s drafty, or if I have to walk a million stairs.  As long as it has a proper kitchen, washer and dryer hookups, and a bathtub!
  • I hope I can have regular dates with my Babygirl once again (lunch on Sundays, perhaps).  She is at a place where I feel like she needs me more, and I have always needed her.  The difference is that now I can be there for her in a tangible way.
  • I hope to get back to kickboxing (I had a nice start pre-mono) and rebuild my strength, my endurance, my confidence, and my body, too.  Kickboxing does wonders for me as a mood stabilizer as well, so there really is no downside.
  • I hope to do a lot more traveling, both domestically and (kicking in some major hopes) internationally.  Rome, Venice, get ready for Ruby!
  • I hope all the necessaries can align for me to get that tattoo I’ve been planning for some time.  Artist, money, me. . .  It matters.
  • I hope to learn film development.  And yes, I mean color as well.  Every time someone tells me how incredibly difficult color is, it makes me want it more and more.  Again, there are many things that must align in this equation.
  • I hope I can spend more and more time reading.  I’ve said previously that I was grateful to just be able to read again at all, and so I was, and so I’ll always be.  But that doesn’t have to be the end of it, and I believe that if I work on it, and never say enough, I may be able to get back to reading the way that I used to.  To devouring.
  • I hope to get back to writing more.  Blogging, yes, but more writing for myself.  Journaling, writing fiction, sending letters and emails, even.  I intend to feed my imagination so much that it has no choice but to bleed through my fingers onto the page.
  • I hope to actually do something with my recently discovered love of oil pastels.  It may turn out beautifully, it may turn out like the scribblings of a two-year-old, it will most likely turn out somewhere in the middle, but I want it to turn out.  I want to lose The Fear.
  • I hope, in addition to the general travel wish, to spend a great deal of time at the beach.  Or, more precisely, in the ocean!

There you are.  From my heart to yours.  Now share with me what you have in your heart.  What do you hope for in the year to come?

I hope you all have a wonderful year, full of hope, and I send you my love.

Addendum: Hopes have no expiration dates, and this post is not just a New Year’s Eve thing. Keep sharing the things you want for this year (nothing as ugly as “must dos”, but the beautiful “I hopes” — see below for the things others have contributed, if you’re confused), because if you accomplish nothing else, in doing so you spread a little more joy into the world. Also, if you decide to share your hopes on your own blog, let me know with a link!

Oooh, Meizac wrote a post, Meizac wrote a post! Go forth and read: My hopes for the year to come

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Will You Be There To Catch Me If I Fall?

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For 31 years of my life, this one was a done deal.  Okay, I can’t speak to my younger years entirely, but something happened to me around age 14 that made me my own and only support.  I had my first breakdown, and in true Ruby style, it was one hell of a mess.

Crying hysterically when your mother tries to drop you off at school may sometimes be normal for some adolescents.  But I was never bullied, I had lots of friends, and I wasn’t afraid of any of the teachers.  So for me it was a bit extreme.  To my mother’s credit, she knew this was not one of those “You’ll feel better when you get to school” things, and she didn’t force me to go in.

Hiding in the basement, cowering in terror from your very good friends when they try to come and find you at your house after school definitely does not fall on the spectrum of normal for a 14-year-old girl.  It would be more than a decade before I had any idea why I did it.  Even before then, I never really thought about how incredibly strange my behavior was.  And no one was home with me to see the degree to which things had deteriorated.

Now don’t take that to mean I had absentee parents.  They simply both held jobs, and as the crying and anxiety seemed to relax almost entirely when my mother brought me back home in the mornings, she went to work at hers (not without reservations, I’m sure).

At some point I pulled myself back together.  I couldn’t really tell you how.  It probably had something to do with the looming threat of not graduating the eighth grade and getting the fuck out of that school forever.  Even if my days in middle school weren’t as miserable as some, that place still sucked.  There’s a reason they parcel those three years away into their own little hell.  That way you can get through them and start semi-fresh somewhere else.

There are a lot of now infamous parent/teacher/principal/student conferences that went on while they tried to figure out what to do with me, as I was so far behind in so many classes.  May it suffice to say I gave a lot of the staff a lot of hell, but in a very adult, don’t-you-dare-talk-to-me-like-I-am-a-freaking-child kind of way.  I was pretty incredible, even my parents thought so.  My theory on why I was graduated is that I had one or two good teachers who were on my side and realized that there wasn’t really anything else they could teach me, and the others just wanted me the hell out of their lives.

Point being, after I got back up onto my feet, I made the decision that no one was ever going to see me off of them again.  Fuck all to what was going on, I could hide it.

And I did, with one exception when I was 16.  Never mind the details, but it caused a shift in my perspective.  It was no longer I’m going to hide this, damnit.  It ceased to be an issue of pride and independence and turned into a belief that ultimately, I really was the only one I could rely on to take care of myself, at least emotionally and mentally.

And for the next 15 years, that was my life.  I had friends, I had family, and I had doctors, eventually.  And they were all good people looking to help me in my time of terrible distress.  But I wouldn’t have it.  Not really.  Yes, I sobbed in my mother’s arms more times than I’m sure I ever did as a child.  Yes, my father cleaned up my financial messes and babysat with me during the days as I went through electroconvulsive therapy.  Yes, my friends made themselves available to me to the degree that they were able to and then some – but they did all have children, most were spread across the country, and for a lot of that time I wasn’t really with it.  And yes, on more than one occasion I know I begged for help from my psychiatrist.  I had even begun to develop a strong support network through blogging.

But still, when I got down to cases, I was the only one I could count on.

It’s funny how the most unexpected things can change your whole perspective.

Last Winter, I spent about three days in the worst migraine I had ever lived in my life.  By the third day I couldn’t even think, and when I went to speak to my mother in the early morning hours on a Saturday, when she was getting ready for work, I was pushing back hard on the tears.  You cannot cry when your head feels like that.  Crying equals more pain.

The solution she quickly came to was for my father to take me to the urgent care.  Sensible enough, except my father hates all things medical, he doesn’t deal so well with them, and dear Lord, in the past five years had I put him through enough doctor and emergency room visits to last several lifetimes, and I just didn’t want him to take me, honestly.

I expressed something like this to my mom, tears rolling down my face in spite of myself, and she told me that maybe that was something my father was meant to learn from all of these experiences, how to be able to deal with the medical world (my mother is so very Catholic and, I swear, everything with her is “meant to be”).

I don’t think my dad learned anything that day, but I got to thinking about what maybe I was supposed to learn from all that had happened to me in the preceding five-and-a-half years (yes, I’ve got some of it in me, too).  And sometime after the Vicodin and the ice packs and attempting to sleep and the muscle relaxers and throwing up, I came to the most amazing realization.

I have so many people in my life who are reaching out their hands to catch me.

I have friends who would put a roof over my head and food in my mouth should I land on their doorsteps.  I have aunts and uncles and cousins of my parents who would take me into their lives in an instant.  I have two grandfathers who would give me shelter and love and whatever I could need.  I have so many wonderful cousins.  One particular branch have absorbed me into their lives and made me feel like closer family than I technically am, and never so much as blinked when I asked them to help me find a pharmacy where they live and drive me there (twice) because I was going off-the-wall manic.  I have my parents, I have always had my parents, but I feel differently about their taking care of me than I ever did before.  I have so many of you lovelies, who would scoop me up and tuck me into your lives and set me on the road to recovery in an instant.

I have the whole beautiful world.  There will always be an endless number of kind hands, even if they are the hands of strangers, reaching out, willing and wanting to help me should I need it.

Kind of amazing when you think about it.

There won’t be another breakdown.  I may have my moments here and there, but I can say with absolute confidence and certainty that I will never go back to where I have been.  But while I can’t list for you all the things that journey through Hell (capital H) taught me, one of them was definitely how to let love in.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

My Farewell Post

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Notice first that I used the word “farewell”, not “goodbye”.  Probably because years of watching classic films has beaten into me the idea that farewell is a temporary goodbye, while goodbye is a permanent you-will-never-hear-from-me-again word (take a minute to re-read that sentence and enjoy all of the sense it doesn’t make).

This post is a farewell for many, many reasons.  The most pressing and definite is my biannual pilgrimage to the Holy Shit Land this week.  I love going back to the city that gave you me (as well as Fred Rogers, Andy Warhol, and the Steeler Nation – you’re especially welcome for that last one), but the trips inevitably bring a level of stress that can only be alleviated by a cocktail of Valium and vodka, heavy on the Valium (as always, my lovelies, do as Ruby says, not as Ruby says she does).

I hadn’t planned on taking my laptop back for the trip, and I still don’t, and I have no idea how anyone can write a post from a phone (I have enough trouble pecking out the keys when they are real and big enough to fit my fingertips, give me a touch screen and “keys” no bigger than the nail on my pinky and everything falls spectacularly to pieces).  I can’t even do comment responses, just ask the very few people who have gotten them from me via my Fancy Fone (and they know who they are, because I have had to apologize for the screwed-up-ness of my response in a subsequent, usually equally screwed-up comment).

I also gypped myself out of a much-needed blogging break I had intended to take a few weeks ago, so that’s another reason I am shutting up for a while.

Most importantly, though, my writing is suffering.  Here, and offline.  I don’t frequently mention any offline projects, and that’s in part because in the time I have been blogging, I haven’t really had any.  There are multifarious reasons for that, but one which I actually feel I can control is the fact that I have become very distilled through writing in many places.  Not good distilled, like way they use French wheat to make the alcohol in Grey Goose, but bad distilled, like taking the alcoholic version of me and adding bloody mary mix, orange juice, tonic water, or even cranberry juice.

(Not all at once, that’s a Hurricane gone all kinds of wrong.  And if you don’t know what a Hurricane is, it’s the name for a drink you make when you are young and stupid and take a little from each bottle in your parents’ liquor cabinet and mix it, or what we called it when I was younger, anyway.  I don’t know what kids today call it.  In theory it lessens the chance that you will get caught, slightly; in reality it increases the chance that you will get violently ill, exponentially.  Don’t do that kind of shit, kiddies.)

In theory, the Badly Distilled Ruby is a good thing.  It is much more palatable than Ruby straight, comes in colors and tastes to suit many people, and can perk up your party when it hits an unfortunate lag.  In reality, the Badly Distilled Ruby is a lesser version of me, and even if no one else notices, I do and I have come to loathe it.

I think I may actually be making plans to abandon all of you.  At least temporarily.  I’m not sure.  I am confusing myself with all of my alcohol references.  For the seeming drunkery in my mind, I would like to give a huge thanks to Jen from Sips of Jen and Tonic, and Sara from Laments and Lullabies (of course these two lovely ladies are actually from lots of places, but I’m lazy and their blogs are good starting places for you, if you need some), as they helped me to get going on a binge-themed day. . .  I mean post.  Also deserving of an honorable mention is the clothing I am no longer wearing that reeks of Heineken.  All I will say on that one is that it wasn’t my fault.  I was attacked.  I don’t even drink beer.

So.  Where was I?  Oh yeah.  This is it, in as few words as I can manage.

I need to sit inside of myself and age and swirl and maybe even turn slightly (because unlike wine, words can be worth a lot when they’ve gone “off”), until I can’t stand it any longer and it either comes bursting forth in a rush or. . .  Hmm.  I think that’s really the only option my mind will accept, no ors, ifs, buts, qualifiers, modifiers, or alternate solutions of any kind are allowed on this one.

I have no idea how long this will take.  I’ll still read your words, after I’ve dried out some (give me a week to two months, or whatever period of time I eventually arrive at).  I won’t be making any comments, as comments do fall under the heading of Writing.  But I guess I can make use of the Like button on posts without compromising my position.  So, there’s that.

I still love all of you so much, you just need to love me enough to trust that part of my experiment includes prohibiting myself from all writing that is not of a very strict, functional nature.  I have some material prepared to post in the foreseeable future for Canvas, and as (almost) always, I won’t be abandoning anything related to that, because that project is a commitment on a different level.  Odds are I will answer emails - mywonderfulabnormalmind@gmail.com - just not in what is considered a “timely manner”; but ask anyone who has ever contacted me via email, I never have.

Oh, and if you really miss me terribly (because I know better than anyone how very missable I am), my facebook page is not a fan page for my blog, it’s my personal, really me, my life, stuff I never would make into a blog post anyway page.  Click on this link, Ruby Tuesday, make me your friend.  Just write a message, too, so I know who the hell you are.  You can also find me on Goodreads (since you have my email), which may not be as exciting for lots of you, but I plan on ingesting a lot of the printed word while I’m gone, and I keep that shit pretty accurate and up-to-date.

Alright, and now I’m getting nice and melancholy and I know if I don’t do it now, I won’t do it.

Push the button, Frank.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

A Change Of Pace And Momentary Lightening Of The Load

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Sometime during last week, I honestly cannot figure out when, I came out of my stupor and made an attempt at writing a new about me page.  The one that had previously been up, The Alleged Blogger (which can still be located in the drop-down menus), I had literally written nearly a year ago when I started this blog.

Well, I certainly wrote a bio.  On the surface, it’s about my family and how they have shaped me and the way that they view me.  But really, it is truly a piece about my own views of me.

It’s also just over 2,000 words, which is why I won’t make it my official About.  But I will give it its own drop-down, and present it to you (in its very lengthy entirety) here.

A Free Spirit

I hate wearing anything on my shoulders, my neck, or my back. Most especially my shoulders (strapless dresses in the middle of winter, yes, please!). I honestly cannot think of the reason for this. In the summer, when it’s very hot, I lay in my bed at night (or whenever I sleep) and pull the sheet down so that my front is covered but my back is exposed, and I can feel the air from the fan on it and on my shoulders and the back of my neck. I don’t have any aversion or dislike to the breeze on the front of me, there’s just something about feeling it only on my back that makes it especially delicious.

Now that I’ve cleared that up. . .

I titled this page A Free Spirit for many reasons. I have been called a free spirit for as long as I can remember, by people who know me well, by people who know me in passing, and by people whose knowledge of me lies somewhere on the middle of the spectrum. It isn’t such a bad thing to be called, actually I think that it’s wonderful, especially because I have truly felt like a very free spirit for as long as I can remember.

I begin by giving my parents due credit for that.

There was my wonderful mother (she isn’t dead, I just say was because I’m referring to the way she raised me when I was young), and my incredible father. They gave me gifts that defy description. The most important things they gave me are the things that make me me. . .

They immersed me in creativity and culture while I was still inside my mother’s womb. My father is a truly gifted musician – he could have gone on and done some really incredible things, professionally, had he not fallen in love with my mom and decided that raising a family meant so much more (for the record, he made the right choice for himself and he knows it). He’s in his 60s now, and still plays incredible, amazing, mind-boggling electric bass and acoustic guitar. He plays in the basement, and I listen, completely enthralled. He also plays live, with no less than four different bands.

My mother’s creativity manifests itself a bit differently. She reads, reads, reads (she passed that trait along), and she becomes so completely immersed in literature, in such a way I think writers merely dream about a reader possibly falling into the fantastical world that they have created with their meager allotment of 26 letters. Accordingly, I grew up with a passionate love for printed words and pages in any genre, variety, diversity, or assortment (yes, I was that girl, the one who read every word on the cereal boxes at breakfast). Still, I know I haven’t yet attained those alternate literary realities with the utter profundity of my mother. One day.

She also used to write wonderful poetry, and I sometimes wonder why she stopped, but then our lives often take us down unforeseen avenues. I truly believe she has found her peace in the choices she made, but it matters not in this particular milieu, as I have absolutely no desire to awaken such a sensitive component, now resting (I hope) peacefully in her soul.

For all my creativity, I am also extremely analytical. That’s the catch. I used to demand a reason or an answer for everything, though I am now learning not to be quite so contentious and quarrelsome as I once was. When all of the other children relentlessly pestered their parents with Why?, I wanted to know What if?

But I am once again learning to let go and trust the author. If you cannot do that, then the book is nothing but paper, ink, and a dust jacket.

(There is a story behind that ‘once again’ thing, but this is neither the time nor the place for telling it.)

The things my parents gave me that matter most, they gave me without much in the way of pre-meditated consciousness. They taught me well, and they taught me by their example. They gave me love for all mankind (and all animal-kind, as well) by living and showing it to me every day.

They gave me the ability and liberty to run free, and try my very best to figure out on my own (much as I was able) this enormous THING that was the world; then run back to the safety of their presence and ask question after question about the things I couldn’t make sense of in my mind. Mom and Dad knew that the way to really understand something was to figure it out on your own, as much as you could, then ask for some help.

Most importantly, they gave me respect and understanding, and difficult though (I know) it was at times, they gave me the confidence to become my own person, and allowed me the freedom to trust in my own judgment and instincts.

And then I crashed and burned, and they picked me up, and loved me, and took care of me like never before.

Alright, I know that I have a propensity to meander through my writings and wander from what many would consider as the subject or the point. At times even I wonder where the hell I’m going.

So, most particularly for those of you skimming this page who much prefer a sort of quick, minimalist “novice’s guide” to my very deeply felt passions, comforts, beliefs, delights, and loves, you will find some fascinating facts directly below this next sentence.

For those of you who have stuck with me for the long haul and actually read all of this, I am wildly appreciative – not to put too fine a point on it – and I hope you enjoy the way the whole of the story ends as much as I do.

Fascinating Facts

  • I love to read any- and everything I can get my hands on, though it is not as easy for me to breathlessly devour a book as it once was. I need to focus on deeper breaths and smaller bites. Or so it would seem.
  • I adore music. On a good day it is a basic, fundamental necessity for me. When I’m not doing so well, it is cathartic, tranquilizing (yes, it actually can be both), and a consummate form of therapy for me. But being, y’know, me, I am compelled to pass along an unhappy and disheartening truth about the current state of most – not all, but far too much – music. From the song ‘Last Man Standing,’ by Bon Jovi, whether it means anything at all to you, my lovelies, I iterate, “So keep your pseudo-punk-hip-hop-pop-rock-junk and your digital downloads.”  Urgh. I think my age is showing a bit. It’s either that or my love of good music (probably both). ;)
  • I do not subscribe to the idea or concept of coincidence. Just doesn’t fly with me. I do believe with all of my heart, my soul, and my being in serendipity, though. It’s one of my favorite things in all of the Universe.
  • Very few things fill me with wonder and joy the way a surprise glimpse of a shooting star does. And yes. Of course I always make a wish. :P
  • My babies unequivocally fall into that just-mentioned category of “very few things,” filling me with more wonder, joy, and elation than a million shooting stars ever would.

And finally, we are at the place in this extremely long, and yet somehow still strangely cohesive piece of writing, signifying that we have made it to the part which means so much more to me than anything else. It isn’t a prize, nor an award, nor is it what most everyone would think of when they imagine an honor. No medal, no plaque, no ribbon. It’s “merely” an endearment. An endearment that my wonderful grandfather doesn’t even know I’m writing about. Which is a lot the point.

I love both of my grandfathers very, very much. But my mom’s dad, he has always seen something else in me. Something more, something different, something that no one else in my entire life can see except in glimpses and shadows. And it goes both ways. There is just something about him that I know and see and understand. Sometimes I feel like he knows me better than anyone in all of my life. And he watched me, from when I was a baby, all through my years at school, during these last terrible years of struggle. Struggle I would shield him from if I could – though that would really be dishonesty and an insult to the man – struggle I know my family, especially mother has tried. . . not to hide, but to downplay so he wouldn’t worry so much.

Maybe were it another family member instead of me, maybe it would work. But he takes one good look into my face (no matter how much I’m smiling and delighted to see him) and he knows. He knows it all, and he doesn’t need diagnoses or labels to understand the pain that I’m in, and how hard I fight it every moment.

My grandfather is the most wonderful human ever to grace this earth. He will be 93 soon, and he is sharp and independent and pretty content with his life, overall. We don’t have long, deep conversations about the meaning of life and the challenges unique to me or my disorders. Mostly we talk about his dog, a sweetheart of a pug. But in so very many ways he knows me better than anyone on this earth. He lives in Pittsburgh, and I live Here (which is much, much too far from him). But each time we visit him, every time he sees me, he always gives me a hug filled with a strength that belies his frail frame, kisses me, and says, “God bless ya, Ruby.”

So, back to the endearment he has placed upon me we come. I am a free spirit.

You can look and search and hunt and peck through real live dictionaries, online dictionaries, forums and physical places for “free spirits” to come together (one I may call the police about, actually). Most “reference sources” (and I use that term very lightly) don’t know a free spirit from a cult member.

Of interest to me, after checking out some more legit resources, The Merriam-Webster Dictionary provided me with the first known usage as 1970 (of course even their sources could be mistaken). Here is why this interests me, though. If the first known usage was in 1970, my grandfather would have already reached the ripe old age of 51.  His children were hippies, and in some instances, counterculturists.

In any case, in the 42 years that have passed since 1970, he has seen free spirits, he has seen word permutations and form misrepresentations, and I know he has absorbed and understood all the connotations and nuances and come away with the purest sense of the term.

And here is me.  His granddaughter beloved, most saddled and strapped with weakening, debilitating, terrifying, horrific psychiatric illnesses and psychological ailments that I struggle with and fight every single moment of every single day.  But the man who knows me best in the world, the one who truly sees my soul, calls me strong and free.  Maybe I should believe him.

Don’t you think so?

My mother says that when she and my grandfather talk about me on the telephone, he always says to her about me, “She’s a free spirit, ~.” And if he says it, then it is 100%, absolute, inarguable truth.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Unconditional Positive Regard

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Think about that one.  It’s a powerful phrase.  I heard it from my very dear friend and soul sister, Em.  And she used it to describe, of all things, me.

She told me that she always felt she could tell me everything, she never had to hide the things in her life, because no matter what she disclosed, she knew that I would hold her in unconditional positive regard.

I would like to say that it stopped me in my tracks then and there and really made me think.  I’d like to say that, but it wouldn’t be true.  It was more one of those things that simmered in the back of my mind and then one day I really started thinking about it consciously.

I love it because it is pretty much the best thing anyone has ever said about me, and I love it because, you know what, it’s true.  That second thing was also something it took me some time to wrap my head around.

I’m going to tell you a secret.  While I am a fairly secure, confident, positive human being, and I generally feel like I always try to do right by everyone and be the most kind and loving presence I can be, there is a big old bitch that lives in my head that is always niggling me.  She tells me I didn’t do enough, I should have tried harder, I could be so much more. . .

Back to the whole unconditional positive regard thing.  That bitch in my head has not for a moment questioned or contradicted or caused me to doubt that one.  I took some time – okay, about 30 seconds – to think about what it meant and if I felt it was accurate, and guess what?  It is!

I don’t judge people.  It is not in me to do it.  It used to be, and I’m not for a minute denying that I do the superficial snap judgments about people and their too short shorts or their inconsiderate behavior.  I’m not proud that I do it, but I’m working on doing it less.

But when it comes to someone’s actions and behaviors and choices, I honestly do not make judgments.  Neither do I assume I know about things.  Instead, I try really hard to think about the person, the circumstances, human nature, societal pressure, all the factors that might lead a person to do something.

I realize that I am being annoyingly vague.  I’m going to try to fix that.

But here’s my deal.  I have done a lot of things in my life, good, bad, and somewhere in between on the spectrum.  A great many of them fall into the category of things others just can’t understand the reasons for.  I have been criticized, I have been judged, I have hurt people and been hurt by people, and I have lost more than one very close relationship due to a basic factor of misunderstanding.

William S. Burroughs was once quoted as saying, “You don’t need a reason to become an addict.  You need a reason not to become an addict.”  I think about this when I hear people criticizing drug users and others who are classed as scourges of our society.  Because I get it.  I get it all too well.  The only explanation I have for never falling into the classic, textbook behaviors of self-medicating with alcohol, illicit or prescription drugs, or anything that I could get my hands on is that I have too many reasons not to.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s like.  That doesn’t mean I haven’t been to That Place, the one where you will do or take or try anything just to escape the torture inside for five goddamned minutes, where you aren’t thinking about the long-term consequences of your behavior or what the risk is or the damage it will do to those you love. You are incapable of thinking about all that.  All you are thinking about is how you can make it through the next hour.

Which brings me back to the whole unconditional positive regard thing.  I know and love people who have pretty much done it all.  Drugs, alcohol, eating disorders, suicide attempts, and a host of other things I will not even put in to words, because they could really destroy some lives.  And I can look at these people and I can love them and I can be there waiting, with my unconditional positive regard, when they need help or someone to confide in.

The people in my life, the ones whom I love more than life can do no wrong, as far as I am concerned.  That doesn’t mean I put on my rose-colored glasses and condone destructive behavior.  But I can always separate the action from the person.  That was something that was so critical to me when I had my girls, to make sure that when they misbehaved I made it very clear that it was the behavior that was bad, not them.

(My proudest parenting moment ever – which I probably wrote about already – was when my eldest little girl recounted to me how her father had told her she was bad, not at all maliciously, mind you, and she had told him back, “NO!  My Ruby says I’m NOT bad!!!”  I’m sure it didn’t create the best father/daughter dynamic in the moment, but when I heard about it I knew she had a good sense of herself and was going to be alright in life.  I think she was all of about three at the time.)

Anyway, I try to be a true friend and talk through the situation, or just listen if that’s what’s needed.  I know that my Em and all of the many others in my life are extraordinary people.  And it feels so amazing to know that Em is right, that she or anyone else I love can confide in me without hesitation, because I do and always will hold them in unconditional positive regard.

Moral of the story:  There, but for the grace of God, go I.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Soul Shocked

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I confess that I have been feeling this way lately.  It’s that special time of year again, the time the creeps up on me, not without my knowledge, but at least this time without my preparedness.  The post-traumatic demons caught me, in spite of my best efforts.

You see, it was about this time two years ago that I started my course of what would ultimately be 16 shocks to my brain.  Forget what you have heard or been told by your doctors or read about the safety and efficacy of ECT for a moment and just think about it.  Think about allowing yourself to be anesthetized, given a muscle-paralyzing agent, and having someone administer an electrical shock to your brain.  Think of that, not in terms of what science says is appropriate or therapeutic, but as the actual, terrifying, barbaric procedure that electroconvulsive therapy is.

I know that ECT has helped people, and I am happy for anyone who has achieved a better quality of life, but it destroyed so much of mine.  It obliterated great pieces of my mind and of my soul, pieces I have to fight to reclaim again every single day.

You may not have a sense of it from the posts that make up this blog, but I have always lived my life as a very independent woman.  Even when my manic-depression and anxiety were at their zenith, I still fought on my own two feet.  I don’t yet know what happened inside, what caused me to “consent” to undergo a procedure I had researched thoroughly and had been vehemently against for years.  But it changed me in ways I am still trying to wrap my mind around.

The Thursday before last, I called my psychiatrist and my mom called off from work.  My father was at home as well, but I was simply too distraught to be left.  I spent the greater part of that day curled up in my parents’ bed, alternating between crying, sleeping, and taking my next dose of alprazolam.  My mother watched over me, sometimes just sitting and talking or holding me, other times peeking through the gap in the doorway at me as I slept.

I had come to a crossroads of sheer terror that morning.  It was An Unspeakable Dilemma all over again, minus the seizures.  I knew I couldn’t continue to live the way that I had been, but I also knew I wasn’t ready to confront and work through the trauma that was holding me hostage.  I had no direction in which to flee, monsters surrounded me at every turn.

But somehow, between my mother’s love, my doctor’s care, the soporific effects of the Xanax, and the oblivion of sleep, I passed the time.  I saw my psychiatrist the next day, and we discussed the issue very generally.  He doesn’t know all of the gory details of the situation, he hasn’t been treating me for very long.  But he is a kind and extremely knowledgeable man. He prescribed more alprazolam, 2 mg t.i.d (three times a day), and we discussed a more comprehensive plan.

He wants me to see a psychologist and be treated with Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy (you might read the article EMDR-Breakthrough Therapy for Overcoming Anxiety,Stress,Trauma & Self-Sabotage for an explanation of this technique).  Generally, I don’t do well in therapy, but I underwent EMDR years ago for a different issue and found it tremendously effective.  I also found the process itself incredibly distressing.  You have to relinquish control (which I am terrible at), trust your therapist completely (which I am equally bad at), and be prepared to be hit by memories, feelings, and thoughts that you had no idea were even disturbing you (I’m no good at that one, either).

But.  Something’s got to give.  I really feel that with all of my Alphabet Soup diagnoses, post-traumatic stress disorder is the most horrible and virtually impossible to deal with.  Right now I have fallen back into patterns of insomnia (I haven’t slept since Friday night), I am reactive and irritable, I am scared and anxious, and I am in danger of becoming the ugly, hurtful, hateful person I found when I reread much of this blog.  The woman who lashes out at those who love and support her, the woman who dissociates and creates different identities just to get through the day, the one who suffers from strange forms of paranoia.

So I am taking steps.  I have finally worked up the nerve to begin to read an excellent book I have on the subject of PTSD, and I also just purchased a text on EMDR, written by Dr. Francine Shapiro (who “originated and developed” the therapy).  I even had a really brave moment and made an appointment with my psychologist for later this week.  I can’t say with any certainty that I am ready to start this therapy, but as least she is someone I trust (mostly) whom I can discuss my options with.  And I have another appointment in a day or so with my psychiatrist.  He’s keeping a close eye on me.

And, oddly enough, I’m not really doing so terribly.  I am keeping my mind occupied and surrounding myself with supportive people.  I’m journaling and doing a great deal of housecleaning, both literally and figuratively.

Moral of the story:  

“We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.” ~ Marcel Proust


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Ruby And Lulu – At Long Last We Meet!

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So I know we aren’t exactly 80-year-old long-lost identical twins separated at birth, but as far as I’m concerned the title seems fitting.

Let me catch any of you up who may be at sea with this.  Ruby would be me, and Lulu would be my friend, fellow blogger (she writes As the Pendulum Swings), and the creative spark that began, a.k.a the co-founder of, A Canvas Of The Minds.  I may have gotten the technical part implemented, but without her, Canvas would not exist in anyone’s mind.

Lulu lives in Pittsburgh.  That’s not a secret, that’s public domain information.  ;)  I am from and happen to be visiting that same city right now.  Also public domain.  So of course it made perfect sense that we should finally meet up while I was in town, right?

Well, yes and no.  Yes, it does make sense, but me and my “paranoid personality” (as one dear friend puts it) – meeting someone I know strictly from the internet is like a huge leap for me.  To understate things greatly.  But I felt like I knew Lulu, I trusted her. . . um, mostly (no offense!), I was incredibly curious, mostly it just seemed right.

So we made a date for lunch, and next thing I knew I was waiting outside of a little Italian restaurant in a neighborhood that was convenient for the both of us.  Up she walked, and there she was!  Sweet as could be, and one of those people you are instantly comfortable with.  Comfortable in the sort of way that you don’t even notice how comfortable you are until some time later when you realize you started your conversation somewhere in the middle, and not with introductions and pleasantries.

We really didn’t even talk much about Canvas, I think I brought up one or two things I wanted to mention on my end, and then of course later we had the “Well are we or aren’t we?” conversation about whether we should tell all of you lovelies about our up-till-now clandestine meeting.

She showed me some pictures of her son, who is so super-cute, and. . .  Well this is more difficult to write than I had imagined, because we just talked, like girlfriends do, about all manner of things.  And, well, as I’m not in the habit of disclosing conversations I have with my girlfriends via my blog (or, y’know, at all. . .).

I can tell you these things:  She gave me a sweet little white petunia she picked from a pot next to a bench we sat on because I admired it.  I fell on my butt coming out of the restaurant because – well I could lie and say I caught my heel in the pavement, but in reality I just lost my balance and fell over (and no, I hadn’t had anything to drink).  So she got to see me as I truly am, I suppose: the woman in the pretty dress and heels who spends a great deal of her time on her ass.  ;)

I feel like the couple of hours we got to spend together were not nearly enough, I could have talked with her all afternoon and well into the evening.  But she has a job and I have family.  I did walk around and take some pictures before returning to my room (I didn’t take any of Lulu, and even if I had I wouldn’t be posting them here – you all know me better).  I got some late-blooming flowers and beautiful trees.  I also took some pictures of a very sweet older gentleman and his grandson, and some of the grandson with his dad, which I promised I would mail back to them.  The grandfather saw me with the camera and asked if I would take the photos, I only wish now that I had gotten one of all three of them together!

The things you think of after the fact.  Oh well.

In any case, it was a lovely afternoon with the lovely Ms. Lulu Sunshine, and I am really happy that I let go of my paranoia and met her.  To a lifelong, wonderful friendship!

Moral of the story:  Talk to strangers.  Just make sure you pick the right ones.  ;D

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Eagle Has Landed, And She Ain’t Real Happy About It Yet

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Okay, I guess I’m lucky in that traveling went as smoothly as traveling ever does.  My aunt (the one referenced in a previous post who drives me insane pretty much all of the time) and I were on the same connecting flight, but not sitting together, so that helped me to stay a little more relaxed.  As it happens, our connecting flight was coming in from Pensacola, and I really – as much as I wanted to see my grandfather and come back – really wanted that plane to magically fly me back from whence it had come.

My aunt and I had an hour talking before my mom’s flight got in, and it actually wasn’t so bad.  We chatted and I thought we were getting along alright, and the only unpleasant part was when she called my grandfather and had to Play Pretend as to why O.D. wasn’t coming.  More on that later.

No, actually, more on that now.

O.D. decided she couldn’t handle being here if I was, even for a couple of days, even with separate accommodations.  Whatever, I thought at the time I heard it, and just moved on.  Actually I told my mother that O.D. needed to get her shit together and come out for a long weekend on her own, because my grandfather needs to see her.

My family likes to Play Pretend with my grandfather on a lot of things.  I’m not as bad off as I am, as far as my mental differences is one.  Another is that the reason O.D. doesn’t come to visit is because she’s busy at work, or it was too last minute, or too expensive.

The thing that apparently only I can see is that – as much as I know that they’re trying to spare him the conflict and worry – my grandfather may be 92, but he isn’t senile.  I started to write a post after my last visit here, but the experience was still too raw and I deleted the little I had written (which I don’t ever do).  In any event, last visit my presence at his house was kind of hit-and-miss because of my moods, as it may be on this trip, we’ll see.  I’m not sure what my mom told him about my absences – or how much she has told him in general about what goes on in my life – but as we were leaving, I gave him a goodbye hug, and no one saw it save me, but a tear trickled out of his left eye as he let go and looked at me.

I have never, in all of my life, seen my grandfather cry.  I didn’t share this with anyone, not until now.

But the thing is. . .  Yes, my grandfather is 92.  Yes, he worries a great deal.  No, we don’t want to go into the goriest of details and give him more cause to worry than is necessary.  But he isn’t a child.  You cannot hide from him the fact that something big is going on, nor explain it away with silly cover stories.  He obviously knows there is much more going on with me than my mother lets on, and judging by yesterday, he also knows that the reason O.D. doesn’t come out to visit is because of something to do with our relationship (or lack of one).  You can see the sadness in his face, and you can hear the disappointment in his voice, if you bother to look or listen.  But I guess I’m the only one who does.  Or maybe just the only one who knows how.

I’m not playing the game any more.  He’s going to worry and be more upset if he imagines all of these scenarios about what could possibly be going on, and has no chance to process the reality and make his peace with it than he will if given that opportunity.  Now that’s not to say I’m going to drop the whole sordid affair solidly in his lap, but if I can’t go to his house because I’m depressed, I’m not going to hide behind a vague “not feeling well.”  And if he asks me about O.D., I will tell him straight out that I have no idea about her or her life, as I haven’t been a part of it in more than a year-and-a-half.

He may not like to hear it, and as I said, it may hurt, but he is a grown man and he is quite capable of dealing with the truth and he deserves the opportunity to do it on his own terms.  It is showing a complete lack of faith in him to treat him this way, and I will no longer be a party to it.  He has lived through more than my mother seems capable of conceiving, and he will live through this one, too.  I’m through with Playing Pretend.

Moral of the story:  Don’t underestimate the people whom you love and respect.  It’s an insult to them to think they “can’t handle it.”

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.