In the interest of objectivity

I'm drinking rewarmed black coffee.
I had a bite of cottage cheese from Safeway, and it didn't taste right.
Paint it Black by the Rolling Stones just came up on my personalized playlist.
There's a hazy cloud hanging over the eastern half of the sky, blocking the sun.
I briefly forgot the name of the person I've been dating for 2 months.
I plan to accept the bids on 2 clothing pieces I listed on eBay, and then take them to the post office sometime today. Or maybe Monday.
I don't really want to go to my cousin's house tomorrow. Or do that aerial class I've been talking about. I definitely will go though. To my cousin's. Not that other thing.
Sleeping feels really good to me.
I can't resist picking up my fat cat when she's in an arm's reach.
I think a lot about how medications affect me.
I tell myself that no matter what is happening, I am still alive, but likely dormant.

Something I never predicted that I would love about my last job: the intake process. I was trained over a couple months' time (through some very clunky and slightly abusive methods) to simply "take in" what I was seeing in front of me. I had to compartmentalize my reactions into purely objective eyewitness accounts. Overall condition. Frame condition. Glazing condition. From there I could look closer and specify and assign labels to conditions. However it was very risky to even go so far as to label something a stain. "Stain" connotes that a relatively unintentional event occurred, one that must be quantified and given weight, at least when you're associating yourself with an insurance company that can choose whether or not their client is covered for this event or that. It was maddening sometimes. And honest questions to the more senior staff people were often met with irritated sighs. Nobody really wants to be in charge of making these assumptions, but that's what we were faced with for three hours every day. Sometimes you could easily attribute staining to the documented water loss that occurred on a specific date. Other times it wasn't so obvious. Was it even water that caused that stain? Could the painting have been hung near a table where food was served, and something splattered it? You have to love being a detective to do this type of work. Then present evidence to your internal judge, and spit out a verdict.

But the point is, there were some parts I did really love. Using my eyes to see the difference between cracks and craquellure. Putting it in the record. Discerning between rust and corrosion. Putting that in the record. It reinforced for me that my eyes were actually more accurate than a photograph. I put my nose right on the wood frames to determine if there was smoke odor, or mold odor. Sometimes Id sniff and sniff and detect nothing. Often it was so strong my face would contort. There's beauty in that instantaneous assessment and reaction. No subjectivity enters, It's not the time or place.

I'm probably glorifying this one aspect of my former job because it was so overwhelmingly unsatisfying on all other counts. But if I could hone in on one skill from the experience, it would be the one that gave me a chance to slow down my reaction time. Observe. Describe. Save and Exit.

Nevertheless

I've decided that today will be my last day at Colorado Art Restoration. I am grateful to Shannon for taking the time to train me, and giving me a chance to learn new techniques. But the reality of working here is that the chaos that comes with the sorting and checking-in of insurance losses prevents me from being able to focus on my strengths as an art conservator. I know without a doubt that I need to pursue a different path for my own sense of well-being.

Incidentally, I don't care for the way Mike greets me by touching my back while I'm working. It violates the boundaries of our business relationship, and it is totally unacceptable.

That's my schpiel. At 10 am I will walk out of that building with my head held high. I have too much pride to accept a paltry salary for work that is below my skill level.

Blue lights are shinin' over my life

Went down a rabbit hole just now when I pulled up some music that lit up the dark years of my 20's. Such sweet sadness as I recall those youthful, carefree times.

Maintenance

I've had some pretty big ups and downs since I abandoned my securities and came to Colorado to start over.

On Sunday I went on an 11.5 mile hike. Hard ups, fast downs, till I left feeling nothing but exhaustion. A perfect metaphor for what being on in your own feels like. Sure, I was in the middle of 60 other climbers, and that helped me stay motivated. But it was my own reserves and training that got me all the way through that thing.

Could be poor quality of sleep that's extending my recovery. I've been wrecked emotionally for days. Irritated, short tempered, unable to conjure up small talk or pleasantries. I'm worried I might never come back around.

Friends seem distant. My job feels foreign. My face doesn't look like me. Clothes feel weird. All I want is sleep and even that is hard to get. Can't read any more news. Tv seems empty. Books hurt my eyes. Alcohol makes my head throb. Running out of my meds. Don't know if I'll be insured in a month.

Feels like being lost in the mountains, a series of false summits and no downhill in sight.

Chomping at the bit

One of the first things I learned about R is that he raises horses. He showed me photos of all 5 of them, each one rescued before being euthanized. The biggest, an enormous white female named Bella, all the way down to the most recent, Neville, whose ribs were visible when he arrived, he was so starved. I've never met a human who had any desire to do such a thing. He does it purely out of kindness. The horses don't work for him. He works for the horses. He purchases bales of hay and stores them precariously in the shed so they won't go hungry. He said the horses teach him about himself. This little tidbit had escaped me the last few days when I questioned whether he was the kind of guy I could fall for. He lives by a different set of rules, a different time table. He is ruled by the needs of his family, including his daughter, the horses, chickens and dogs. His work is never done. He doesn't go home at 2:00 to selfishly fill up on snacks, check his texts and take a nap. I do. But I'm starting to feel a shift. I have much to learn. Same as he learns about himself from being with the horses, I can learn about myself, and how to improve myself and the quality of my free time.

Starting with this. Instead of dwelling on whether he returns my texts in a reliable fashion, I will declare my gratitude that today I sent out a plea for help because my car had died. He was there with jumper cables in a matter of minutes. Checked in a couple of hours later to make sure I got home ok. A worthwhile interaction, in so few words. A hug. The knowledge that he is listening and there was no question he would be there when I needed him. A signal from the universe to stop spinning in my old patterns and follow the goodness that shined on me in my time of need.

Under Pressure

Deflecting all the energy today. Trying to stand by my self and my needs. I'm trying hard to fit in here. And somehow the idea of seeing people who aren't here in this with me every day is causing me to crack. I'm obsessively trying to think of what kind of excuses would be acceptable. Because radio silence is clearly the worst thing I could project. Listening to Runaway by The National. Runaway is a title I can relate to. As soon as I'm safe and secure, I can't help but think about bailing out. It happened 3 weeks into my new job. It happened 5 years into my marriage. 50 pages into Jane Eyre. 2 years into piano lessons. Love/hate. Living on a razor's edge here.

Fantasizing about going back to Chicago. Living 4 blocks away from my daughter's dad. Home schooling. Being free of my old ties. Lighter than when I left. Golden highlights in my skin and hair, trophies to prove my endurance in the elements. And then I think, I'm winning. Why retire? Why go back to the pollution and scowls and desperate anger and tears. I can never return to what I knew. It only exists in the matrix like an etched record of what was, and can only be replayed on the victrola in my mind. New sounds and pictures are all I have in the now, new explorations and experimentations.

The mountain will know what I mean.