Baddest of moods

I’ve lived in attached dwellings for most of my life but never felt this much rage toward a neighbor. This is a cumulative anger that started building around the second week of living here, after the odd cooking smells and late night sex screams were no longer isolated events. I nearly shattered my elbow tonight when I banged as hard as I could on my daughters bedroom wall to get their attention. We can’t avoid the loud slaps and moans anymore, they’re as loud as if there wasn’t a wall separating us. My complaints to the condo association are ignored, and once came back to my own mailbox, addressed to me, from me. Nothing has ever made me feel so humiliated. I worked hard to afford this, and can’t save for retirement because of the cost of living here, and in return I don’t even have a peaceful place to sleep at night. I’ve rehearsed my confrontation with the so many times, and still can’t bring myself to look them in the eyes and tell them that it is my job to protect my daughter and to please show some respect for a 12 year old kid who is scared when she hears two adults violently going at it a few feet away from her bed. It’s going to require me standing at their door, and calmly telling them that they are being disrespectful. Also, that their cooking smells like dog shit. Also, fuck them for being self-obsessed little assholes who are acting out a fucking porno rape scenario so loudly that it’s scarring my kid for life.

My stomach acid is burning a hole in my gut as I sit here and stew in this horrible feeling. It somehow is making me remember all the traumatic shit from my 20’s that I tried so hard to bury all these years, under more traumatic shit. I was lying here trying to come up with words for my anger. And suddenly I felt a pinch deep in my cervix that brought me back to the exam table where I had a piece of my cervix biopsied by a doctor who didn’t agree with the treatment, saying it was unmecessary, and then putting me through the sharpest, most uncomfortable pain I’d ever felt when he excused and then cauterized my vaginal canal, resulting in cramps, blood clots, and an unaddressed panic attack that left me curled up and hyperventilating without any assistance. The doctor who ordered the treatment had humiliated me, saying that my irregular cervical cells were a result of an std that was likely given to me by my partner, who had likely contracted it from another partner while we were dating. Or, perhaps it was from as many as 10 years ago, and due to the fact that I had had more than one sexual partner in my life. It didn’t even matter to her that my two partners before had never had a sexual partner. I pleaded with her that this made no sense but she continued to suggest scenarios where these men had lied to me and consciously shared HPV with me. I came to the realization on my own that 80-90% of women are diagnosed with HPV and most never have any symptoms before they develop antibodies and eradicate the virus naturally. That information would have saved me an invasive and traumatic visit to the oncologist’s office where two of my friends would later be treated for their terminal cancers.

Around this time I was living in a studio apartment above a shadowy gangway where small kids would gather with no supervision and loudly scream and beat on discarded plastic toys with baseball bats until it would drive me out to their sidewalk and threaten to call police to report the disturbance, only to have them tell me they would never be quiet on my account, and if I wanted a quiet neighborhood I should move. Police did come when I called. They told me there was nothing I could do.

When my daughter was 3, her dad and I separated. He found an apartment down the street, and we would walk our daughter back and forth to hand off for shared custody. He had sent her to school with a folder that had sticky, smelly marijuana resin on it. Like most of our arguments, it started with me pointing out, incredulously, how unacceptable this was, and he, acting like this wasn’t a big deal. Gaslighting. I was always the one who was overreacting. Police came when I told them my estranged husband was exposing my daughter to drugs. He had recently been jailed on a felony charge of possessing ecstasy. They told me there was nothing I could do, that even child molesters had a right to visit with their children. This played out time and time again in our relationship. Like the time I turned on my computer and found a photo of his penis on the screen. And a chat room with names that sounded Russian, and the realization that he was sharing photos like this online when I was asleep, less than 4 months into our marriage. That night ended with cops in my bedroom, telling me it wasn’t as bad as I was making it sound. I was escorted to a mental health clinic and forced to sit with him and declare that I wouldn’t kill myself over this. And less than 4 hours after my release we had to share a ride to work together. Where we continued to work together until he was fired for negligence seven years later. When co-parenting became to much of a burden for him, I left my home town and moved 1000 miles away. He only visits her when we are in town, and only when I drive her to his home, which he shares with another man in his 40s, in a dingy top floor apartment in a neighborhood known for Polish techno clubs and Hispanic gang violence.

I’m the daughter of a southern belle, who won popularity and beauty contests, but tells me now that she likely has high functioning autism. My dad fought in the Vietnam war, then served the government his entire career as a special agent in the FBI, and for a few years had debilitating back pain that left him depressed and angry enough to charge at kids who wouldn’t clear a way in the road for him to drive through, and to leave neatly collected bags of dog poop on the front porch of the shy neighbors who neglected to pick up after their dog. We went to church every Sunday. We spent holidays in the house, calling family who lived several states away, laughing at inside jokes, learning skills like typing and piano and basic computer programming and baking. My brothers grew up, got married, had kids, and now work from the privacy of their own homes. I did the opposite. I went to shows, memorized names of my favorite artists,  actors, directors, and musicians, and in spite of vomiting on almost every airplane I set foot in, visited Amsterdam and Florence and Rome and Capri and the lava fields of Hawaii, had a tumultuous marriage, made huge and terrifying mistakes in my jobs, accepted years of emotional abuse from peers and a boss who drank too much and refused to reward my efforts to be the best employee in the company, raised a baby whose dad was absent, moved with a 10 year old to a new state where I knew only 5 people, lost friendships, started over, learned new skills, failed at most things, but...BUT...I persisted. And I’m so, so tired.

Overshooting the runway

These pills. This new year. This motivation to dump out the garbage and waste from a lifetime of dumb choices.

I found a knitting project I had started *who knows when* and finished it in 2 days. Where the fuck is all this energy hiding when I'm sick?

I say "overshooting the runway" because it reminds me of a story my colleague told about flying a plane that was so powerful it was hard to slow down in time for the landing. I feel like my brain is on turbo and the rest of me is trying to keep up. I did a 9 minute workout at home the other day because it was too dark and cold to hike. But a minute after my 9 minute workout I was out the door bounding toward the park like a dog whose owners left the gate open.

I missed one pill this week and, maybe coincidentally, was tired and unmotivated to exercise. And I still walked to and from work. Twice. I like this new baseline, and I hope it helps me get to my goal of being in better shape when April comes around. By summer I want to look and feel like I did when I turned 40, which is something I never thought I'd say.

Upswing

A badly bruised elbow on Christmas Eve took me right over the edge that I had been teetering on for months. I spewed anger and pain on a day that is supposed to be sacred. I tried to hang on to the thread of hope that trailed down from an orange sun, and I felt a twinge of something after a chance meeting with a Santa Claus impersonator on my street. Those glimmers burned out in the instant they caught fire, and I was left on that first morning after the holiday with a pile of emotional ashes to sort out.

In the waiting room I watched the minutes tick by. I took comfort in relaxing my face, and in knowing that this was a place where there was no benefit in acting strong. I was there to bring attention to my pain. I would be paying someone to assess my level of injury. Two hours into this venture I was told there was nothing they could do. And as the doctor walked out the door I conjured the strength to say I had just one more question. I asked if she could give me some antidepressants.

I had just watched a comedy where someone was slowly succumbing to seasonal depression, taking what little comfort she could from a SAD lamp. First I thought of my mom and the giant electric sun that takes up residence on her dresser, without which she says she would never be able to get out of bed. Then I saw the real humor, and tragedy, of the sketch. I was that character, fighting the same demon using the weapons that had worked in the past and coming up empty.

It was one thing to go to battle with the demon when I was young and had something to prove. But I have spent the last couple of years coming to terms with my limitations. I needed to accept that, in the urgent care waiting room, as well as in general, there is no benefit to trying to appear strong. Some things are bigger than me.

It's day 9. Split the pills in half because my gut couldn't handle the sudden change. My eyes look different. I'm focusing more. The sky seems brighter. Goals seem more attainable. Time seems kinder. Strangers seem less threatening. In 6 months I'll be questioning why I need chemicals to feel the way most people do naturally. I hope I let that question drift past and give myself permission to simply feel okay.