Oh, Barbra

As I arrived to work this morning, “Guilty” by Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb was on my radio (don’t ask). I had zillions of profound thoughts because of this song and as I put my car in park, and of course—2.5 hours later—I don’t remember any of it. Maybe by the time I’m done with this ramble I will remember, though it’s probably best if you and I don’t hold our breath on that. Probably best if I don’t hold my breath on anything no matter how good at it I have become, but that’s another post for another time.

For the past three mornings, I’ve immediately woken up from some extremely emotionally intense dreams. Maybe more than three mornings, now that I think about it, though the last three have been immediately before my alarm has gone off, so there’s been no cool down time for my brain. There has been anger, frustration, screaming, choking on sobs; heartache like a thick, wide blade right in my chest…You name it. Yet none of the scenarios dreamt really fit much with my current life. Unfortunately, I’m still left with a very real headache that feels like a knot in the entire right side of my head and down the back of my neck. I have the nerves of a hopped-up heroin addict in need of a fix, and I’m exhausted. Like, close my eyes for more than two seconds and I’ll be dead to the world, exhausted. I have no idea what’s happening here, what is causing this, or how to make it stop. Sound like anxiety? Maybe. Or maybe someone kicked my scales without my realizing it, and you all know how much I loathe that. Maybe a bunch of other things, but I’ll be damned if I know what they are. I’m not a fan of mystery, despite the fact that I write it. That’s only ever acceptable because I usually start at the end—I know the answer before the question is even posed. And that’s another thing: Maybe I’m not asking the right questions. Oooh, guessing games. Of those, I am also not a fan. I’m chalking up that connection as another, “Heather, thanks for playing, but you lose: as usual.” I’m just going to eat a huge piece of cake that is sitting next to me as I write this and so what if I cry my tears of frustration all over it? If it were chocolate and caramel, it would be salted for sure, and I hear that’s really en vogue.

It’s so easy to sit here feeling one way, and to mentally beat the hell out of myself the next—“Heather, get a grip already!”—but have no idea what is even left to grip. Unsettled, indeed. I’m a good one for recognizing when a situation is all wrong and formulating a plan to get myself out of it into safer pastures. Not having any clue as to the first move, or how to survive in the meantime as I wait for the first move (Because TIME usually plays a huge part in it and I have zero control over that) does slow up this sort of escape process. I have a two-year plan: it entails a lot of things that I can’t yet even touch. That leaves going minute to minute in the interim, and they are very long minutes.

The bottom line to this is that I have to let this sensation pass, and every minute of it that I have to endure while I wait, is torture. There are no meds for this that won’t damage my creative process—that won’t completely kill my beautiful imaginings that are also responsible for making life less than as I’d like it to be in every respect. As much as I would love for the nightmares to go away, I cannot afford to lose my dreams—day dreams, night dreams, any of my dreams. It is the air I breathe. The stories are my blood. If I also had the love of my missing True other half, I’d need nothing more for a pulse.

All this written out and I’ve yet to remember why the song from earlier roused the hornets’ nest of thoughts. Maybe it had something to do with the line: “You’ve battled on, with the love you’re living on…” Yes, I think that was it. And yes: I have. It hasn’t been much to go on—way too sparse for way too long. In my human biology class, we were just learning about Respiration and Fermentation in regard to the creation of ATP (energy for cells—without it, they die). When respiration can’t happen, fermentation does, but it’s not meant to last long term. In fact, the body gives you severe pain when you’ve used up the burst of energy given in this manner. Kind of like getting a sharp pain in your side when you’re running, and your endurance is non-existent. The pain happens because you’re supposed to STOP. If you keep pressing, you start to kill things inside of you—cells die. Eventually, you die. Well, I’ve been fermenting with what output is accepted, and what even tinier input of love I’ve received for too long and it hurts, but I don’t know how to stop. I don’t want to stop. That doesn’t bode well for me, now does it?

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