The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

tiptoe through the tulips

I want money. Not an excessive amount, I'm okay with enough to cover the basics, but I want it. I am visualizing it. Why hasn't The Secret worked?

Lots of pressure, monetarily speaking. Also, lots of pressure, personally speaking. The incident of last week, the one in which I heaved on the rainsoaked streets and ended up in the emergency room hooked up to an I.V, has left a bit of a bruise. Literally, my arm is bruised from the bloodwork. I have been more tired than usual, and as my bloodwork did not indicate some ravaging disease, I am operating under the assumption that this is an anxiety thing, a reaction to all the drama. M. thinks it's because I am not eating enough. He could be right, and as I have been afraid to eat for fear that what I choose to consume could trigger another volcanic attack, I have been eating small amounts of things without flavour. This morning, though, he convinced me to eat a croissant (no, there's no fat in one of those, she says sarcastically), saying it would do me good, a little fat in my body. I blessed him for that. Let me tell you, one thing I'm not short on is fat.

I'm not categorically fat, anymore, though. I might have been considered as much a couple years ago after my girl was born, but everyone told me I carried it well. Maybe they were being kind, I don't know, but I've dropped quite a few pounds since then, and have lost a couple more in the past two days, so I'm somewhere in the range of twenty-four pounds lighter. I am kind of proud of this, given that my only weight loss strategy was to eat better and walk more. Turns out that it actually works, and I've kept it off, which is more important. The thing is, my weight has always been something of an obsession for me as I'm the sort who puts it on quite easily and I've always been more meaty than the people closest to me. So, when I was wretching last Thursday night, and nauseous all day Friday, I admittedly began to wonder how much more 'skinny' I'd get out of it. It was the only thing that made me smile. Imagine being that sick, in so much pain that you're falling down in a fit of near unconsciousness, and all you're thinking about is how your pants are going to be so much more loose after this. Seriously. A lot wrong with that picture.

There is a vase filled with wilting lilacs to my right. I think the scent of the lilac is my favourite when it comes to flowers, brings up memories of a time when things were in balance for me. I hate that they are wilted, though. I wish I could keep them alive forever, and to be honest, they look so sad at the moment, so completely defeated. Bowing their heads in a show of vanquishment. I am responsible for it, because I wanted their perfume near me, and now I feel badly about it. My wee one scolded me yesterday: Mom, you need to leave the lilacs on the tree! They're prettier out there and they're happier! Don't you cut any more of them off! They're not supposed to be in the house. But, I tried to explain, I love flowers. She then rolled her eyes and said, But, don't you know? Flowers grow outside. That's what makes them happy. Great. I have unlawfully confined my lilacs and it has resulted in their demise. First degree lilacslaughter?

No surprise to me that my anxiety is up and at 'em today. Cyclic discomfort. Monday and PMS. I have already come up with an excuse as to why I will not be attending the class party next week for my computer class. To be honest, I don't want to go, but also, I have no real interest in making small talk with people I feel uncomfortable with. It's at the teacher's house, and he has planned it for the same night as M's man-hour, which he'd skip if I wanted him to, but I don't. I am a little bit off today and can't imagine a social gathering where I'd be comfortable or entertained and I know it won't erase itself by then. I know I'm not alone, though, and it is a bit of comfort, knowing that I'm not demented, but merely emotionally fragile. I am coming up on big changes, soon, and it makes some sense that I'd feel like this, but I really need for it to go away so I could get my life in order. I don't know that there's much more I could learn about this problem of mine which would make it go away. All that appears to be missing is my commitment to attacking it. Yet, like the lilac, I often bow my head in defeat. Lily-livered lilac. Shrinking violet. Panicky pansy. I am delicate, my colour fleeting.

I feel badly, writing about it as much as I do. I can't help but imagine how boring it must be to readers, to read about another 'difficult day', another 'nervous moment'. I get it. I know it's a tough thing to feel sympathy for, much less understand. It comes off as weakness, as something I could control if I would only do something about it, but the truth is that I have been doing as much as I know how to do. Sometimes, it feels bigger than I am, beyond my intellectual capabilities. Even knowing what I know, the symptoms come on in such a way that I can't help but heed their warning. I begin to believe in them. When I say it has owned me for the past nine years, that it has controlled my course, I am telling you that absolute truth: I did not choose this. I can't cry about what might have been, though. What is and what will be are more pressing issues. I want money, but the real truth is that if I had it, I'd use it to stay where I am. I'd use it so that I could keep my world small, so that I would not feel the fear as much as I do in the bigger world. I feel badly for boring readers with this, which, in an odd way, shows my concern for others is more pressing than my concern for myself. Hmm.

It can be conquered, though. I have known people to beat it. There is always that.

I just looked out the window and saw that my daughter's pink, rubber ball has been pulverized. It is shredded, laying in hot pink strips in the middle of the yard, looking violated and done in: taken down, despite minding its own business.

A raccoon, probably. They'll attack whatever gets in their way if the mood should strike. Now, I'll have to hide the evidence before my wee one sees it and bursts into tears.

Raccoons. Destructive little bastards.