BJ's Blog

I’ve got nothing…nothing to say. Plenty to do but nothing to say. Really? Am I simply tired? Certainly that. Switching times–on/off daylight savings–wreaks havoc with my sleep scheduled. No matter how “zen” I try to be about the process, I always stay up too late, wake up too early, and sleep too little. And then I rail at the state legislature that keeps us in this perpetual state of sleepiness. I recognize how powerless I am. My sleep is controlled by politicos–and the cat.

And so I stumble through my days, barely able to open a package of muesli and unable to open a package of coffee. I resort to scissors, to cut off the top of the bag, because the adhesive holding the seal is too strong for me to pry apart. Now I feel weak and elderly. Is this how it happens? First you cannot open the coffee bag, next you cannot prepare a meal for yourself. Slippery slope. And I seem to sliding down it.

I wonder how well the new med is working and whether or not the increased dosage has really helped. Is it the Zoloft? Or is it the hormone patch? Or is it age + menopause + small intestinal bacterial overgrowth (SIBO), which I don’t think the last round of antibiotics actually knocked out. Symptoms: bloating, gas, diarrhea, constipation, nausea, fatigue. The story of my life. When I learned I had SIBO I thought people would think I was contagious. I mean “bacterial overgrowth” does not sound like something you want to get anywhere near. The cure? There really isn’t one. Take some gnarly antibiotics then pump yourself with probiotics. I’ve been drinking the Kefir, but so far no real change. Does the SIBO explain the weight gain? Or is that the menopause, lack of exercise, and drinking? Hm, I wonder.

A piece in the NYT about self-care. How it’s not all bath bombs and candles. It’s really about taking care of the physical, mental, social, and spiritual aspects of yourself. “Treat yo-self.” Ugh. Seems much easier to encourage others to take care of themselves than to nurture the behavior in your own life. Why is that? Easier to see the need in others; easier to find fault with others; easier to see what needs fixing.

Honestly, I’m so tired I don’t think I can write another word or come up with something to think about. I need to process the weird dreams I’ve been having. Maybe tomorrow???

I thought it would compel me to write. Like so many of the accessories and paraphernalia that we buy to surround ourselves with enticements that promise to lure us into that inspirational state (accoutrements). The Mont Blanc pen that begs to be uncapped; the Moleskine notebook that beckons to be opened; the MacBook Pro that blinks to be started. The blog, once purchased, promised to bring me to the table, to the seat, to the place where words begin. Sometimes it works.

During my first sabbatical, the fall of 2008, I started a blog. My first post, September 24, 2008, was brand new day. It announced my intent and described my writing project: something to do with knitting/biography/autobiography/addiction/mom. As the semester progressed, I found the blog kept me accountable to my imaginary audience. I also put out some writing that elicited a few responses. But my commitment to blogging has been inconsistent. I come to it with bursts of energy for a few days and then ignore it for months. I thought the act of purchase jomamabecky.org would seal the commitment. Not so much.

Prior to my second sabbatical, the fall of 2014, I took a class from Debra Monroe at the Taos Writers Conference. I was supposed to submit a bunch of writing and found my self unable to write anything. So I sent in a series of recent blog posts. Fortuitously the workshop helped me discover some threads in my blog that I could weave together into a personal essay. I guess you could say the blog led to my publication success from 2014-2018: Taos and writing.

Since then, however, I’ve fallen away. I post something once a month, if I’m lucky. I could blame it on the menopause, the medication merry-go-around (weaning and Prozac), the death of my dogs (Henry and Bubba), moving, marriage, and a new job but really it’s a matter of priorities. And energy. I’m so tired.

Not much written today–spent most of my time re-reading my “journal” of blog posts, navel-gazing, tripping down memory lane. Perhaps tomorrow will be more fruitful…?

I thought it would be a good idea to commit to National Novel Writing Month this year. It’s been a long time since I dedicated myself to writing–whether taking an online class or working on a publication. I mean I’ve been writing articles/chapters about what it means to be an engaged college and how to teach XML in a content management class, but those don’t feed my soul. The kind of writing I’ve missed doing, is this. Blogs, journals that I can later weave into essays.

Recently, a colleague asked me for my list of journals. He’d seen my sabbatical presentation and remembered that I’d shown my publication spreadsheet, which tracked the journals that I’d submitted an essay to (I tried to maintain 10 active submissions for each essay) and listed potential publications for future essays. Here’s his request:

He wanted my list. I pondered the request for awhile, collected my thoughts, calmed my snarky self. And when I responded I said this:

He never answered my email, though next time I saw him he told me again about *his* essay and wondered if there wasn’t just the perfect publication outlet for him. I referred him to the Library.

The curating of journals to which I might send my writing takes time. As I read through the list of bios in Diagram’s latest release, I comforted myself with fact that I recognized many–maybe even most–of the publication outlets in which the writers had published. But I also realized that I hadn’t been keeping up. When Role Reboot announced their closure after 9 years, I felt the press of time. Five years ago they accepted my first personal essay, Addicted. Though they changed the title, they gave my essay a home and made me realize I could do this. I’ll be forever grateful.

So I plan to reboot my list, sit my butt in that chair, and set some deadlines for myself. Thank you Anne Lamott for the nudge. See you back here tomorrow.

Next up: why I bought a blog

I struggle with the do-gooders: the travelers to “third-world” countries who dig ditches by hand and plaster walls with purple hand prints representing Weber pride. The white saviors who bestow their blessings upon those in need. And this tragic story pulls together the threads of my struggle, puts words to the tendrils of fear I feel every time a group of do-gooders leaves Ogden to “make a difference” elsewhere. I looked for a definition of my attitude toward this kind of service, and I recognized that it coincides with the Prime Directive, Star Trek’s guiding principle:

The Prime Directive prohibits Starfleet personnel and spacecraft from interfering in the normal development of any society, and mandates that any Starfleet vessel or crew member is expendable to prevent violation of this rule.

Furthermore

As the right of each sentient species to live in accordance with its normal cultural evolution is considered sacred, no Starfleet personnel may interfere with the normal and healthy development of alien life and culture. Such interference includes introducing superior knowledge, strength, or technology to a world whose society is incapable of handling such advantages wisely. Starfleet personnel may not violate this Prime Directive, even to save their lives and/or their ship, unless they are acting to right an earlier violation or an accidental contamination of said culture. This directive takes precedence over any and all other considerations, and carries with it the highest moral obligation.

If we are Starfleet–and many scholars have written about the parallels between the USA and Starfleet–then perhaps we should follow this directive?

We’ve been talking about death. “We” meaning my kids, my husband, and me. And by “death” I mean the lure of it, the desire not to live anymore. At 2:43 a.m., my daughter sent me this article, I am not always very attached to being alive. It’s a candid description of “chronic, passive suicidal ideation.” At some level, the author and cited sources claim, we all do it: desire to die. Just the other day I imagined driving into the oncoming traffic. I was physically tired, emotionally drained, and thought about how easily I could drift into the other lane and BOOM! be done with it. And last night, after several particularly deep conversations with loved ones, I dove into a crying jag that left me fantasizing about how much easier everyone’s lives would be without me in them. I didn’t so much want to die as to eliminate what I perceived as the stressor (me) from the situation.Then my mind turned to all the mess: the chaos I would leave in my wake, the unsigned will,  the dangling threads of projects at home  and at work, and I realize I’m making lists of things remaining to do, so I cannot leave…yet.

But why stay alive? Really? I can’t come up with any good reasons to give my young adult children. The line, “it gets better,” lacks credibility. How do you know? Can you promise that? At least “I want you to stay alive” carries the truth. But can that be enough? “I created you, nurtured you, watched you struggle to learn how to be alive, so I can’t stand idly by while you throw away all of that hard work.” Too dramatic, too selfish, and simply too silly. Everyone loses things they’ve worked hard for every day.

My parents may hold the answer. Let’s ask them.

They arrived about three weeks ago. Now they’re performing their aerial dive-bombing maneuvers. Every three dives or so they stop for some sugar water. Recharging their tiny bodies with liquid energy. I sit on my deck, sipping red wine, typing words on a keyboard, watching birds fly.

Reconnecting with folks from 18 years ago and realizing how much I miss the scholarship, the immersion in pedagogy, the camaraderie of TC faculty, the focus on cool stuff. Administration has worn me down. To be continued….

A ladybug lives in my bathroom. Occasionally I check to make sure she’s still alive: has she moved from the corner in the ceiling? has she sampled the raisin I left in the window sill? I hope the cat doesn’t find her, but so far he hasn’t cared. Maybe that’s why she stays on the ceiling or in the window. I read that all ladybugs need to survive indoors is some water and honey or sugar: https://www.wikihow.com/Take-Care-of-a-Ladybug. Or a raisin. No sign that she’s sampled that raisin. Perhaps I’ll try some lettuce.

In 2002 I lost my mind. I was doing the dinner dishes. A pile of recycling had accumulated on the counter and threatened to spill into the sink and onto the floor. Yogurt containers, beer cans, an egg carton. I lost it, it all came pouring out: my pent-up pain. Through tears I raged against everything that had piled up in that kitchen. When I was done, I turned and saw my children in the doorway. They were 2 and 4.

I started with Prozac, which made me “not feel”–something better than the crushing pain I felt before but not a good state. I remember imagining that both of my children died, hit by a car, and found myself incapable of generating any sort of emotion related to such a disaster. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t empathize. When I switched to Lexapro, my emotional range grew. I emerged from that alternative fog.

Now weaned, I find myself racing through memories. Thoughts of my earlier depressive episodes. In the summer of 1990, when I returned from three-week trip to Kenya, I isolated myself from friends–convinced they didn’t like me anyway–and cried at the slightest provocation, and slept and slept and slept. My parents’ friend, an infectious disease specialist, tested me for every conceivable third-world disease. Nothing. Nothing until late summer at a friend’s wedding, where I partied into the wee hours and something let go, something lifted. The parallel story: after leaving a PhD program in English at the U of Arizona, I moved home for the summer and took a job working with kids in day camp at the Salt Lake County Recreation Center. My illness coincided with my post-Africa, post-Tucson stay in Salt Lake City. By the end of the summer I had moved into my own apartment in the Avenues and started a new PhD program at the U of Utah. I guess transitions are hard.

There are more episodes, but I’ll stop here.

Prozac Culture – I related to this piece a lot.

The God of Depression – Thanks to William Styron for speaking out; you didn’t cause it, you can’t control, and you can’t cure it. So suicide may be the only option.

Why Writing Matters in the Age of Despair – Reminds me why I write–to keep track of the trivia that comprises a life. And of course we all need a room of our own–a place to breathe freely, to let our minds race, to gather ourselves together and return to the hearth.

The second meaning:

• accustom (someone) to managing without something on which they have become dependent or of which they have become excessively fond.
  “the doctor tried to wean her off the sleeping pills”
  synonym: disengage

I’m in my second week of weaning off my SSRI. From 20 mg a day for the last 16 1/2 years to 15 mg for the last 7 days to 10 mg this week. On Sunday I’ll begin 5 mg for 7 days and then be done. Weaned. After the first couple of days, when I felt flu-like I didn’t notice much of a change. Kind of an anti-climatic end to the journey. I must have been ready.

I want to embrace the synonym, “disengage,” which reminds me of my mantra “detach.”

• separate or release (someone or something) from something to which they are attached or connected.
  “I disengaged his hand from mine”
  synonyms: release, detach

What once was connected, now becomes separate, unattached.

And then I wonder if I’ve yet to experience the full effects of withdrawal. Apparently it’s a thing: SSRI Discontinuation Syndrome. Effects ~20% of people who discontinue antidepressant use. Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones?