Check Your Damn Engine

My check engine light peacefully illuminates my dash with regularity, kindly suggesting I might want to perform a little maintenance. It freaks me out every single time it comes on - and yet -  I've gotten good at ignoring it. (Deliberate hand placement on the wheel blocks the light.) I do that for a while until, eventually, a rude CHECK YOUR DAMN ENGINE alarm blaresAnd I die ten thousand deaths.

(It just occurred to me this probably doesn't happen to anyone else. Other people don't drive beaters by choice.) That being said, it is my form of own self inflicted anxiety. A penance, I suppose, for driving new trucks we couldn't afford all those years.

Once my heart resumes beating, a panicked internal dialogue begins: Do I keep driving? Do I pull over now? Do I stop at the next service station and google mechanics? Is this a deal breaker? Am I going to have to buy a new car?

A year ago, if I had the windshield wipers and headlights on at the same time and used my blinker, the light would pop on, followed about two minutes later by the alarm and then my blinkers would start flickering rapidly and the fuse would blow. Like clockwork.

In relationships, triggers follow a similar pattern. First the warning lights. Then the alarm. If it happens once, it's not a thing. If it happens every time it rains and you turn on your headlights, it's definitely a thing. And since I drive the old Jeep, it's my thing. I own it.

After about six months I took the Jeep to the mechanic and got it fixed.

All that to say, I need to own my own problems. It doesn't matter whether the relationship is parent/child, sibling, spousal, or work related, if one person tells you that you're difficult to love, or hard headed it might be that they are full of shit. Maybe they are the one with the faulty blinker.

but if it happens more than once, it's probably not a bad idea to check under the hood. That's not to say the other person isn't still full of shit or that they don't need to check their own damn engine - just sayin. I still need to own my part of the equation.

And apparently, I have a problem requesting and/or accepting help.

Angry Drunk Cats

Sorting out my feelings is sort of like herding cats. Wet, angry, possibly drunk cats.

Opening the Pandora's box labelled - appropriately - Relationships, I upend it on the floor. A lumpy mass of tangled loops and knots spills forth. Anyone who has ever had a kids macramé project go awry knows exactly what I'm talking about.

I reach for the strand closest. It unspools and rolls away from me, staying just out of reach. The more I pull, the farther it rolls, like toilet paper disappearing beneath the stall door.

I let it go and tug at another loose end. This one is only slightly less amenable. It unspools a bit before stopping in Texas. March. 2019. Hospice. I drop it like a hot potato. Not ready to deal with that one.

There are plenty here to choose from. No need to jump off the deep end.

Make a choice or someone will make it for you.

I sit back on my heels and think about that for a minute before deciding maybe I'm okay with that. Maybe, for now, I don't want to make any choices. Maybe I am too broken, or too tired, or too lazy or just too whatever to trust myself to make decisions.

That's what depression does. It flattens. It makes everyday activities - choices, decisions - into impossibly large and complicated tasks. At the same time, it unplugs you, letting all the ambition or hope or interest you might have in the outcome of those choices or decisions seep out until you don't have enough energy left to care about the outcome.

For the record, I'm not in that space. But I've been there. And I don't want to go back.

I cast a sidelong glance at the tangled pile of relationship crap on the floor. Somewhere inside I realize it matters. It really matters. There's a reason I need to sort through this mess. But I also have a suspicion it all leads back through Texas and something that important deserves a little bit more than I have to offer right now.

I take an internal poll.

Nope. Not ready to go down that road.

Instead, I'm going to take a detour. I'm going to look at things that piss me off. Err. I mean, triggers. I'm going to examine my triggers.

How to Save Myself From Certain Demise

Cliff's Notes

Declutter.
I was sorting through my Maui clothes and found a stack of jeans that hadn't been on my body in a while. It quickly became obvious that I wouldn't be wearing them for another 20 pounds or so, which led me to the conclusion that my cheese has been sliding off my cracker for longer than I was previously willing to admit. It certainly predated this quarantine sitch we are all in.

Coping Mechanism Number One: Eat your feelings.

Noted. Apparently I have a lot of feelings. And they hide in ice cream.

Coping Mechanism Number Two: Identify and isolate the source.

Hmmm.

Work.

I changed jobs. Changed bosses. That's been stressful. Extremely stressful. Like, on a scale of one to pull my fingernails out by the roots, off the charts stressful. But - even though I'm typing with no fingernails - that's not really a new stress for me. I'm used to it. Crisis management seems to go along with my career choices. It's my weird little comfort zone.

Transfer.

Umm yea. Moving off island was a kicker. Moving off island and all the way to the east coast and living in an RV was a bit over the top. Maybe something in there was the trigger. 

I probe and poke around for residual soreness but, no. I don't think that's it.

Relationship issues. Um, yeah, but don't we all have those?

By the way, side note here: This is what it's like for me whenever I'm asked to put a fine point on my emotions. Responding to a simple How ya doing is a fire drill.

I answer fine because everyone always say fine. It's what you're supposed to say, just like you're supposed to say You're Welcome after someone says Thank you. So I say fine, but inside there is a room full of me freaking out. Wait! That has not been confirmed! We don't know if we are fine! We don't think we are fine! 

I take a roll call.
Are you fine, Work/Stella?
God, I don't know. I haven't checked my email in three minutes. Ask Mom-Stella - she's in charge.
Mom/Stella, You okay?
I don't know. I haven't heard from the kids lately and the last time I did I felt like I picked up on a vibe. That might not be good. Vibes are usually  not good.
I decide to check back with her later.
Finance/Stella, what's going on with you?
Well, the Jeep and the truck were both in the shop this month, do you really want to know the answer to that question.
Relationship-Stella?
She flips me off and walks out of the room. 

Bingo.

And that, my friends, is why I blog.

Burn It Down

The brain has a random little filing system, doesn't it? My early years are all framed by my sister's age. When she started school, I would have been around three. Memories from those years are plentiful and crystal clear. Dick and Jane were always running everywhere chasing after their dog Spot. The color of the bedspread in our room. The floor furnace in the hall. The next door neighbors. Our dog.

After that, there's a few years where everything is blurry and then suddenly it's second grade and my sister's age is no longer pertinent.

Don't worry. This isn't going to be a year by year account of family disfunction. But, for the record, if I ever do decide to drag the crazy train out of the closet, you don't get to be all up on a judgement trip here. You're fucked up too. We all are. Every.Single.One.Of.Us.

Anyway, I had something of an epiphany recently and it kind of pushed me off a cliff. It was after a rough week spent fighting fires at work and swatting cockroaches at home. It was Sunday. Appropriately, Shenandoah's Sunday in the South was on the radio. I was there - in the South - but I was also an entire continent and ocean away. My mind was in Hawaii, on the backroad between Waimea and Honokaa, having a malasada and coffee. Same Jeep. Same song.

It was one of those memories that is so sticky and thick it's tangible.

I pushed Hawaii back for a minute and concentrated being present in the beauty around me. In reality, I was driving along a tree-lined Carolina backroad, windows rolled down. The wind was warm in my hair and drenched with the smell of honeysuckle and wisteria. I noticed the fierce green colors, as if the fields were competing for top billing behind sad little barbed wire fences, wrapped in ivy. Signs advertising Bait and Tackle and Ice Cold Beer were scrawled on boards and tacked to random posts, also wrapped in ivy.

Suddenly, the road curled back on itself, forcing me to slow my roll. On the right, a clearing opened up and a little white farmhouse stared back at me, silent and still against a towering tree line. Without warning, I catapulted off the edge of time. My throat closed. My eyes filled. I clenched my teeth, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. Suspended in that moment, I was free falling through fifty seven years of life.

My life.

When did I stop living it? When did I let it go, allowing it to spool away from me; a kite on an ever lengthening string?

Shit. It's mostly over.

Now, that hurt. That fucking hurt.

I hit bottom and in a flash, was consumed in a raging fire of emotion.

Every feeling I have ever felt, everything good-everything bad-all the pain and all the joy. Everything.

It was a bonfire of memories.

They say when you die your life passes before your eyes. I always wondered how that would work. Like, math it out - there's no way for that to happen. Maybe if you just hit the highlights. But who picks the playlist?

Here's the answer: It's not linear.

Life is not linear.

We are not linear.

Time is a construct of man, with a beginning a middle and an end, created to help us file things away to be referenced later, whether by age or event or what song was playing on the radio.

All I know is in that split second I was three and Kathy had just come home from school. She was teaching me to read and we were squeezed in the space between the bed and the wall, legs curled in a pretzel and I was also seven and asking my dad for a horse and he was explaining budgets being such a weirdo with his horn-rimmed glasses but I loved him anyway and he was so handsome and as I stood beside him in the truck, the dusty summer heat beaming in, I was sure I would marry him when I grew up. I was fifteen and the house was empty and I was scared and thirty, watching my kids in the yard, filled with an impossibly huge love and equally huge trepidation and forty and fifty and fifty seven.

We are every age and every iteration of ourselves past and future. In that sense, we are ageless. We are eternal.

So yeah. That happened.

I stopped driving when the road ended abruptly - at a lake, ironically. I sat there and watched the water undulate. It was a lake but I heard the ocean.

It's been a couple of weeks. The fire is under control now. But I'm aware of it smoldering just beneath the surface. I haven't figured out what it means, I just know that I miss me. I miss laughing. I miss being happy. I miss my life. And while this is not exactly a declaration of independence, it's definitely a realization that something isn't right. And damn it, if I'm not going to live my life while I'm actually in it, I might as well burn it down and watch the cockroaches run.

It's not you, It's me

Hey. I'm back. I'll probably disappear again, as I appear prone to do. Don't take it personal. It's not you. It's me.
Full disclosure: I've changed.
Shit.
That's not actually true. (Eyes roll to ceiling, pause, sorting through different analogies) Actually, I haven't changed a bit. I'm just going to be me. Not Stella. Me.
By that I mean I'm not going to put on the filter that makes the thoughts inside my head more palatable, more acceptable. But I'm still going to sign off as Stella. Because, that's what I do. I stir shit and let Stella take the blame.
And we're both okay with that.
I blogged quasi-bravely through the divorce but I did so with the filter heavily applied. Stella turned up to 100. You got to see only what you were allowed to see. Only what was socially acceptable and would reflect positively back on your view of me. Grammar and punctuation on fleek. Sentence structure carefully crafted. Font chosen to accentuate the point. F words replaced with something less offensive.
Fuck.That.Shit.
So yeah, maybe I have changed.
(If messy storylines and/or unresolved angst bothers you, this is where you should probably leave.)
Guys, this quarantine thing has got me all up in my head. Which is ironic because it hasn't really impacted my daily routine. I'm a friggin hermit to start with. This virus thing is THE BEST EXCUSE ever to stay at home every night and weekend and do art and paint and drink coffee and not talk to humans.
Except, I can only do so much art and listen to so many podcasts before the monsters in my brain realize they are unsupervised. Once that happens, one by one, they slither out of the drains like cockroaches in a dark and empty room, skittering past my peripheral in subliminal trains of thought. It wasn't great but on Monday mornings when I flipped on the light they disappeared for five days and I pretended it hadn't happened.
That was March.
In April they grew bolder, hanging around longer after the alarm went off, popping their antennaed faces out occasionally during the week. I drank and they left, but eventually I ran out of tequila and they became the uninvited houseguest that stayed late and just never went home.
It's May now and the monsters have taken possession of the sofa.
I didn't realize I was spiraling into depression probably because it wasn't really a spiral. Nothing so glorious. Just a slow, slithering, slump. A decline. A flattening.
Unlike previous iterations, (Post-Partum, Mid-Life) this time the depression did not present itself in a clearly defined manner. I'm not piled into bed for days at a time. I'm not skipping showers or meals. I'm not crying.
Okay, I cry sometimes but not very often. And always for a good reason. Like when I drove past the little white farmhouse and suddenly remembered my dad was dead and life would never be as sweet as when I was six and I didn't know about monsters.
I'm just - God, I'm just faded. Fading? No. Definitely faded. It's not in process. It's done.
After the farmhouse incident, I took a good look at my guts and recognized the territory.
So I did the things. I cut out the sugars. I cut out the drinking. I cut off the Amazon Prime.
Not working.
I hit the treadmill and the walking tracks. I made it a point to go to bed at a normal hour, not 6:00 PM on a Saturday. I colored my roots.
Still not working.
Shit got real. I dusted off my bag of How To Save Yourself From Certain Demise tricks and dug deep.
Downloaded self help books including hypnotherapy. Played them throughout the night because you can absorb a lot when you are asleep and not multitasking. I turned off the news. Reduced the social media screen time. I.Prayed.
Just so you know how desperate I am: For a full week, I started every day listening to Max Lucado.
STILL nothing.
Fuck.Me.
On my way to work last week, Max's podcast ended and the next one in queue started up except it was an advertisement that bounced straight into a free sample of The Hilarious World of Depression which I had considered listening to back in March but at the time it just didn't resonate. Also I was probably drunk.
As stated in the previous post, I laughed out loud and snorted coffee through my nose and damn that hurt but it also felt so fucking good. It … felt.
I felt. 
And so, long story made only slightly shorter, I finally get to the point. I have to either get the monsters off my sofa or move out of this people-house of humanity. And I'm not ready to move. Fight or flight? Fight.
So, cockroach-alert: I am going to drag every one of you little bug eyed motherfuckers out into the light and rip your guts out for the world to see. It may  not make me feel better, but one thing is for sure - it will keep me occupied until the quarantine is lifted and I am free to resume my daily life. Also, I am sick of living with you.
And I want my sofa back.

The Hilarious World of Depression

Right now the entire world is dealing with the impact of isolation. Uncertainty. 

For some of us, this is nothing new. We are familiar with the monster that hides in our minds. The ominous sense of 

impending doom is not new. Most of us have spent our lives keeping it at bay. Living in dread of that moment it resurfaces. 

And now the rest of you know what that’s like, too. Welcome to the club. 

We each have our own favorite go to coping mechanisms. Mantras. Mine is This Too Shall Pass. Usually combined with some deep breathing and meditation, it works. 

It’s not working this time because I don’t know if - when - ever - this will pass. I don’t know what life will look like when it does. When we emerge from our Covid Caves, what will life be? Nobody has the answer. My second favorite go to is laughter. And that leads me to the point of this. I stumbled across a podcast that made me laugh. Belly laugh. In the midst of my morning commute on dark desolate roads I snorted my coffee.  It felt good. Do yourself a favor and listen to The Hilarious World of Depression. 

You’re welcome.

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-hilarious-world-of-depression/id1181589175?i=1000473521045

Symptoms

Since packing my bikini and moving east 

I’ve gained weight. Lots of weight. Which means a lot of my stuff doesn’t fit anymore. Now, I hate shopping on a good day, but when you’re uncomfortable in your own skin it’s torture. So when I finally broke down and decided to replace stuff, I did it in the privacy of my bedroom while eating ice cream. Yes. I amazoned it. All the things. Of course, I misjudged the sizing, because obviously we can’t standardize sizes or anything (seriously) and so I ended up with all sorts of issues. Too big, too small, too long. 

I wasn’t about to return things and start over. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to go real shopping.

My biggest concern was the situation with my boobs, which had taken on a larger than life persona. What I really needed was a new bra but ... no. Just no.

After much googling, I decided to address the issue by using something called body tape, which is basically four inch wide duct tape that holds all the fluffy stuff where it goes. In order to be effective it has to be applied tight. Very tight. 

It was Saturday. I had nothing but time on my hands except for an appointment to do my hair. Easy peasy. (I am a prolific problem solver.) I got halfway into the process and my phone rang. Shit. It was a work call. I shouldered on my shirt and answered, one-boobed. 

Once I got off the call I realized I was late for my hair appointment. I threw the rest of my clothes on and ran out the door, forgetting I was half-taped.

The hair appointment was uncomfortable. Finally she was finished, and I decide to run by Whole Foods to grab a few groceries. In the granola aisle I started feeling short of breath. My whole left side was tight. And sore. And swollen. 

I had a bulky flannel on and a jacket, so I attributed my discomfort to layers of clothes binding. I made it to the truck and climbed in, out of breath. All the way home, I kept adjusting my seatbelt. 

Finally I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I had a real problem. 

At every red light I frantically googled the medical reasons for my symptoms. Yikes. I googled doctors. I began planning a series of tests. More appointments.

I researched specialists. 

I got home and unloaded the groceries, the weight of worry really dragging me down. I decided to lay on the bed and palpate to see if there was a lump.

Jacket off.

Shirt unbuttoned.

Lay down.

Bra off.

Tape.

One boob was taped all the frickin way under my arm.

I can’t make this up, guys. 

Anybody want the rest of the tape?