Depression, Assholes and Good Things!

November 14th 2013

Portia and I went to Art In The Dark!

When I last wrote, I was struggling through a 'depression attack'. Like a dark front of clouds moving across the water it came, my tears falling steadily through the night. 
Over the years I've learned to read these clouds, to predict when it's a light downpour and when I might need to get a lifeboat ready. I am not in danger of killing myself, I committed to Living a long time ago! Just thought I'd better be clear on that. 

As I write this I'm aware that while many of us struggle with periods of depression and anxiety, there are so many huge things happening in the world that are truly tragic (the Phillipines typhoon for example). Considering such things doesn't make me suddenly snap out of a 'bad patch'. It leads to further over thinking and then I get more anxious and depressed. I have to be especially careful of what I watch and listen to if I see the signs that a depressive front is moving in. A massive trigger is any situation where I feel abandoned or left behind, so I guess one of the things I'm learning during my time on earth is how to make sure I don't abandon my own needs. 

Portia, pale and interesting, gazes out to sea on a cold windy beach visit.

Meditating does help (hugely) as long as I don't get caught in a spiral of negative thought during the meditation! This morning I had to keep everything on track 'observe, observe ... '.
Yesterday I was listening to the news on the car radio and it ended in tears, but I'm like that even when I'm completely 'un-depressed'. A father held a heater to the right side of his five year old boy's face; the attending physician said it is one of the worst burns he'd ever seen. This man held it there, disfiguring his child for life. I may be out of my 'bad patch' but even writing that down brings tears back up into my eyes. I turned off the radio and spoke out loud, as if addressing that child: "I'm so sorry that happened to you. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me." 

creeping around in the park in the dark like a snark

I often feel a massive sense of responsibility for suffering, and when I was young I used to think that if I suffered enough then others wouldn't. That may well have been a huge "Christian Hangover!"

Fortunately, as I saw that dark cloud moving over me, I did all the 'good things' I could think of to help to prevent it from overtaking. Get outside. Eat properly. Call people. Go out. Cry. Move!

ASSHOLES:
Behaving like an asshole and actually BEING one are two different things. I know this because I'm reading "Assholes, A Theory" by Aaron James. All of us are bound to behave like an asshole from time to time, but to be truly defined as one requires consistent behaviours or attitudes in which one
 "systematically allows himself special advantages in interpersonal relations out of an entrenched sense of entitlement that immunizes him against the complaints of other people" (page 4 of Assholes). Assholes are rife (try driving in Auckland), and I'm hoping to better understand how to cope with them upon reading this hilarious and insightful book. I especially like how it shows that an asshole can be charming and even "morally motivated". You can have rather scrappy or boring assholes, but then there are also "dignified assholes".
"Given his sense of his special standing, he claims advantages that he thinks that noone can reasonably deny him. He is resentful or indignant when he feels his rights are not respected, in much the same way a fully sociable, cooperative person is." (page 13).
I'm finding this really useful as I have often dismissed certain behaviours as 'quirky', or I've thought that someone who makes snide and bitchy comments is really just joking. Perhaps not. Perhaps it's a clue that they're an asshole: 

"He is often rude or more often borderline nasty. One feels he has just been intrusive or inconsiderate, though one can't always pinpoint the norm of courtesy he has tread upon. Most important, the asshole gains special advantages from interpersonal relations, not by stroke of continuous luck, but because he regards himself as special. His circumstances are special in each case, in his view, because he is in them. If one is special on one's birthday, the asshole's birthday comes every day." (pg 16). The important thing to remember is that we are all special, but an Asshole tends to think they really are a bit more special than you are (like a star bellied Sneetch or our current foul government).

Good Things
Thanks be to Portia! This little English Rose is restoring my faith in the English Traveller. Most English Travellers (in my experience) have often made Assholing into an art form. They will gladly eat your food, use your things, accept rides everywhere, ask you to drive them to the airport (for far less than the petrol costs) and then bully you if you try to stand up for yourself. They are also often charming and fun to be around. I guess a country that has bullied so many other countries has to produce a good ratio of self entitled snotty beaks. Fortunately Portia doesn't count as one of these! She came to stay for almost a week and it was so much fun! She also has helped me do a massive amount of sorting out in my lovely living space which has cleared my head enormously.

 We did heaps of things together which made me feel like a tourist in my own city. She hugged me when I realised I hadn't been invited to a good friend's birthday event and advised that I 'leave it'. Last night that same person defriended me on facepooh. Very sad and mystifying, but I've decided to do as advised. I shall leave it.

I wish I could be colder sometimes. Only problem is, if I get cold, I get a different kind of depression. The non-feeling one, like you're numb and things just don't seem to touch you. Ugh, hate that one. Haven't had it in years thanks be to the gods. Anyway, the thing is, Have A Depression Plan!

A Depression Kit, or Plan! Most people have a first aid kit, a lot of people pay for insurance for material goods and also for their health. Ten years ago, as I recovered from a breakdown, I knew I needed to do everything I could think of to be healthy and mentally flexible. Not strong, as strong implies a lack of movement, or it gives off that old 'harden up' kind of vibe.
Amazing how a culture that has told people to 'get over it', 'move on' and to 'harden the fuck up' also produces one of the highest suicide rates in the world isn't it? 
 I've attracted a lot of depression or anxiety prone people in my life. I have always been okay with that (like attracts like), yet the problem is, such people find it very hard to cope if I'm the one going through a bad patch. Fortunately, there are people like Handsome Rob, Tieneke, Portia, Tam, The Painter and His Muse, Peter The Tanned, my mum, Jacqui of the old days, Corn Stone, Griz, Daniel H and others who are willing to have friendships that allow for our humanity.

You will also be proud of me: I've finally put the Sexy Ex and Wylie in their place. This means no contact at all. Upon reading "Assholes" I have discovered that they really are assholes, and not even particularly charming ones at that. I know. I had to read a book called Assholes to figure that out? As for The Rooster, he sent a very nice early birthday greeting which I appreciated. 

In addition to the gorgeous time with Portia, I also have caught up with other wonderful people over the last month or two. That includes Raewyn, Griz, Corn, Rob and Tam. Tam's baby is a year old now and he is so funny and adorable. Rob and I did go for that walk over to White Beach and it was really revitalising and uplifting! As for my birthday, it will be fine. I guess there is a gift in absence, and if I keep taking notice, it's the gift of peace. I would also like to thank those who read my blog as I have now had well over 10,000 views. I can't imagine who you are really, that person in Latvia or Russia, or perhaps the USA, and if there's anything in these ramblings that's of use, but thanks for being there. Lots of Love to All! And remember, we are all equally special! xxxx

Not In Love. Not Successful. Not Young, but hey, Less is More!

"God loves everybody, don't remind me." The National, Graceless. November 1st, 2013.

 A year ago this month I was falling in love and having one of the best birthdays of my life. Today I feel down, but on the upside I've learnt to meditate properly and the greatest love in my life would now be a child.

I saw The Child this week and he asked me what the would be the "best thing of my entire life". I asked what he meant - the best thing that I've done, or the thing that others would think of as success, or just what feels good to me? He said "just what feels good to you". So I said it was to love and have loved. To know that sometimes I have talked to people and it's made them feel better. Sometimes people are very sad and I know that at least once I've made a difference to someone who was so sad that they wanted to die. The Child is nine and when we hang out we usually talk about which super powers we want the most, but every now and then it gets pretty deep.

 So, "what about you?" I asked.

"Well," he said, serious and sweet, "this is my best feeling thing. When I'm with you. And when I'm with the dogs ..."

This is high praise. He loves those dogs, so for me to get in with the dogs ... well that broke my heart open. I knew what he meant too - that he feels safe and happy and full of playfulness when we get together. I'm an extra safety net for the heart of a child, so even though I'm struggling with feelings of sadness today I know that my life is worthwhile. Yes, I know it's worthwhile anyway, but it's useful for me to think of something beautiful or good, something that reminds me of why we bother playing out this whole thing (life) at all.

I did a short Vipassana course about a week ago. Three days. It was 'good', but when Goenka's recorded voice told us that to be a serious practitioner of Vipassana it was best to be celibate I found myself slowing shaking my head from side to side. I wondered how many other people were doing the same.

I get it of course. The advice may have made a lot of sense for the men it was first designed for, especially when the first bit says "no raping". I tend to think this kind of thing would be great for the many men in jails who have been taught the Vipassana method of meditation. It's unlikely many men would be jailed for rape in India unless it was extreme and resulted in the woman's death as happened in the New Dehli bus attack in December 2012. I know that there are female molesters and rapists, but they are relatively rare compared to the numbers of men.  

In the same breath, Goenka warns against taking mind altering substances including 'the alcohol'. Beware the alcohol as before you know it you'll be stealing a small Yak from a beautiful woman's neighbour, killing it (fucking it first perhaps, depends what you're into), eating it, fucking the woman, then waking up and sorrowfully blaming that temptress for leading you down the path of passion. Dunno about you, but I'm a bit sick of all the stories in which women are leading men off the path of good (Christian stories are particularly rich with it).

I have my limits firmly in place when it comes to substances, so if a hot farmer beckons me as I'm leaving Kaukapakapa I'm pretty sure I won't steal his neighbours livestock so that he can roast me a lamb. I also can't imagine I would immediately leap into his bed after a few glasses of wine (I was celibate for an entire year whilst living in Korea, I do have standards).

Imagine this little scenario:

"Well love, you look a bit tired, all that hippy shit worn you out has it? Maybe you'd like to join me in my king sized manly bed for a bit of rest?"

"Oh what are you thinking?! I'm practically a nun for the love of meditating and bringing peace to the world! I can't jump into your incredibly comfortable bed and allow you to pleasure me!"

"Ah ha ha, okay then, long as you're sure ... but you must be hungry ... just grab a little lamb from Wally Ditherall from next door and I'll make us a beauty of a roast ..."

"Oh, but I can't steal, that would be breaking my precepts, what are you man, mad?"

"Ha ha ha," he slaps a meaty farm worked thigh, "just kidding love, I know you take that shit seriously. Hey, tell you what, you'll sleep a lot better on the floor of my cow shed after you've had a wine. My mum left some here after she visited yesterday."

"Ohh, actually, a glass of wine would be good ..." and before I knew it there was blood on my hands and a farmer in my dell.

I'm meant to go for a day's meditation tomorrow but don't know if I can handle it. Perhaps this wave of sadness is just the debris coming loose after doing the retreat? It's a purification process, so a bit of crying is probably in order. 

When it gets too much I just think "I'm one of the best feeling things in the life of a child, so it must be okay". 

Tomorrow I'm going to the beach with Handsome Rob and right now The Sexy ex just called and wants to see me. Hmm. Time to mediate.

Auckland Vipassana Meditation and The Rooster Update!

It's a fine line between pleasure and pain ...

 

I am the Equani Mouse!

I decided to do the Vipassana Meditation Course because I wanted to go deeper in terms of ‘waking up’ from needless suffering and haunting desire.

I had forgiven The Rooster for behaving aggressively when he had his big break down at the end of January. It seemed I was doing incredibly well and could face my own inner demons. 

On April 22nd, we met up in Devonport for his birthday. We’d been talking again, re-building friendship, but this was the first time I’d seen him face to face since the day I left Waiheke in a mess of tears.

I took my guitar and played the songs I’d been working on. The sun broke out over the sea and a double rainbow appeared. We hugged for a long time and it felt like home.  I was surprised my love was so present. I thought I would focus on all his faults and find him no longer to my taste, but it wasn’t the case. When we went to the ferry building we hugged again, and then he kissed me softly. I kissed him, and then again, and it was brief but passionate. My heart lifted. I wondered if we were going to get back together. I would be patient with him. I would respect the space that had opened up between us over the months that had gone by.

When we were next to meet up to play guitar together he made excuses not to meet me. I was harsh with my responses and then he admitted he started worrying and thinking, thinking, thinking.  Stop thinking, I advised. Feel. I sent a harsh email but that my love does not get shaken by a storm. He said he wasn’t sure he deserved my love.

He apologised for his selfishness. Warmth crept back in. Yes, I thought, all the pain has been worth it. There is so much love here. Before I went away, the trajectory seemed set. The texts and phone calls were frequent. 

Romance was back on the menu. With this in mind I went to Vipassana in Kaukapakapa, New Zealand. it's in a beautiful setting, and there's a small walk through the woods that eventually serves to remind you of the path you walk within.

Vipassana Meditation isn't religious, but it is based on the teachings of Buddha and involves a pretty intense meditation routine. No communicating (not even eye contact) for 10 days, no sexual shenanigans (including masturbation), no lying, no killing, no singing, no dancing etc. The rules are there to help people get into the zone, something that becomes clearer as the days go by. There was also complete segregation from the males which gave them an even greater allure.

THE COURSE TIMETABLE

The following timetable for the course has been designed to maintain the continuity of practice. For best results students are advised to follow it as closely as possible.

4:00 am		Morning wake-up bell
4:30-6:30 am		Meditate in the hall or in your room
6:30-8:00 am		Breakfast break
8:00-9:00 am		Group meditation in the hall
9:00-11:00 am		Meditate in the hall or in your room according to the teacher's instructions
11:00-12:00 noon		Lunch break
12noon-1:00 pm		Rest and interviews with the teacher
1:00-2:30 pm		Meditate in the hall or in your room
2:30-3:30 pm		Group meditation in the hall
3:30-5:00 pm		Meditate in the hall or in your own room according to the teacher's instructions
5:00-6:00 pm		Tea break
6:00-7:00 pm		Group meditation in the hall
7:00-8:15 pm		Teacher's Discourse in the hall
8:15-9:00 pm		Group meditation in the hall
9:00-9:30 pm		Question time in the hall
9:30 pm		Retire to your own room--Lights out

On Day One: I was vaguely bored. We were all focusing on natural breath, the feeling of physical sensation around the triangular region of the nose, nostrils and underneath the nose. I kept wandering away in my mind, constructing fantasies about having a shop, writing a book, becoming a teacher, travelling to Thailand and Vietnam, recording my songs, learning to sew. I feared not speaking for 10 days, but soon realised it was a great relief to me. I usually talk a great deal and sometimes I can’t even seem to stop all the words pouring out; to be silent felt quite luxurious. The luxury of nothing.

 On Day two, when I got my ‘moon time’ I got incredibly horny and fantasised about some of the great sex I’ve had, then about great sex I might yet have.  I fantasised about great sex I was unlikey to ever have (two hot men, that sort of thing). It was very, very pleasurable to get lost in these fantasies at first. I made up all sorts of stories and acted them out in my mind over and over again. I burned and burned. That's the burn of addiction and eventually you find that it really is the craving itself that you get lost in.

When you are meditating off and on for at least 10 hours a day and all you keep thinking of is sex, it goes from being pleasurable to painful.  Surely a little bit of self help couldn’t hurt? There was an assistant teacher assigned to the women and one for the men. I asked her if the no sex thing really did apply to masturbation and with wide eyes she said it did.  Well, I could have broken the rules of course. Who would have known? But I was determined to ‘do it properly’ and wished someone could tie my hands up so that I wasn’t tempted. Tied up. Leads to another fantasy. On it went.

Men speak of  ‘blue balls’ and now I can tell you the female equivalent: ‘red walls’. The inside of one’s cunt is made of aching molten lava, it pulses and cries out as if it has a whole life of it’s own. It actually reaches a point where it hurts. Fortunately I had a lot of other physical pain, so now and then I could observe it and momentarily focus on something other than my fantasies. It seemed impossible to retain equanimity when I got into the flow of a self made porno. I even had a great one called ‘The Retreat’. You can imagine.

I think it was on Day Three that the assistant teacher said that if I wanted to ask the main teacher (a lovely man) for any advice about my sexual fantasy pains that I could. She said he might have helpful advice, you never know. At the end of Day Three I thought I may as well ask, but I also noticed the lust was losing the burning madness of day two.

 There is a question time in the hall after the last session of meditating, men or women can approach. Questions are supposed to be about technique alone, but I asked what I could do about my ‘relentless sexual fantasies’ because they were certainly keeping me far from technique. The teacher guy, Rob,  told me what I already knew. He said ‘return to anapana’ which is the observing of the breath. Oh. Okay. So I asked  in front of heaps of people, and afterwards the assistant said she actually meant for me to ask during one of the private lunch time ‘interviews’ with Rob. Oh. I burst into tears, felt like such a dick. I suddenly imagined that by saying ‘relentless sexual fantasy’ that I’d now planted the idea in people’s heads. A couple of girls told me later that it did send them off in that direction.

On Day Four we learned how to use the same observation technique starting at the fontanel (the soft spot on top of the head) and moving ‘part by part, piece by piece’ down the body. We were always given instruction via videos or audio recordings of Goenka;  his voice sounded like an Indian version of ‘The Count’  from Sesame Street. 

It was all observation. On that day I moved out of fantasising and found I was able to observe sensations more easily, though my mind was still running all over the place. Sometimes the sensations were very light along the body, and other times I experienced feelings of pressure, or as if someone had cracked an egg on the top of my head and it was pouring all over me.

I distinctly felt like a jar of warm honey had been pushed down on me a few times, all tight, close and yet comforting. I had a lot of pain in my eyes, as if I was continually straining to see something. I noticed how my body slotted into place, hips, bones, flesh, a jigsaw of pieces and spaces. My lower back, knees and hips hurt like fuckery for the first four days, then the pain would play out in my middle back, my shoulder blades and neck. Because of my old injuries I was allowed this little chair that gave me some back support. Without it I don’t know that I could have managed the physical challenge of the course.

 I kept accidentally replaying scenes from ’Game of Thrones’, or the series ‘Girls’. I thought in depth (without meaning to) about characters from these programmes. Also ended up accidentally thinking of 1980's sitcoms like 'Charles in Charge' and felt quite scathing towards them.

Then I would replay some scenes from my own life and start analysing. Hang on. I'm meant to be here. I’m here. Look. Feel. Be. What are the sensations of my body?

 Again I would return. By day four and five the creativity was flowing freely, and spontaneous knowledge seemed to rise up. I also thought a lot about a situation where a man chooses between two women that he loves. I kept thinking of this couple I know in which that had occurred, wondering how she dealt with it.

I thought of The Rooster, and that if he had to choose between me and someone else then I would instantly take myself out of the running. Or at least, I imagined I would. I said to myself “that would be pushing me too far, I’d never feel secure”. So I looked at security. I observed my thoughts about it – because there is no security anyway is there? What is romantic love? Does anyone really love anyone else, or do they only love what they think they see?

I wondered why on earth I imagined that Paul would ever be choosing between me and someone else. Ah, I thought, I’m just making up sorrows for myself! He loves me.  I think he loves me. He’s had a break down. I’ve done the right thing persisting with him, showing him that love is not conditional. If he can’t be with me due to his mental instabilities, I will be fine. I will be EQUANIMOUS!

Equanimity (Latin: æquanimitas having an even mind; aequus even animus mind/soul) is a state of psychological stability and composure which is undisturbed by experience of or exposure to emotions, pain, or other phenomena that may cause others to lose the balance of their mind. The virtue and value of equanimity is extolled and advocated by a number of major religions and ancient philosophies.

The word ‘equanimous’ is used repeatedly, a state of remaining in calm balance at the deepest level even when storms of pain and pleasure rage. I kept thinking ‘Equani Mouse’ and imagined a little mouse that learns to stay centred despite all sorts of challenges. I saw it as a children’s book.

It became a blur of meditation, delicious vegetarian food, and of course looking around and judging everybody else around me. I am shocked to find out how harsh I am on the other women. I look at one girl and think “well she’s used to being The Beautiful One. Ugh.” My judgements are one of the few things that has me in tears during the course. I liked to think of myself as being so kind!

I see another girl and decide that Paul would be really attracted to her as she has a waifish heroin look about her. By day three I decide it isn’t heroin, that she probably smokes (but is of course a vegetarian) and does Capoeria (that dancey martial art thing people are always doing at festivals). She has long, straight red hair with a thick fringe. I name her Pip. Pippi Longstocking grows up and goes to festivals, takes drugs, does Vipassana and all the boys love her.

On the first day of the course, when we were still allowed to speak, I connected with Wendy and Marit. When I walked past either of them I would have to look down and smile at the ground. I felt the same about Pip. I developed an intense and unreasonable dislike of a little woman who looked like she was constantly in the depths of self pity. Whenever I saw her I would think ‘there’s that ugly little woman’. I went to the teacher privately to ask how to deal with finding out that you’re more of an asshole that you realised, that your self image of kindness is being ripped out at the roots and you are dismayed and disappointed by it. He said to just keep observing when these judgements came up. Not to label myself, but to just say ‘ah, there it is, well we all have that’ and to remain …. EQUANIMOUS! 

Interestingly, it was probably day 8 or 9 when I observed an intense wave of pressure so strong that it forced my head to one side. Oh, okay, so perhaps this is … no wait … don’t label it … leave it … just look …. Watch … feel. The pressure is hard to explain, but it was a bit like the mildest taste of the side show ride ‘Gravitron’ (the ride spins so fast that gravity forces you into paralysis). I didn’t feel afraid. I allowed it to be. It felt like something left my right ear, some kind of pressure. Oh, interesting. Now the pressure is inside my head, and it’s sort of pulsing in and out rapidly. How. Do. What. Describe. Don’t describe. Notice. Notice. Notice. My head is coming back up. I’m sitting straight. I am very alert. I feel the pressure changing, then a voice, not my chattering labelling voice, but a calm voice saying ‘that was your self pity’. Oh. Interesting. Then it felt like my face was disintegrating very slowly and pleasantly. Tiny molecules of it were floating away. Oh. Interesting. Don’t get attached to it though. Just observe it. The word ‘interesting’ featured rather heavily for me.

 

Does my Ego look big in this?

By day 9 I didn’t find the Ugly Little Lady quite as ugly anymore. Interesting.

On day 10 we were allowed to talk. I talked so much that I nearly made myself vomit. I got to find out how accurate I was in my imaginings about people. Pretty close at times! It was so great to finally talk with Wendy and ‘Pip’. They had a naughtiness about them that I really loved and then in turn felt overwhelming.

 I was sensitized in a way that I’ve never been before. Everything felt amazing and also sickening. I went to bed and couldn’t sleep. I felt waves and waves of sensation running up and down my body so fast that I felt off balance. I sat up and kept meditating, noticing the way knowledge, shapes, sensations and desires continually engulfed me and then moved on. Day 10 was one of the most significant for me, although you are told that it's 'hard to meditate' on the day that you can finally speak, I found the opposite to be true.

I lay down and the waves of sensation kept running like a ring of pressure up and down and within my body. I kept noticing. Kept noticing. By 2am I wondered how I would get up at 4am without feeling like death itself. A still voice within said ‘you’ll be fine’. At 4am, I woke up and my eyes were free of any tiredness or pain. I had energy. I had been taking less Ritalin as the days had gone by, the structure and focus of the course was affecting me like another form of medication. Meditation = medication.

 If I took the usual amount of Ritalin it was starting to make me ‘speedy’ which is what it does to someone who is not ADHD. I’ve spoken to my doctor about this – it’s quite common for a person to watch and regulate their use of Ritalin according to what’s going on in their life. This kind of self regulation is not recommended for those who have serious mental disorders or hard core depression.

By Sunday the 19^th I didn’t want to leave. Everyone’s experience differs greatly and one of the reasons there isn’t any speaking is to prevent people from comparing. Marit, a young German woman,  said she couldn’t get ‘into it’ and used to spend a lot of time looking around. She said she would look at me and noticed I was always sitting up very straight. Guess she missed the times I was a slumping slug.

Wendy showed me how to hug ‘from the heart side’ and also gave me the line ‘jam out with your clam out’. I looked forward to showing The Rooster how to hug from the opposite side to which we are all accustomed.

I had told Wendy about Paul, and also about truly letting go of Andrew, The Sexy Ex. I was coming to terms with the fact that even though the chemistry between Andrew and I is truly amazing, it didn't mean that we are meant to be together long term. I felt that even though Paul and I had obstacles to overcome, there was enough heart felt friendship and romance to start all over again. 

I was giving Marit a lift back to Auckland and had asked mum if we could stay at her place that night. We did, and I meditated before I went to sleep. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Paul properly yet, but I liked looking at the loving messages he’d sent me before I went to the course. On Monday I took Marit into Brown’s Bay to look at Op Shops. I found the most amazing red robe with a large dragon emblazoned on the back. Paul loves dragons and I thought well, we’re not back together yet, and I don’t know what’s happening … but god he’d look good in this … sort of like a regal drug dealer or wizard.

I laughingly told the ladies behind the counter that I was buying it for my ex boyfriend. One of them misheard me and said “what? You’re buying it for your ex boyfriends’ girlfriend?”. I cracked up and responded “ha, now that really would be generous wouldn’t it?!”

When I got back to Mum’s I tried it on and then imagined Paul wearing it. I felt really happy. We spoke that day and I told him about the course.  I felt that we were working steadily towards each other again. On Tuesday we finally had a ‘serious talk’, the one where I get to find out how sorry he is for fucking around for so long, the one where he tells me how much he loves me. This is where equanimity would have come in handy.

He speaks slowly and with a lot of detail, something I have always liked. In this instance, it was not quite so pleasant. He tells me how his ex-girlfriend, (the 52 year old German with a heart problem) had come and visited him while I was away on the course.

“She wants me back”.

Well, I said, 
"you’re not attracted to her and you don’t love her. That’s what you told me."
 This is when the cold defensiveness creeps into his voice. “I always told you I still cared for her”. Well yes, but he always insisted that there was no attraction left. Then he dragged it out, saying how magical it is between us, with double rainbows over the sea. He tells me how he is still attracted to me and still wants to look up my dress. I calmly ask him if he wants to look up Karin’s dress. “Yes,” he says “yes I do”.

I am frozen and hot with the horror of it. The whole time he used to be so incredibly insistent that I was ‘over’ Andrew was really about him not being over German Mother. The pain of it is intense, especially with my extreme sensitivity after doing Vipassana. I feel my whole being writhe with agony. 

He is choosing between us and I think for a moment he must be choosing me. Then I realise he’s dragging it out too long.

He says that it came down to where he wanted to go sexually. He paused. Let it sink in. “I want to be with Karin. I have to follow my heart”.

The last time I looked, the heart was located above the belt. Pity I didn’t think of that line in the moment, but I was so hurt that I could barely speak. I could also feel rage burning in me, wanting to question, to argue.

My equanimity was fucked. Rage, sorrow and disbelief coursed through me. I texted him snottily, saying he wasn’t following his heart. He said he was.

 Sure.

 Yes I’m sure.

Yeah, and you were sure about me not so long ago.

I sat down after we talked and sobbed before making myself meditate for about 15 minutes. It was all I had time for as had to go and pick up the child I sometimes baby sit after school. I cried all the way there, and as I drove a storm was moving in. I picked up Z and as we drove towards Orakei a massive double rainbow appeared.

 By the time we got out of the car there was only one rainbow and a massive front was moving across the water, picking up and becoming a tornado. I told Z I was a bit sad and explained why. I joked that perhaps the tornado was heading to Waiheke and might rip the roof off his house. Z laughed and said ‘yeah, and he might be on the toilet at the time!’.

Then Z’s step grandfather said ‘yeah, and the pipes explode and pooh goes everywhere’. “Yes,” I added, “and no one gets hurt, but he’s covered in his own pooh’. We all cracked up, so immature.

I know I’ve been protected from being with a selfish man, a man free of heroin but who is still, in effect, a User. He mainlined my love and then when he overdosed … blamed me. So. What does that say about me and my self worth? If he’s a User, then where am I using? Did I also just get addicted to an image? Probably.

There was nothing to do but keep on meditating. I vasciallte between tears, anger and deep grief. I get lost in it and then remember to ‘just observe it.’

In retrospect I can now see that he might have been longing for German Mother for awhile. I always knew that he wanted a mother figure, something that I did find a bit challenging during the relationship.

 G Mother also fulfilled other aspects that play into the games of pain and longing: she had not been honest with him at the start of their relationship, and it was she who left him. He had said he wasn’t sure he deserved my love … yet he’s decided that he deserves the love of German Mother. So the one who hurts him is the one he wants? 

Since Tuesday I have suffered. I wondered when the spark was re-ignited. I imagine it was when he had a catch up with her a couple of months ago and she got to tell him how angry she had been with him. Ooh anger. That can turn into passion.

On the pain rampages, showing me her photo in my mind’s eye, one I’d seen on Facebook, another just of her plump torso in some kind of dress up outfit that I accidentally saw on Paul’s computer. She looks nice. Evidently she is nice. Really, really nice. Knowing she's nice doesn't help.

When I told mum he was going back to the rejecting mother figure, she said “Does she have big breasts?”

“Yes”

“Does she like to cook?”

“Yes. She bakes. She’s a really good baker.”

Mum cracked up laughing and so did I. She's also really good at cleaning and gardening. Hell. I'd take her back!

Yesterday I tortured myself imaginging them making love, her matronly body heaving beneath him, his face desperate like a dying bird. Then I wonder if she lost weight and that’s why Paul’s dick twitched so hard. Yeah. Probably. Hang on. I’m making shit up and it’s hurting me. I wonder about her Buddhism. Do no harm. I imagined her ensuring that she got to his cock before I did, knowing how closely it resounded with the beating of his heart. Anger flares up. Notice it. How it hurts the stomach. How it sends the heart racing. Do no harm. Do no harm. Do no harm.

If Paul is following his heart then only good can come of this. If not, then he will get his own wake up calls very quickly. 

I keep meditating morning and night. The emotional pain is so great that physical pain also comes up. I go to the tarot (Tarot of The Spirit) and ask for a card to clarify what has just happened. The card that shows me what’s just happened blows my mind. Here is a brief summary:

8 of Water; Still Waters

You are in a state of withdrawal; retreat is necessary and good at this time; through withdrawing , all things shall become clear; you will be protected as you withdraw, you will not lose anything important; take a break and remember, “still waters run deep”.

The longer explanation talks about ‘charging your Self and renewing your resources within a space of protection. At the Eight, you begin to understand the magical capacity of your mind. …. Stop everything and allow your Self the luxury of utter stillness.’

Even with this amazing card coming up, my mind still wants to go back to the stories of sorrow. My ego longs to mulch over the rejection, to roll around in pain like a dog joyfully rolling in the carcass of a rotting sheep. 

Then my ‘higher self’ or ‘the watcher’ gets a look in, and I’m allowing myself to just observe it all without falling into the abyss. When I find myself groaning ‘but why did he say he loved me?’ I then remember that when it comes down to it, few of us truly Love anyone. We are a mess of sensation seeking missiles most of the time, always see-sawing between craving and numbness. Dulling things down in order not to feel, or ramping it up in order to get high in one way or another. To observe is to get mastery over this mind. To observe is to demystify pain and pleasure.

Today I woke up in emotional and physical pain. I didn’t want to meditate, so I lay in bed feeling utterly miserable, totally sorry for myself. I got sick of the misery and had to meditate after all. I was afraid of having to sit with all that rejection again. Then lo and behold, I sat, and it is never quite what one expects. The pain seemed to vanish as I lasered in on it. That’s okay, I’m sure I’ll have more pain later. Pleasure and a sense of well being rose up. That’s okay, I’m sure that will also dissolve. 

Equanimous. Equanimous. Equanimous.

Yes. I can wish kindness for The Rooster and German Mother. Well okay, perhaps not just yet. It’s less than four days since he slowly delivered his news. 

Depression passing through like a shit, yay!

Well well my pretty ponies, I'm almost done with a recent foray into the depressive realms! The proverbial light appears (in my proverbial tunnel? Now that just sounds rude.)

I'm really enjoying reading 'Magical Thinking' by Augusten Burroughs. He wrote (and it was subsequently turned into a movie) 'Running with Scissors'. I haven't read that or seen the movie. Yet. I guess he has a similar style to my beloved David Sedaris, and they have a few things in common; gay, alcoholic, overly analytical, anxious, depressed, superior, inferior and incredibly funny. Really puts me in a good mood. Seriously. Perhaps it's the reading equivalent of listening to The Smiths.

I was going to go for a swim before working this afternoon, but the temptation to sit in bed reading and writing was too compelling. Getting through a rough patch really feels fucking brilliant. I'm almost high off feeling an absence of pain. I think that's why I enjoy reading Burroughs and Sedaris; their vulnerability and ways of trying to deal with an excess of feeling and fear touches me and helps me to laugh at myself.

Tell you what else helps ... is dancing. Went to The Checks on Saturday night with Bob and really enjoyed it. The audience were adorably young and wearing things my more stylish friends might have sported in 1988. Sort of

made me feel maternal towards my past self.

I drank little and danced lots. My legs are still aching actually. Bob was great company, and we talked about when my cousin Claire comes back from Vietnam and we'll be able to catch up with her. Not too far off!

Was also cheered by the presence of Mother duck and the ducklings at our back steps. Loooooook at theeeeemmmmmm.

Caught up with my ma yesterday and had pizza on the beach. Everything looked so good, so clean, so clear. Mum is still struggling with her grief over Nanna, it's only been six months so that's understandable.

We talked about how depression could be like a big shit that just needs to pass through. I guess it sometimes feels like you are made entirely of shit, forgetting how to let it simply work it's way out, to give yourself whatever you need to assist that process. Oh, and here's a tip: if you have a friend who is depressed, don't tell them to snap out of it, get on with it, get over it or to harden up. That's really depressing. It's like telling someone who hasn't had a shit for a week to eat a brick. Fortunately for me, I've only had one person offer the 'just get on with it' advice, but that's because she was also struggling with her own anxiety. Sometimes just saying 'the fear is passing through me' over and over again, is enough to help shift your state. It's temporary. It always is.

And so another week begins. The new moon grants you another start, new beginnings.

I am getting excited about my upcoming 'unemployment' period .... modest living for two months, but time to do all those things I say I'm going to do. Like trying to learn the guitar (been saying that for half my life), or writing a book, or getting fitter. It makes it sound like I might even be in charge of my life.

I might turn into someone really efficient, clean the mould off my bedroom ceiling (I know it should bother me), keep surfaces clear of clutter, with hold information from strangers, hang clothes up instead of throwing them on the floor, walk briskly through forests instead of staring at a bird for ten minutes, that sort of thing.

Time to open my window and get ready for work. God I sound efficient. Watch out world, I might even clean the mould off my ceiling.

T

Do Your Thing: Falling off Lions, look out for each other.

November 2^nd

I do my thing, and you do your

thing,

I am not in this world to live up to

your expectations

And you are not in this world to live up

to mine

You are you and I am I,

and if by chance we find each other, it’s

beautiful.

If not, it can’t be helped.

Frederick S.Perls

Do Your Thing, you Good Thing!

I get a bit confused about other people, but this simple quote strips it back. Few people have understood what ‘my thing’ is in life, but god, when they do, it’s magic.

Luckily I have some of the best friends in the entire Universe. Thanks to Tamasin, Andrew, Sarah, Lisa and Mum. I also have other friendships that are becoming richer and deeper, such as with my flatmate Tieneke.

We need to be dedicated to the magic, beauty, and sweetness of life. In New Zealand, 2008, there were 497 deaths from suicide and 2465 hospitalisations (exceeding 48 hours) for intentional self harm.

Intentional self harm is quite interesting. I nearly got into that years ago, but somehow pulled back from it. I was 26 and recovering from a pretty bad accident, the infamous fall from the golden lion in the Civic Picture Theatre. At least 20 feet (or was it metres?) into the basement level of the theatre through a hole on stage. Ok, yes, I was drunk, but it was probably just as well. If I’d been less relaxed it’s likely I’d have died. Leighton, who was working as an usher, had to resign from his job thanks to my little drama. He was Sarah's actory flatmate, and he'd asked us to wait while he finished up at work. We didn't wait. We were loose in the Civic. Not a great night for Sarah or her sober sister.

The recovery from a pelvis fractured in three places, a slightly displaced hip and a ‘moderate’ head injury was fucking boring, depressing and excruciatingly painful. I remember only snatched minutes from the whole first week of hospitalisation; I was in intensive care heavily pumped up on morphine. When I started understanding where I was and what was going on, all I could ask about was sitting my exams, and asking if they’d removed my contact lenses.

The morphine induced paranoia and hallucinations, I thought the Japanese doctor who kept taking my blood was keeping it for nefarious purposes; that this was war-time and he was going to find out secrets only traceable through blood. I hallucinated some kind of computer at the end of my hospital bed, one designed for measuring the secrets contained in blood.

As I became more lucid, my mum was always there, reaching over and pressing my self-administering morphine pump when I would groan from the physical agony of splintered bone.

“Why hasn’t anyone come to see me?” I asked

Turns out they had been, but I was either unconscious or couldn’t remember the visits. I’d also been dispensing a lot of wisdom, not that I could remember it.

It was November, I think 1996 . I turned 26 lying in bed, catheter trailing, my finger permanently positioned over the morphine pump. The balloons around curtain rail were doctors and nurses heads; they appeared to have hung themselves on the rail and looked at me with blank, dead eyes.

They decided not to operate, that I was ‘young enough’ to heal if I kept still. The television didn’t work on my side of the building, and I was extremely restricted in movement. I wasn’t even allowed to sit up or put any weight on my left hip (the displaced one) and constipation was my constant companion.

After about two weeks they took away the morphine drip, and the catheter was also removed. I was shifted to another bed, and the compression tights I wore to prevent blood clotting looked like some kind of kinky punishment. They itched and drove me crazy. My muscles and fat melted away. All toiletry and bathing needs were compliments of a bed pan and bed bath, usually administered by an evil nurse exhausted by excessive hours, seething resentments and shit covered shoes.

My scalp ached from not being able to take it off the pillow, my thick hair was hellishly hot and unwashed for three weeks. I begged the only kind nurse to wash it for me, I think her name was Jo. It was really hard for her to fit it into her schedule, but she wheeled my bed over to a sink. It was such a relief to feel water on my head, tears leaked from my eyes the whole time.

The real star was a nurse who gave me the injections each night to prevent blood clotting. She was a big girl and commented that if I’d had some fat on my body, this wouldn’t hurt as much. I think she quite enjoyed jabbing the needle into the remnants of muscle of my stomach and seeing the tears spring up in my eyes. God does love a Sadist! One day I rang the bell to go to the toilet. She came in and said “you’re not the only person in this hospital you know” and left me for more than half an hour. I couldn’t hold on and was left lying in the urine soaked bed for another hour or so. Fun times!

I think of this now, and it’s really like looking at someone else. I have many little stories about those seemingly endless weeks in hospital, nearly six weeks I think it was. The first time I got to sit up in bed I passed out, my eyes rolling back in my head. Mum thought I was dying, the poor thing.

One of the most delightful things about having even a ‘moderate’ head injury is that your ability to control your emotions is severely limited, and you suffer from excess exhaustion. I slept, read words in the dictionary, cried and raged. I took pleasure in underlining specific words in a Mills and Boon novel. How many times did the sadistic, handsome love interest smile ‘sardonically’? How often were his eyes described as being like flint or ice? This was emotional pornography, and one of the few things simple enough for me to read.

I couldn’t move around properly, so mum had to come and look after me in the flat. I was on crutches for three months, but I looked completely ‘normal’. At a poetry performance someone thought I was using crutches as a ‘prop’.

The best thing about it all was that my poetry improved. I couldn’t finish my degree that year, but went back and did so the year after. I was horribly out of sync with people doing Journalism, many of them were really straight sorts who’d already done a degree in law, not the crazy crew I’d grown to love in the previous two years study.

The self harm aspect came up through sheer frustration and excess of feeling. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to get the feelings out of my body. Fortunately something in me stopped, just stepped back and went “really?”.

I would toy with it, pressing the edge of a knife into my skin but just enough for it to bite. One day knew I wanted to take it a bit further, that I wanted to slice. I rang a friend. She came over. She told me I must never do it again, and I didn’t.

But that doesn’t happen for a lot of people. Something in them takes them over the edge.

I had some lovely young flatmates a few years back, a couple from London. He was English, she was Polish. She sported the most amazing scars up the insides of her arms, neat and clean looking, all perfectly aligned. They went across rather than vertically, and they were far enough up the arms to affirm that these were not suicide attempts.

“Oh,” I said

“Scarification or self harm?”

“Oh, self harm” she said lightly, as if we were discussing shoes or tattoos. She’d gone through a rough patch in her late teens. Looked like a very long patch judging by the slices. Yet here she was, happy, travelling with her love, milking life and laughing. There was still an undercurrent of darkness that would occasionally surface, but I have that too, so it never bothered me. I hear they’ve had a baby now.

A Safety Net

I’ve been talking with Lisa who may as well be an angel, her insights and energy are that good. Mellow, leaning back in your chair, honey slow and kind, she’ll say things that just fit.

“You need a safety net for your heart” she said.

Yes. That sounds good. But there you have it; I don’t know how to make one, or how others do it. It mystifies me. I’ll see if I can work it out, and if I do, I’ll let you know.

I should have been hurt a million times more than I have been, but to be honest, most of the time it’s worked out pretty well. I take pretty big risks, but the rewards are amazing. I have loved and been loved so well.

We’re all just ‘doing our thing’. So you see, my thing has to be love. It has to be pleasure (not hedonism) and finding joy in pretty simple things. Happiness wavers, but joy runs deep.

...I refuse to be

intimidated by

reality anymore.

After all, what is reality anyway?

Nothin’ but a collective hunch ...

I made some studies , and reality

Is the leading cause of stress

amongst those in

touch with it.

I can take it in small doses, but as a lifestyle

I found it too confining.

Jane Wagner.