cry baby

It has-only today-become painfully obvious to me that those who you love the most can also hurt you the deepest.
Not a new concept, to say the least, but it only occurred to me this morning in my puffy-eyed stupor from crying myself to sleep last night. I'm such an idiot. I've got peep holes for eyes.
I'm sure everyone at work has made the observation. Or they think I'm hungover, which isn't so far from the truth.
Matthew and I met on March 7 of this year and, cheesy as it sounds, it was love-at-first-sight-ish. Only we were both 3-years deep in other relationships, so we blew it off as One Fun Night. I saw him a total of maybe 6 times after that- with no extended conversation to speak of -and on what was probably the 7th time I ever laid eyes on him, we realized our passion for each other. It's been the best- and at times the hardest -five months of my life.
Only now, post-Dominican Republic vacation and move-in honeymoon, have a few arguments begun. They're not frequent or extended. But God does it hurt. My heart hurts while he sleeps.

pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue ...

"This is the Ani Show" as my soon-to-be brother-in-law might say, so when something catches my eye (or my dreams, in this event) I plan to post it. And today I'm coveting this Christmas dream catcher by nestprettythings.com. Fabulous.

From Wikipedia.com:
"It's recommended to hang the dream catcher above someone sleeping to guard against bad dreams. Good dreams pass through and slide down the feathers to the sleeper.
Another legend 'Good dreams pass through the center hole to the sleeping person. The bad dreams are trapped in the web, where they perish in the light of dawn.'"

cone-ing in on

The old addage is that eyes are the windows to the world.
And it's true. Though the blind's eyes aesthetically are exact replicas of our own, us seeing-folk, upon meeting a blind person, immediately pen them as such. It's because their eyes are empty.
But I'd like to add that I think hands are {almost} as easily readable and as telltale as the eyes for matters of the heart and head. Truthfully, this struck me last weekend at a bar after noticing a friend's painted {red} finger nails.
Did she paint them herself? Yes answers might reveal some artistic appeal and someone who avoids frivilous spending. It might also suggest that she's somewhat down-to-earth and but values the upkeep of her overeall appearance. A no answer could reveal the opposites of the above, in addition to her desire to keep up with a particular "feminine" ideal, or a family in which all of the women value taking the time to do something for yourself.
The color, the state of her cuticles, the way she holds a cocktail glass or moves her hands (when she speaks?) all allow those watching into her head.
I envision it as a cone; peering into a hole the size of a fingernail and viewing a galaxy-sized soul.

"You want something done? Give it to a busy person." -Mabel Wenger Hackman

Deadlines.
Anyone who is depressed, bored or otherwise needs to get themselves a deadline. They're the best thing that ever happened to my college education.
Over the last few years, deadlines have benefitted my graphic design skills, financial savings, athletic ability, mental state of being and - because I'm having the boyfriend's parents over for dinner next week - my condominium digs.
The gotta-beat-the-clock mindset -hailing from a heavily time-sensitive journalism degree- brings things into focus; your subject is center of this universe for those final days/hours/minutes approaching deadline. I think it is within this honing in that one sees most clearly.
Though surprising, it's the ultimate catharsis for those personalities that can't sit through their own self-reflection when there are decisions to be made. A lover leaves, you pissed off your sister, you're criticizing your own judgement ... Pick a task, make a firm deadline and get moving. It's all much clearer (and hurts a bit less) on the other side of that date.
It's my form of meditation. Albeit with a bit higher blood pressure reading.

oh-so-cozy plaid

I just wanted to post this to make a point that flannel (truly, for women form-fitting flannel) is making a huge comeback. I said this about two to three months ago and I just wanted to get it out there.
Next year, it will plaster Old Navy's walls.

hope: anticipation v. expectation

Barack Obama based his campaign on it.
It's used in religious sermons, on the Oprah show, in therapy sessions, welfare departments, schools and on t-shirts, bumper stickers and so on.
The word is defined - according to Mirriam-Webster - as 1. to cherish a desire with anticipation, 2. to desire with expectation of obtainment and 3. to expect with confidence.
I am curious when/where the expectation came into play on this word, as its original definition only links it with anticipation. Anticipation is a far cry from "expectation of obtainment" and "expect{ing} with excitement". This wording change is bound to cause disenfranchisement with hope's purported positive impact.
And why?
As we Americans are apt to romanticize the "good old days." That being said, my gut instinct tells me my grandmother, if given a multiple choice with these three definitions would choose the first; my sister, the second or third. One wise theory I've subscribed to in my twirties is that these multi-generation gap-sters (baby boomers, mainly) have contributed to the near-extinction of personal responsibility.
And this may be the gray area where new definitions were fostered.
When "expected," hope puts the impetus for change on the object for which the person is hoping.
"Anticipation" has no such context; its meaning allows room for a significant amount of personal responsibility.
So let's hope this younger generation (myself included) takes a stake in our responsibility and assists president-elect Obama in rocking the American political boat. Just as we did with the 2008 presidential election, we must continue to demand what we want from our elected officials, federal and state policy and the laws that govern this country. It is ours to inherit, after all.
That's my hope for the future.

Why is it that when something hurts your heart your appetite bears the pain?

I know why the craving for mass quantities of cocktails and cigarettes, but the loss of appetite that accompanies a mental disturbance is, well, disturbing.
Full disclosure: As a woman I honestly don't mind these fasting tendencies too much, seeing as how as a gender we're all trying to be 5 lbs thinner. Daily.


I can't shake the mind over matter. At lunch today we had an unusually healthy meal - baked chicken, green beans, salad - and after my 30 minute run, I physically force-fed myself 1 tiny piece of chicken and a bite of green beans.

It's ridiculous.

And I wonder if this is maybe how the anorexic do it ... maybe they focus on something so difficult, so emotional, so overwhelming it causes them to dislike food.
I shudder to think about just how much weight I would lose if my emotional toll was much heavier ... a death, a major illness, bankruptcy ... than just worry about someone else's feelings and the what-ifs that plague us all.

But sometimes, when he's acting distant, I just can't stomach a thing.

This was the beginning of yesterday's post ... but didn't get published early enough. Guess they got what they deserved without me opening my mouth.

I'll tell you what the Republican Party has that the Dems don't: snob appeal.
The majority of red party supporters are - like the elephant - fat wallet-ed men (no matter the color). And the religious "I am more righteous than you are" right.
My coworkers are McCain fans. Actually, they're not so much McCain fans as they are Obama haters.
And they were Hillary haters, too. That was honestly worse.
How do I sit by yet maintain my position in the company? I could easily say a few things that make people uncomfortable.

courting public opinion's mental capacity

I've been forced (well, salaried) to write on topics with which I don't agree, or around people I find undeserving of limited magazine white space. Mostly I've been instructed - by editors, bosses, friends and the like - to create editorial copy as a means to some end they all have in mind.
This blog is wholly mine and, while I made a brief attempt to demand of myself a blog about a most-deserving suicide victim whose wake today was the saddest I've attended in my 29 years, I cannot find the words and therefore am forsaking it, though it pertains in ways to the paragraphs that follow.
Why is it that we uphold such things as less-than-acceptable for public discussion ... politics is the obvious one, and religion ... but a person's mental state is a topic upon which people like to get on their soap box. (I'm certainly about to.)
And yet if you're talking about your own mental inability to recover from depression, it's taboo. You might as well wave your freak flag, stamp an A on your chest and wear those earlobe-hole-stretching things because you're going to be forever marked as such by the person you entrust with this information.
Anxiety? Fine, we get it. It's okay. As long as it doesn't last. It's fleeting and we don't have to think about it unless it's happening in front of us.
Fear? Sure. Everyone's scared of something. Though it's not a quality we'd like to cultivate, it's not one we condemn someone for.
But Depression? We have all been sad. It's the universal human condition. You have had that sinking feeling that the world sucks, everyone hates you and you're as insecure as the 7th grader who got her first period while wearing white pants. And yet when someone admits to being depressed, it's got it's own Bradley Effect-type response. The person to whom you've divulged this "secret" (you wouldn't keep your skin cancer a "secret" but this, yes) will most likely pretend to understand. But for those who have never experienced it, you will be to them another "race" of person. One who cannot pull themselves out of a "bad day" ... and to them it seems a bit ludicrous and self-centered.
This most common of human conditions is one to which we refuse to relate. I cannot continue to believe that the inability to accept this medical condition as such is still a holdover from the tough-as-nails keep-it-to-yourself norms of the 1950s.
We have opened up and thrown the towel in the ring about everything ... from sex and homosexuality to religion, race (particularly this election season) and welfare. And more. We hold down mental illness as the step child of healthcare. It's not covered under my current heathcare plan, I wouldn't tell my employer or feel like I could attend weekly sessions with a psychiatrist without coming up with some elaborate story for coworkers, friends and family when asked where I am every Tuesday from 4-5 p.m.
It's viewed as a failure of strength; you're a person who can't pull themselves up out of the depths of sadness. And heaven forbid you've lived a decent life before acting like the world is falling apart.
And it is this that caused a friend to take his own life. Finally, in an attempt to give society the finger, he started seeing a doctor about his depressed days. He confided in a few good people. He started taking some new anti-depressant drug (underresearched, underfunded because of underestimation of the condition) that actually made a difference. But when he pulled himself up, got strong and felt happy, he started thinking that he didn't need those anymore; he didn't want to take them or be labeled as such because he beat it.
He hadn't.