Analyze this

Sometimes it's a tough call- Do I go to therapy because I'm not doing very well, or do I go to therapy when I feel really great to get that reaffirmed by someone else? Why is it that I feel better about my successes when my therapists celebrates them with me? Too often I find myself calling my mother or a close friend after a session and triumphantly regaling them with a sentence of praise or a word of advice offered to me by my therapist. Too often I am dimly aware as I'm gabbing on that I've heard this advice and/or praise somewhere else before (perhaps from my mother or a close friend?) but hearing it from someone who's credentials adorn the wall of a rented downtown room makes it better. Realer. More valid. Coveted.


I've been thinking a bit recently about this economy. About the concept of paying someone for a service that you may or may not need. I think that a vast number of people make their livings off of a knowledge that translates to a service that everyone else is willing to pay for. Maybe I don't know anything about psychology. Thing is, I know as little about psychology as my shrink knows about me, so neither one of us is truly fully qualified. Even if I was a shrink, I'd still be fucked due to personal bias so I suppose it's a moot point. 


But it applies to everything!


Like, I need to take singing lessons. I need them for a lot of reasons; I don't breathe well, I don't sing from my diaphragm, I don't have a basic understanding of my jaw and mouth muscles and so much more. I could easily go to school, do the work, earn a degree and figure it out for myself, but that would cost way more time and money! So the easiest thing is to just pay someone else and try not to hate yourself for not knowing enough about anything to do it yourself for free. 


I can't fix my own car, cobble my own shoes, cook a 5 course meal- but all these things are so tantalizingly within reach that it's almost frustrating. 

I've moved!

I've started a new blog called "Germs in the Workplace"

http://www.tumblr.com/blog/germsintheworkplace

Check it out for more of the same, only hopefully more cohesive and with a much less ridiculous backdrop.

Love,

Gloria Dysphoria

I must admit I am pending. An idling vehicle at a yellow light, a fried egg that has yet to be flipped, a loose tooth that needs to be pulled, an awkward haircut that hasn't grown out yet.

For a society hell bent on progress it does seem to be in personal short supply. Is it just that progress was designed to be something one always strives for yet never really feels? Perhaps in my day to day activities it can and does appear that I'm stuck in one place perpetually. Still young, still anxious, still scared of nothing, still resentful of the nothingfear. Perhaps my day to day self is unable to look objectively across a broader trajectory to sift through the mire and collect the little self affirming gems of progress and hope. I think that I've totally lost my big picture person. That part of my brain that can examine things from a lofty height. She's gone somewhere else! Where? I don't know. If I did, I'd trace her down, hog tie her and wrangle her back into my mind crate to help me maintain a firmer grasp on reality.

And I'm running out of synovial gas.

22 years, just me and you, baby.

They say that a person can get used to almost anything. They say that time heals all wounds. They also say survival of the fittest.

My coworker showed me something the other day; he asked me what my age is (22) and he got a ruler and pulled the tape out until it was 22 inches long. We then chatted about my lifestyle and habits for a few moments and tried to suss out an approximate natural age of death. After factoring in stress from anxiety, he decided that 80 was a generous number (though I'm not so sure!) and pulled the tape out further until it was 80 inches long. "See?" he said, "look how much time you still have".

And yet the phobia is of wasting it. And the annoyance stems from time wasted thinking about wasting time. And the fear comes from thinking of the time already wasted fretting over the time wasted thinking about wasting time. And so time goes. And it is not dissimilar to the feeling you get when you've let something slip from your hands but are fumbling to not have it drop to the ground and you are juggling lower and lower, desperately trying to anticipate the errant objects' seemingly unpredictable movements that are really only unpredictable because you aren't thinking about which way you toss it as you try to save it from yourself. Think. Only don't think.

Is it better to react or to anticipate? And if it is better to react (but you're a lousy "reacter" and a masterful "anticipater") can it be wise to do the less healthy thing because you're better at it? Is the feeling of satisfaction you can get from perfectly anticipating enough to forgo learning a new way of thinking that could possibly make your tape measurer longer? Or do most people just say, "fuck the tape analogy!" and then go swim after eating? I DON'T EVEN FUCKING SWIM!

So I wonder (and ruminate and obsess and theorize and hypothesize and criticize and idealize and fantasize and despise) if one can get used to anything, why then, have I not yet gotten used to this?

The Cure for the Common Panic Attack

On nights like this I can see a physical imprint my hands leave on everything I touch- a waxy panic residue, a flaky shaky energy that cascades off of every part of me in a seemingly endless supply. I can trace my pacing across the floor and my sporadic taps and twitches on doors, walls and my person.

I am aware of a more or less calm exterior despite wanting to tear my hair out. Despite wanting to cut my own flesh and rip my burning stomach out. Despite doubting my sanity and thinking in circles and losing the ability to move my eyes or lungs. Ow my sternum, my ears, my breasts, my bowels, my ribs and entrails and appetite and legs. My ass is twitching. I want to fight someone I want to choke to death. I am choking to death.

I lose my taste for life.

And I hate myself. I hate myself with a passion. I hate myself as though there's some nobility in it; as though self hatred is a redeeming quality. I hate myself in lieu of being humble. I examine my ills and feel revulsion.

I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm Going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going Going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going.

The world is out to get me.

My mother has offered to treat me with Reiki, but there is no cure for the common panic attack.

Day 1

Technically this isn't Day One. Technically, this is day eight. However, there was one day of set up, which would make this day seven, and we took a break for 2 days making this sort of somewhere between days five and six. I never considered the marking of days until my mother asked me how the time was passing for me up here. Above the sink in the bathroom, right at eye level is a little window that faces west and every evening at sunset I wash my hands and think, "there goes another one".

To explain briefly, I am at a barn near Stoney Creek in the county of West Lincoln, bordering on Hamilton Ontario. A 20 minute drive away rewards us with a post box, a Fortinos, an LCBO and a TD Bank. If we go a little farther we can also access a Giant Tiger and a Food Basics. The Barn itself is gorgeous and old. The water is a little smelly and the kitchen is modest, but it opens up to a lovely main area as well as a spiral staircase leading up to a loft for sleep and general lazing about-ness.

The Reason I am here in this barn near Stoney Creek is because I am recording my first ever full length album with the particular band I am here with. It is a consistently trying, wholly rewarding experience. We are operating at an intense version of low intensity. Those who have energy are conserving it. Holding on for dear life. We have 14 more days up here more or less.
I'm not scared... I may be a little bored. I may be an only child feeling deprived of "alone time" or "down time" or whatever we typically require. And I'm anxious most of the time. It's tougher than I expected.

why can't a blade of grass just be a blade of grass?
why does it have to be examined so? and considered from every angle?
is there dog piss on this blade of grass? did a sneaker tread on it, covering it with the filth of urban streets? who sat on this grass before me? were they healthy?

i know that to you, a blade of grass is just a blade of grass. it's green, and pretty and a good place to sit when the weather is nice.

and so perhaps the world to you can simply be the world. i sit and think about how beautiful it would be to sit on grass and share drinks and open doors and take the subway and converse with people and handle money if they were all just simply what they are.

i live in a made up world of projected consequences. i do not feel safe anywhere.