May 14, 2008

Twisty, twisty, twisty

So here's the thing about recovery. Every day, EVERY DAY, I've got to adapt. Good day? Wow, now I can make plans, get things done, achieve some goals. Bad day, damn. Guess I have to scale back, take a breather.

What about dizzy days, ever had those? Today is a dizzy day and this week has been full of dizzy evenings. Twirling when I stand, spinning when I lay down, nauseated when I walk kind of days. Time to adapt again; no driving, no coffee (oh, no!), stillness ad infinitum. Create a day of sitting, internal movement, typing and thinking only. It's boring, it's frustrating, but it's part of the whole uphill road I'm on. If I want to get to the top of the damn hill, I've got to keep climbing.

When you first hear the words "post-partum depression", you picture little tiny infants and a woman still in her maternity clothes, unshowered and overwhelmed. But my baby isn't a baby anymore and my maternity clothes are long gone. I'll give you the unshowered, but it's still morning. The overwhelmed comes and goes. In my opinion, (and, hell, this is all about my opinion, right?), the long-term reality of recovery is flippin' ridiculous. There's the medications, the disturbed sleep and appetite, the exhaustion; all of it playing into the roller-coaster of consuming doubt that I'll ever be myself again.

And then? Then, just as I'm starting to get my feet solidly on the ground, my brain starts spinning like a top at every movement. Just as my family is starting to believe again in my stability, the foundations around me... tilt. That's the worst part. Not only do I have to shake it off, call it a new day and adapt, but so does everyone else around me. If I can't drive, someone else has to take the kids to school. If I'm too dizzy to stand and move around, then it's a sure bet I can't take care of my girls by myself since all they do is move around.

I'm frustrated. I'm irritated. This is so OLD, and DONE and FINISHED that I can't believe I'm still even talking about it. On the bright side, I am trying to revel in the heat of my irritation. At least at this point I have the self awareness to see that this is not me, this is not my fault and it's really fucking inconvenient.

Soon, all the Brain Chemistry of Wackiness will again lay placid and calm and helpful. Soon, my husband will be able to leave for work without wondering what on Earth is he going to do to take care of me. Soon, I will be myself again.

I live in the constant anticipation of "soon". But today, I adapt.

May 10, 2008


So awhile ago, I went out with some girlfriends and they came up with the idea that I should write erotic stories. My friend Jennifer said she thought I'd be awesome at it, that I could really hit that nail on the head, so to speak.

Of course, my initial response was complete disbelief. I mean, don't you need to feel erotic in order to write erotica? I'm sitting pretty here in my mommy-jeans and I haven't taken a shower. I put on perfume once in a blue moon and my legs haven't been regularly shaved since before the Iraq war (no connection, though, purely coincidental). My language filter is usually in overdrive, as my three-year-old daughter tends to repeat everything I say, for days and days and days. For example:

Me, stubbing my toe on the chair the baby has just pulled out: "OUCH, DARNIT! GOSH IT ALL TO HECKEROONIE!"

Anna, gleefully: "Heckeroonie! Heckeroonie!"

Still, as a writer, I do like a challenge, so I figured I'd give it a (very brief) shot. Here's what I can come up with erotically, but with my mommy-filter still intact. (At this point some extreme sympathy for my long-suffering husband would be appropriate).

"Stepping over the cast-off, ketchup streaked bibs in the front hall, Francesca opened the door to the delivery man on the front porch.

"Yes?" she whispered softly at him, her voice still raw from the series of colds her toddler had brought home that month.

"I just need your signature right here, ma'am." Holding out a pen and clipboard, his eyes roamed over her figure, briefly taking it all in. Her every so slightly unkempt hair was pulled back in a sensuous ponytail, the high-waisted jeans straining slightly against her skin. Coffee stains on her off-white t-shirt drew his gaze to her full-figured bosom, like a moth to flame. One breast seemed slightly lower then the other. He realized with a rush of excitement that her nursing bra had come unclasped on that side, unleashing the fullness of her flesh.

The door knob was sticky against her skin. Probably more ketchup, she thought. Seductively, she wiped her palm across the back pocket of her jeans and reached for his pen..."

So? What do you think? Should I call HarperCollins?