from medication that poisoned my brain has been quite the adventure.
I specifically told my Doc that I have a hypersensitivity to medication.
“Oh, you’ll do fine” they said.
“You won’t have any problems” they said.
I knew going in that it was risky because, let’s be real here, I’ve been on meds in the past and I went off the deep end then, too.
But to stop the sleepwalking, sleeptexting, sleepcooking, sleepdriving … the list goes on but what would the point be … I went with it.
Big mistake.
I lost entire pieces of my memory, some of which have still not been fully recovered.
It stopped the sleep-stuff and controlled my mania by making me a hollowed out shell without emotions.
WTH?
I spent 48 hours simply trying to remember my niece’s name.
Friends have marked me off their list and I don’t blame them.
Well, actually, I do blame them.
They’ve known me forever and should have realized something was up.
Mayhaps they weren’t the friends I thought they were.
That, at this point, is neither here nor there.
What’s done is done.
Needless to say, in the near future, I may be sleep-stuffing, totally manic and my own weird self again, but it beats losing pieces of myself that define me.
Meds work excellently for some, but to me, they are poison.
Always have been and I take responsibility for giving in.
Never again.
I learned this lesson years ago and it sucks that I had the “maybe this time” mentality and had to learn it all over again.
of blogging about driving around today with the convertible top down, the music loud and the wind in my face; of blooming trees and budding flowers, puffy clouds in a blue, sun-drenched sky and the perfectness of a warm April day.
But I just hung up the phone after talking to my mom and the things I previously held up in importance faded into the background.
She is a rock, a beacon, a lighthouse, a safe haven.
She knows everything about me, the things that shamed me and, at one time or another, shamed her.
In my youth, I hurt her deeply and couldn’t find within myself the knowledge or ability to make it right.
She knows of my dreams and aspirations and is always the first one to encourage me even as she puts her own dreams and aspirations on hold.
It isn’t easy to explain to someone that thoughts, images, words, experiences, memories and a myriad of other flotsam runs through my head, in a constant stream, even when I’m sleeping.
And that is when I am at my baseline and not in manic mode.
She takes it in stride without judgement or condemnation and, I have come to realize, did so even when I felt I was being judged and condemned.
Nobody can condemn me any more than I condemn myself. It is the nature of my world and I live with it.
She knows, though, simply by looking at my face or hearing my voice ,when I am in the throes of mania or, thankfully more rarely, the despondency of a depressive crash.
She understands that sometimes, I have to go away; from her, from myself, from everyone and just be dormant.
She knows these things and doesn’t hold them against me.
There is no “well, you did this or that or the other thing”.
She isn’t like that.
She is patient and kind.
She is, without doubt, the Proverbs 31 woman.
I would like to be like her, but that is an aspiration that will never come. It isn’t that my cup is half empty, but that I live, as much as I can, in a reality-based existence.
She is a light in a dark place and I migrate to her when I need simply to know that someone loves me unconditionally.
I tell her I love her, but how do you describe to someone that you cannot imagine a life without them.
Unless I die first by some freak event, by the natural order of things, I will lose her at some point in my life.
I cannot imagine a world without my mom.
So I will put that with other things I cannot imagine into a box that lives in the outer-regions of my heart.
When I am manic, the box will break open and I will have to face the possibility, but for now, when I am am simply on overdrive, it is secure in the little locked box.
She inspires me with her acceptance and encouragement and that, without doubt or reservation, beats blooming trees in springtime seen from a back road drive with the convertible top down.
I love you, Mom .
A houseguest
My Mother’s Mother’s bleeding hearts
This is how she makes me feel … cherished
All of that being said about my mom, I want to extrapolate to another area and extend prayers and encouragement to a friend that I have long lost touch with. She lost her son, the light of her world and is now lying among the shattered pieces of her world. Keep Pam Begley in your prayers when you pray. I cannot fathom losing a child.
although sometimes, until it is compromised, we can forget that simple fact and take for granted that we will just wake up every morning.
We forget that no-one is promised another day, another hour, another minute.
I did.
Took it for granted, that is.
I set my alarm each night in a way that is likely odd to most. I set it for 1:00 am, then hit the three hour snooze which takes me to 4:00 am, then hit the preset alarm for 5:15. And when it goes off that last time, I spring up and begin my routine which is exactly the same every morning.
No deviation.
Ever.
This past Friday, I followed the same pattern. I woke up, started the coffee, brushed my teeth, drank half my coffee and took the rest into a scalding hot shower for 20 minutes, started my car (it’s pitch dark here at that hour, so clothes are optional), fed the cat, dressed and went to work.
I arrived without incident, but while walking into the building, I passed out.
A friend I walk into work with most mornings was with me and kept me from busting my head on the concrete, for which I am grateful, and got me to the ER.
I was found to be profoundly anemic and the plans to administer a transfusion were quickly underway.
But in the meantime, life interfered.
My heart stopped.
I don’t recollect that as it was for less than two minutes before the adept ER staff had me back up and running, but it doesn’t change the fact that, for a period of 96 seconds, my heart did not beat.
I left that part out when I told my family about my transfusion because, well, I suppose I don’t have a good reason except that they would have made a big deal about it and worried unnecessarily about the whole thing.
I didn’t see any lights or hear voices nor did I venture into the afterlife.
I have no stories to tell or visions to embellish.
What I do know is that each moment, even the boring and insubstantial ones, carry some importance.
I could have simply slipped away. That would have been ok as I know who I am, to whom I belong and where I well be when my time is up.
I’m thankful, however, that I have more time to love those who touch my heart, to offer encouragement and to continue to walk the path I have been given.
that has the ability to soothe the soul while it simultaneously sends it reeling in turmoil and heartache, joy and sadness; reminiscing and rebelling even as it brings us back, unto ourselves, full circle?
That is is the beauty of it, is it not, to touch the untouchable space in the soul and spark the imagination? To make us think beyond what we know so that we try to touch on that which we weren’t even aware we wanted to know?
Part of the mystery? The enigma? The fascination?
I listen to music for hours every day, various genres ranging from hard, head-banging rock, to soothing yet heartbreaking cello, to piano concertos. There are soaring arias, operatic manifestations that vary widely from my beloved Bryn to local, struggling, yet resilient talent, all of which move me on one one level or another.
Move me to seek, to find, to think, to imagine, to embrace and learn what I’ve always wanted to know. It, music, is a kind of courage that makes one feel worthy to not only want to know, but to feel that they have right to discover.
It is empowering, this music of which I speak and it belongs to all of us.
Listening to music and interpreting it is no different really, than developing the photographs I take and finding in each one something magnificent or a flaw that makes it unintelligible and useless on every level.
Music is the same.
There are pieces that I listen to daily because I cannot help myself. I love them, the sound of them, the places they take my mind whether I want to go or not and that is part of its power.
The power to take one on a journey, maybe pleasurable, possibly painful, but a journey that will leave the listener feeling more than they felt before and less because now, they realize that they were, prior to this moment, incomplete.
It is a humbling experience, understanding music and feeling a connection.
Anyone can hear music, but only some can comprehend it understand it and seek it because the choice, once they have experienced it, is no longer their own.
They are a slave to the sound, the vibrations, the magic that music has to offer.
There are composers who enamor me more than others, some very well known, some known not at all.
It makes little difference, at the end of the day.
There are composers I love to hear and conductors I love to watch. Some, at their very core, are nothing less than brilliant.
There are songs that are sappy and sentimental that pull at me just as there are instrumentals that draw from the depths of my inner being and make me feel things that I had either forgotten or purposely hidden away.
I’m still not sure how I feel about those except they evoke emotions that I’m not fully prepared to embrace.
It is during these indecisive moments that I throw things at mirrors, shattering them and feeling perfectly fine about it.
Whether it soothes my spirit, fries my brain or breaks my heart, I need music; it is the language, fourth to words, shadow and light, of my blood.
I can’t play a note of it, but I have an innate understanding of it.
It moves me like the river flowing over the rocks that I so dearly love.
Without music, everything else in my life would go on as it always has, but all of the emotions would be diluted. That, to me, is a sobering thought.
Severance Hall … Cleveland Orchestra … Mahler’s First.
My favorite trumpeter …
Proof that nature is full of music and miraculous things…
The joy of simply knowing what music is about …
A clarinetists’ hands … music and beauty and awesomeness lives therein …
By showing me what He sees through the eyes He sees them with.
And by allowing me to capture on film that which He chooses to show me.
Being a photographer is one of His greatest gifts to me and I don’t take His beauty lightly.
I am, in the space of time that I walk through the beauty of creation, one with that creation.
I am part of that which lives, thrives and survives.
I am His.
He reminds me every day of His love for me by showing me the wonders of the earth He created, of His beauty and, for whatever reason, He allows me to see it through His perfect eyes. I am often blinded by life, by moments, by disappointments and disillusionment, but He reminds me, every single day, that I am His.
Through the fragrant blooms of springtime that make their way even while winter tries to force his hand. They are strong and resilient, those blooms. Strong-willed and fearless as they burst forth with courage and strength.
The Creator’s fragrant palette
Through the fireflies of summer, which frolic beneath a summer moon and compete with the magnificence of the stars. They blink and fade, wander and mesmerize, bringing magic and comfort and the promise of something wonderful.
Like a moth to a flame, so the fireflies are drawn to the moon of summer.
Through the colorful leaves that adorn the trees that catch my eye, the smell of decay on the ground mixed with the subtle scent of of beauty that can only be felt in the heart. The joyous chatter of the brilliance of fall as it rains down on forgotten paths and leaves the mind reeling with possibilities.
the beauty and mystery of fallen leaves
Through the winter, the cold air and frigid temperatures that can freeze a waterfall in her tracks, making her song one of unrivaled silence as her beauty emanates praise and thanksgiving.
The magnificent song of Winter silence
Creation, frozen in time, for a time, for a season
A bubbling creek becomes suspended in something, motionless and full of such magic that only the heart can understand it. Some things are so rare, so precious, so full of beauty that nothing is left but to offer praise.
Rocks, suspended in silence, yet singing their winter song
Winter speaks with a strong voice even when it is silent
Seeing it, immersing myself in it, becoming a part of it reminds me that I, too am, a child of the creator.
A beautiful view of a snowy Clinch Mountain … one that I call home
My cup runneth over.
His beauty unfolds before me in the misty rain of barren landscapes, foggy sunrises behind mountains and beneath a black sky glittering with stars.
without rain, there can be no rainbow
From my front porch
I am blessed and, when I forget that, He reminds me with His magnificence.
From my driveway, I am reminded that i am worth His magnificence.
I shall be telling this with a sigh, Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two road diverged in a wood, and I — I took the ones less traveled by, And that has mad all the difference ~ Robert Frost
A Photographer's Heart 