We Traveled Nationwide, Til We Settled Here on the East Side

I am not supposed to consider my sleep as a factor in not feeling well. I keep having to remind myself of that. I'm entering my fourth week of mild, self-controlled sleep deprivation, prescribed and overseen by a sleep psychologist. I woke up this morning feeling like I have the flu. I've had a headache for two days, I'm nauseated, I feel woozy. I slept through my alarm this morning. That has not happened in over a decade. I feel like I got good and drunk last night and have had about four drinks total in the past week.

When she told me that we're doing at least another week, I didn't cry. I haven't cried yet. I do have a giant lump in my throat because all I want to do right now is crawl back in bed after a cup of coffee and my ADHD medications. Good news is that we always talk in the morning, so I'll have plenty of time to get this particular thing out of my system before bedtime. She says that's important.

So much of what our appointments include is what I already know and use. The common thread is that all of these professionals seem to think that I should worry less. I don't really do much of that around bedtime. Sometimes, I do solve a huge problem as I'm falling asleep at night. But then it's out of my mind and I'm out like a light. I am an anxious person. Yes, we all know. However, I think that only rarely causes sleep problems.

So, we're doing relaxation techniques and mindfulness and breathing exercises and reframing exercises. These are things I've been doing for years. So the new common denominator is the sleep restriction. And I am trying so hard. She has me going to bed at 1:00am and getting up at 7:00, regardless of life situations. The idea is that restricted sleep will help me fall asleep faster and sleep more soundly. She says that according to the logs, it's working. I want to die, but she says it's working. My tracking app still tells me I've averaging less than five hours of sleep a night, between the time it takes to fall asleep and the time I spend awake in the middle of the night.

The thing is, I've never slept soundly. I've always awakened at the slightest sound or light, not to mention touching me in my sleep. There have been very few, very rare exceptions to that rule. I always wake up in the middle of the night a hundred times, also with few exceptions (one being the first night I bought a mattress so hard you can bounce a quarter off it, though that was fifteen years ago.) Far too frequently, I struggle to go back to sleep because my brain goes as soon as I'm awake. Doctors immediately diagnosed that one as anxiety and put me on an SSRI. They didn't bother to ask what kind of thoughts were keeping me awake. Y'all, I was solving every problem known to man. I wasn't worrying about things, I was just thinking about things that were interesting and useful enough to keep me awake. The SSRIs honestly didn't do much to help me sleep, but they sure keep me from caring. I got through the correct motions and I'm a very functional adult when I take them, but I remember nothing from those months of my life. It's a running joke if someone says "Do you remember...?" and I don't, so I ask "Was I on Prozac?"

As a teenager I wasn't even one of those kids who slept until noon. Once I'm awake, especially if the sun is up, I'm up. Let's gooooo. Lately, even if  I'm still not getting enough rest, I have to drag myself out of bed. It's demoralizing. I get tired about 6pm and I have to fight sleep to stay awake according to my sleep prescription. I wonder if my brain is just wired wrong and I'm one of those people who don't need as much sleep, but also one of those people with depression and anxiety, so I feel tired from feeling.

I know I'm burned out. I took two weeks off at Christmas and most of that was under sleep deprivation. I didn't get much done around the house. My list didn't get much shorter. I wonder what exactly is causing me to be so unproductive. So I kick myself on top of being burned out. I want to take time off work and not tell a soul. I may do that. No reason not to. I mean, is that deceptive? Lying by omission, I guess. Feels dishonest.

Today, I took down the shelf over the washing machine and dryer. That's been on the list. I gave up twice and went back and dammit, I got it. So now I can clean that whole thing back there, prime the wall and inside of the cabinet, change the dryer vent to the cool new magnetic one, fix the floor so that the machines won't get stuck if we have to take them out again, put the brace bar back, and drill holes for the shelf brackets, so that next time I have to pull the machines out, we won't have to figure out how to get them out with no head space. I don't know what this kind of trim is called. It's like half-round, but it's flat, with only slight curves on the sides. Theoretically, we'll be able to get the machines all the way back in the cabinet now so they don't hang out in the walkway. And, as an added bonus, there will be a shelf over the washer and dryer for...stuff. I'm doing my best to maximize space in a small home. I like that it's small. However, there is a ton on wasted space. I'm fixing that, one cabinet and shelf at a time.

That is today's task. It looks like more work than I think it should be. I'm getting close on this kitchen. I need to finish the temp backsplash, pull the fridge out and skim that wall and finish it, prime above the cabinets and paint up there, take down the chair rail (because who the fuck puts chair rail in a kitchen/dining room/laundry room combo like that will class up the place), paint the walls, put the range vent pipes back up, clip off the HVAC vent over the fridge and reinstall the grate, install any shelves I decide to use for over the cabinets, paint the cabinets, and replace the light over the sink with...something. That looks like so much, but considering what I've already done, it's a very much non-threatening list.

I've also discovered my new way of saying something like "take a short walk off a long pier" or "try to piss around a corner." I've never done either of those things, but I've finished drywall in a corner under a cabinet, and that sucks. 

I know that when I've got the house stuff done and can unpack everything, I'll feel better. I can't relax or do things I enjoy when I have this chaos around me and something that always needs doing. How should I stop and paint all day and then step out of the calm and into the chaos. I can't. I just can't get that mental barrier to drop so that I can relax that way.

Work has gotten insanely intense. I have doubts about my ability to meet the deadlines I've been given. I'm trying so hard, but this exact work tends to be grueling and frustrating. One more area of my life that I feel like I'm giving everything I have, but that just isn't enough. One more area where I feel like I'm struggling and when I say I'm struggling, I think maybe people don't understand the gravity of me saying that. Times like these, I want to ask people how often I've said that. It's not much. I usually just struggle and get it done. Because that's who I am.

I'm back on antibiotics for a sinus infection for the third time since October. The doctor wants me to see an ENT. (I stopped writing just now to go pay my car insurance, because guess who forgot to do that?) I know that I've had so many respiratory issues in my life. Nanny said I never was strong. Weak lungs and all that go with that. I'm hoping that there are options that won't include surgery, because I hear that's a rough one and I get frustrated with limitations after a week, let alone a long recovery.

I feel like I've spent most of my life in survival mode and I finally have the chance not to do that. But I have to choose that for myself. I have to do that in spite of every chance to put another thing on my plate to push myself back into what I've lived my whole life. It is up to me to break that cycle for myself. To do that, I'll have to say no. I'll have to get comfortable saying no. Ugh, gross.

I've already moved my mind out of the kitchen reno to the rest of the condo. I'm going to paint the walls. I need to choose colors. I have this fantasy of a galaxy mural around the front door. It will look like a portal to the universe. Is that tacky? Probably. But I don't really care because it will make me happy.

I got as far as getting the shelf down, scrubbing all the walls twice, patching the necessary holes, taping the stuff that shouldn't get paint, and sanding most of the patches. They just didn't dry enough to finish tonight. I'm cold and tired and hungry, so I think that means it's time to call it a day. I think I can finish the makeshift backsplash and the rest of this interior cabinet tomorrow, minus the shelf. I could use some help with a little bit of the woodwork, but it looks like I'm on my own and that's okay.

While I'm here, it's a big birthday year. I want to take a trip. I may go it alone. I never minded that. And you know, this is one of those years that I think it's more than okay to do just that. Don't let anyone else's timeline stop you. And if I let someone else's timeline interfere, I won't go. And I can't do that to myself again. I can't do that to anyone. It's just not fair. And I know, life isn't fair, but we can at least try to make it fair when we see it coming.

I struggle hard to let people in. I know it. Experience robs me of hope. It seems like every time I trust someone, it's the wrong person, with so few exceptions. Friends, family, lovers, all of it. And I think that's either a sign that I just haven't really met my people yet or maybe just I'm supposed to be mostly solitary. I mean, I really do enjoy my own company. I don't dread being alone like I used to, like the people I love are. There are so many worse things than being alone.

I deleted the Facebook app from my phone. Honestly, that feels like growth. Circa 2015, there was no way I could do that. 2016 kind of made me internet famous for a second. I truly think that's why I began writing again. That gave me hope. It made me feel like, in a sea of beautiful stories, I told mine well. But it feels like that again. Every time I look, I lose hope. Someone I admire said "Alabama is beautiful, it's just that there's Alabamans there" and this feels like that, but all of America. I hate it, but it feels like the whole nation can finally understand the duality of the Southern thing. We love where we're from and we want to save her, but fuck, people are being shitty to each other. And I just can't watch it from that perspective anymore. It's too heavy on me. I have to keep working to find beauty where I can and to make it where it's missing. In the real world. Not on a screen.

I don't know if I've said because, honestly, I haven't asked her if it's okay, but I know well the woman I bought my home from. It's funny, but as an adult, she's what I would have expected for my mom to be if I knew me and her independently. She's brilliant, like so smart. She's kind and funny as hell and flawed and beautiful and brave and she has remarkable taste in music. She has a sister too. Their relationship is strained at times, but reminds me of mine with my sister. They love each other so much and fight so much. I look around my home at the tiny details and I know which ones the homeowner made and which ones she made for her sister. And it's so relatable. I love those two women. Like, so much.

I feel lately like I've isolated myself because there's only so much of me to go around. There is literally only so much time. And I wonder how much of that is intentional. I miss my few people. I miss my friend in my new hometown. Lord, we are so much alike and I love her. You know, I see her struggling the same way I do. I thinks it's because our brains are so much the same. Our experiences and trauma and hopes and the way we love, it's the same. When I was a kid, I thought I'd end up in Chattanooga, and I may still, but for now, my home is Athens, Georgia.

I can't remember if I ever told the story here of why I'm here. How I came to be here. I came here as an adult for the first time for music. I don't remember the exact circumstances, but it certainly wasn't the first night I spent here. I remember walking. I had probably had some drinks or perhaps I was taking an SSRI. That's a callback. I don't remember what year it was. I was walking downtown and I somehow ended up in front of the Athena statue. If you've ever seen it, you know. 

My mind went back to, I don't know, 2011 or so, when I was Athena for Dragon*Con. I wasn't sure of myself back then, but I was sure of that character version of myself. I felt unstoppable. I felt powerful and strong. And looking back, I realize that I have always been more Medusa than the woman who made her. When I finally read the real story in college, I resented myself as the character of Athena. Athena was like the original mean girl. Fuck her.

Anyway, there I was, self-assured for the first time in my whole life. I stood there in costume, all seven feet of me, when the younger woman walked into the vestibule above, her mouth dropped open, she reached to her friend without taking her eyes off me, and then she pointed. Right at me. I don't remember if I broke character, but my whole soul smiled. That weekend, a couple of boys, probably real close to my age, but Lord they seemed young, walked up to me and said "You look just like the statue." I asked which one. They said "the one in Athens." I'd never been here then and I said "Greece?" and one of them said "no, Georgia." And I felt a snotty level of superiority. God, I was a stupid child.

Later, when I went there, I saw her. By complete accident. She was underlit by night, gold and white. And she was like the one in Nashville. I'm told, a replica of the one in Greece. The one I've always dreamed of seeing for myself, since I was too young to dream that I'd ever go. And I stood there, in the aftershow glow, thinking to myself "I would love to live here." And that's how the seed was planted. When my friend talked about selling my home the first time, I told her "I get first dibs." I was married. This place isn't nearly enough space for three people and three cats, but I opened my mouth before it passed through my brain. Pretty sure that was aftershow glow too. Here, in the city where my favorite charity lives, where music lives, this is where I wanted to come home to. Later, when she talked about selling it again, I reminded her that I have first dibs. She asked a while later if I was serious. By then, I was full-ass divorced, seeing my boy outgrow me. 

Without her, I'd not be a homeowner. I'd have never pushed myself the way she did. I didn't believe I'd ever own a goddamn thing. It's just generational expectations and fear and well, mostly fear. Like I haven't spent my life defying that whole concept. But you know, I don't do well at all until someone else believes whatever dream I'm having. And so here I am, working on the place I hope to live for a very long time. The place I need to really start being in. I haven't yet, but again, other people's timelines.

So, as I was prepping dinner for myself, I thought about what to title this post. I chose a lyric I love from a song I love, written by a man I love. I always had a bone to pick with the song. The lyric is "We traveled nationwide, til we settled here on the East Side 'cause settlin's the sound of having no place left to go." And I always thought it should be "We traveled nationwide, til we settled here on the East Side 'cause settlin's the sound of having no place left to leave." It didn't mess up the rhyme scheme or change the...cadence of the song. And I've become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I got nowhere else to leave. Leaving here wouldn't change anyone but me. And that's both liberating and fucking depressing.

I came here to be here forever, and I still want that. But to do that and not regret it, I've got to start living here and not just being here. I have to start doing what I said I would if  I got to hold the dream in my hands that I chased my whole life. I've got to grind less and live more. I mean, I'm 40. I have enough money to retire. I own a home. I'm in the top 15% of earners in the country and the top 5% of women. "I've" arrived alive...and damn, it's overrated." I tend to make it frequently to top 5% lists and still, imposter syndrome.

I attended an art show Saturday for an Athens woman who died in 2016. She was Black and chronically ill and brilliant and sardonic and beloved. What makes me sad is that she will never know how much. She was chronically ill with diabetes, arthritis, and asthma. I have on good authority that one of her smallest, simplest pieces of art is now insured for $3,000. I wonder what she'd think of that. That's the funny thing about art. I think we make it for ourselves, but if we get lucky, folks remember us after we're dead. That's what the Vikings would call immortality. That is Valhalla. And it broke my heart. I read a diary entry she wrote. It was simply about taking her meds in the morning and it broke my heart because I felt it. Take your meds and you'll live long and be able to see your legacy bear fruit. Except obviously no. Do everything you can and you'll still die long before you meant to and no one will know your name or love what you make for at least a decade after you're dust.

I have to write this or it will kill me. I think I can't embroider much anymore. My vision isn't having it. I couldn't do it until I had Lasik and now I'm getting old and my near vision is going. "Eye strain" says the doc. That thing I finished in April may be the last I ever finish. Boy, was that short lived. And I truly cannot see to do it for hours the way I used to. And I have so little to show for it myself. I give it all away. Nanny. So little of my own art I ever see. I see it on other people's walls and backs and in their hands. I kept saying that I'd do for myself eventually. Spoiler: we will never do for ourselves. I can maybe live to 97 and1/2 and I will still do for others and never myself.

I want to ask what happened to her ceramic nativity. I didn't know she was creative. I had no idea. I saw that beautiful ceramic art and asked her where it came from and she told me she painted it. She couldn't sing and she couldn't spell, but man, she could paint ceramic. And she did it for love of her god. That changed some things in me. Before she went elsewhere, I told her my that I'd found God and my work salary. Those are the things I thought were most important to her.

I went home for Christmas. I went to my baby brother and my sister-in-law and my nephew. I walked into their new, lovely house and the first thing I saw was the painting I gave Nanny. It was the first time I made something and thought "that's worth giving I've ever created." I had it framed, with my baby boy helping me decide what was best, and presented it to her. She said "Is it paint by number?" and that was the best compliment I could ever receive. They told me that it had been destined for the estate sale. I never thought it was worth enough to matter at all. But they did. And that matters to me.

I've come home a little. I've come home to the parts that help. I've tried to leave behind the rest. I should move home. I should live in that place. I can work from wherever, mostly. My own aspirations smothered who I am. Let's watch.