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General update: CVO trip for a party, the drive back up in summer weather
I went down to Corvallis for my mother's 65th birthday almost-surprise party—not a surprise that there would be a party, but a surprise that out-of-towners, including her sisters, would be there; they also gave me my ride down from Portland. I am very bad at social events, even casual ones; I went and I didn't fail miserably (just moderately), so that's something, I suppose.
My major reason to attend, other than for my mother, was that my upper-elementary school teacher would be there. (I went to a Montessori school, which means I was in small classes with the same students and teachers over three-year blocks.) She's been back in town or a while, but this was my first time seeing her since I was twelve. That block—4th through 6th grade—was the most formative part of my childhood: I began working closely with animals, went vegetarian; I was a bookworm, and our class had its own private library, in its own room; it's also when my mental illnesses first became apparent. This teacher cared for classroom animals, exposed us to a lot of hippy/liberal things (moreso, I mean, than the average Montessori experience), world religions, etc., and that influence stuck with me still to this day.
Catching up with her was ... an experience. I have two modes, "deflection" and "shocking honesty," and because I still trust her because I respected her when I was twelve, I subjected her to a lot of the latter. But she was receptive; she's the person I remember, in that way: avoiding the larger social gathering, asking insightful questions to individuals. It was the exact conversation I wish I could have, where I can be honest and complete. But I felt guilty almost immediately after, and still do. It hits at the precise root of my compulsive honesty: my crazy is my life, so fundamentally that I can't answer any personal question without divulging it, but it's inappropriate to divulge, and wouldn't it just be much better if I could lie; but I can't lie, and don't want to, because what's the point of talking if you don't say something meaningful?
(It wouldn't've been so bad if my last significant interaction, right before I bailed, was a vast mistake: a friend of the family opening with "so what do you do?"—please never ask this to anyone, please please please—which lead to "I'm disabled and unemployed" "...but what do you wish you could do?" "I wish I could not be disabled anymore, as I find it unenjoyable," the sort of conversation that made the MISTAKE MISTAKE MISTAKE alarm ring in my head, but I was so tired and drunk on honesty and was not then nor ever am not fit for public consumption; there's a vengeful part of my compulsive honesty, an urge to present the truth precise because it's inappropriate, and that inappropriate-ness, that "this thing, this fundamental thing, this thing which defines everything about you, is not okay to share" has caused me such harm. It's been a decade since that harm, I should be over it, and yet!)
Then I spent ~10 days closed in Devon's bedroom, speaking to no one except a very good dog and occasional cat (and also Devon), lying in bed and reading, and playing the occasional video game; and it was approximately enough recovery.
- - - - -
I came back to PDX because I wanted to see my cat, and we made the mistake of driving up on a weekday afternoon because it fit every schedule except traffic and the first heat wave of the season. The car began to overheat once we hit the Portland traffic, so we ended up pulling off to the dead end of a residential street—a vacant lot and a half, tucked under an overpass and against a power station, nothing there but the shade of trees with their sudden vibrant green and the quiet backs to apartment complexes. We hung out for an hour, to let the car cool and traffic pass; I read 1984 for the millionth time. Then we drove home through back ways we know from when I lived in SE. It was, bizarrely—the unexpected 4-hour car trip, unseasonably hot, broken radio, rush hour traffic, and yet—a lovely, long goodbye, relaxing despite the stressful circumstances.
I hate summer, don't get me wrong. But summer is such an intense experience, so physically present, that the first signs of it conjure something akin to nostalgia: memories of spending all day in bed with all the electronics off, reading, reading, coaxing a crossbreeze out of my opened windows, and the anticipation of sunset and the full-body relief of tired eyes and tired skin. I saw that in the haven we found in that dead end.
- - - - -
These things are over a week old, now, but I've been been so tired lately; I've been having back issues for the last three or four weeks, the "wake up already in pain" variety, which is part of it. All I want to do is lay down and read, but the more time I spend reading, the longer the omnipresent backlog of book reviews becomes, fie. (It is so long.) But there've so many great books lately! Almost everything hovers at that 4-, 4.5-stars level, not quite flawless, but that can't really be a complaint.
My major reason to attend, other than for my mother, was that my upper-elementary school teacher would be there. (I went to a Montessori school, which means I was in small classes with the same students and teachers over three-year blocks.) She's been back in town or a while, but this was my first time seeing her since I was twelve. That block—4th through 6th grade—was the most formative part of my childhood: I began working closely with animals, went vegetarian; I was a bookworm, and our class had its own private library, in its own room; it's also when my mental illnesses first became apparent. This teacher cared for classroom animals, exposed us to a lot of hippy/liberal things (moreso, I mean, than the average Montessori experience), world religions, etc., and that influence stuck with me still to this day.
Catching up with her was ... an experience. I have two modes, "deflection" and "shocking honesty," and because I still trust her because I respected her when I was twelve, I subjected her to a lot of the latter. But she was receptive; she's the person I remember, in that way: avoiding the larger social gathering, asking insightful questions to individuals. It was the exact conversation I wish I could have, where I can be honest and complete. But I felt guilty almost immediately after, and still do. It hits at the precise root of my compulsive honesty: my crazy is my life, so fundamentally that I can't answer any personal question without divulging it, but it's inappropriate to divulge, and wouldn't it just be much better if I could lie; but I can't lie, and don't want to, because what's the point of talking if you don't say something meaningful?
(It wouldn't've been so bad if my last significant interaction, right before I bailed, was a vast mistake: a friend of the family opening with "so what do you do?"—please never ask this to anyone, please please please—which lead to "I'm disabled and unemployed" "...but what do you wish you could do?" "I wish I could not be disabled anymore, as I find it unenjoyable," the sort of conversation that made the MISTAKE MISTAKE MISTAKE alarm ring in my head, but I was so tired and drunk on honesty and was not then nor ever am not fit for public consumption; there's a vengeful part of my compulsive honesty, an urge to present the truth precise because it's inappropriate, and that inappropriate-ness, that "this thing, this fundamental thing, this thing which defines everything about you, is not okay to share" has caused me such harm. It's been a decade since that harm, I should be over it, and yet!)
Then I spent ~10 days closed in Devon's bedroom, speaking to no one except a very good dog and occasional cat (and also Devon), lying in bed and reading, and playing the occasional video game; and it was approximately enough recovery.
- - - - -
I came back to PDX because I wanted to see my cat, and we made the mistake of driving up on a weekday afternoon because it fit every schedule except traffic and the first heat wave of the season. The car began to overheat once we hit the Portland traffic, so we ended up pulling off to the dead end of a residential street—a vacant lot and a half, tucked under an overpass and against a power station, nothing there but the shade of trees with their sudden vibrant green and the quiet backs to apartment complexes. We hung out for an hour, to let the car cool and traffic pass; I read 1984 for the millionth time. Then we drove home through back ways we know from when I lived in SE. It was, bizarrely—the unexpected 4-hour car trip, unseasonably hot, broken radio, rush hour traffic, and yet—a lovely, long goodbye, relaxing despite the stressful circumstances.
I hate summer, don't get me wrong. But summer is such an intense experience, so physically present, that the first signs of it conjure something akin to nostalgia: memories of spending all day in bed with all the electronics off, reading, reading, coaxing a crossbreeze out of my opened windows, and the anticipation of sunset and the full-body relief of tired eyes and tired skin. I saw that in the haven we found in that dead end.
- - - - -
These things are over a week old, now, but I've been been so tired lately; I've been having back issues for the last three or four weeks, the "wake up already in pain" variety, which is part of it. All I want to do is lay down and read, but the more time I spend reading, the longer the omnipresent backlog of book reviews becomes, fie. (It is so long.) But there've so many great books lately! Almost everything hovers at that 4-, 4.5-stars level, not quite flawless, but that can't really be a complaint.