Dry eye

It's almost six am. I'm thinking of all of the departed: about my dad John, my father in law Alberto, my brother in law Gabe, and the shih tzus, Frodo and Chewbacca. Life is fleeting. It's short. It goes by so quick.

Sometimes, and maybe everyone isn't like this, I need to distract myself with things. Television, games, substances, even writing, just to quiet the barrage in my brain. My brain never stops. I feel as if it's a constant stream of consciousness.

What works best is writing. But I can't live my life only on the page, so I manage. It's not debilitating at all some might say. I'm pretty productive. I manage a full time job which keeps the thoughts at bay. I'm fine when I'm busy. It's when I'm forced to sit with myself that I can't. 

I want to get there. I do. Really I do. I know that if I'm able to sit with myself, I can be with others more presently. 

Yesterday, my eyes were burning. I know it's partially dry eye. I have drops. But perhaps I also need to cry. For everyone I've lost, for the state the world is in, and for my inability to sit with myself. Because maybe if I can cry about it, I can eventually fix it. 

And that would be epic. 

A Carrie Girl in the IE

Anyone who knows me well, ahem my husband, knows I watch shows on repeat. Gilmore Girls, West Wing, Lost, and the original Sex and the City (SATC). SATC is one of my favorite shows of all time. There's something about the friendships. It just touches and entertains me. 

And I've always been a Carrie. C'mon, she's a writer and a free spirit and has curly hair and plus, she loves fashion and cosmos. So of course I'm a Carrie. (Yes, I know Miranda is a lawyer, but she's always been too buttoned up for me)

The reboot (And Just Like That) is wrapping up and these last episodes have slayed me a bit. The reboot series has become a bit melancholy in season three and yet (despite an uneven first season) I still love it. Carrie lost Mr. Big (he died episode 1, season 1 of the reboot) and she is a widow. 

(Spoiler to come)

Carrie's heartfelt attempted reconciliation with Adian was a bust, and then the Brit writer she liked and who liked her primarily for her brains and writing skills (which was new for her) left. Now Carrie is adrift and all alone. Wondering, and writing, what's wrong with being alone? And is she alone? She still has her friends. And her writing. 

I've been with my love for decades. Yet, I've always had a secret fear that I would end up alone, adrift without my rock. My husband Adrian is the place I moor. And the possibility of being without each other is one that both of us have to consider could happen one day. We have no kids. What would I do? What would he do? 

I don't know. But what I'm sure of is that I would be lost. And while writing is a salve, it's not everything. I guess what I'm saying is that I am truly starting to feel my mortality at almost 54. It feels scary. But it's reality. 

Tis life as they say. So I plan on appreciating life and what I have more, because, and this is more true than anything, it is beautiful. 

524 in 1984

It is 5:24 am. My mind is overwhelmed and I'm very anxious. I have to register for school, and I'm locked out. Our school changed the system and it's been a nightmare. Thankfully, I am seeking out some tech help.

I've decided to only take three hours toward my creative writing MFA dissertation this semester, and I am hoping that will be easy peasy. I was on the five year plan, but now, I've said that even six years is fine. I've learned recently that you must be adaptable and with everything in the world right now, getting another degree is the least of my worries. 

The dogs are keeping me sane. They kiss me all over my face every morning. Three lovable shih tzus. Their affection sustains me. It anchors me. 

Where are we as a nation? I feel so unmoored. The foundation of democracy is so unstable that it's impacting my mood. The fear is real. The shocking awfulness of this administration is so palpable, every day. I fear this will not end well.

Yet, I've been dealing with bearing witness and taking on vicarious trauma for years as a deputy public defender in PC section 1368/mental health court. I've talked in my writings about bail, about the incarcerated class, and it has always felt somewhat dystopian.

It is just that now that the dystopian is omnipresent. 

Dependent

So I have created a monster. Well three. Three co dependent shih tzus that can't sleep alone. 

My husband warned me. "They're gonna get used to you being down there." 

Last night, they started barking and howling at midnight for me and wouldn't stop. I padded downstairs and laid on the tiny couch next to their bed, and they immediately fell asleep. 

Then, I tried to sneak upstairs at 330 am, but they caught me, and all three of them woke up and stood at the front of the stairs when I tried to go up. Sleepy eyed furry shih tzus blinking Morse code at me. "Try and you'll see. Just try it lady."

I love them beyond distraction, so much so that I sometimes just watch them sleep and snore. I'm so very content at that moment and at times ask myself, do I need anything else in life? 

I can't even imagine what I would have been as a mom of a human baby. A creepy stalker co dependent mom perhaps? One who hugs too much? My dad was a hugger. He would always make us all hug him before me and my sisters went anywhere, and he'd tell us he loved us. My dad knew great loss in his life, and probably understood all too well how fleeting life can be. How everything can change. 

I pet the dogs. A hand lazily strumming on their dog bed. One, two, wait, where's the third little piggie?

I look down. "Merry? Where are you?" I say softly from my couch bed. The all white, big headed fluffy one named Merry pads over and gets back in the dog bed with his siblings. I sigh and turn over, and go back to sleep. 

Dramarama days

There's a band I love called Dramarama (who I'm seeing live tonight). They have a song titled Emerald City. Here's a few of the lyrics:

"I'm lost in a sweet dream/I'm living on chocolate ice cream

I'm letting off my steam/Now everything's going to be fine

High high/I think I'll learn how to fly"

The lyrics speak to me today. With everything going on in the world, it seems as if I'm in a nightmare. ICE raids. The death of the US Constitution. Due process' demise. And I fear it is going to get much worse.  

But then I escape into my head. I start writing. I listen to music. I watch West Wing. I soothe myself. 

And then I think, everything will be fine right? Perhaps not. 

Yet, it's hard to live perpetually in fear. We have to believe it's gonna be okay. That this too shall pass. That the world will get better. That we do have some power left to change all of this. That our voice and perspective matters. My words matter. As do yours. 

I truly believe that there is a higher law that will prevail and that the good will win out and the light we shine will take away the darkness. 

And that we can learn how to fly.  

These are the days to remember

It's 5 am. The dogs are in the backyard running around. It's dusk, the sky a mix of blue and grey. I sip from my espresso cup as I write this. 

I've decided to work on some things. Some predilections, addictions, obsessions, whatever you want to call them. It's still too early for me to talk about it. I'm afraid I'll fail. That I'll slide back. Especially with the world as it is.

These recent times make you want to do one of two things, change your life for the better to get ready for whatever is to come by getting your shit together, or what is usually my go to, just bury your head in the sand and indulge in whatever soothes the pain away.

I've watched tik tok videos about ICE for the last few days, my sleep uneven at best. I've been wrought. Anxious. Fearful. On edge. My mood up and down. One minute I'm freaking out about it all and the next I'm like, forget it. What's the point? I know I can't control this. I feel powerless, as if I can't do much of anything.

Then the other day, I had a young Latino kid in my courtroom, one who was beginning to change his whole life. I had gotten him released from custody to his mom on a release pitch and he was doing great. Obviously, our discussions are confidential, but our talk made me so happy. I was joyful. 

Then that night, I thought of how many people, my people, are being grabbed, dragged and taken into detention where basic necessities of food, sanitation and water are being denied, and I wept. I wept and wept. Then I dried my tears and vowed to do something. 

3:35 am

So I don't know what happened. I haven't been able to write a story for a few months. I think it's the political arena that's getting to me. The forced disappearances, the rhetoric, the authoritarian regime, and my democratic world crumbling.

It's hard to believe it's all real. Is this a dream? A nightmare? A prophecy of end times come to fruition? The doomsayers were right. It's worse than I imagined it would be and happening way quicker. It may be too late at this point to save democracy in the USA and in the world. Everyone is capitulating. The senate, the Supreme Court. And yes, we the people are standing up, but I don't know if we can stop this. 

And it's 3:35 am. I want to write. To lose myself in a story. But I can't. The words won't come. Fingers to keys, I wonder in my head if I should write my fears. Write my reality. But in these times, to capture my nonfiction, I might have to start writing a dystopian novel (yet perhaps, it's not dystopian any longer).

Maybe I don't know who I am any longer, and it's been too easy for too long to drown my sorrows away. I need to try to recall who I am. I am a writer. At my core. Remember that. I tell myself. Remember.