Missing: My Talent

Okay, you guys. I haven't posted since Monday. And Monday's post was lame. I have all kinds of excuses about why I haven't posted (I'm house-sitting, my job got busy for just this week, I'm lazy, etc), but the main reason is worse: I can't write. Not matter how hard I try, I cannot bring the funny. I have a post sitting in my drafts about one of the best Roommate adventures she and I ever had and I can't seem to turn it into anything worth reading. Which is sad, because it's a good story. It's not the story's fault; it's my fault.

You see, I've lost my talent.

My job isn't that busy today...

If and when I find it (or one of you returns it to me), I will get back to blogging on the regular. Although... I'll probably end up blogging without it. It really wasn't that helpful before. We'll see... I'll keep on working on the Roommate adventure story. Hopefully this weekend, I will be able to bring the funny and tell you all about our ridiculous exploits. Until then, happy bagel eating.

My Ambivalence About Stupid Things and Your Thoughts

So, last night, I saw a rerun episode of Law & Order SVU with Mischa Barton. Well, I didn't watch it with Mischa Barton, like she was sitting on my mother's couch next to me as I watched it. I mean, she was acting in the episode. I am SO GOOD at this writing thing... Also, side note: I really don't like her. When I see her in something, all I can see is her bad acting in the limited number of episodes of The OC I could sit through. But that's not my point in bringing her up.

Anyway, Mischa Barton plays a pregnant prostitute, who eventually gives Detective Benson power of attorney over her premature and probably-dying baby girl. The episode ends with Benson being called on to make a life or death decision for the baby and because I can't be bothered to watch this show in order on the night it airs, I have no idea what happened to the baby. I went to Wikipedia, which informed me that Benson once took custody of a different victim's son named Calvin, but never mentions this baby. I went to IMDB, but they're useless with this kind of detail. Wanna know who was in the movie? They're awesome. Wanna know what HAPPENED in the movie? Not so awesome. So then I went on all the "answers" sites online to see if someone else is more responsible with their SVU watching duties and could tell me--because not only am I lame at watching TV, but I'm lame at searching the Internet, too.

It sounds like they never resolved that story line. And I don't know how to feel about that. So I'm asking you. Not what happened to the baby (But if you actually  know, SHARE), but how I should feel about this. Or how you feel about it. Or how you feel about things being left unanswered in TV shows. Or in books. Give me some feelings, people!

After I had spent an inordinate amount of my work day looking at websites about Law & Order SVU, I remembered that I had heard that Christopher Meloni/Detective Stabler had left the show. Which made me sad. But in a distant way, because I don't watch it in order, so to me, he's still on the show. But it seems like the show wouldn't be the same without him. So I don't know how to feel about this either. So tell me about that, too, while you're at it. Or about how you feel when any major character leaves a show and they keep making the show without them (like on That 70's Show or One Tree Hill or ER or a bunch of others that I'm sure I could come up with if it weren't time to post this and leave work for the day). Tell me how you feel about TV characters.

As you can tell, I love Law & Order SVU in a big way. This is something about which I DO KNOW how to feel. Also? I love Tuesdays. I am now unambivalent about Tuesdays. Why? Because the USA network plays Law & Order SVU all day LONG on Tuesdays. This is especially wonderful for someone who does not watch SVU on its regular night on NBC. Someone like me. It's also good for someone who was unemployed for five months last summer, so they had plenty of Tuesdays to spend all day at home and enjoy their favorite show. This is also someone like me. The me of last summer. Not the me of this summer. And there are many days this summer that I wished I were the me of last summer. But I also like being the me without the money issues. So if you guessed that I'm about to say I don't know how to feel about that, you are right and I would give you a prize if I had any prizes to give. And if you guessed that I'm about to ask you to inform me about my feelings on this topic, you can have some bonus points with your non-existent prize.

In related news, I love the USA Network. I would list all of their original shows that I am in love with, but it might be faster to type the ones I don't watch. Except that really? I love a lot of their showsm but I don't watch many of them. Because I can't be bothered to learn which nights they air and to be in front of the TV during those time periods. This is not to say that I am NOT a couch potato, because I am the starchiest of all the potatoes that live on couches. But I am such a lazy couch potato that I don't keep a regular schedule of laziness.

And before you remind me that I have a DVR in my house, I KNOW. But Sister controls the DVR (the jerk: thinking she should control something that she pays for in the house she owns... What is this world coming to?) and she has other interests that take up its space. Some of those interests are USA shows, like Covert Affairs and Psych. But we just don't have the space for Suits, Necessary Roughness, or In Plain Sight (which I miss dearly), among many other good choices.

And before you remind me that USA Network streams their shows online, I KNOW. But I live in a very strange land where Internet companies have download limits and watching more than a few episodes a month sends us into overage fees. This is also the reason I cancelled Netflix (Which was before their silly price changes that sent Twitter into an uproar. For about an hour. Because Twitter's collective attention span is only slightly longer than the average seven-year-old)--because I mostly had them for the online watching when I was in college and that got shot all to hell when I moved back here.

And before remind me that these companies are morons stuck in 1999, I KNOW. But they are the only providers in my strange land, so I cannot do a thing about it. Except blog anonymously with an implied pout in my typing. Which is REALLY effective, letmetellyou.

Looking back on the post, I guess this is the part where I ask you how I should feel about any number of the random things espoused in the last few paragraphs. But instead, I'll switch it up and tell you how to feel about the things I just wrote. You should think: this girl is weird and random and blathery, but kind of awesome and I will come back and read her blog every day because she has won my unswerving devotion and also I want to send her bagels. Or you could just tell me how to feel. Whatever.

If you guessed that this is not the blog post I set out to write, treat yourself to a bagel. Or 50. Go nuts. No one is watching. And before you remind me that this post makes little or no sense, I KNOW. It's a by-product of the sick and the lonely and the crazy that I have. And also, how is it that different from the other junk I spew here on a semi-daily basis? Zero different, sir.

I Used to Own a Street

I'm still sick. The kind of sick that makes it hard to sleep and causes body aches and coughing fits. So this post may not be much of anything. But since I have been a bad blogger lately, at least on consistency (I have no idea about content... you're still here, so it must not be so bad), I thought I would treat you to a rare weekend post (And a kind of sappy one at that. What can I say? I'm sick. Sorry...).

I'm house-sitting for my parents for the next week (I've actually been here since Tuesday) and it's kind of strange. I mean, I come to my parent's house all the time. We do Sunday dinners and family get-togethers here all the time. But staying here overnight has been odd. Partly because I'm sick. Partly because I'm alone here, which never even really happened when I actually lived here. Partly because so much has changed--my bedroom is now a craft room and home to some very noisy birds. Partly because everything is the same and I still feel like a kid and it's safe and it's home, but at the same time it's not, because I have to get up every morning and go to work and make my own meals and all of my stuff lives somewhere else now...

I was reading a book in the yard yesterday. I had this crazy idea that sunshine might make me feel better or kill these germs that are currently feasting on my lungs like rabid dogs, but I'm not sure it helped anything other than the shy freckles on my forehead that are no longer shy. Anyway, not the point. I was sitting in the yard, reading. And I hear the neighborhood kids playing down in the street.

Now, before worry-warts out there object to children playing in the street, you should know that my town is very sprawly and has a pretty low population (compared to... well, the rest of the country). Most of the homes in this neighborhood sit on lots that are one acre or more and the lots have only been cleared enough to fit a house and a small lawn. The neighbors know each other and the cars drive slowly. So the street is a pretty safe place to play.

In any event, these kids are playing on the street. I can't really see them, because there are so many trees on my parents' property, but I can hear their giggles and their make-believe games and their bicycle wheels. And I remember playing on those very streets as a child. Playing those very games. Cops and Robbers. War. Hide and Seek. Capture the Flag. Running Through the Woods and Hopping on Bikes When We Got to the Street, Only to Jump Off Again and Go Running Through the Woods on the Other Side. You know, the games all kids grown up playing. At least in this town.

Brother and I used to own those streets. We shared them with the neighborhood kids, sure. But we OWNED them. We knew these woods like the backs of our hands. We had forts and tree houses (handmade and entirely unsafe) and teepees and hide-outs. Every summer, we would ride our bikes up and down the road, playing games and living adventures of our own making. We each had characters we would play, plots we would run through, rules we followed. We were saving the world or the damsel in distress. Or we were blowing each other up. It was very serious business.

We had patterns. We had routines. Water fights and bike rides in the summer, sledding and snowball fights in the winter, leaf catching in fall, and river building in break-up (we don't really have spring here; we have break-up during which all the snow and ice melt, the world turns to slush, and tiny rivers of water run down the street. And enterprising children in galoshes dig and scrape and mold the slush to make the rivers run any which way they want). Sometimes, a kid would move away or move in, but we expanded and contracted to suit the season and made sure the new guys learned the rules.

These were the streets where I broke two fingers on my left hand when I was 12--I was trying to use the handle breaks on my bike and didn't do it in time, so I rammed my outstretched fingers into the shoulder blade of one of the other kids and buckle-fractured them. Where I fell once when I was little and scraped up my knee. Grandpa carried me back to the house, kissed it, and put a bandaid on it--I still think of him when I see the scar. These were the streets we walked after dinner, the whole family together for a little while in the evening light. Where Brother once ripped the skin off both knees, elbows, and the knuckles of both hands and got up to keep playing. These were the streets where battles were won and lost, friendships began and ended. And began again the next day.

These are the streets where I grew up, but they are not my streets anymore. Many families have moved away. The ones who stayed have all sent their kids out into the world to make their own homes. As I listened to these kids laugh and squeal and use their imaginations to make their own adventures, I realized that the neighborhood is in new hands. These streets belong to someone else. Part of me wanted to run down there and tell them. To tell them about our adventures and our games and how we used to own these streets. To tell them they're playing on sacred ground. The ground of my childhood. To teach them all the things that these streets have taught me.

But I know that they'll find out on their own. They'll build their own forts (ours are long gone, although maybe they'll find the remnants someday and wonder about us, those who went before). They will invent their own games, with their own complex rules and strategies. They will develop their own patters and memories. They will learn their own lessons about life and friendship and the world. I hope they enjoy it. I hope these streets are good to them. I hope that one day, they'll come back to visit their parents and remember. Remember how, for a little while, they used to own these streets.

Vomiting Stories Aren't Funny... Probably

I am sick today. And since my boss and my coworkers are out of the office this week, I can’t take a sick day. I mean, I guess I could, if my limbs were falling off or something. But I’m not that sick. Just sick enough to make me want to sit half-upright in bed and watch TV all day instead of sit at my desk and invent work for myself. 

But no one wants to read my complaints about my sore throat or my headache or the fuzzy Idon’twannbehereoranywhereatall feeling I have. Instead, I thought I’d tell about a time when I was even sicker. What? Yes, I’m going to tell you about my amazing adventure to the ER my freshman year of college. This will be a short post (heh… right…), because my head feels like it might need to be detached from my neck and I have to go find an instrument to accomplish that before the hardware store closes. 

So, here’s my story. I’ll set the scene: Freshman year. Undisclosed private university that happened to have a major metropolitan hospital on each of the four corners of campus. Late winter, during a record breaking string of rainy days (not helpful when recovering from illness). A roommate who was Smelly (not at all material to the story, but added to the grievances). My mother lived in a different state (in my home state. Where I wasn’t.).  

I went to bed fine on Thursday night. My throat felt a little scratchy, but it was very late and I had spent the evening watching movies with friends, which inevitably resulted in laughing and yelling and general horsing around. I thought nothing of it. Until I woke up on Friday and thought I had died. I don’t quite know how the biology of that works, but I did. I felt like I’d been hit by a train. I oozed out of bed and into something resembling clothing and went to class. And was sent back to my dorm room by at least one professor—“You look like death and none of the rest of us wants to die. Go home. Feel better. Bye.”

I called my mother, homesick and sad. It was the first time I had been sick alone and I missed her. Plus, I had never done the hospital thing by myself and I was pretty sure where this was headed (the campus health center was closed and would be until the following week). I had a headache and an earache so bad I thought my face would fly off from the pressure. By Friday night, my parents told me to go to the ER. I called the campus public safety for a ride, less for my safety and more because I knew I couldn’t walk the two and a half blocks to the ER by myself (and who wants to call an ambulance for a head cold?). There was all of this murmuring about how they couldn’t transport me if I was really sick, because of all the liability crap, but I actually put my foot down and stood up for myself, the one and only time so far in my life, I think. 

I got to the ER about 10:00 pm and was triaged. They asked me the pain level thing that LauraMiri hates. I told them “six” because I have migraines and this pain was high, but nowhere near that badness. I sat in the ER, without a book (Elise, what were you THINKING?), trying to watch TV and pass the time. Do you know how fun it is to watch a marathon of James Bond movies in a hard plastic hospital waiting room chair while you have an earache and a headache? Zero fun, sir. That is how much. Many people got to be treated before me. Even some who came after me and were not bleeding as far as I could see. I grew up in and around hospitals, so I know that the system may not seem fair, but is actually a good system. But that night, I didn’t care if it was “good.” I just wanted the pain to stop.

Then this couple came in. They were obviously drunk. And his forehead was cut open and his knuckles were bruised. Bar fight. Great. There’s blood, so I’m waiting again. Their friends, another couple, came in a few moments later to “help” but they were both drunk , too. Somehow, the guy with the head wound ended up asleep on the floor and his girlfriend tried to make out with one of the female triage nurses. And then another patient. While the other couple disappeared. This was a small diversion for me, but ultimate just annoying. 

At 5:00 am, I was finally led back to a room. And left for another half hour. The doctor was nice when she finally showed up, so when she asked about my pain level, I only said “eight” instead of the swear words I wanted to use to preface and follow the number. She did all the doctor things one does and determined that I had laryngitis, sinusitis, an ear infection, and strep throat. And those were the only obvious culprits. I was a veritable petri dish. She gave me some antibiotics and sent me home. 

After wrangling the campus public safety to come get me and bring me home (Did I mention that this was a program the offered freely? A ride to/from anywhere within ten blocks of campus during the hours of 10:00 pm and 6:00 am no questions asked. To ensure the safety of drunk partygoers. But somehow, taking me to the ER less than three blocks from campus was a burden…), I took my meds and fell into a deep sleep. For an hour. And then I woke up and vomited. In my trash can. Then I realized I would have to clean it up myself. Because I am an adult and adults take care of themselves. Or some other “I go to college in a different state from my parents” nonsense. 

After cleaning it up in the dorm showers (because what ELSE was I supposed to do?), I crawled back into bed and slept. For another hour. At which point I promptly woke up and vomited again. This went on ad nauseam (heh…) on the hour, every hour. After a while, I stopped vomiting, because there was nothing left, but that didn’t stop my body from TRYING. At some point, pressure started building in my non-infected ear and I realized: These antibiotics are not helping if I’m getting a new infection while one them. So, about 6:00 pm, I packed up to make another trek to the hospital. This time to demand better drugs. 

In case you’re wondering, Roommate (who was not yet a roommate at this point, but had just become Best Friend) was out of town for this illness extravaganza. So I begged another “friend” to come with me, because the last trip had been so lonely and overwhelming (I put friend in quotes because she complained the whole time we were at the ER and for weeks afterward about the inconvenience of my illness to her. I ended up having to cut her out of my life completely by the end of sophomore year, because she was so toxic to me. But that is another story for another time.). This “friend” didn’t want to drive her car over, because it would be a hassle, so I spent another half-hour convincing campus safety to break the time rule and drive me over. They finally did.

So I returned to the ER, this time with a grumpy friend. It was only a little over twelve hours since I left it. The nurse who triaged me the night before was back on duty and recognized me. She took pity on me and my vomiting, so I only had to wait about an hour this time. They put me in a different room and realized that I was dangerously dehydrated. The pain and the stress were making me a little delirious, so I told them my level was “a ten or eleven”. 

Pretty soon, I had an IV of saline, antibiotics, and Dilaudid. That stuff is amazing. So amazing, that I apparently demanded the nurse give some to my friend (she told me later). The nurse explained to me that the Dilaudid would not make the pain go away; it would just make me not care about the pain anymore. I thought that was a weird statement, but I wasn’t going to refuse anything. She was right. When she came to ask me my pain level later, I had to search inside my brain to locate the pain. Once I did, it was bad. But if I stopped looking for it, I stopped hurting. I said, “It’s still a ten, but I don’t care.” She nodded sagely and I giggled.

Needless to say, being admitted to the ER twice in one day had my parents incredibly worried. My father had a suitcase packed, ready to buy an emergency plane ticket, but the nurse called them for me (I was in Dilaudidland where phones did not exist. It’s a happy place. You should go there sometime. I mean, drugs are bad. Don’t do drugs.). She told them I was fine and that they didn’t need to come. She may have handed the phone to me, but I don’t remember much. I do remember my “friend” being a jerk and the nurse getting upset with me for forgetting to tell her that certain drugs give me dry-mouth (like this should go in with all the allergy information and how dare I LIE to them or something). I was sent me home around midnight. I had seen that ER from one midnight to the next, with only a short break for vomiting in the middle.

I was sick for three more weeks. The second antibiotic had some side-effects that needed their own drugs to fix (If you know what I’m talking about, I’m sorry that you’ve experienced this too. If you don’t, don’t worry.) so that took a while. Both of my eardrums had burst, so it took me about two weeks to hear clearly again. Plus, I was achy and beyond exhausted all the time. All of which made classes and homework A LOT of fun. At one point, the health center thought I had Mono, but no. And they only needed to stick me with a needle four times in each arm and three in the wrist before painfully suctioning the blood out of the back of my hand to tell me this. Eventually, I healed and was able to visit my sister for spring break early in March. But that entire Winter Quarter was brutal.

So, that is the story of how I was admitted to the ER twice on my nineteenth birthday. Oh, wait. I didn’t tell you that Saturday was also my birthday? How silly of me. Yes. I started and ended my nineteenth birthday (the first one away from home, no less) in the emergency room. And not for anything cool or college-like either. It is, by far, my worst birthday on record. Knock on wood.

Now I don’t feel so bad about being sick today. But I do think I might go home and nap anyways.

I Have A Superpower And It's NOT Eating Me Alive

So, the rage has faded into a mostly manageable “frustratiance” (In case you’re wondering, that’s frustration and annoyance all in one word. Because sometimes? English doesn’t have enough words to convey emotions. This is usually when I swear and/or utter a stream of incomprehensible vowels.) I still cannot talk about it (and by “can’t” I mostly mean “won’t” but also a little bit of “can’t”). But I need to express something or I will go crazy. So instead of a bout of rage writing or a series of increasingly ridiculously captioned pictures of my sister’s cat, I’m going to talk about Conflict Resolution.

ZZZZZZzzzzzzzz…..

No, stay with me. This is not going to be like those awful staff meetings where you’re gathered in a large conference room with a strangely weary andatthesametime over-enthusiastic group trainer from corporate who gives you index cards with situations on them and asks you to role play. No, Nothing like that. You don’t even have to participate. Because I’m not going to ask you to brainstorm ideas on how to resolve conflict or to tell me “a time when…” story. Nope. You’re just going to sit there and listen to my fool proof method of Conflict Resolution. It’s actually very simple. Are you ready?

I’m a Superhero.

My superpower, you ask? Conflict Avoidance.

No, I don’t mean that I dodge and weave and use my super-awesome interpersonal skills so that I never encounter conflict. No, my life is actually pretty conflict filled. I mean I AVOID conflict.

It’s pretty simple, actually. I just pretend it’s not happening. I make a conscious effort not to think about it. I hide from the people who are mad at me. I wait until they step out for lunch to put something on their desk for them. I go home and gorge myself on food and TV so that I don’t have to think about it. And above all, I sleep. If I’m sleeping, you can’t be conflicting with me. If I’m sleeping, I can’t be doing another innocuous thing that will eventually piss you off so much you have to yell at me and make me cry.

I’m telling you, I’m a Superhero. Except for the whole being heroic part. And also the whole cape & tights wearing part. But still, it’s got to be a superpower, my ability to avoid conflict. Because I’m amazing at it. I can avoid the conflict in my life like nobody’s business.

But the kryptonite to my super-awesome superpower? Those moments when I’ve shut off my bedside lamp and put down the book, but before I’ve actually fallen asleep. The time when I let my mind range out and find whatever is going to be the most relaxing topic in order to find sleep. Those moments are my kryptonite.

Because those moments are when all of the conflict comes rushing back into my thoughts. When all the avoiding cannot be avoided anymore. And the arguments and stress and desperate need to GET OUT OF THIS SITUATION take over and I begin to have imaginary conversations (read: fights) with the conflicty people in my life until I am so wound up that sleeping is the very last thing I will ever do ever again.

But that’s okay. Because with my conflict level at chartreuse (who even knows the levels anymore, right?), I am not getting much sleep. Because I am not only avoiding conflict, but I am now also avoiding those moments before sleep. I’m a great avoider, you see. It’s my superpower, remember? Geez! Stay with me.

I overschedule. I read. I start movies at 10:00 pm. I play on my iPhone. I stay up late with Sister talking about Lord knows what. I write short stories. Anything to keep my mind off of the conflict. And anything to make me so desperately tired that I fall asleep instantly before I even remember to turn off the lamp. And it works. Bedtimes have stretched from 10:30 pm to past midnight, even on to 1:00 am, but that’s okay. Because I have a SUPERPOWER!

By the way, this superpower has absolutely no negative side-effects. It does not result in weight gain, paranoia, exhaustion, ulcers, mood swings, desperation, or inability to function in social settings. Whoever told you that was lying. It’s propaganda. Stick your fingers in your ears and hum loudly (Which, incidentally, in one of my avoidance strategies. Socially awkward, sure. But effective…)

So, who needs those corporate seminars? In less time and without role playing, I have given you a fool-proof method of Conflict Resolution. Okay, so this method may not bring about resolution, per se. And you’re going to have to find and get bitten by the same radioactive spider that gave me my superpower. But if you can do that (and it’s not that hard, really…), you too can become a Conflict Avoider.

Now, here comes the discussion portion of our workshop. Wait, didn’t I say this wasn’t a workshop? That’s right. So, you don’t have to participate. Plus, we all know that my way is best. It’s a superpower, after all, so no can argue with it. But if you want to, I guess you can tell me in the comments about your method of Conflict Resolution. For all those people who can’t find that spider… Just in case.

I Am Angry; Here's a Cat

I am so full of SPITE and MAD and SPIT and RAGE right now about things that I do not blog about, so instead of writing a whole post of ANGRY, I thought I would leave you with these photos of Satan's Cat.

She is not only evil incarnate, but also a rather theatrical kind of evil: do not fall for the innocent pictures of a soft cuddly kitten. She is death to any he who crosses her. You have been warned.

She is clinging on for dear life. She WILL sit on you, physics be DAMNED!

She's only pretending to sleep. Don't be fooled by the scrunched eyes. She's actually plotting evil.

 

She even has the EVIL EYEBROWS. Or an M on her forehead.
It probably stands for "minion" as in Minion of Satan!

I was facing the other way, minding my business. I glanced to my right and STATUE KITTY.
She pretended not to see me taking the picture.

She only looks cuddly... She's actually flexing her claws to eviscerate me. Again.

Satan's Cat worships fire. Which is a surprise to no one.

Satan's Cat does not have shame. She is only pretending to lull you into complacency.

She is not amused by my "mouse" jokes.

This is the Bucket of Satan's Cat. Do not put ANYTHING in the Bucket of Satan's Cat. Note the eyes...

I can't figure out how she's being evil in this one. Unless this much cuteness is evil. Which, with this cat, might be.

Not only is she being a BUTTHEAD by blocking the TV, but she's also trying to kill me with her lasers. 

Too bad her lasers are like Buzz Lightyear's laser. 



But Satan's Cat is trying to be helpful. But only if helpful means "a pain in the ass."



Satan's Cat is always watching. ALWAYS!



See what happens when people ruin my week? I end up looking like a crazy cat lady-- AND I DON'T EVEN OWN A CAT!

Please come back tomorrow. I'm not promising it will be better. I'm just begging to keep my readership.

And You All Thought I Was Crazy Before...

One of my favorite bloggers is Temerity-Jane. I love her stuff! If you don’t read her, go now. I’ll wait.  TJ’s blog is one of the main reasons I started this blog—I’d been tossing the idea around for a while and a post of hers just pushed me over the edge. So if you like my blog (which I still can’t believe real people read me, let alone that they might like me, but that’s neither here nor there), you have TJ to thank.

Anyway, TJ posted today about sleep paralysis. Now, I’d heard of this before in a vague kind of way (my father is a mental health professional, so I know quite a few things about human psychology in a vague sort of way). But when she explained her experiences, I realized I have a similar (and by “similar” I mean “exact opposite”) problem.

For those of you too lazy to click through to her post (no judgment, I’ve had my fair share of lazy days… yesterday, in fact, when I didn’t post), I’ll give a brief synopsis. Although, really, click through. Because it’s a crazy experience. And she’s hilarious. Bonus: she has a really cute baby. Alright, still too lazy? I’ll forgive you, just this once.

So, sleep paralysis is where your mind wakes up, but your body is still asleep and locked in that self-protection mode of paralysis (so you don’t try to run away from bad guys in your sleep and end up eating drywall in reality…). So you just lay there in bed, unable to move or speak, but hearing everything in the room and panicking, because OH MY GOD I MIGHT BE DYING AND I CANNOT TELL ANYONE. So… Really scary stuff. And sometimes, it comes with hallucinations, like the one TJ had about a mouse. No, I will not recap that story. It’s TJ’s story to tell and she’s mighty good at it so stop being so lazy and click through already. Geez!

When I went to comment on her post to tell her about my “similar” problem, I realized that my response was so long and detailed that it could be a post all on its own. And now looking at my intro, I’m realizing I don’t even need that story to get a substantial sized post going. But then again, this hasn’t been all that interesting so far, because, c’mon. I’m recapping a more brilliant blogger. Just go read her stuff and cut out the middle man, right? Except that I actually DO have a story to tell. But still go read her stuff. Because yes.

[I would apologize for being all ADHD Blogger in this post, but I’m pretty sure this format is no different from most of my other posts, so… I guess I’m going to call this erratic parenthetical blurting my “voice” and be done with it…]

Anyway, I have this sleep issue that started when I was about 10 or 11, I think (I don’t know. Mom, you read the blog… Comment below and correct me, okay?) Anyway, my problem is “exactly opposite” in that, instead of brain awake/body asleep, I do body awake/brain asleep. Or at least brain half-asleep. This situation usually occurs when I have a high fever or I’m incredibly sleep deprived, but it can happen at random, as well. I’ve rarely woken up for the day like this (although I have at least once), so it usually happens in the middle of the night.

You see, I wake up, but it’s different than actually waking up. I can move. I can talk. I can get out of bed and move around the house. And I am aware of the world around me. Sounds like how most people wake up every day, right? Except it isn’t. Because I’m also still dreaming.

I can see the kitchen, but I can also see things that aren’t there, usually shadowy ghost-like scary things that hover on the fringes of my vision. I can hear my father talking, but his words come out so fast it’s like his mouth is a rapid-fire machine-gun, registering louder than normal. Or his words are a garbled hoarse whisper of nonsense. I can move, but my movements are slow and take a lot of effort, because my body is so heavy and also floaty at the same time. The world around me feels like it’s set on fast forward. When I was little, my dad tried to rub my back to calm me down, but instead of the slow soothing circles he was actually making on my back, it felt like he was trying to build up enough friction to start a fire (needless to say, this didn’t calm me down much and he didn’t try that again). 

As if all of this wasn’t enough, I hallucinate voices, too. It’s almost always a woman screaming “Yes!” all triumphantly over and over again. And a man yelling “No!” in response. And the sound of a roulette ball simultaneously spinning and ticking into the spaces. It’s probably something I heard on a movie once and for some reason, my mind dredges it up during these moments. During these periods of time, I know logically that I’m just experiencing a half dream and that these things aren’t real, but I still usually panic. Maybe the panic feeling is also part of the hallucination… I’m not sure.

And reading this over, I sound completely insane. Which I guess I am a little, in the moments when this is happening. Like I said, it’s usually fever induced, almost always in the middle of the night, and always when my brain is caught in that netherworld between asleep and awake. And it’s terrifying. My eyes always feel like they are so wide open that I will never shut them again. Over the years, I’ve learned to look for the signs early (especially if I’m sick), so I can stay calm and fix it. It seems that I can either try to “reset” my brain by sleeping again and re-waking up normally (but this is only possible if I’m not panicking) or I can shock my system enough to wake up all the way—taking a shower or drinking something extra cold is usually enough. But it leaves me feeling weird for the rest of the day.

So, I guess this falls somewhere between sleep paralysis and sleep walking? Maybe? I’m not sure. I’ve always wondered what it’s all about, but TJ’s post made me feel a little less crazy. But none of her commenters reported anything quite like my issue, so I thought I’d share it here. Because I’ll either freak you out (which is kind of fun) or I’ll find someone else like me. Any takers? Bueller?