frustrating thoughts on a tuesday morning

your author, dressed for 29°F weather at 7a, sitting in the parking lot to medicate (description below)

It is currently 29°F outside, actual feel of 22°F. I am outside for my morning medication: today is cannabis and coffee. I’ve already taken my fish oil, but there’s no one to say anything about that if I take that in my kitchen. So I come outside after having dressed for the weather. This includes: underwear, thick socks, two pairs of flannel pajama bottoms, a long sleeved shirt over a short sleeved shirt, a fleece hoodie, my purple fuzzy robe with white stars, a knitted neck warmer, a knitted hat. I have spiked my coffee with hot cocoa mix and butter to make the warmth seem thicker and more long-lasting.

I have a medical marijuana card. Up until *very* recently, whole flower was not allowed to be sold in medical dispensaries. Smoking whole flower is the method of delivery that works best for me. If vaping worked for me, I could probably get away with vaping inside my apartment, although I really wouldn’t want to try. But it doesn’t. Smoking whole flower is what works. I no longer engage in practices that are meant to be good for me but in actuality, aren’t. Imagine if instead of taking your anti-anxiety meds by pill, you had to have them by suppository and you had to do that outside because that’s what the law dictated. Just because.

When it is colder than this, or when the weather is shit, or after dark (I feel like a D!sney princess out here sometimes, skunks ((Flower!)), raccoons, possums, cats, ALL the squirrels), I sit in the car. Even with the engine off, this is illegal to do. When I have zoom therapy and I am home I do it in my car or outside so that I can smoke. So that I can medicate. When I have zoom therapy and I’m at a friend’s house, I can be inside and warm and still medicate.

No other medication is subjected to restrictions and procedures like this. This is inhumane. Could you imagine if I told you you had to go outside for your heart medication if you weren’t well off enough to own your own home with private property? If I told you you had to take your cholesterol meds every morning but go outside somewhere on the street, what would happen?

And if I told you that unless you had the wherewithal, you couldn’t have a get-together with friends and have a smoke sesh. Have all the wine and cheese parties you want, every book club has its Bordeaux, every rehearsal dinner its Riesling, but no ma’am, you’re not allowed to enjoy this totally legal thing where you live, where you love, where you entertain. What would you do? What would you say?


People are going to consume where they are able to consume. Where they are forced to consume. This has always, and will continue to be what happens. By welcoming dispensaries and consumption lounges into Peekskill, by allowing smoking in specific areas of our many public parks, we are making our residents and visitors feel more comfortable and welcomed.

water washes away

sitting in my car, rain smashing into the windshield
coming hugely into the narrow slit I’ve opened in the window
smoke hazing around the inside of the cabin

It is pouring (again)

giant crocodile tears wetting my sweater
I don’t dare lower the window any further not even to tap my ash
thunder competing with the din of the rain on my roof

I have eaten and smoked and am grateful for the help I had in making it through this day.
I am not alone.

pandemic diaries: 1145p 10 april 2010

this being apart shit.

this fucking shit is tearing my body apart
raking my flesh
scissoring my veins
shredding my bones…

it is rendering me jellied,
puddled.

my body knows this feeling
this d e p r e s s i o n.
it isn’t the right time for it not like this.
all of this laying around and doing nothing
AND BEING TOLD ITS OKAY.
this is what’s different.
i’m not tired i am active. alert. pointy.
with no release.
no way to let go.
no way to succumb.

So I smoke.

and i eat.

and i smoke.

and I have a rich fantasy life and when I do venture out it is with
dire regard
like a fox I am so
aware.
I crave human interaction I crave
I crave.
i need
voice. a face.
a touch .

this is tearing me apart.

Backyard, frontyard dogs. 912a, 26 january, 2020

Logan and Po’boy are having some conversation on the other side of the street.
A fairly heated discussion, to be sure, though not necessarily escalating into argument territory.

Logan, still making his case as the older boy remains quiet, perhaps checking the bushes for bones, (I don’t know, I’m all the way back here, how could I see?) mouthy and insistent, bright and bold. His strategy works; Po’boy interjects a few half-hearted *woofs* then a few more, weaker, then quiets.

The neighborhood is quiet, save for the low hum of the recycling plant on the edge of the city, varied bird calls (the only one I know for sure is the crow atop the tree two yards over), and a few passing cars.

Po’boy renews his half of the conversation with confidence and vigor, however, Logan is nowhere to be heard.

Five more inquisitive barks from Po’boy, then three more.
Then silence.

cannabis diaries, 913p 25 november, 2019

So I think this might be the best, most visual way to explain this.

My illness, ultradian or ultra ultra rapid cycling bipolar disorder type 1, is something I was most likely born with. One flavor or another of bipolar can be traced in at least one of my parents’ genetics, if not actual, confirmed diagnoses. It is the main reason I chose to remain childfree. My illness is a living, vibrant thing.

I look at it as a plant, aged and strong, rooted deep, entwined. Resilient. It consumes resources, sometimes more than I have available, leaving me in deficit, leaving me empty.

There is no brain; it is not sentient. There is no arguing with it, no reasoning. It lives, and breathes, and consumes.

Imagine you had such a plant, a green, growing thing. You were told it needed water every day.
So you water it, every day.
Your plant drinks the water, consumes it. Grows.
But one day, the soil is dry, even though you watered your plant that morning.
You add more water, hoping to not drown the poor thing.
It perks up, her leaves shiny. You relax.
The next day, your plant has collapsed, as if dead.
(she was fine the night before)
You water her, and watch, and wait.
Your plant seems to not be dead after all.
More water, but the soil is dry again. More water.
Your plant rallies, for a minute; an hour. More water.
(d r y)
More water.
More.
You are exhausted from keeping watch over this wee thing
(how can she be so thirsty?)
and yet watch over her you must if she is to live(if
you are to live)
.
how is it that she consumes everything you are giving her? all your aid,
all your care.
All the tools you have seem useless (and yet you know they are working)
You understand that the only way to save her is to drown her
overwhelm her
keep drenching her with water until she is overfloating
and then floating,
f i n a l l y
water as medicine, filling her veins, finally darkening the soil
as cannabis smoke fills my lungs, my bloodstream, finally lightening my mood.

Some days there isn’t enough water to slake her thirst.
Her soil dries, her leaves wilt; she droops.
she sleeps.

Cannabis sativa is the only medicine I have ever taken
where I am comfortable controlling my dosage.
Where I know that no matter how much I need, that I will be safe.
That I don’t have to wait out some interminable half-life
to take another dose.
That self-medicating is no longer a dirty word.

8p, 6 november, 2019. conversation derailment.

i feel everything
all of the time.
everything. Everything.
EVERYTHING.
Some days, minutes
some times the sound is turned down? From here, to here
(10 to a five)
so I can get through the day with a modicum of effort,
none enough to stop me much less slow me down.
other days? others try to kill me
slowly, quickly, whatever it doesn’t matter
but I’m learning
l e a r n i n g
what works, what my diagnosis is currently what i need
what I need to make me sane
sane enough to breathe.
i keep saying don’t i?
i keep saying i am able to steer this ship now,
i am able to keep her off the reefs and out of the deeps
.
sometimes the trip to safe harbor takes longer than budgeted for
i am learning
to let go, to give up and let the medicine do its work
that i am the medicine
the sum of my experiences is what will save me
i am the hero of my own story.

Nine months gone. 13 June, 2018

Nine months.

Nine months, six hours, and twenty-nine minutes ago, the doctors called your time of death.

You’ve been gone the same amount of time it takes a human baby to be born.

I spent most of today hoping for distraction; trying for oblivion, something to keep me occupied enough to not think. I went to the pottery; that piece I’d hated? I reglazed and put back in the salt. It is gorgeous, Gary, transformed, glowing with a deep intensity and quiet. Nothing resembling calm, no, but definitely Quiet. There is a depth to its finish, a complexity in details that didn’t exist before; details that only came through after another 2300° fire. There is a warmth, there, as if it holds on to some of that fire.

I’m trying so hard to make it through a day without weeping openly, trying desperately to choke down all of the sharpness, and then I think, why? Why bother trying to not feel? I mean, sure, keep it together in public but in the car? The bathroom at work? At home? Why not just melt? Why not just give in? Why try at all?

This is why. Keeping enough of my head level and my hands steady so I can make this. This is why. Bringing this bowl from a hunk of raw clay through three firings, neglect, dispassion, disapproval. This result, this bit of beauty, this is why I need to try.

I know that if you were here, I’d be excitedly explaining to you why this piece is so special, the unpredictability of this perfect a finish. You’d listen, not really getting why I was so excited about something at the furthest extreme, an unorthodox version of beauty, but maybe by now you’d be able to appreciate my passion, even without agreeing with it. Your inability to appreciate so abstract a piece was just beginning to soften when you died. You were getting it.

You were getting me.

I can be happy, with that. That very beginning; I can be happy with that.

I miss you, today and every day.
always,
your curious girl💜💜