morning/night therapy #15 & 16: to sleep perchance not to dream

Last night, I was too tired to write. Which I am thankful for as I slept for several hours straight without dreaming. Funny, for years, when I rarely reached REM stage, I missed dreaming – dreaming came with medication withdrawal – still remember one so clearly, or a fever. Now, psych drugs mean I have my dreams back – but all my dreams are borderline nightmares. Always were.

I also remember one beautiful dream – in my mid to late 30s. I was walking by a hill covered in wildflowers. As I passed by, all the flowers changed into butterflies. No, I wasn’t on anything – that time.

I made it to therapy – hot and humid so the weaker, tired me struggled but did it. Said something to cheer up my therapist. I do that when I think she is despairing of my as a client. And, who knows, part of it might be true.

Today, I finally took my giant bubble maker wand outside to make dancing bubble circles. Then I tried making a video and take pictures of said bubbles. Making was easier than capturing.

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My therapist pointed out that my surviving to date sound be considered as a self-like (she likes the term). Rootless childhood. Nothing to wrap the vines of growing up around. Not much nurture. Very little sun; lots of rain. Winds of loneliness, rot of bipolar 2 and insidious depression, hail of peer abuse, erosion of pain and loss. Guess that makes me a survivor. A Warrior Princess. One of many survivors; warrior princesses. All unique and all tied by the same ribbon.

night/morning therapy #12: the smell of childhood


Tonight might be more like a self-indulgent post than gratitude/self-like.  Far too self-indulgent. Still always tomorrow. Tomorrow start a diet to address current health issues. Tomorrow make phone calls. Tomorrow wash the floor. Tomorrow recover, heal, move on. Tomorrow. And until then, eat what I shouldn’t, drink hard cider, not make appointments, avoid my sister-in-law, leave in a pig sty – not fair to pigs – actually not as bad as people make out re how a piggery is.  Stay in misery’s comfort zone. My mother had to be miserable at all costs. There are scary days when she not only stares back at me in the mirror, but seems to possess me.

Scent is one of the strongest provokers of memory. Close your eyes next time there is a familiar aroma, and see how many places it takes you. I had been interested in the adult colouring book idea before it became a craze. I bought a small purse size volume, and have been gifted several full size ones, included the Art Nouveau one I am working on. I am not an artist – not self-deprecating. Ask the poor woman who gave the water colour class I took several years ago. So, I’m not jealous of the amazing colouring examples gracing face book and the internet. I dawdle along, holding my tongue in my cheek so I stay somewhat inside the lines.

The Art Nouveau book has colour plates at the front with suggested colour schemes, and pages at the back where you can plan your palette of colours, and tools. That’s where I read “crayons” How wonderful. I’ve been using coloured pencils, thick multi-coloured leaded ones with my travel colouring book, and regular ones. So, I bought a box of 24 short Crayola crayons. Opening the box, and selecting my first crayon I was overwhelmed by the smell of nostalgia. The crayon scent – colours and wax. I only vaguely remember colouring; I just know it was something I did. And, of course, early on someone pointed out that you “colour within the lines” and that “the sky is blue, and grass is green.” I can imagine myself thinking, if not blurting: “Says who about lines. Course the sky’s blue, grass is green. But this is a picture.” My mother, no doubt, had a hand in it. Nursery school and kindergarten teachers/pupils. When the grass can’t be purple, and the sky green, then some of the magic and fun is gone from childhood.

Grateful for colouring; that I can colour skies any colour I chose; that a $1.00 box of crayons makes me smile; grateful for another Sunday Masterpiece Mystery: Endeavour.

Self-like is tough tonight; guess that I can colour at my own level and not judge it against anyone else’s work. Now, if I could translate that into so many other facets. One at a time, breathe, one at a time.

Making impressionistic art by photographing flats of flowers through a glass table top.

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