enduring the assault

I don't know how it happens. Or maybe I do. My childhood. My early training in dysfunctional stress management. The subsequent addictive behaviors and their inevitable withdrawal symptoms. The melt-downs upon which this blog is named after.

My whole life has been punctuated and punctured with spectacular displays of grueling self-hatred that sometimes I share with you, like now, since I've been blind-sided again, and feel desperate for the reassurance that I am not alone, desperate to make something productive of my pain.

Hope has given way to hopelessness. Happy delusion has disintegrated into what? Panic. A yearning to check out, to hide under the covers for the rest of winter until I feel safe to show my face again.

friends friends friends

Last year one of Hamish's favorite friends moved all the way to Brazil.

This year, one of his new favorite friends is moving to another state a thousand miles away. On Friday. I'm hoping this doesn't turn into a sick and twisted annual tradition. The out-of-state-bound friend, her mom, Alicia Smith is a professional photographer, with gear and talent to show for it. We thought she'd brought along an overnight bag to this afternoon's playdate. (Of course we would have made up the guest room for her if she'd wanted.) A mini suitcase on wheels it looked like, just right for the overhead bin on an airplane. But no. It was her camera.

gutted

My back, either despite or because of all this yoga, has grown tight and ornery and rebels against backbends, against releasing. I'm re-reading Dr. Sarno's book, because I believe it rocks and is worth reviewing, and reminiscing about the cupping, acupuncture and physical therapy I tried a couple years ago, all to no avail.