Tag / goals

by Sandy Bassie

Does AI Overload?

Was sure I hit ‘publish’ but maybe I dreamed it.

Three days into an overdue vacation, my mind still turns to questions: How are they doing at work? How far behind are they? Who is looking after returns?  My body looks the other way. Immediately seeking my bed, illusion of rest. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, I abandon hope of sleep and give in to playing games, matching pieces, learning words, pretending I will do some cleaning when I get up. 

There’s a gap somewhere between responsibilities I’ve taken on and those I own. A glitch in the system holds me in place. Almost. When I’m very quiet, I feel the tremor, nerves, muscles, something else return, return, Some imagined starting line that made sense but has no place in memory. Disturbing. I like when things line up – dot to dot, puzzles edges, a ruler line that doesn’t slip. 

The weight of this week does not compute. I see the days, the dates, the times. I coloured things by categories, try to work inside these lines. What a laugh. I ended up with ten days off rather than five because my lines don’t work, did not line up. Ninety days of saved up hours became five days with time on my hands and another five for family and friends. 

Silence may be golden to some, but it spins my wheels with nowhere to go. There is plenty to do, I haven’t done, and only three trips to blue box down the hall. Four carboard boxes sit in my car, waiting. If I fill them, we can take a run to the local Thrift, and another stop for outside and trees. Uncomfortable. I don’t know why. 

I’m wasting time, not yet into the day, wondering if a list would help and if I asked it, does AI overload?

by Sandy Bassie

I don’t know

I’m tired of being tired. Dragging and dragged over rocks of grief. Realizing the many ways and places this grief is laid out over years of unmet grief.

July 15

My first day back to work. Four hours. Folding clothes. I may not make it, there are updates to online training that need to be completed. That’s easy. I can do those. It’s the floor that scares me.

July 20

Yesterday, day three. I shook. Forced myself through four hours. Kindnesses of staff.

A coworker called me brave. I was negating myself again; fear of change, fear of loss. Berating myself for falling, hitting my head, struggling to heal. Knowing I’m not okay. Missing Jack. Showing up triggers me. Too many memories of waiting for him to come through the doors. Working apart. Not able to go to him. Listening to people yell or complain about petty things. I’m afraid. I can’t go back to listening to it right now. Doing this … staying alive and learning to grieve … it does not play fair. I had no idea.

I live with levels of stress accumulated in decades of abuse. Crisis a daily reality. I thought pain would go when I left my ex, slide back into something others call ‘normal’. I would laugh off that word telling people “normal is just the fat part of the graph. Statistics.” But this is not funny. Dissociation is a common experience of abuse, of PTSD. So are the panic attacks that wake me at 2am shaking from dreams or something I don’t remember. It’s strange how …. thoughts lost.

July 25

I had rough days this week. More than rough. I get angry at myself for them, for their unpredictability, for not being able to control myself or the days. Long hanging silences on calls to the crisis line, then sobbing because I’m frozen in bed, my body a lump of shock, sizzling. Blood pressure high, pills taken, bathroom done, back to bed, lay and shake. And so I call,

“hello, my name is …. how can I help you?”

“I, um I …” my mind and thoughts racing with guilt and grief and disasters past and pending.

The thoughts freeze in my head. Instinct. Fear; of living, being, lost and labelled. Something my ex would say, A negative judgement on who and how I am. And I can’t do it. Getting it out takes a breath, and sometimes that’s where they start. But first I give my name, the basics of identity. Then the call.

I talk and talk, through getting up, getting going, going to work. Even with the fear. A rational irrational place where emotion and action don’t fit the norm, but given the circumstances I understand. Tears or not, I have to go. I push too hard. Don’t overdo. Am warned. Holding myself back from demanding full hours. I don’t want to hurt myself again. The side of my head that hit the floor is ok, but not ok. Numb or tingles at times. Stress?

There is so much I can’t predict, so much I just don’t know. I’m trying to be ok with that; not knowing. Living and being is the hard job right now. The rest will ease in slowly, not smoothly. I hope, but am learning I can’t expect it. My body needs to purge the grief, but also years of pent up grief or things attached to it. Chaos of layers, interwoven connections, years forming. I’m just taking it a day or two at a time. Feeling useless, but knowing I’m not. Telling myself to be quiet when I want to rebuff the kindnesses and compliments of others. Still so much fear letting others in. I understood that far too well, Jack. We were kind to each other’s broken places. Love lingers in the tenderness.

Sanctuary.

by Sandy Bassie

Determination

I have a few posts on the go, not yet sure which will post first. Creativity is a big part of my journey and thought process lately. Today’s art prompt, I didn’t know I needed one, but it was shared by a friend: Determination. Ugh.

Stubbornness. Does that count? I’m not so sure. As I write my memoir, I’m struggling with qualities I have that were strengths and weaknesses. Sometimes they look very similar. Being determined. That should be positive, right? Some sites commented it can be mistaken for anger. I did look it up … determination … quotes, images, characteristics, definitions. In general, it represents as:

“intentness, decision, decidedness. steadfastness, staunchness, perseverance, persistence, indefatigability, tenacity, tenaciousness, staying power, strong-mindedness, backbone, the bulldog spirit, pertinacity, pertinaciousness.”

All good things, but I thought about the comment it can be perceived as anger. It shows in the faces that came up. Even the one I chose. I did one drawing from my search of faces. A baby. Yeah, at that age, we are all about determination, and stubbornness. This little guy has it, for sure.

sandy-bassie baby 20200609_180300

Cute, and he still looks almost angry. Poor thing. I shared it to the art group. I’m learning to do that more this year – share things. Let sharing become smiles.

 

As I was finishing the drawing post, I noticed my inbox had something from a local publisher doing an anthology of healing stories. I’ve read some from others and debated last year whether to contribute. After some internal argument, I decided I would risk it. Today, I received the edited version of my story for me to review and comment. I’ve sent my reply and will try to not think about it too much more.

 

It’s scary reading things I write when I get feedback from others telling me they’re good, or in this case ‘powerful’. I love words and putting them together in ways I believe share my story of growth, healing, risk, learning trust, and other paths in the emotional journey I’m taking. But hearing others tell me the ways my words impact them, that is still hard. I’m learning to keep moving, keep writing, to tell myself not to linger too long over what was said, to look forward even while looking behind.

 

Determination. I guess this is that place. I’ve called it stubbornness, been told it’s patience, laughed and shook my head. In the end, whatever I call it, I hope it continues to lead me, encourage me, remind me to breathe. I want to write. Will write. But humbly, knowing others take hope from them. Find reasons for their own journey. I hope that means they also find reasons to  laugh. I’ve valued the laughter. It fills me and feeds my ongoing determination to find life in each day and hope for way ahead.

 

Determination. Yes, I’ll think on it further, and value it.

 

by Sandy Bassie

Hope

July 3, 2019 at 10:10 am I started this topic – only a heading, no more. Sometimes you need to drop a line and see what comes. Maybe that’s what I was doing. Maybe I was wise enough to know I’d need the bait, something to catch me and pull me in. A word, a question.

Yesterday, i saw one of those signs … this one had a bible verse on confidence in things hoped for … looking forward with a sense of expectation, anticipation. As long as what we anticipate is good, the world seems a safe and happy place. It’s only when our hope is skewed that how we engage with life goes awry.

I live in both places; expectation both welcomes and pushes me as I move towards something desired or a challenge I’m willing to face. Hope isn’t easy. Sometimes I have been disappointed. Had someone suggest I’m not living the best ‘today’ I was designed to achieve. I’ll think about it. There is some truth there. I’ve stayed stuck too long in unhealthy places and bypassed some offered opportunities. But, I like who I am, and am willing to work with where I am today. I hope I’ve learned some things. I know I’ve pushed myself beyond comfort the last few years, and this year actively sought discomfort in achieving writing goals – small steps, practicing balance.