Argh can't sleep!

Argh! It's ten to two on a Monday night/Tuesday morning. I got up this morning/yesterday at 6:30 (was trying to get to the gym but that was totally not happening, so I did some morning pages instead). I was really tired, zombie-like, at work by about 3pm. But here it is nearly two and I'm as wide awake as a tweety bird. Brain feels like a bright sunny summer day. Not even a yawn or a heavy eyelid or anything. What is happening?

It could be that I'm kind of rested from the weekend - had a big sleep in on Sunday morning. It could be that I'm still sort of high on my Memoir class experience, and also had a great hair day today and a pretty satisfying day at work. It isn't coffee, I didn't have any more than usual, or any later than 10am. It isn't sugar. It isn't any exciting email from a boy or other loved one because none have come today.

It could be beer. I stopped by the pub where I usually stop on the way home from work, and had a light and my usual pack of cheese and onion chips. I didn't have anything with me to read so I worked on the Meaning of Life paper. Very productive pub visit. And then I went grocery shopping, and then I came home and watched the West Wing and a Black Books re-run. And then went off to bed, but nothing. Turned off the light, didn't get stuck into reading or iPodding or anything. Wide, sunny awake.

My main goal for tomorrow was to get up at 6 and go to the gym, because the whole problem with me - the sleeplessness, the residual weird feeling from my car accident, the underlying stress, all of it - could be fixed through a little tiny bit more cardiovascular exercise. And I just can't get there. It's become a huge spiral of guilt and failure now - every night I have trouble sleeping because I don't get enough exercise, I vow solemnly to get up at 6 and go to the gym, 6 comes, the alarm goes off, the body says, "You have got to be fucking kidding me. I don't think so." We go back to sleep for a while, I have a morning (potter around the house a bit, when else will I do it?) and am at work late and feel guilty for showing a lack of commitment and also feel panicky because if I don't get enough hours up I won't be able to pay the bills.

Argh.

But anyway, I know from a whole lifetime of insomnia that when you're like this you can't just lie in your bed - the 20-minute rule should apply. Just get the hell up and do something else. And I know from my glamorous dot-com career that you cope with jet lag, you just get up and go to the meeting, and you probably don't die, and you can always sleep when they have bad movies on the plane on the way back home. Tomorrow isn't a particularly busy day at work. Tomorrow night is a completely optional activity, a meeting of a rival philosophy group that I was wanting to check out, but they meet every other Tuesday and tomorrow's topic isn't even all that interesting.

What I really, really want to do is sleep until I wake up tomorrow, then go and do a super huge session at the gym and really get back into it.

But then I really wouldn't be able to pay the bills at all, so we'll just have to do something else.

Meanwhile, back to surfing...

Writing your life

Today I went to a free one-hour sample class at the University of Sydney Centre for Continuing Education. The only class there was room in was called A Taste of Memoir, by a woman named Patti Miller. It was only an hour long, but it's already had an impact on me.

She gave us a sample to look at, which a member of the class had written several years earlier, and the main point we were to draw from it was that you have to write from within your memory, and that pieces have emotional impact when you use detail, not just reporting of facts. Then she had us do an exercise in which we first drew a rough floor plan of our childhood house, then imagined walking in and looking around, and when we first noticed something, the first time something caught our attention in our memory, we should stop and write for 10 minutes.

So here are my two. You didn't think you were going to get away without reading them, did you? What else is a blog but a memoir?

The staircase in my house had flocked wallpaper in a fleur-de-lys pattern, hard wood and a carpet runner. One hot day my Mom was very busy cleaning, getting ready for someone to come and visit. The bathroom was all scrubbed, there was furniture pulled out of place for sweeping, the sheets were all off the beds. In the midst of all this activity, I dropped and broke a glass 7-Up bottle on the stairs. Sticky huge liquid stain, broken glass. I remember Mom's face going hot and red and her voice rising to a strangled pitch. The fact lodged itself straight into my head: "This is the only time I've ever seen my mother cry."

Another time, much later when I was old enough that I should have known better, I threw a Barbie case down the stairs for efficiency, to get it down quickly without having to carry it. Blue and white plastic tumbling, a rumbling sound. Louder that I'd expected. And Dad appearing at the bottom of the stairs, his face in pure animal panic. Like a window to a more primitive, automatic, emotional Dad. I knew I had done a bad thing - I had scared him that one of us had fallen down the stairs - and it would be followed by anger. And here I'd thought I was so clever to come up with this work-saving technique.
I realise now that what I saw was the pure raw face of his protection and love of us.

Here are some comments about these little memory snippets:

1. They are not very well written (the first drafts were especially not). Too many facts, not enough description. Not in the voice of my child self. So it might be good to take the class, I have things to learn.

2. Interestingly for therapeutic purposes, they are both occasions where what was revealed to me was my parent's personhood, aspects of their personalities that were usually hidden from me as their child. My mother as a crying person, out of control. My dad as a terrified person. They were just momentary glimpses but obviously made a big impact, because they were the first two things I remembered when I thought about those stairs.

Jag

So, remember I had this old Jag that was in storage? I finally found someone to take it. Actually, S. helped - he went to see the mechanic who used to do the pink slip for my Hyundai, who we knew used to be a Jag specialist. He had a friend who was interested. I met with the mechanic, the friend and the friend's son one weekend and they decided, yeah, there was enough to the car that it was worth taking and doing up, and then they set about trying to arrange how to transport it.

The big day finally arrived on Saturday, exactly two weeks ago now. They picked me up (the mechanic, the friend, and the friend's young son) and we went up in the friend's old Range Rover with a trailer on the back that they'd hired that morning. They got the car out of the garage and onto the trailer, with only a little bit of hassle - one tire was quite flat (after 6 years it's not that surprising), and mid-tow a grumpy guy in a huge truck needed to get past us to get something out of another of the storage units (what he was getting was two model train engines, they were about four feet long each and a foot high, on an elaborate wheeled metal rack - so you had the Jag loonies on one side of the driveway, and the train loonies on the other, neither understanding each other's obsession but feeling a certain kinship nonetheless).

I still felt maternal and admiring about the car, a little worried but feeling warm feelings that it was getting a new home. But I also had one moment when I looked at it and saw, not a child or a pet or a loved one, but a big hunk of rusting metal that was past its prime. And when the friend got in to help steer the wheels to back it onto the trailer, it felt like yep, it's his car, he belongs in that driver's seat. That was the moment when I no longer felt it was mine. Once it was up and secure, I took some smiley photos of us on my phone, we went off to get a coffee at a closeby Subway, and then took off home.

We made it up the winding road out of Gosford to the F3, no problem. Just after the lights at the top of the hill, the driver (the mechanic actually, who used to own the Range Rover and had more experience driving with a trailer) noticed a slight wobble, but we thought it must be an unevenness in the road. We got on the freeway no problem, stayed in the slow lane, got up to legal speed. Drive, drive. But just over the crest of a hill, where you go down to the Mooney Mooney bridge, the trailer got another wobble which turned into a full-on fishtail. The driver did his best to control it, but I remember him going "Nope", and we headed toward the side of the road and ended up crashing against the concrete barriers on the side.

The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion, and I had that crystal-clear mental clarity that comes from adrenaline. "Right, we're going this way, this is going to happen," and then lots of metal crashing, a feeling of impact, a sense of a hard bump on the back of my head. Then everyone saying, "Are you alright, are you alright," and miraculously, everyone was. But then I put my hand up and it came away with blood on it - just like in the movies. I felt perfectly, brilliantly fine, the best I ever had in my life, in fact, but then noticed that and said, "I'm bleeding, actually," and went about trying to deal with that. The son found some tissues and told me to hold them by my head - so actually I didn't bleed very much, and it didn't get all over. A passerby was there - a group of four young people in a small car who had stopped to help. He had just done a first aid course two weeks before, so he was mega-prepared - had rubber gloves, antiseptic, gauze, tape, and a little bag to dispose of medical waste. So he patched me up with a bandage that went all the way around my head - I looked like a front rower.

Must have been before that, a truckie had stopped just ahead, and I remember him walking back to us and he just said, "Spectacular!" The aftermath sure was - apparently we took out three of the concrete barriers. The Jag was up, at about a 45 degree angle it looked like, balanced on the barriers (but it turns out it hardly had any damage at all - one broken tail light, a bit of a bump to the rear, and all the hubcabs came off). The wheels came off the trailer, which I think the guys are still talking to the rental company about. But the poor Range Rover had its entire back end pulled out. I looked back to where the wheel should be, and it was just not there - the back axle had been pulled out and was sitting behind the car. But they tell me they were still able to back it off the tow truck when it got to its final resting place, the car yard, later on.

The crystal-clear perfect focussed feeling of course didn't last. While the passer-by was patching me up I felt my head start to ache all at once - the first lot of trauma chemicals wearing off inside me. A few minutes later I started to feel a bit wobbly and sat down. The passers by had called an ambulance, which seemed overkill but I'm glad now that they did. When they got there the mechanic took me gently by the arm and walked me to them, and so I was in the ambulance when the cops came, and the fire department (fuel leak from the Range Rover), and the tow trucks and when the loaded the whole contraption onto the truck to haul it away.

In the ambulance the thought struck me - what if we had been half a mile further down the road? The Mooney Mooney bridge is a suspension bridge over an amazingly high gorge. I don't even know how high - as big as a very many multi-story building. What if, what if? We would have been falling, plummeting goners. I got scared, an hour after the fact, and had a bit of a cry (which I found out has an analgesic effect - the ambos kept asking me if I hurt, and when I was crying I didn't at all). I was also crying with the emotion of the car - I had the day all planned out and was intending to write a big, emotional, loving memoir of the car afterwards, but it had ruined it, taken vengeance, petulantly caused a drama, and hurt not only me but its new owner who was now without his main work transport.

They took me to Gosford Hospital. They also gave a ride to the mechanic, and the new Jag owner and his son went with the tow trucks. Everyone stayed very steady and in good spirits, but while I was on the gurney waiting to be wheeled into a room, I looked over at the mechanic sitting in a chair and he looked suddenly very tired, big dark circles under his eyes. I got poked and prodded and looked over, and in the end they decided I had nothing serious to worry about. They still wanted to keep me for a few hours, just to see if anything else emerged, and I can totally see why - the chemicals released during the crisis are so powerful that they could very easily mask something more serious - internal injury, head injury, etc. - and it clearly takes a few hours for all those amazing chemicals to clear. In fact, I heard it takes about two weeks to fully come down off the high and feel normal again, and lots of people end up getting a cold at about that time (so, I'll have to watch out today and tomorrow!).

In the end, I had a bump on the forehead, which I think was caused my some flying debris in the car; a bump on my arm which was caused by the armrest; a bump on the back of my head which I didn't even discover until I was on my way home; a bruise where they took blood out of my other arm, collateral injury; sore muscles in my neck which went away pretty quickly; a bit of a headache for a few days; and a dramatic black eye that developed over two days, but went away pretty quickly. It's two weeks today since it happened, and I am now feeling pretty right, and when people say "So, what have you been up to?" I forget to even mention it.

Oh, also? To get home they had to release me into the care of someone, and I called some friends who weren't home, but then wasn't sure who to call. After some consideration, I ended up calling S. Well, it was his car in the first place, after all, so he should help a bit with the mopping up. He came with his kid, who was visiting for the weekend, on the bus because the trains were having track work, and fetched me and saw me back to Central. He didn't rush in and clasp me in his arms and cry, "Oh, you precious treasure, I was so worried; nearly losing you has now made me realise how much I love you and want you back!" But then, as people have said, did I expect that? Not really. And he sat me next to his girl on the bus so I chatted with her and not him - he was doing a crossword (and later told me he had been doing some work on his book on the way up - not sick with worry for me, but thinking about computational theories of information). We got to Central and the bus let you near the taxi rank, and he said, "So, are you right to get home from here?" Didn't even see me to my door. So, I'm very grateful that he came to fetch me and sign me out of hospital, and he expressed gratitude that I had called him and said to feel free to do so any time, but in the end it was still a bit slack. He clearly does not love me any more. I have no idea how these things happen, but there it is.

Anyway, the people I had called first ended up coming over and having dinner that night, and insisted that I call only them next time, and everyone at work was concerned about me when I went back, and the philosophers a bit belatedly but nicely expressed concern when they found out, and my sister had the response I was really after, the Oh-my-god, precious treasure, etc. one and she rang me from Antarctica. Mom and Dad were supportive but didn't seem freaked out. And I got a nice message from my Aunt who lives in Denver. So, lots of people care about me, despite how it felt when the nurse asked me to list a "next of kin" for the paperwork and I couldn't think of anybody.

And, lest we forget, I no longer have a Jag. $230 bucks a month, now free. So, apart from the drama, and despite the fact that it didn't end the way I expected to (and has put me off antique cars forever), it was a good result.

Home restored

Tonight I finally got all the books put back (see entry about fridge delivery, earlier). It took me five nights to move them from the hall to the lounge room, and I wanted to take five nights to move them back but skipped a few and it was actually 9. But I did the last two book shelves tonight, and it's amazing how much better it made me feel. I was able to put my pretty things back on the shelves where they go, I was able to move the table back to the centre of the room so I can eat and watch tv at the same time.

And speaking of the tv, I was able to get into the filing cabinet to get the instructions for the remote and put the code in the Magic key, so my tv remote works again (see entry about electrical mishaps). And I found I was up doing stuff at 12:05 when what should come on Channel 9 but the Sopranos! (don't get me started about how they had it on too late to start with and then it didn't rate well enough so they moved it to Monday after midnight - brand new Season 6 episodes!). Anyway, so now I'm up way too late but I really do feel a restored sense of belonging and well-being. Books back, table back, tv remote fixed, Sopranos on, and on top of all of that a new fridge! Home at last.

Nature of Attraction, Renouncing Desire

I've got a crush on him, that's what it is. Since he's declared himself to be "polyamorous" and can't see anything wrong with it, I can't act on this crush because I don't accept his terms. What we are is collaborators. Magnificent collaborators - and I often catch myself thinking that he's a magnificent person, when he's speaking, usually about being fully embedded in the experience of living and treasuring it, but also when what he says demonstrates compassion for others and insight into the human experience. And when we talk together it's just magical, sometimes, we make so much progress, and I feel smart and vibrant (and young and pretty) and truly alive. Also like life is worth living. I think the whole thing has in fact saved my life, more than once.

But there are negatives. Like, I was trying to suggest some extra-curricular meetings recently. I think I was assuming that, since he seems to enjoy my company in the structured environment, he would enjoy it outside the structure, and because he's polyamorous he could ditch his wife and kids (I don't know that he has a wife and kids, in fact I know he doesn't have kids because of the stupid things he says about how you should raise them, and I suspect he doesn't have a wife either but may have a main girlfriend or two, but anyway) he could ditch whoever else and could spend as much time as he liked with me because he's polyamorous. But my suggestions have been met with, "Hey, yeah, sounds great, maybe, sometime," and then no follow up. Classic sign that he's just not that into me.

Damn.

Here I thought he was a sure thing.

And like I said, I don't even want to sleep with him. So you'd think I could thereby avoid all possessive or jealous feelings, but no. I've seen how he looks at other girls who come to Philorum. It makes me feel baaad. I feel bad thoughts toward the other girls, and here I should be having solidarity of the womanhood, especially doing philosophy and because there are so few women in the group anyway. I end up comparing myself to them and feeling bad about how I compare and angry. I am jealous that he might share some of what we have with someone else. (And if what he's actually thinking of sharing with the other one is something more crass and physical, that's even worse.)

Why do I want to sleep with him just because I like talking to him? And I don't really want to sleep with him, (contemplating how the actual physical act would be I suspect it would be horrible, I don't think we'd be well matched physically at all and he's bound to be one of those "sensitive" "sensual" hippy boys which I just hate). I just want him around all the time.

What I was is his attention. The things recently that have made my heart sing is once when I sent a very rambling email, the kind of thing for which I usually expect a response like, "Yow, crazy bitch, stay away!", but he said, "Love your rant, I can hear your voice in it." My voice! Of course my voice comes through because I wasn't holding back or censoring the prose at all and I'm a really good writer (cough cough, y'all blog readers are free to disagree in your minds strongly right now!), so I can express myself really effectively with the written word. And the other time was just last night, when we were babbling about exams like the Myers Briggs and I burst out, "I'm thinking of so many stories I don't know which one to tell!" The kind of blurt for which I expect the response, jeez, who is she who thinks her stories are so interesting, who cares what she thinks, maybe if I keep talking and change the subject I can cut her off. But he, no, he cleared the floor for me and got everyone's attention and turned it my way (shone it on me) and said, "What is your first story?" And then when I finished it he said, "What's your second story?" Oh, swoon! He not only listened and heard that I had some stories to tell, but remembered how many I had, and cleared the floor of the whole group to give me as much space as I wanted to tell them!

The opposite of the usual woman-silencing behaviour that everyone else engages in.

And I know he's committed to the freedom for women to speak because we've talked about it, and how to encourage women to contribute in the Philorum format.

So, since it's him, I can detangle my attraction and try to pull it apart and then manage it, so I don't feel bad if he's perving on some other female form than mine.

And what it is is his attention that I delight in and crave. And makes me feel young and pretty and smart and alive, etc.

And attention is finite. Which might be why polyamorousness doesn't work - it has to do with the desires of the recipient (the victim). And which is why it's asymmetrical to a parent's equal love for several children. What a child wants from a parent is approval, but approval isn't finite or time-constrained - you can sort of do it once and it lasts forever, like granting a PhD. I still rate a PhD now even 14 years after I got it, and as many people can have PhD's as can earn them.

But attention, that's finite. You can only give that to one person at a time. That's what I want from him, that's what I want heaps more of than I get, and that's what makes me feel bad if he is giving it to someone else. No, just some other girl, it doesn't bug me when he gives attention to some other boy - but then it's not pervy female-directed attention, is it?

My thought while I was watching him talk and thinking him magnificent was, I've been thinking I need a new boyfriend. But what I really need is to not feel like this any more. I need to not feel like I need a new boyfriend.

Man, that is going to be a challenge.