When we went to the conference in July there was karaoke as one of the evening events. I wasn’t quite drunk enough to be comfortable getting up in front of a bar full of strangers and singing, although later that same night I did some crazy dancing in front of strangers. Anyway, it’s been bothering me. My excuse that night, aside from a lack of sufficient moonshine, was that I couldn’t think of The Right Song. And of course since then I’ve thought of about a thousand.
I’ve only actually done karaoke once, at a tiny country bar with my second husband. I’m pretty sure I sang “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. It’s a great song. The one above by Pink is too. And so is “I Am Waking Up Today” by Bowling for Soup, and “Into the Mystic” by Van Morrison, and pretty much anything by Flogging Molly.
Way back I actually could and did sing, quite well. I was in choir at school and loved it. I sang constantly. When I was diagnosed with bipolar and started taking lithium I lost my pitch. Can’t carry a tune in a bucket these days. Pretty well the only time I sing is when I’m alone, in the car or the shower. I’m just way too self-conscious about the way I sound.
But I shouldn’t be. I sound the way I sound. I’m good at lots of things, I don’t have to be good at everything.
So next time the opportunity to go out and do karaoke presents itself I have every intention of raising my glass.
I’ve completely lost track of how many hours I’ve worked since returning from the conference. I’m at that place where numbers have ceased to have meaning. Nights, weekends, early mornings… It’s all blurring together. Today might be Friday, but then again it might be next Thursday. Who’s to say.
But truly, I thrive on this nonsense.
I loathe boredom and I really do prefer having a lot to do as opposed to very little. I do remarkably well when I have more things to do than I really should be able to get done. There’s almost something magical about the stress of needing to do my best when I’m sleep deprived.
I may have stumbled on the secret of how to cram 36 hours worth of crap into a 24 hour day. Maybe. Then again, I may also have developed a recipe for poo scented shoe inserts. Only time will tell.
What I know for sure is that people keep saying nice things, the kittens are adjusting to the move at home, and I actually did some knitting last night. Life is good enough right now.
My trip was good, all things considered. There were no real issues with the travel itself, we saw some beautiful scenery, learned some neat stuff, and had a good time. I actually laughed more than I have in a very long time. I needed the laughter, probably more than anything else.
It was an opportunity to recharge my muchly depleted batteries. I have a tendency to push myself far harder than anyone else ever would. That’s great, but only to a point. I had been working too many hours, going in on weekends, and not allowing myself breaks. Not good for anyone but seriously not good for someone with mental health issues.
And now the real fun starts. August on a university campus can, and often does, provide a close simulation to all of Dante’s levels of Hell. This is my 16th go at this. Bring it.
I enjoy the challenge. I enjoy helping people. I enjoy pushing myself to the absolute limit just to see if I can push a little further. One of my mantras, one that I think should probably turn into a tattoo soon, is “fall down seven times, get up eight.” I love it because, well, I just don’t know how to quit.
I should be finishing packing, or getting the last few things done for work, or cleaning something, or…
But I’m procrastinating. This isn’t usually something I do, honestly. I’m much more of a “get this crap done NOW” kind of girl. No sense in putting off until later what I can do right this very minute. But sometimes I get in a funk, and sometimes change is at the heart of it all.
Backstory – I’ve been living in the very lovely basement of the home I grew up in for a good number of years now. I love it. It’s spacious, I have a 1/2 bath here, my own full-sized fridge. It’s like a studio apartment with an attached house. But my mom and I are trying to get healthier and part of that is having a place to exercise. The basement is the most logical place for that so I’m moving upstairs.
I’m actually looking forward to it. A “normal” bedroom again sounds like fun. And the walls are pink (as is the carpet) and that sounds like fun, too. Plus, if something happens and either of us gets sick in the night it’s safer.
But it’s a change. I really do try to see any change as an opportunity for growth and good stuff. All of this will be done before life at work explodes again with the start of the Fall semester. I’ve booked movers to come take care of the furniture for us since there is no way in hell that the two of us can wrestle this stuff around.
I’m very much looking forward to going to this conference for work, but that’s some change there, too. I’ll be out of my normal element, but I’ll have a good chunk of my tribe there with me, and I know that will help.
And my therapist’s office just called saying they have a cancellation for this morning. Praise the squirrels.
Now I just need to decide if I’m going to take one of my little stuffed dragons with me or a squirrel…
I would greatly prefer it if the fun and adventures would show up on my door step, encompass a single amazing day, and then leave me to sleep in my own bed with my own pillow and my own kitties. But alas, that just ain’t the way it works.
I’m not sure if it’s actual a by-product of any of my mentalness or just a personality thing but I’ve never really liked being away from home, even as a kid. My family typically did road trips, partially because that’s just how people took vacations back in those days. I’d rather road trip than fly any day, but alas, that just ain’t always the way it works.
This time next week I’ll be enjoying (I hope) the sights and sounds of Keystone, CO and the InstructureCon 2017 conference. Many of my good pals from work will be there and there are 4 of us flying out together, so that will help.
But as someone who lives with bipolar disorder, routines and sameness are critical to maintaining my mental health. I need to know that certain things will be done in certain ways and at certain times on a very regular basis. If not, well, then chaos takes over. For short spans of time though I can pull of pretending I am quote-NORMAL-endquote.
I will take the necessary bottles of medication, the essential oils to help with anxiety, things to distract my hands on the short plane trip, and I will do what I often do in situations like this…
I will get by with a little help from the amazing people I work with, many of whom I am privileged to call friends.
Change is HARD.
My world feels full of change anymore. The department I work for got restructured in February and that created a fair bit of upheaval. We’re making a significant software switch on campus and that’s causing more upheaval. My continuing relationship with my ex is in a perpetual state of flux. I lost an uncle to suicide this summer.
Life is constant change and change can be HARD. But life is also constant opportunity for CHOICES.
I choose to see all of the change as a chance to make my life better.
I will be more than the labels I wear and I will be better than the foul mood I find myself in right this very minute and I will be the compassionate human being that I know myself to be.
I choose to see the good in the changes.
This is the excerpt for your very first post.
I’ve been writing as long as I can remember. It’s a form of therapy and a way for me to process the mess in my head. But lately life hasn’t been allowing much time for writing. I’m hoping that a change of venue will help. Welcome to my world…