There was a Samhain circle Saturday night, but I was still fighting off the effects of the (now tossed away) steroid-laden muscle relaxers – slash – pain killers – slash – neurological de-stabilizers. It takes a long while for the effects to dissipate, and it was exhausting keeping it completely suppressed and out of public view. I suspected that I would not benefit from a high-energy circle swirling around me; I think I sorta need exceedingly low energy, dead silence and soft music right now. So why I thought it was a good idea to download the latest Joan Jett and the Blackhearts cd I have no idea. Shoulda downloaded Mel Tormé.
Hey ... what a great idea. Let me go look in the I-Tunes store ...Later ... listening to Mel Tormé singing, “Til the Clouds Roll By”. He was before my time, but Harry Anderson’s character on “Night Court” was so obsessed with him, I went and listened to him, and have been listening to him ever since.
Besides, I had to spend the entire morning getting my car fixed. Supposedly, they replaced the defunct emissions filter; as soon as I got to Methuen, the “Service Engine” and “Security” lights went back on. Return of the white-hot rage and bloodshot eyes. Squealing tires as I made an angry U-turn in a semi-empty gas station parking lot. Back to dealership repair shop. “Explain this to me,” I snapped at them, pointing at the lights. To their credit they didn’t blame ME for it. Unfortunately, the guy who runs the “error lights analysis machine” – or whatever they call it – had left for the day. I have to go back again NEXT Saturday. I don’t believe I’d be happy about that even if I weren’t under the influence of steroids breaking bad on me, among other issues.
There was something else. The morning after the serious meltdown, I had to get up and go to work. Reason: whatever time off I still had I needed to coordinate a move. I wandered by my tree at about 6:30AM almost ashamed of what she must be seeing in me; I felt compelled to stand under her branches as though she had whispered, “Come stand by me” – under the umbrella of her still verdant canopy of leaves, where I always find peace. I can’t touch her trunk – the way that the groundskeepers have her set up, she’s planted in a fenced-in dirt mound, surrounded by yellow chrysanthemums. To get near enough to touch her trunk, I’d have to squash the mums. So I have no choice but to stand on the sidewalk under her canopy, although ... I longed so much to put my arms around her and lean on her trunk and just cry.
The moment I came under her canopy, I felt such an embrace I wanted to burst into tears again, but these were the good tears this time, and I knew what else had gone wrong. Yet another learning failure: one I had learned a year ago after returning from seeing Il Volo at the Beacon Theater with my twisted face, and had then learned again in the WC1 class (not to mention a few circles) and yet had forgotten completely after both lessons: if you’re going to raise energy, do not fail to ground it when you’re done!
I had been allowing it to accumulate. The occasional “wipe down” in class had dissipated some of it, but nowhere near all of it because I had raised energy in other ways away from class. I had to be consistent and vigilant, and I hadn’t been – at all. It had just built up, again and again, until the meds triggered the downside of it, and I exploded like a volcano.
One thing I love about my tree: she loves me unconditionally, no matter how massive of a screw-up I am. She just poured compassionate love into me, took a huge chunk of energy out of me and grounded it herself. Then she suggested I do the same, so that I could recognize the sensation of grounding. When she was done, I was trembling and near tears again. Everyone should have a tree who loves them.So after the new set of dashboard lights incident, I came home to continue packing and perform a grounding ceremony. That plan was squashed when the phone rang. It was the floor guy. “Hey, where are you?” he wanted to know.
Another example of communication going completely awry in this new version of hell that was my life under the influence. My version: he was supposed to call me back at the office Friday afternoon to verify our appointment for 3:00 pm Saturday and never did. His version: we were meeting at 3:00 pm Saturday. Fine. I’d jump in the car, drive all the way to New Hampshire and be there in an hour.
No keys.
The white-hot screaming rage was back upon me in an instant. I threw things across the room, breaking things, hearing them shatter as they hit the wall with intense pleasure ... trying to find those keys. I knew exactly where they were 24 hours earlier; now I couldn’t find them.
If you’re tired of reading about one screaming temper tantrum after another, imagine how tired I am of flailing around in them – over and over and over again. I’m also extremely tired of the reasons I felt I had for perpetuating them. Chaos. Disorder. Things completely out of control. Things lost and missing. Miscommunications. If these things were happening once every few weeks or so, it may have been tolerable. But these were happening in succession, one right after the other – and sometimes simultaneously, for weeks on end. I had no chance to solve one dilemma before the next one hit me. I had no recovery time. And it was killing me. I couldn’t even find time to develop an affirmation against it, or – obviously – to ground it, although I did try a fast, hurried version, and you can see how well that worked. Things just kept piling up.
An example: I found the keys and sped off to Seabrook at 3 in the afternoon, but not before finding yet another notice from AIMCO on my door. Now, understand that it was an AIMCO employee who set up the automatic rent payment, via which they were to get paid every month (and sometimes twice a month, being the chronic thieves that they were). I made SURE they were the ones who set it up because I didn’t want to hear from them ever again about the monthly rent.
The notice read: “You underpaid us! Send more money!” despite the fact that they were the ones who set up the payment deduction in the first place. I screamed, “What the f ...!” in the mailbox room. These freaking jackasses!!! That wasn’t the end of it. In the mailbox was a check for “overpayment of rent money” in the amount of 14 cents. So, to summarize: on one hand I owe them more money, but on the other hand I overpaid them by 14 cents.
Blood sped through my arteries up to my head again. GET ME the *(^&* OUT OF HERE!!! I hit the road in yet another state of rage, thanks to the perpetual, abject stupidity and ineptitude of the North Andover, Massachusetts Royal Crest Estates leasing office (AIMCO). Got there before the floor guy. And found a notice from the Seabrook, New Hampshire tax assessor’s office on the door.
JUST purchased the thing. Hadn’t even moved in. And already I’m getting notices from the Tax Man. Or in this case, Mary Dow, the Tax Lady. (Figures.) I just stared at the notice in bewildered shock. Not a “Welcome to Seabrook!” welcome wagon notice. Not a “How can we help you?” offer. An order – a DEMAND – that I show up and let Mary Dow, the Seabrook, New Hampshire Tax Lady tramp her muddy stinking shoes through the house, sniffing and peeking into corners, so I could pay her money to buy more muddy, stinking shoes.
Like I said. One thing after another without a pause to recover. I stood at the front door, reading the command performance notice, trembling and hyperventilating, no longer feeling welcome in New Hampshire.
Only one other moment calmed me back down again:
Only time I’ve tried not to scream with the audience ... at a video. I have no idea how he manages to stay grounded faced with that audience reaction ... girls and women screaming for him ... to him ... all this ... and that body!
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