It’s Furious Balancing

Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

I’ve had those two lines of poetry rattling around in my head because I’m feeling quite smug about two new knitting tools I’ve discovered.  “New to me” anyway; they’ve been around a while.

The first will warm the cockles of anyone’s heart — anyone who has ever felt discouraged or apprehensive about those ubiquitous finishing instructions, “Pick up and knit 124 stitches around the neckline.”

That’s an Addi Turbo Cro-Needle — a 32-inch circular needle with a US size 2 crochet hook on one end and a US size 3 needle tip on the other.  I believe that the person who came up with this one should be beatified; I certainly think it’s a miracle.  In my Innernet surfing research, it appears that there was a Sticks & String podcast some 6 months or so ago that mentioned the Cro-Needle, but I found out about it on Ravelry.

Ravelry is also to blame for my next purchase, which arrived on my doorstep yesterday.  I’ve been looking for an organizational solution to the circular needle mess that is currently breeding in a shoebox in my study.  Perhaps if I contain the prurient little buggers in individual self-sealing PVC sleeves (sorted by size) things will settle down.

This was an inexpensive purchase.  A short Innernet shopping search found an equivalent knitting needle organizer for $34.99.  I paid $17.99 for this.  The explanation for the price difference?

Yes, cats and kittens, it’s a fishing tackle organizer.  I am the proud owner of a Bass Pro Shop Extreme Worm Binder. Since it came, I’ve been dying to write a faux review on the Bass Pro Web site raving about how the circular knitting needle mess on my boat is a thing of the past, how well it stands up to a salt-water knitting environment, and does it come in pink?

Gold stars and special bonus points awarded to those of you who know the literary allusion from the title of this post without Google.

But anyway.

I’ve been completely lost for blog post topics. There have been a few ideas flitting around my head, but nothing that takes on actual substance. I’m chalking it all up to my Reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder. I’m looking at the months of June, July, and August as being similar to a prison sentence; there’s a part of me that wants to “x” out each day on the calendar with a black Sharpie. I’m about ready to dig out Apsley Cherry-Garrard’s The Worst Journey in the World, crank the air conditioning, and camp out on our sofa until the leaves start to turn and I feel like a normal human being. A relatively normal human being, that is.

You’re going to have to bear with me until I have the energy to think and compose coherent sentences. You may have to put up with a few memes and a LOLCat or two in the interim.

I’ll be back. Before September. I hope.

As the weather warms up, I’m becoming more and more aware of how much I hate the summer and how much I am not looking forward to months of unrelenting heat and blinding sunlight. I can enjoy the milder weather we’re having now, the lilacs and forget-me-nots, but there’s this Impending Doom lurking just around the corner.

Michigan summers suck.

I’ve decided that the best way for me to cope with my Reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder is with Wellbutrin and lots and lots of fall/winter knitting projects. I can stay in the house, crank the air conditioning, and play with yarn; before you know it the outside will be clean and cold again and it will be time to wear some lovely, bright, handknit hats and scarves with my austere black winter coat.

For now, you get pictures from the backyard. The one positive thing I can say for the warmer weather is there is better lighting for photographing the Finished Objects. As always, click the pretty pictures to make them bigger.

This is the One-Day Beret from Through the Loops done up in Noro Silk Garden Chunky. I finished the bind-off on the drive home from ThreadBear. It was a tad on the large-ish side, so I did a quick hot wash/cold rinse to tighten it up. That and a few minutes in the dryer did the trick.

Despite the “purple mushroom” comment, I do love this hat. It’s going to go hide in the sweater bags in the closet with the cedar sachets and the rest of the Yarn Stash until November or so.

I wish I could do the same. Pass the Wellbutrin.

When I started this blog some 14 months ago, I didn’t imagine that it would turn into a knitting blog. Technically, it isn’t, if only because there are a few posts that don’t even address knitting at all.

There are plenty of other topics I would like to write about, but they are either (a) poorly-formed with no satisfying resolution or, (b) work-related and thus dealing with Other People and privacy issues and suchlike and so on.

Topic (a) would include the media’s utter irresponsibility in reporting the Northern Illinois University shooting from the “mentally ill gunman who stopped taking his medication” angle. That is offensive on so many levels, the primary one being that a person described as “normal,” “intelligent,” with “no red flags” is being tarred with the rather broad brush that not only stigmatizes people who take prescription psychotropic medication — such as myself — but also offers an oversimplified, pat answer that the American Public will swallow whole without stopping to think.

Surprise, surprise.

Topic (b) would include my belief that - despite all the jokes about unscrupulous lawyers — the most unethical people who walk into our office are clients, not attorneys. I work with estate planning, probate, and trust administration issues, and I often say that I’ve seen it all when it comes to the intrafamilial squabbles after a death (e.g., “Uncle Henry’s dead! Who gets his stuff?!”). The particular estate I have in mind at the moment involves outright fraud — intentionally concealing assets from other beneficiaries and intentionally misdirecting assets intended for charitable purposes into their own pockets. And people say attorneys are shysters? ‘Nuff said.

<deep breath>

So let’s talk about knitting, shall we? It’s a lot less complicated than Real Life. Most of the time, anyway.

I’ve been slogging along on the Malabrigo top-down raglan sweater and have a progress picture for you:

Again, not a good picture by any set of standards, but it gives you an idea of how far I’ve come along. I’m just starting the k1p1 ribbing at the bottom, and I’ll probably give that 3 to 4 inches. The collar looks too small/too tight in this photo, but that’s more k1p1 ribbing; trust me, I can get this over my head without any problems.

Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break. — Shakespeare, Macbeth

I’ve been sitting at the keyboard for a while, debating with myself whether or not I should attempt a blog post about grief. Even though I tell myself that I write blog posts for myself alone, I know there are Readers Out There who come here to be entertained or to check out the knitting or to look at LOLCats and really don’t care to hear about the sad, icky emotional stuff.

Well, today’s post isn’t for them. I suggest to those of you who don’t want to wade through this to just go to the link in first footnote and watch the Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppets do Macbeth. I need to go watch those sock puppets again myself, to be honest. I could use a laugh.

There is no logic in my grieving for Gregor. There is no doubt in my mind that it was his time to go. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t drinking hardly any water. He was getting to be a little bag of bones; he was too weak to leap on counters. There wasn’t any “cure” for him. I could have said yes to 20+ weeks of chemotherapy to buy 6 to 9 more months with him (maybe), but that wasn’t the right answer. I know that. The logical and best thing to do was to let him go.  It was definitely his time.

It hurts like hell.

Gregor was my Special One. Out of my three cats, he was the one who followed me around constantly, the one who had to sit on my lap while I was on the computer. The one who came into the bathroom with me every morning when I was getting ready for work. The one who had to come curl up next to me when I was knitting on the couch or reading in bed before I would go to sleep. At night, I would lie on my side and he would settle in next to me, filling up the hollow space under my chin, letting me hold him like a teddy bear as I fell asleep. He was Mama’s Boy, my Good Big Cat, Mr. Squeakypants, Mister G.

I miss him. I just miss him, and there’s this irrational part inside of me screaming GIVE ME BACK MY CAT to the universe even though I know that there isn’t any giving back involved in any of this.

I know time will help with the sorrow. I know I did the right thing.

I just want my cat back.

I’m going to stop here and go watch those Sock Puppets, I think. I’m not at the point where I can articulate grief, merely let it roll through me.

Nothing of any great moment has been going on with me. That, when combined with end-of-summer ennui, has led to the dearth of blog posts.

Not that I’m complaining. I enjoy a drama-free life; it just doesn’t generate much writing material.

I should be honest. It’s not “end-of-summer ennui.” It’s My-God-When-Will-This-End-Can-I-Come-Out-of-My-Cave-Now depression. I’m slogging through the last 100 yards of a mile-long race. Assuming I’m addressing a “normal” person — by which I mean “average” — it’s akin to how you feel in February. Spring is coming. Hope is around the corner. It’s almost, almost, almost here. Just Not Yet. Oh, and here’s another 12 inches of snow. Enjoy.

I’ll dig out from under soon, don’t fret. I have to write about knitting. I have to write about Harry Potter. Just right at this moment I need My Cave and a carton of Butterfinger ice cream.

Oh, and yarn.

I actually feel kind of attacked by the sun. I feel like it’s piercing into me, and I start to feel more and more desperate to escape it…. By August, I’m barely able to function and don’t really recover until autumn. October is reliably a good month. I’m waking up, and I feel like I’m being released from my summer, what I would call, jail cell. — A sufferer of Reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder, New York Times

I hate summer. I’ve hated summer for years, but recently it’s become quite worse. Just walking the half block from the coffee shop to work — with the morning sun full in my face — is nearly intolerable. It’s not that I can get a second-degree sunburn in 30 minutes (I can). It’s not that the heat and humidity are oppressive (They are). It’s the light. I am truly sick of the light. On that short walk to the office this morning, the temperature was in the 60’s and still the light felt like it was gouging holes in me.

I’ve been contemplating this post for a while now, ever since I saw the Alaskan pictures over on Yarn Harlot’s blog. Land of the midnight sun and all that. It got me thinking: If there’s a place where there’s 20+ hours of daylight right now, there has to be a place where there’s 20+ hours of non-light, be it twilight, dusk, or total darkness.

Sign me up.

I’m certain it’s not “true” seasonal affective disorder, since I’ve shown the ability to be depressed at any time of year regardless of the amount of visible light, and I’m certainly not exhibiting any weight loss or decreased appetite (quite the opposite, in fact). Insomnia? Yes, but that’s nothing new. Agitation? Anxiety? No more than usual. Seeing the morning light start to come in at 5:30 a.m. and thinking “&^%#*, I woke up again“? Oh, yes.

I’m taking a day off from work on Monday for a Mental Health Day. This involves staying inside with the air on full blast and cataloging my books on my online database. If it would be cloudy and raining on that day, that would be heaven, but it appears that we’re due for yet another sunny day with highs in the low- to mid-90’s.

What I wouldn’t give for a polar night.

I say to myself, “I don’t know how I can even begin to describe the pain I’m dealing with right now.” The mind goes blank. I have a few images — a clenched fist, a bowstring drawn back to its limit — that’s how my body feels. Something approaching agony. My jawline aches from being tightly held all day. I say those small prayers — God, oh, God ohGodohGodohGod — until the words are meaningless.

I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for anyone to take care of me, pet me, cater to me. I’m just looking for a distraction.

/breathe

Books, baths, cats, my computer, knitting — these all help — but I still have those stretches where I only have the awareness of wanting to scream. I find myself panting, like an animal, trying to make it through waves of suffering.

/breathe

I’ll be alright. I’m always “alright.” One horribly annoying thing that came to my mind once (when I was going through the worst depression of my life), was that I never have the luxury of breaking. Gah. I’m far too solid and stubborn for that. “Breaking,” crying, carrying on, grieving, whathaveyou. I carry too much strength for something that easy (damn that personal pride).

Well, enough Internal Dialogue. Here’s a photo of my inchoate irises.

I imagine them — and my peonies — making a sound like a kernel of popcorn exploding in hot oil. What would be the onomatopoetic word for that?

There’s a recurring scene in All That Jazz (one of my favorite movies) where Joe Gideon wakes up every morning, takes his amphetamines, brushes his teeth, and says to his reflection in the mirror, “It’s showtime, folks!”

I think I need to start doing that — the “it’s showtime” part, anyway.

Not too long ago, I tried to explain to The Husband how, when I’m depressed, whether in the depths or in the shallow end of the pool, it takes a tremendous amount of energy to get up, go to work, and be “on.” I mean “on” in the sense of gathering myself up and performing, whether I’m answering the phone, interacting with my clients, what have you. It’s a conscious effort. Before I pick up the ringing telephone, before I open the door to the reception area, I can feel myself (in my head anyway), preparing to go on stage.

Yes, it’s showtime, folks!

I’ve been in a low-grade dysthymic funk for some time now. It was enough to have me roaming the ‘Net this past Sunday afternoon looking for psychological assessment self-tests on depression, if only to reassure myself that I’m not yet in The Pit(tm).

Now, I know full well I’m not in The Pit. I’m not even remotely near The Pit. I’ve been there — not a happy-funtime place — and I know it when I see it. Most of the time, anyway. Right now, I’m dealing with insomnia, lack of enthusiasm, and a burning desire to consume pints of Ben & Jerry’s for breakfast, lunch, and dinner (Mint Chocolate Cookie, perhaps; or Phish Food; maybe both.) No suicidal ideation. No feelings of worthlessness. Just a pervasive grayness. Blah-ness. “Gosh I need a day off to sleep and mainline chocolate” - ness.

So, anyway. Sunday afternoon. Internet roaming. Depression self-tests.

I can’t remember exactly where I found this question, but the last of the three potential responses had me laughing out loud.

Q: Do you have a specific plan for killing yourself?

• (a) Yes
• (b) No
• (c) I’m working on it

Now, while my true and factual answer is (b), I will admit to daydreaming about the reaction one could get from one’s shrink if one answered (c) (I admit to a number of smart-alecky comments that go through my head but never come out of my mouth).

I am wicked, truly.
~

I’ve never been reticent about my depression; it’s something I’m hardwired for — being depressed, that is, not being not reticent. If you’re a Smart, Well-Read, Somewhat Observant Person in this day and age, how can you NOT be depressed? But I digress. This isn’t about explaining or defending myself. I’m prone to the demon of depression. It’s a given in my world.

I felt it sneaking up on me this afternoon. It never comes all in a rush, but incrementally, slowly. Sometimes I can see it, and sometimes I can’t. I had a bad case of the “I Don’t Wanna’s”(1) at work today, that feeling of not being able to identify anything that could help you feel better. Chocolate? No. Caffeine? No. Knitting? Cats? Bath? No, no, and no. For some unfathomable reason, this thought came to me — “What Would Laiane Wolfsong Do?” — and I had to smile.

Laiane has been my gaming alter ego for years now. EverQuest, EverQuest 2, Morrowind, and Oblivion, and Vanguard (when it comes out). A smart-alecky, stealthy half elven ranger who’s absolutely deadly with a bow. Some people play fighters, some play mages, but I am always drawn to those that hide in the shadows and use their wits and guile (and an uber bow, d00d) as weapons.

So what would Laiane do? She would one-shot(2) that demon and have it drop in its tracks is what Laiane would do.

Laiane needs to come out and play. I’m thinking a good, long Morrowind session is in order tonight.

**********************
(1) The “I Don’t Wanna’s.” That particular mood when you don’t want to do anything at the office, i.e., I don’t wanna do that filing, I don’t wanna call that difficult client, I don’t wanna assemble a corporate record book, u.s.w. Severe lack of motivation.

(2) One-shot. In gaming parlance, to kill an enemy/monster from a distance with a ranged weapon using one arrow/cross bow bolt/throwing knife, u.s.w., as opposed to the “root and shoot” or the “snare and scare” approaches to mob hunting.