The Ink-Pot and the Palette

It's been a peculiarly stressful week, beginning with a short visit from my brother, who flew up from Santa Barbara for our oldest sister's milestone 60th birthday.

(First of all, oh my god how do I have a sixty year old sister?)

I both love and like my brother, and we get along well. We had a nice time together.


from left to right: DarkEm, niece, younger sister, niece, niece, Mom, niece, brother, the birthday girl

( But... )

Just got an email from Portland Fire and Rescue, urging us to have a safe 4th of July holiday.

The message points out that all but the most modest fireworks are illegal in Oregon, concedes that anyone can cross the river to Washington and buy as much explodey goodness as their little heart desires, then begs us all to consider the following, which seemed worth sharing:

Illegal fireworks cause:

• Countless injuries including trauma and burns from unplanned explosions
• Reoccurring trauma to many of our returning veterans suffering the effects of their service to our Country
• Emotional trauma and anxiety to many small children and animals, who are especially vulnerable
• Enormous property loss each year by causing fires to residences, landscape, and wildland
• Environmental pollution, measureable in both air and noise

"Given the physical, emotional, environmental, and economic costs, as our population becomes more aware about these real consequences, it will become increasingly clear that illegal fireworks in the hands of amateurs is no longer a 'patriotic' act."

Hallelulah.

This past week hasn't been my best ever, and I still have this grand jury witness thing in front of me tomorrow, but it was getting better, right? The sun came out, the temperature rose, Christian Kane tweeted that he was happy with the weather (I'm so relieved, Chris, really), and I headed home this evening in a moderately sanguine frame of mind.

I made a miscalculation on my bike and inconvenienced (I do not say endangered!) a motorcyclist, who laid on his horn and shouted at me. I shouted back, probably not my best move, but it doesn't take a lot to pierce the fragile veil of my newly-reinstalled calm. One of the things he shouted was, "I hope you make it home alive."

I did, and there was (perhaps ironically) a disc of Dead Like Me awaiting. I love that show--I find it heartwarming and soothing, despite the title and subject matter, so, fairly useless for anything else, I sat down to mass-consume all four eps.

About halfway into the third one, I hear a screech and a crash-boom VERY near where I'm sitting in my living room, and, before I'm off the couch to look out the window, a whole lot of shouts and cries of "Call 911! Call 911!"

( Warning: scene of accident depicted behind the cut. Non-grisly, no blood. Amazingly, nobody was hurt. )

The fragility of my nerves is a scary thing. One little personal attack and the edifice of my calm shivers and shifts dangerously. My mood is affected, my judgment becomes impaired--timing, sense of direction, depth perception, eyesight, hearing, the whole thing--so that I become frustrated, and more tense. I handle life's unrelated troubles--like my sister's accident on Sunday--badly, and feel more fragile, which leads to my making more mistakes, which bring more attacks, to the point where even something as random as a car wreck outside my house feels as if it were mystically attracted by this nexus of bad.

I must absolutely clear this state before going to court tomorrow. I really must.

Harriet, the woman who runs Preserve, had an Indian-style pot luck this afternoon. I'd promised to attend, so I baked naan and headed up the street.

It couldn't have been a prettier day. Harriet's garden is magical. The guests were all like-minded, friendly people. The food was delicious. There was some gentle live music. I enjoyed a conversation with another woman from the neighborhood.

Yet I freaked out and had to leave after less than an hour.

It used to be bigger parties and stranger strangers. Now, it's any gathering. Pressure builds inside me. The strain of finding things to say is enormous. My desire to escape overwhelms me. I flee.

And afterwards! Oh my god, the toxicity. I'm filled with feelings of shame and stupidity, a certainty that I've behaved badly or talked too much or done wrong. The feelings continue to taint my awareness for hours afterwards. Nothing feels right, nothing is fun, everything loses its allure.

It's a trauma symptom: inappropriate activation of the sympathetic nervous system. A situation viewed with pleasant anticipation by more well-balanced people is apparently a scene of combat to my nerves: enemies in every chair, danger in every dish, hazards everywhere.

The simple solution, of course, is Never Accept Another Party Invitation As Long As I Live. And it wouldn't break my heart. But the problem closes in, year by year, and I wonder how long it will be before I can't stand to be in the same room with another human being.