Archive for the ‘Aging’ Category

And I Still Don’t Know

Sometimes my darkest moments give me my greatest ideas. But because the Dementors have taken hold of my spirit, I can’t act on those ideas right away.

So I do the next best thing: I write myself a note with the basic theme of the idea. Later, when the sun returns and dissipates the fog of depression, I can review my notes and decide if any of them are worth exploring further.

This is One of Those Ideas

I’m 68 years old; in 5 months I’ll be 69. It will be time once more for me to write a big fat 0 (zero) after my age. The eternal Footman will be one step closer to holding my coat.

What have I got to show for my life? For what will I be remembered by future generations of my family?

Will I be remembered at all?

Will they remember that I was a loving parent who adored her children and grandchildren? That the loss of a beloved pet some 35 years ago even today haunts me?

Or will they curse my name for the accursed genetic heritage with which I have bequeathed — nay, cursed — them?

For that’s the one constant in my bloodline: chronic depression.

And Yet…

My daughters and my grandsons are my legacy, and my inspiration. I am Transgender, and so is my grandson. It is for them that I continue to live, continue to believe that without them I would have long since yielded to The Big Sleep.

Because there are statistics that tell me that children of suicides are far more likely to kill themselves.

And I will not do that to my girls.

“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.” Hamlet, Act III, Scene i.

If you’ve never felt the cold winds of Depression (with a capital D) blow over you, then you can’t understand that “[y]ou don’t have one problem or problems you are sad about, there is only sadness.” (Source)

And I’m also comforted by something I read on the internet years ago:

So nanny, nanny, boo-boo! I am Officially Exempt™ from having to grow up. And to celebrate, I might just go out and order a Happy Meal!

It’s Been a Long Time…

Posted: 18 September, 2018 in Aging, Depression
Tags:

…Since I last wrote

But I’m catching up now, after spending 6 days in hospital. 3 nights in the Emergency Department because there were no open beds on any of the medical floors, and then 3 nights in my own room.

Now that I’m home I’m looking forward to getting some actual rest. Being woken up every 4 hours to have my vitals checked and blood drawn is not conducive to a restful, healing sleep.

Then again, here at home I sometimes need to get the cat off my blanket in the middle of the night so I don’t freeze.

Yes, it’s that time of year again. Two weeks ago we were sweltering in 90+ heat, and last night it was 53. And today is supposed to hit 88. Rochester has weird weather in the early autumn.

I guess I’m finally Officially Old. Every single member of my medical team was at least 20 years younger than me. And now I’m getting home visits from a nurse and a physical therapist.

Getting old: it ain’t for sissies!

Still, however uncomfortable it may be, it still beats the hell out of the alternative. I have a grandson I’m hoping to see marry and perhaps raise a family. I have two others I want to be around when they graduate high school. So I do the exercises and watch my diet and do whatever I need to do to “age with grace.”

Whatever the hell that means. Dylan Thomas was right: I am definitely not going gentle into that good night.

Thought for the day:

And that, dear reader, sums up my attitude toward old age…

…and other assorted assholes.

But Life Goes On

As it tends to do. And it reminds me of a little tune Mason Williams wrote and which the Smothers Brothers recorded many, many years ago:

Isn’t life beautiful?
Isn’t life gay?
Isn’t life the perfect thing
To pass the time away!

And so, dear reader, I also go on.

STFU

When it’s umpteen degrees in my bedroom, I’ll take my laptop downstairs to write. Most of the time, it works…but there’s a problem: our house is often the unwilling host to freeloaders, moochers, and other disreputable sorts.

They’re not really bad people, but they insist on trying to talk to me when it’s obvious that I’m working. I really don’t need to get a blow-by-blow description of whatever television show you watched last night.

I’m probably better-informed about local news than you are, so I don’t need to repeating half-truths and rumors.

And while my landlord is perfectly content to have you here—and it should be a clue to how welcome you really are when he disappears into his upstairs bedroom whenever you overstay your welcome (usually 10 minutes after you get here)—neither one of us appreciate you blasting out your crappy taste in music on his computer.

I’m 30 years older than you are and I don’t enjoy the same taste in music as y0u do. That’s why you have a fucking smart-phone. USE IT.

In short, pull your heads out of your collective asses and realize that you are not the only people in the house. Have some consideration for others—especially since it’s NOT YOUR HOUSE!

And why don’t I copy the landlord and retreat to my bedroom? A couple of reasons:

  1. I pay rent to live here. You don’t.
  2. Then there is the matter of things disappearing whenever you’re left unattended in the house. I just don’t feel safe with you here.
  3. The two of us who live here do things a certain way for certain reasons: we DO NOT need you coming in and changing things. If there’s a window closed, LEAVE IT CLOSED! I know this is a difficult concept, but THIS IS NOT YOUR HOUSE!
  4. I get $15 a month in food stamps, so please don’t eat my food!

But The Really Big Thing is This

I am trying to deal with several mental issues. Among them are social anxiety disorder and agoraphobia. It’s hard for me to be around people. THIS HOUSE IS MY SANCTUARY, my safe space. You have invaded it, and I no longer feel safe in my own house!

So I’m going to propose a solution: I’m going to have a serious discussion with my landlord about your freeloading ways and how they are affecting my health and well-being.

And on another note: STOP STORING YOUR WHOLE WATERMELON IN THE REFRIGERATOR!  It doesn’t need to be refrigerated, and it takes up space that I—who actually pay money to be here—desperately need for my own food.

Are you of my generation? Remember when we actually had to go outside to play with our friends? And how rough we had it without Instagram and Snapchat? We had to take pictures with film cameras, send the film out for processing, then order reprints before we could go door-to-door handing out prints to our friends in order to show them what we had for breakfast two weeks ago. Or was it three?

Remember eating lunch at Tommy’s house, and calling his mother “Mom?” And everyone was okay with that?

I grew up in a military family, on military bases. “Sticker shock” describes the feeling I had when the cost of a movie ticket jumped from 15 to 25 cents.

And the theater itself! We had to walk a mile each way, uphill, in the snow to get there. Well, it was Texas flatland, so forget the snow…and the uphill. But it really was a mile. (I know this for a fact because that’s what the driver of the free shuttle bus measured it when I asked him.)

Later, in high school, the movie ticket was a whopping 35 cents, which made my Friday night dates (movie, drinks, and shared large popcorn) take a huge chunck ($1.50) out of my weekly allowance of $10. Why, to take my girlfriend to the Senior prom, I had to save my entire allowance for TWO WHOLE WEEKS in order to be able to take my date first to the Olde San Francisco Steakhouse for dinner ($10 for the two of us), buy her a corsage, and buy the tickets to the prom.

Nowadays the movie ticket costs $12 dollars a pop, or about half the price of a large drink and a large popcorn. I don’t go to those theaters, because the last time I went, the recliner armchairs were so comfortable I fell asleep and missed the whole movie.

I remember visiting my grandparents for family get-togethers, and seeing my cousins. We all sat around listening to the aunts and uncles moaning about their health problems. But you know what? Today, in 2018, that generation is gone…and when I meet with my cousins via Facebook, our discussions are the same: health problems.

We’ve become our aunts and uncles, our parents.

So when I see younger generations complain about us Boomers, I just smile and think, your day is coming.

“Five to one, baby. One in five.
No one here gets out alive.” Jim Morrison

Growing up – it’s a trap!