9:49 p.m. - 10/20/03
they're the ones who get to you.:.
I know that, in the past - and even sometimes now, my "quirkiness" regarding "clean", "neat", or "pretty" numbers has led me to spend excess energy in their direction, but the random joy I experience when typing a number like today's date really does make it feel worthwhile. Of course, I'd be happier if it were 10/20/30, but it's still lovely. And the time is a palindrome if you ignore the colon, and life is better for all of this.
The weekend is not worth discussing. I'll stick to my single sentence summaries. Friday: Pressure builds in the pop-gun I call self, leaving me begging for a trigger. Saturday: Responding angrily, I almost miss the very helpful trigger that was so innocently tripped and spend the day picking up the pieces of my misery. (Note: Crafty attempts to handle my psyche like a collage or decoupage project are only mildly effective. And neither of these sentences count, -they're parenthetical - so shush.) Sunday: I spend the day in toxic sunlight (and entirely uncharacteristic heat) without becoming ill, which I cannot celebrate, as stress with my dad secures a migraine anyway.
Actually, I won't blame the migraine on what happened during the dad visit. Unfortunately, ever since we've upped my desipramine, (which is my anti-migraine med), I've been having symptoms of migraine daily, and full-fledged migraine several days out of the week, something that I might have mentioned to the doc today, if I didn't have twenty other topics to discuss with him (we made it through about 1 and 1/2). As much as I hate pill-popping, the excedrin, and the alprazolam that counters its caffeine, (so that the drug works only on the migraine and not on my nerves) are currently keeping me from being bedridden, and I very much prefer that. However. I'm popping six desipramine pills a day (because we just upped the dose and haven't had a new prescription, so instead of taking one pill with more milligrams, I'm taking three of about 10 mg at a time, twice a day), and I'd like those to be effective as well. The other med I doubt right now is the flurazepam (sleep)...but I'm starting to have other theories about the insomnia, which might have some validity even if the "this med isn't working *either*" perspective has merit as well. I really want the med to be working...
My thoughts on sleep are something like: I keep having nightmares. Since I started having migraines, (Dec 2001) they've come with bizarre sleep/dream patterns, where fatigue knocks me out for a minimum of 13 hours, usually more, and I dream weird dreams. Often these dreams (or parts of them) have a nightmarish quality, during which my heart pounds, my pulse races, and I literally feel like my temperature is higher than it can possibly be, like I'm on fire from the inside. When I wake up (which can take, I'd objectively guess, about thirty minutes or more, though sometimes it's "only" ten), all the symptoms are real, except when I'm *awake* I can calm them down. My pulse returns to normal, my heart stops pounding, and I find that the limbs which were paralyzed in the dream (another recurring theme) are stiff from being slept on. (Also uncharacteristic of my "normal" sleep-self. I move around like a wild beast; I cannot keep sheets on a bed, but when I sleep this way, I obviously don't move for the entire dream. It's not good at all. Anyway, I'm thinking that freaky medical symptoms while asleep probably aren't interpreted too well by an anxiety disorder. So maybe I'm a bit uncertain about whether I *want* to sleep, even though I feel tired enough to say I want it desperately. And the anxiety isn't any small thing (as if it ever is) because all the scare tactics doctors used on me (note to anyone entering the medical profession: scare tactics are not therapeutic) did sink in, even though they didn't ignite recovery. A favorite among medical professionals was what would happen to my heart if I continued on with the eating disorder, and so my old phobia about "if I go to sleep, my heart will stop" is resurfacing with these dreams. Something I need to tell the doctor because even if he's right in the theory he posed today (I'll get there; hang on) about some of my familiar, returning anxieties, this could be a factor as well, and I'll feel better - I think - if I've told him. He's a medical doctor; he can tell me whether I need to see a specialist or something. And if I need to see a specialist or go get tests, I can do that, see that I'm really fine, and put my anxiety (slightly more) at ease.
On top of this, I'm surrounded by all sorts of wishy-washy spiritual beliefs - both new-agey and the moldy-oldie sort. But one of the things I actually do believe in, considering I've seen my mom - who's been recognized by some of the top people in this field - do it, and it really is for real - is dreamwork. And I know that "recurring" means I'm not getting the message, and "nightmare" means the message is seriously, seriously important. I'm hoping - because I haven't had any of these dreams in a little while - that they had to do with making me take in the extent of my own illness and the fear I have *for myself*...but until more time has gone by, I won't call it more than a theory. A hope.
The doctor's theory is based on questioning the function of the anxiety, which we agree must be distraction from what else is going on... Unfortunately, I had trouble paying attention to the theoretical nature of it all today because it feels so much like it always did - it's real fear, even if it's not telling me the truth, even if it's microwaved, leftover fears from a few years ago - and I wanted to talk about my thoughts on and feelings in it, not the purpose. Not the purpose quite yet. He did make a good point, though. The topic we introduced that Monday not so long ago, and certain other topics, are not ones with which I've been ready to deal, or would know how to deal with if I were ready. And so in some ways, falling into old anxieties, and old issues (like the sparking up of the eating disorder last week, which he seemed to take more and less seriously than I did, simultaneously) offer me problems that I know how to solve, issues that I know how to cope with, making me less crazy than if I faced what I'm not ready or aware of how to face.
Logical. I just didn't want to be logical, and I didn't know that. I wanted, but didn't know I wanted, to talk about how scary the fear of being in the illness is, in some ways more so because I have no numbness to it now. I think one way that I'm validating my own illness, saying that it's as real and as difficult as anyone else's, is by being as frightened for myself as I have been, at different times, for friends. And that's left me pretty petrified. And when I need to get out of that fear, I can run into its opposite: the terror surrounding being well ... although it seems like there must be more to those two opposing, connected fears. I wasn't in a place to analyze it with him today, as I've said. I couldn't figure it out, and I didn't particularly care to try. It was difficult just to be there, knowing how much I'm fighting that he doesn't even know, having so much more to say than I can in one session... And thinking I was going out of town before my Friday session. (Plans to see my brother Joe, now moved to next week, so I can have a few days of my actual routine - gods willing - before running out of it again.) I would very much like to maintain my routine long enough to actually expand it into something more like life. Things have been so insane ever since we moved in, for one reason or another, that I really haven't had the chance. I'm taking comfort in something a former-teacher (who I was probably a little bit in love with, who moved away) told me once: that she had quite a bit of experience with moving and she'd learned that it took her, personally, about four months to adjust, so she didn't freak out on month two or three because she knew this about herself. So maybe I need my four months. I need more time; I'll leave it at that. I'm not going to work unnecessary deadlines into my life.
To return to the previous topic, the doc's response to my oh-so-dramatic admission of having skipped a meal surprised me. He didn't get at all upset about the missed meal or my acting on the ed. I mean, I didn't expect him to be upset *with me* - because he's not like that - but I expected him to freak out, mainly because I did, if only temporarily. And I've been agonizing over it (just a bit) ever since; it drives my perfectionism crazy that my restriction recovery-record can't be as clean as my b/p record. It's annoying enough to have to say, "I'm not restricting, haven't been in...awhile" because it's so much more subtle at times than purging, but to have to say "I'm not restricting" knowing that I did just a few days ago is really, really hard. Hard on my perfectionism. Hard on my mean aunt voice. Hard on my eating disorder, actually. And I think that's where the doctor went. He kept talking about how hard the ed had been on me this past week, and I hadn't thought of it that way; I'd separated the perfectionism from the eating disorder, when of course this whole mess of mental illnesses is connected - and the desire to beat myself up so tremendously over something that wasn't even technical restriction (we talked about that, too - about how I had a migraine, was really tired, wasn't even really thinking about restricting that night, so it was only very slightly motivated by the ed, something I lost track of as I realized that I'd been considering skipping supper for several days - caught that rereading this journal - and the fact that, two days later, I really did come close to restricting.) We talked about whether it would be the worst thing in the world even if I had restricted that one time, which is so weird; it's still so hard for me to talk with a doctor who's trying to teach me that I won't turn into a toad if my recovery isn't perfect, instead of how to eat and digest my meals. I ended up talking in great detail about my general eating habits, and how they aren't really so rigid; I keep an eye out for patterns. I know my meal plan from Rogers, and although I by no means make sure I'm eating it exactly (I don't read many labels anymore - because I generally know what's a source of what, and I don't feel the need to have it right to the gram), I do generally check to see if I've covered all exchanges. And if I haven't, I don't freak out, I don't change what I'm eating; I just note it, and see if it happens routinely or was just a fluke of not obsessing over my meals. I only worry about missing something if it's consistent, or I realize the motivation for it is sick. The doctor seemed to like this, and he didn't worry about the fact that I become more rigid when I start to go off track; he said that was self-protective. It's so odd. It's so odd to be at a point, even though I've been here - off an on - since I was actually *at* Rogers, where the doctors are telling me to lighten up and not worry so much about the food. I understand it; the perfectionism is more of an issue now than food...but at a time like this, it's a little disconcerting because I'm so busy (distracting myself by) worrying about the sickness and by how real it is. I hate that I can't just separate myself from sickness, permanently. I hate that symptoms return; it terrifies me. It terrifies me that I can't just be well, instantly. And I'm terrified that somehow that will happen, and I'll have to live a "real" life, which I of course think I'm completely incapable of doing.
Scared, in sickness and in health. It is "and" after all. It isn't even "or." I'm sick and well simultaneously, and that's nothing I can understand. I need to stop trying to have a permanent reputation. I need to stop obsessing over making it clear to others that I'm getting better, that I'm in recovery, that I'm no longer "sick like that", and yet, I'm not well. People understand. And if they don't and it matters, I'll talk to them. In the meantime, I need to get to the function of my own need to be and/or appear perfect in my recovery while simultaneously certifying that I am still sick, even behaviorally. I still struggle with every part of this illness, even if it doesn't seem like it. I need to understand my own role in this. It is my life, after all. It tends to seem like a lack thereof, but it is a life, and there are parts of it of which I'm rather fond.
For instance, today, I not only had a really good mail day, (the best since I got here), butShan called me! So I had all sorts of happiness after the not-so-coolness of today's session. I think I babbled, but she said I didn't, or at least not in a way she minded, and it's always so good to hear someone's actual *voice*...I really am going to work on the phone thing. I really am going to learn how to call people. Just jump and do it. I miss voices!
And ooh, the mail. Not only did the best line of the day have to do with 1/2 of the good mail, but the other 1/2 was a package from Sara, and ooh, ooh, ooooooh. It's so lovely. It's so lovely. She made some of her amazing Sara-art of this quote that I love, and she decorated and sent me a sketchpad/journal, and a lovely candle, and a golden heart charm, and a photo of this view of the lake that you always see at Rogers...when you're actually there...this photo that's just so incredibly wonderful. It's beautiful. And it's from home, and it's from home in such a way that you know the person who took it has also called that place home. It's not like the picture of the unit on their website, which - while inviting - looks entirely wrong if you've lived there...because it's taken from an angle you'll basically never walk up to the building from... The camera is placed entirely innappropriately. But anyway, Sara's photo of the lake, and the green gunk covering it, and all of that is just wonderful. And it helped to counter my (now annual, I'm afraid) disappointment with "autumn" here. The trees here do not change the way they do in Wisconsin. They change barely. One in ten goes all yellow, while the others stay green. Most drop their leaves before they've even turned; most that change color go to brown - not oranges and reds and yellows the way that they do in Wisconsin. Not the spicy brightness of my beautiful loops^...
Oh! and there's a note from the outside of the box that says (the most amazing thing ever), "inside, be prepared to encounter bits of strength & support that will help guide you back to yourself...brave Mary"...eep! there's also some beautiful woven-threadish-almost-unexplainable-art and this beautiful little book of inspiration, which had the exactly right quote bookmarked, and funny bits from the Onion, and newspaper (which was there for packing safety, but was a great thing to see upon opening a Sara-package, considering she's the only one who witnessed - and participated in - my spree of newspaper destruction one particularly angry day at Rogers)...AND...there is a pen. From Rogers. With their logo and their name and their everything. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to write with it. I'm trying to trust myself *not* to go buy a glass case and preserve it on some velvet pedastal. I understand that might be a bit extreme, so I'm working to restrain myself. but, oh my goodness, it was just the most amazing package. the note was exactly right; it drew me back to myself. It gave me strength. Mmmmmmm.
I want to call her! ... so I will.
And I'll call Rogers soon; I'm struggling there because I'm struggling in general (and don't like to tell them that.) But I certainly *can* tell them that. Especially Steph or Stacy or someone. Soon. Not giving myself a rigid "by this day" for the moment, but I know I need to do it soon. It's been a month.
I'm listening to the absolutely lovely CD that was the other part of my good mail day, and since I ordered it from CdBaby (I am so in love with CdBaby; go there...go there now!...and buy good music!) - it came with an amusing note and a free mix cd, which will probably result in me "needing" to buy something by another artist (the point of them sending a free CD, which can't really be considered a villainous scheme, considering it's a good way to discover indie artists when you're city is so musically impaired as mine - minus your musical genius of a brother. I called this city mine. It isn't hard, as I've lived in the borders all my life. But it's still sweet to know that. My city. My city. The city I'm getting to know.)
I've been thinking lately how differently I would write about the city now that I'm living in one. Growing up in definitively rural areas, outside very small towns, I always described cities as I drew them as a child: many tall, corporate buildings and lots of lights. The truth of the city is so much more personal, so much more detailed, and I love it. Now, I'm collecting details that describe it all so much more accurately - the conversations with strangers, the balloons tied to the parking meter, the tiny, intimate pieces of city I never really knew existed. They exist in rural areas, too. Even boring rural areas like D!@#%^...well, not D!@#$%^ itself, but the nearby towns. The nearby towns had definite character, even though I wanted nothing to do with most of it. There are details - the impossibly tall cross near the highway that glowed neon purple at night, the weathered faces of survivalists, the rural poor; the day, for no reason anyone could find, there was a camel in the K-mart parking lot, pacing around and giving rides - worth remembering. The cemetary right next to "Hardware Haven", the Fu Yu Chinese Restaurant, the amusing attempt at a cyber cafe, the ever-so-specific churches that lined the highway. (There must have been at least two per mile all the way down the highway, though often you'd pass three or four at once.) There's definite interest in some of the rural details, and I have a deep respect for the rural people, although even the rural people laughed at the concept of "living" in D!@#$%^. It's a sad, sad thing when you're the stock of jokes for people the entire world caricatures and ridicules. People living in a world where the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" signs had specific indications of what the management would or would not count as a shirt or shoes mocked and pitied my sad excuse for an address. Oh, that I never need return to that place.
(Although - and this will frighten you - I have more respect for the people who I've witnessed in significantly rural areas than those I've known in small towns. The "hicks" and the "rednecks" are actually quite a bit less disturbing to me than the cookie-cutter small-town clones. Not that certain individuals don't break this rule on either side; they definitely do. I've met many a scary rural person, and many a sweet small-towner. Exceptions to a rule that only sort of exists.)
My godd, I've talked about a lot in this entry. And I'm not done yet. I swear, my candle burns at both ends.^^ Where the hell was I? As if it matters. I'll go back to the session. The session was hard. It was legitimately, indescribably hard, and I hate that. I was freaked out because I'd fallen out of the routine of talking to him, and I was struggling, and I didn't feel like going into any of the reasons why. I didn't want to break down (i.e. cry) in front of him, which is a part of my perfectionism supported by my need for attention (when it's acting negatively...I just shut down, fight the tears back, hope he'll notice the struggle and pity me. it's ridiculous.) We talked a lot about the illness, specifically the ed, which was hard in itself, and also hard because there's so much "life pain" going on right now. I almost screamed at my mom today for saying that although she gets angry with the illness or the circumstances, it's not me she's upset with... I wanted to scream at her, after having spent years teaching her to say "illness" - to accept that this (and all of this -the anxiety, the depression, the eating disorder, all the un-named scasid issues) is an illness, for saying she was upset with the illness. Because the pain I was in, that specific moment, wasn't illness pain. Or at least, it wasn't the pain of my illness. It was pain around my dad's. And fury that I can't be ok, can't be well. So that when my mom said, "Really, it's ok, it's ok," I wanted to scream back at her, "No, it's not! It's not ok! It's not ok with me!" Instead, I just told her that I really wanted to go see Joe this weekend and pulled a blanket over my head. The whole conversation had started because I told her I'd decided I didn't want to go, and I wasn't going to change my mind about that. The truth is that I very much want to go, to see Joe, to see his city, to take a break from some of the craziness I'm dealing with, but I didn't want to do it at a time so hard as this, having one session before leaving (today's), instead of the three I was meant to have... It sounds like we're going to see him next weekend, for Halloween, now - an idea I like. And hopefully, we'll work it out so that I see the doctor Thursday or something, so that I still have my bookend-weekend appointments. So that I'm still only making it a few days instead of a week. It's amazing how long a week has gotten.
The other thing we talked about...which is rather hard to go into...was my dad. The session was tying up, and I knew that if I didn't get this question out I was going to (continue to) agonize over it for days, so I finally managed to say, "I need to ask you something. I don't really want... but I need to ask you something because I'll go crazy if I don't." His answer, although I don't think he quite knew what he was getting himself into was, "Ask away." And then I had to ask, which was really hard, considering the fact that it was, basically, a yes or no question I could find no comfort in either answer to...
"Did you...tell my dad...that you couldn't help him?"
A moment of silence as the weight of the question sinks in. I make a valiant effort to commence breathing again, while he shifts in his chair to show me how seriously he's taking this, and takes time to find the right words.
"Yes," he said, and for all my battling, I started to cry then.
There wasn't a good answer. No meant my dad had lied to me, even if he didn't realize it *yet again*...Yes meant he had a real reason to not be seeing the doctor, meant that he was maybe beyond help, meant that he'd maybe never change. And considering all the pain of the past few visits with him, all the craziness I don't even want to share with people because I don't want them to see my dad as crazy, which is an easier conclusion to jump to with someone you don't love.
The doctor started to explain. He pointed to a piece of paper on which he'd summarized some of what he'd heard me say over the past few weeks - an exercise I found tremendously uncomfortable; I hate hearing my words echoed back. (No one knows how I handle seeing my plays. I freak when hearing others read anything else I've written.) He reminded me of the first words on the paper (which I have to do with as I please, though he suggests I read it again before doing anything; I guess he knows I want to burn it though so far I've settled for avoidance) which are, "I'm committed..." I'm committed to doing certain things in order to change certain things in order to secure a certain kind of life. I'm committed to myself, to keeping the promises I've made, to my recovery as I define it, and so forth. I've made a conscious choice and a commitment to do this work. My dad refuses to do that. He isn't willing to change, to commit, to work. He isn't willing to see why he needs to do so. In several consecutive sessions, he stated to the doctor that the visits were not helping him, and the doctor said that he couldn't help him. He couldn't help him, or change him, or cure him, so long as my dad refused to do his share of the work. He couldn't fix him, the same way I can't. He couldn't do it without my dad taking action as well. And that didn't happen. This was actually my original guess about what happened. That the doctor had said something like "I can't help you" but it had been conditional, qualified. ...Then of course, he wanted to know where I heard this, how the question came into my world. So I told him about the most recent visit, during which my dad freaked me by his continued inability to take responsibility for what happened between him and my mom, not to mention his insistence that she's simply stubborn and won't take him back...as if she doesn't want to. As if she could possibly not want, on some level, to be able to say, "You're right. I've been overreacting. Just come back; we're meant to be together." Christ. Even I've quit wanting that, although I wish it were that simple. I don't want him to come live here, for them to get back together, so long as my dad isn't working. I still remember the tragedy of their marriage, clearly, in the tragedy of their divorce. Divorce is decidedly the worst concept since marriage, but I'm still pleading the fifth on which is worse.
Anyway, I told a story about the doc and how he sometimes brings up Harriet for comic relief, and my dad thought I said that the doctor says something about *him* for comic relief- not that he'd care, he said, he just wondered what it was. I told him, no, the doctor doesn't really talk about him; he can't really do so, considering he hasn't seen him in months. I got serious, then, and I said, "Wouldn't you feel better?" (Ok, maybe not in the short term, but eventually.) "Wouldn't it just be *easier* if you went back?" (To him or anyone good. To therapy.) And my dad said (note the opening; it's classic), "Well, I'm not sure you want to hear this...but...the last time I saw the doctor, he told me he couldn't help me."
Quickly, Dad initiates a change of subject, which I reverse. "Did he qualify it in anyway? Was it conditional? Was it, 'I can't help you so long as...' or really just 'I can't help you'?" Dad mumbles uncomfortably about how he doesn't know and changes the subject again. I fall into deep pain, go home, and for the first time, don't vent to my mom about the visit. I know I want to ask the doctor about this. I know I want to tell him before anyone else, if I ever decide to tell anyone else, so I go through the agony alone. I close the day around 8:00, crying myself into early sleep.
So, the doctor clarified it, and he and my mom (who I did tell, afterward) both seemed subtly disgruntled that my dad had even told me that; although, that's possibly projection. I'm really angry with my dad. Honestly furious. To the point that I'm considering something hugely painful: separating from him myself. Because seeing him is also hugely painful, and I have a wild hope that if he sees how much this is hurting me, he'll get help. I know, though, that it'll really hurt both of us if I tell him I can't see him until he's made changes. I know that I can't do it hoping to manipulate him into making them; I have to do it honestly aware that he might not. I think it's extreme, and I don't want to do it yet. But I understand why my mom had to. And the pain is so intense around him, I am considering something that seems impossible. Something I can't do...but maybe will. Something I hope I don't have to choose.
First, more trying. First, more talking to him. But not twenty-eight years. Not taking over where my mom left off. First, but aware that it might not work...that it might come to second. And second might be very, very painful.
For once in my life, I'm relieved that other people have been through this. I guess because those other people are ok, I'm not as obsessed with wanting them to not have to deal with it, as I am about people with mental illnesses. I'm really grateful to know that if I called Chas and vented and cried and broke down about my dad...if I told her I had to stop seeing him...if I told her I was considering it...even if I told her the details I'm editing out in so many other conversations...she would understand. So many people understand. Still. It amazes me how much two people can love each other and cause/ share such unberable pain.
The doctor wants me to know that I'm not my dad, which I don't. He wants me to know that I'm not going to end up like him, when I don't want to believe this is how my dad has "ended up" - I want to believe he will change. I want him to help me deal with the fact that, a year ago, my parents were both crazy, both toxic, both necessary to get away from, and now - all of a sudden - my dad is the bad guy and my mom's getting better. My mom is trying, and that makes a difference, and she is *getting better* - she is growing...She is the healthier parent. But I feel such terrible guilt about the impression that I'm "in her camp" (which the doctor pointed out is just more of the rage at my dad turned inward because I'm so frightened to be angry at him. He's so fragile; I don't know what would happen, and I'm scared.) And I have some anger at the doctor, as if he made this change. As if, now that he no longer is occupationally obligated to have unconditional positive regard for my dad, he's giving up on him as if he doesn't matter, as if he can't be helped, but he isn't giving up on my mom.
It's possible that I'm clinging to a dead pet, screaming at the vet for walking away, for giving up, for not doing more. But it's something I need to say out loud. And I need to find some resolution about the fact that, my mom's getting better (number one) is good for me and (number two) inherently implies that there was a point when she wasn't doing this well. And "this well" is pretty small still. We're still working very hard for very small, simple things. We're still beginning to have a relationship, a healthy one. And I need to ask him for help understanding that what's true now doesn't change what was. And I think he'll be ok with my (most likely displaced) anger (toward him). I think he'll understand that it's easier to believe he's given up than that my dad has. If he's given up, my dad needs a new doctor. If my dad's given up, there's nothing anyone can do.
And I know at this point, he has. My dad has. But I wonder if he won't change his mind, realize that he doesn't have to 'live' the way he is...try again. I'm desperate to regain him. I understand it somewhat, though. It's very, very difficult to believe in a life you've never lived. And it's very difficult to face that the way you've perceived the world for years isn't necessarily accurate, even if it means there's a less painful perspective out there. Then again, I'm being haunted by the night my dad stood in the kitchen of our N*land house (where the wood floors glowed orange in the artificial light), sobbing, holding me, and begging me not to die. I'm haunted by that memory. Because I went to Wisconsin, I left behind everyone and everything I knew, I faced terror and shame and absolutely impossible obstacles, and got better. I didn't give up, and I didn't die. I won't accept (without anger) that he won't do what I did, that he'll do to me what he begged me not to do to him. And if it really isn't possible for him, if he really is beyond help, I won't settle (without anger) for anything less than him *proving it.* If that's the case, I want to see it. I want to see him try as hard as I try, to work this hard, and *show me* that he can't get better. Because until then, I won't believe it. Until then, "too old to change" and "not me, it's the rest of the world" and "things have to get better [without any help from me, just by default] soon" are just excuses. And he's my dad. There's no excuse for breaking the commitments of that relationship. I haven't the slightest idea where there's peace.
Although a box on my bed and a cd in my d: drive have some hints. Oh, and, the line of the day regarding the mailman: "Today, the lettercarrier delivered ghosts, mice, and vagabonds." (The name of the Sarah Dosen cd. But it's so much more amusing minus that information.)
a rather fatigued-
chordling
^walks taken down a path through the trees back Home
^^Edna St. Vincent Millay
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