Underneath my yellow skin

Tag Archives: fear

Spicing up my life

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I want sex. It’s been more than a hot second since I’ve had it, and now is exactly not the time to seek  it out. There is no way to copulate with six feet between me and another person, and the idea of wearing masks…well, that’s not my kink. I know there’s Skypesex and sexting, but neither are what I want right now. I had no point with that, but I just wanted to throw it out there.

Let’s talk sleep. My schedule has taken a drastic turn for the worse. I’ve been going to bed as late as 5:30 in the morning, which, how the hell did I used to do this on the regs? Part of the problem is Spiritfarer, I’ll be frank. If I start playing it any time after midnight, all bets are off when I’ll actually end up sleeping.

There are deeper reasons, however, and they’re the same as they ever were plus exciting new Covid-19-related reasons. One, the longer I stay awake, the longer I put off having to get up for the next day. No, it doesn’t make sense, but my brain doesn’t care about that. Two, I just don’t sleep well. At all. The weighted blanket has helped as had taiji, but it’s still fraught with all kinds of bullshit.

With all that being said, what I actually want to talk about is cooking. I don’t cook. Or rather, I didn’t cook. I didn’t see the point in it because it’s a lot of work for someone who lives alone. Yes, I know about batch cooking and freezing and whatnot, but I simply didn’t want to do it. I don’t like to cook–yes, yes, I know that’s heresy in this day and age–and I resisted any urge to do so. There’s a whole lot of gendered expectations wrapped up in all that, but mostly, it was just too much trouble.

Here’s the thing about depression as I experience it. I live with a triage mentality every day. What absolutely has to get done and what can be punted down the line. For example, I’m doing laundry today. I should have done it at least a month ago. It’s a bit more acceptable because I don’t go anywhere, but I’m down to skirts and ripped t-shirts. Even in the Before Times, I pushed laundry until the very last moment, but this is beyond ridiculous.

If I make something a routine such as my wake-up taiji regime, then my brain just takes it as an immutable. Again, don’t ask me how it works because I don’t know, but it’s my way of tricking my brain. I get up, take my thyroid pill, feed Shadow, clean the litter, brush/floss my teeth, and then taiji routine. This is sacrosanct, and I don’t question it. Something like laundry, however, which is not done every day, it’s much harder to force my brain to do it. I’ve been meaning to do it for the past two or three weeks, but my brain has overridden all my intentions.

How did I make myself do it this time? Not entirely sure. I just started throwing things down once I woke up, but I had done that a few weeks ago as well. I simply wouldn’t allow my brain to detour from it, which is something else I can do from time to time. Yes, it’s like my brain is a computer that I have to override, which is annoying as fuck.

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Blocked blocked (writer’s) blocked

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Let me start by saying that I don’t get classic writer’s block. Or rather, I got it once, but that’s it. What I do get, however, is an overwhelming feeling of doom that my writing sucks, that there’s no reason to do it, that no one wants to read it, and that I might as well give up. I still write during this time, but it’s not with any heart.

It’s strange because when I go back and read what I wrote several years ago, I marvel at how fresh it seems. Even something I’d read several times. There are very few mysteries I’ve read that has a similar take, and while I don’t tie up all loose ends, I come to a satisfying conclusion. And, I actually prefer not tying up all loose ends, but I worry that it doesn’t seem deliberate. Sometimes it isn’t, but it still works out in the realms that I have set up.

Currently, I am trying to write new stories that are set in the current hellscape that is the pandemic plus police brutality plus political bullshittery. Since I write mysteries, I wanted to tackle what to do when I (protag) see a murdered body but have no faith in the police. It’s been going ok, but I’m not really feeling it. I’m trying to write a few other mysteries set in the same situation, and it’s really limiting. I mean, it’s supposed to be, yes, but it’s REALLY limiting.

One thing I do in my spare time is re-read old things I have written. There are two trilogies (I usually write in trilogies if not a standalone) that I wrote fairly recently–ok. Let me back up. They are not completely written. In the first case, one whole novel (230,000 words) and half the second one (125,000 words). In the other case, two finished novels (122,000 words and 128,000 words respectively) and the third not yet finished (57,000 words).

These are my two favorite trilogies, probably because both are fantasy in nature.

Side note: My brother likes to rant about how much he hates the fact that sci-fi and fantasy are mixed together because he loves the former and hates the latter. I heartily agree with him but because I’m the other way around. I don’t care much for sci-fi, even though I keep it mostly to myself. In most nerd circles, it’s taboo to admit you don’t like sci-fi. It’s also irritating that fantasy is seen as lesser to many–probably because of the gender skew. Sci-fi is seen as more logical (why, I don’t know, as it’s all made up shit, anyway) and fantasy as more emotional. You can probably guess as to the skew here.


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Covid, COVID, covid…no matter how you spell it

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It’s week whatever in lockdown, and I’m about the same as I ever was. Unhappy about the golfers not practicing good social distancing/masking, but I know that’s a me-problem. Meaning, I’m in my house. There’s no way their germs can reach me. I know that being outside in a widely-dispersed area greatly negates the risk, and yet. The fury rises within me, and I have to talk myself down. I can’t control other people, obviously, so I can only do my best to distance myself.

Speaking of which. I’ve read several people online with compromised immune systems saying they don’t know if they’ll ever feel safe to go out again. I can relate. I have a very mild case of agoraphobia–it’s more accurate to say I really don’t like to leave the house if I absolutely don’t have to–and it’s ratcheted up during this time. All the fears that have been percolating in my brain in a low-key fashion before this mess have bubbled to the surface, and I don’t know how I’ll be able to feel comfortable around other people again.

On the plus side, my sinus issues have gone down a ton. I’m still a bit afraid I’m having sinus issues right now, but it’s nothing compared to what I used to get. Which has led me to the conclusion that the outside really is trying to kill me. I mean, what can the conclusion be but this? I’m saying this in jest, of course, but it’s not untrue. I’m allergic to almost everything on earth up to and I like to joke including the air, and, obviously, I can’t control the environment around me when I’m outside. Now that I’m only going out to smoke (yes, irony alert) and to grab up the packages delivered to me before I put them in the garage to live out their natural lives–yes, that’s where the packages go to live–before disinfecting everything, of course.

Side note: I’m trying not to freak out at the ever-changing information as to what is and what isn’t helpful when it comes to covid-19. It’s hard, though, when even the experts are changing their recommendations  on a regular basis. Remember back in the day when us plebes were absolutely not to wear masks ever and they wouldn’t help, anyway? Now, it’s mandated in some states that you have to wear them, and it’s heavily recommended.


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Fuck everything…and nothing at all

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I’ve woken up in a bad mood the past three or four days in a row. I have no idea why. It’s understandable, but not something  I want to deal with at the moment. My sleep, never good in the best of the times, is all over the fucking map right now. I was so tired last night, I wanted to go to bed at 11 p.m. I haven’t gone to bed at that time in…ever, unless I’m sick. But, I have been known to doze throughout the day if I’m sick or depressed. Not really sleeping, but not NOT sleeping, either. Last night, I was too exhausted to move, but I couldn’t fall asleep, either. I didn’t manage to fall asleep  until 3:30 a.m. or 4:00 a.m. Or rather, that’s when I put myself to bed. When I actually fell asleep, I’m not sure. Time has no meaning. Life has no meaning. I know the latter is not true, but it feels that way.

Actually, I don’t know the latter is true. I just assume it’s true. I’ve never felt life to have any meaning, but I assume there must be one. I mean, we’re alive. It would be a pretty heightened sense of farce if this was all for naught. Or for some higher being’s amusement. Which it might be. Who knows? I am not a theologist nor a philosopher. The point is that I’m tired, and not in the way I normally am. Way back many decades ago, I used to sleep four hours a night. There was a brief time (a semester) when it was under four hours. It was four hours a night for most of college and roughly a decade after. Then, through the aid of taiji, I managed to stretch it out to six hours. It was still me going to bed at five or six in the morning and getting up six hours later, though. Before the self-isolation started…what was that a month ago? A month and a half? Whatever. I had been working on making my sleep schedule more ‘normal’ for lack of a better world. Or rather, more day-based. I started pushing my sleep time ahead little by little, and before all this, I was hitting 2 a.m. as a regular bedtime. Now, it’s three or four in the morning again, and it’s either five hours of sleep or eight. Which I never get unless I’m sick. Am I sick? Who knows?

One of the hardest things about covid-19 is that it’s invisible so it’s hard to see the tangible effects. When I’m outside, I look around, and everything looks the same as before. It’s spring now, and there are birds singing, clear blue skies, and it’s starting to heat up. There are people golfing and playing games on their front lawn. Which makes me angry, by the way, but I acknowledge that they could be practicing proper social-distancing protocol while cavorting. Even if they aren’t, there’s nothing I can do about it but continue to do my best practices. I’m just afraid that as the weather gets better, there will be more people disregarding social distancing practices.

Side Note: I find it sickly ironic that the same people who years ago were yelling about how they would be the best soldiers in any war ever can’t even social distance for a month without losing their minds. I’m not one of those people who are dismissive of people struggling with staying home, but it does say something about us as a people that we’re having this hard of a time doing it. Especially the people who think they’re warriors.


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The next step is the hardest one

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I have good news. The Low FODMAP elimination diet I’ve been doing for….two months? Is that right? Well, that’s when I started planning it, at any rate. I know I was on it by Christmas, so at least a month and a half. Anyway, the good news is that with this diet, 90% of my digestive issues, including the worst, are gone. And, by the worst, I mean shitting my brains out for half an hour at a time. Oh, TMI, I guess, but I can’t really talk about my digestive issues without explaining what exactly is happening inside my body. Besides the ‘shitting my brain out’ aspect of it, there’s the bloated stomach feel and the flaming butthole feel. I still have a bit of the latter two, but it’s drastically reduced. I can’t tell you how happy I am that I can walk around without worrying about where the nearest bathroom is. I have only had to walk briskly to the bathroom two or three times in the past month and a half. Not run, and it didn’t last for half an hour.

By the way, when I say half an hour, I mean that I’m in the bathroom for a half hour to an hour–not that I’m shitting for the entire time.  It’s like five minutes of shitting, then five minutes of sitting and fuming, and then rinse, lather, and repeat. I  know it should be lather, rinse, and repeat, but it’s rinse, lather, and repeat in my brain, and I’m fine with that. Now, it’s walk briskly to the bathroom and sit for five minutes, then I’m done with it. It’s such a change, and I’m very happy.

So. The goal of the Low FODMAP elimination diet is not to be on it indefinitely. You can, but it’s really hard to get all the nutrients you need, and it’s very limiting. I have said that I don’t mind eating the same thing every day, but it’s getting a bit old now. I had been trying to open up my meals before trying this diet, but now it’s just a sad, sad world. I tweeted last night about how I was choking down a just barely ripe banana, which I hate, because a really ripe banana is High FODMAP whereas an unripe/barely ripe banana is Low FODMAP.

It was mushed up/sliced up and on top of my cereal, and I was just a sad, sad person choking it down. Weird fact about me. I can put foods on other foods, but then I eat the topping first. Such as, I’ll put spinach on top of pasta, fake cheeze, and sauce, then I eat the spinach before eating the rest. So, I was having cereal with mashed bananas and almond milk. I was forcing the bananas down mostly because I was trying to broadening my palate a bit, but it was not a good choice. I also chose it for the fiber-like aspects of it–for obvious reasons.

Back to the point of my post. The elimination diet is not meant to be forever. The next step is to add one ‘forbidden’ food at a time back into my diet. Here’s the thing. I’m unwilling to do it because I don’t want to spend more time in the bathroom again. It was not fun, and it really messed up my insides. And my asshole. I don’t want to go through that again, and I know that I’ll have to in order to figure out what is the actual trigger.

I am fortunate in that I work from home and can plan my day around the need to camp out in the bathroom. It doesn’t mean I want to do it, though. I remember how painful it was, and I do not want to go through it again. In addition, I know I’ll have to note my reactions (in writing), and I don’t want to do that, either. I write so much on a daily basis; I don’t like making it a chore. That’s why I resist when I read about journaling emotions or other such shit. But, in this case, while I can probably keep it in my head, I don’t want to count on it.

I have to do it, though. I want to be able to eat more and to know what exactly is irritating my bowels. My plan is to start with garlic, then onion, then honey. By the way, you’re suppose to add one a week. I suppose you could add everything from the same family (five different categories), and then figure out if that category is one that hurts me. That’s more a brute force way to deal with it, but the downside is that when there is the shittening, I’d still have to do each of those foods individually. The time saver is that if I don’t have a response to the category, then I can just skip to the next category rather than add one by one. Garlic and onion are often both present in the same foods, so I may just try both while controlling for other ingredients.

The other thing is whether I want to try adding back dairy and gluten. I’ve done without them for more than two-and-a-half years, and my digestive problems vastly improved. Do I want to risk it again? I’m pretty sure I have a lactose intolerance because I’m Asian. As for the gluten, it might be specific types of gluten.

If I do try to add back dairy and/or gluten, I’m going to take it very specific because I know there is something within each group that irritates my bowels. It would be amazing to be able to have real cheese again. Honestly, that is the one that I miss the most. I can do without many of the things I’ve eliminated, but goddamn I miss cheese. The reason I don’t care as much about the others is because there are several tasty substitutes. When I gave up gluten, dairy, and sugar twenty-plus years ago, the alternatives were made of tapioca root and arrow root, mostly. It was sad, and by the fourth month, I was literally dreaming of pizza.

I know I’m going to be happier at the end of this journey, but it’s the taking of said journey that is going to be a pain in my ass. And in my asshole. Which is not going to be a good time.

Fixing a Broken Society

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It’s been three days since the Las Vegas shooting, and it’s already fading to the background as new atrocities spring up to take its place. Yes, the news is faithfully reporting about it, but there’s not much there, so it’s not dominating the headlines as it once was. I’ve read about the shooter, but there’s not much there. He’s the oldest of four boys, and his father left the family unexpectedly when they were kids. It turns out the father was a bank robber, which was interesting, but not sure it means much of anything. The picture of the killer is a high-stakes gambler. He met his girlfriend while he was gambling and she was working in a casino. The shooter’s brother said his brother was a multimillionaire, but if he liked to gamble, who knows what happened to the money? Another brother said they were all angry when their father left, but the shooter was the least-angry of the four. Then the brother revealed that he hadn’t spoken to the shooter in twenty years, but wouldn’t say why. To me, that negates the ‘least-angry’ claim as the brother doesn’t know what happened to his brother in the last twenty years. The girlfriend claimed not to have known anything, and she told her brother not to panic. The police weren’t aware of the shooter before this, and there are no immediate red flags as to why he did this.

Putting him aside, when I hear about a shooting, I immediately assume a few things. One, the shooter is male. This one is solid as there have been very few mass shootings done by women. Second, that it’s going to be a white man. This one is pretty solid as the vast majority of mass shootings have been done by white men. One notable exception was Elliot Rodger, the…

::has to Google it because there have been so many mass shootings::

Santa Barbara shooter. He was half-Asian, and part of his screed was a healthy dose of internalized racism. He would see white women with full Asian men and grow angry that he couldn’t get a girlfriend because in his mind, he was better than those full-blooded Asian men because he was half-white. The first people he killed were his Asian male roommates (with a knife), and I bet it’s partly because of his internalized racism. He was a PUA (Pick-Up Artist) and an incel (his word. Involuntary celibate), and he was full of rage because he wasn’t getting pussy he thought he so richly deserved.

His race was notable, but his mentality wasn’t. Another thing I think when I hear about a mass shooting is that the shooter will be an angry man who has a history of violence and/or watches a ton of FOX ‘News’ and gets riled up about all the ‘illegals’, ‘hostile blacks’, and ‘angry atheists’. This man is bitter because his life hasn’t gone the way he’s been told it should go, and he knows it’s ‘their’ fault. It doesn’t matter who ‘they’ are. It could be women (it’s women a lot of the time. 54% of mass shootings involve domestic violence, as I noted before); it could be minorities or undocumented immigrants; it could be Jews; it could be just about anyone else. It certainly isn’t their own fault; it can’t be!


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Fear and Loathing in the USA

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tattered freedom
Freedom for all?

I saw an American flag flying on a car while I was on my way to the grocery store and a thrill of fear ran down my spine. Same when I saw the American flag flying in front of a neighbor’s house the day after the election. Later on, I saw three American flags in the user name of a troll on Twitter, and that jolt of fear came again.

I had felt the same fear once before for a sustained period of time. It was after 9/11, when American flags started flying everywhere. To me, the flag had become a symbol of empty jingoism, rabid nationalism, and the opposite of patriotism. It was used to shut up dissenters, those who protested the invasion of Iraq. We were right, by the way, though many people prefer to retcon their memories of how they acted during that time. The flag was shorthand for, “Get out of this country, you traitor,” and since then, I have had an aversion to it.

This time, the flag is a replacement for the ‘don’t tread on me’ logo and the Confederate flag. It says, “Get out, Chink. You’re not welcome.” It’s not a coincident that they’ve sprung up in my very Democratic neighborhood as it’s a way to signal other like-minded people that a friend resides within. It’s meant to intimidate those who don’t feel the same or who are not of the majority, and in places where there are more who think like that than not, it will probably do the trick.

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There is No Happy Ending

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I’m not a brave woman.

I am rabidly conflict-avoidant, and I’m always fearful. So, to see all the protests and people talking about resistance is very gratifying to me, but it also makes me feel ashamed.

I am always afraid. It’s a matter of extent, and it’s faded in time, but there’s always a nugget of fear in the back of my mind. I have to know the closest exit at all times, I will freak the fuck out if you touch me unexpectedly, and any time I’m in a tense situation, my PTSD kicks in.

I’ve heard more than one survivor of sexual assault talking about flashbacks and trigger warnings. Not about anything they read or see, but about the result of the election.

We talk about rape culture, and many people pooh-pooh that it exists. This is the clearest example that many people just don’t give a shit about sexual assault. Trump can be caught on tape saying he can grab any pussy he wants because he’s a star, and after the initial outrage, a collective yawn. “It’s just locker talk.” “He didn’t really mean it.” “All guys talk like that.”
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Rage Into the Night

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soothing for my soul
Therapy.

I am sorry there was no post this morning. I think many of you can understand why. I watched the returns last night, my heart sinking further and further as the night went on. I went to bed before the official declaration, but I knew by the time I tried to sleep, what the result would be.

I cried myself to sleep. Huddled in a small, tight ball, the blankets pulled up over my suddenly chilled body.

I knew. I knew a vast swathe of this country hated me because of my skin color, my sexuality, my gender, and a whole number of other things. I’m old. I’m tired. I’m cynical. I’m not stupid or naive.

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One Nation Under Trump

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dump trump!
Would-be king, Trump

I am terrified of a President Trump.

I am not being hyperbolic. I was not terrified of a President McCain or a President Romney, though I thought both were terrible choices at the time, of course. President Palin? Yes, I was scared at the thought of her kicking McCain down the stairs and claiming his presidency, but that now seems tame in comparison to the idea of President Trump. I thought Sarah Palin was the nadir of what the GOP had to offer America. Oh, how naive I was back then. I’m not saying she’s any more acceptable as president now than she was then, but Trump has lowered the bar to the point where I’m almost longing for W. Almost.

Trump is not qualified to be president. He hasn’t been an elected official of any sort, and while I know it’s in vogue to scoff at career politicians, I want my president to have SOME prior political experience. Would I go to a surgeon who had never done an operation before? Fuck no! Then why the hell would I want a president who doesn’t know how many articles the Constitution has? I didn’t know, either, but I’m not running for fucking president. I want my president to know what the job actually entails. I don’t want my president to be sitting on Twitter, responding to every comment tweeted his way. He calls Clinton ‘Crooked Hillary’ and Elizabeth Warren ‘Goofy Elizabeth Warren’ as if he’s an eight-year old boy. He admires Vladimir Putin and says, “If he says great things about me, I’m going to say great things about him.” This clearly shows how narcissistic Trump is and how easy it would be to manipulate him. For all his flaws, Putin is not a stupid man. I have no doubt that he would be able to make Trump do whatever he (Putin) wanted him  simply by buttering up his ego.
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