Portrait in Linen

Spent the day blocking out virtually all responsibilities, taking the guilt to the gut, suckin’ it up. Weekend work’s cut out for me anyway: Monday’s Miner Day, so the house will have to be in perfect order.

Nothing is ever in perfect order, and that’s something I can generally stomach–except in the episodic moments of despair, which at the time feel real and terminal.

But I’m also aware those valleys are a ruse, shot blanks, horrifying hallucinations, a red devil on my shoulder whispering acid accusations in my ear about all the ways I’m marred beyond recovery. I hear it, pretty constantly, but I’ve learned to ignore it. Most of the time.

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Drawing is like a drug. In the moments before the pencil strikes the page, it feels like I’ve got Draino running through my veins. Like gnawing on a leather strap might make me feel better. Or pounding chalk into powder. Tense and bulging and staticky and unsorted.

But then I draw the first arc, light and hesitant. It’s a smooth, slight, graceful sweep that has no certain destination just yet, but as it snakes its way this way and that across the page, it seems to draw out the confusion, as if it were drawing out my blood.

Relief…that’s what I feel through the whole process.

And maybe the more disfigured and distorted the subject is, the more aligned and symmetrical I feel.

If I’m not drawing, I’m trying to bleed these things out in other ways–writing, speaking/studying Hawaiian, training, making lists, or cleaning something. “Sedating the beast.”

A part of me is startled and anxious about what ends up on the page, what things may be revealed about me there, things I can’t see because my subconscious has got them safely tucked away under its tongue. But, the subconscious holds onto those things for a reason–because I’m not strong (read: put-together) enough to tolerate the truth. I’m fine with that. Those things are obviously way too terrible to deal with in the here and now, and if the only way to vent them is to let them possess my drawings, so be it.

I think therein lies the self-self reconciliation. Grotesque is okay–once extracted.

So much for the doctor’s appointment.  Wrong clinic.  The one I need is Neurology. The word “neurology” sounds so ominous.

I know what I need to do, but I’m terrified of flat-lining.  Not in a physical sort of way, but inspirationally.  It’s already monumentally difficult to harness what creative auroras I do have.  Typically, they’re lashing about so wildly beyond reach, I have to still myself and focus everything into grasping the very tail-end of it all between my fingertips, and then set about the tedious task of gathering the little strands and weaving them into something beautiful.

What a torturous thing it is to love the tempest, but find oneself completely incapable of enduring it.  Blown apart by my own little sparks and flames.

But going to see the nurse practitioner is the responsible thing to do.  If I don’t, I bring suffering to everyone around me, and confusion to the people who would otherwise endear me.

Which raises another question: Would I buy affection?

It might feel a lot like bartering for love, to trade in my head (with all its quirks and mechanical flaws) for stability of disposition.  The acceptance I get in return would be given on condition (pun: good condition).  That doesn’t seem genuine at all.

But all of that seems like accessory worry.  The main thing is, I’m drowning and I know it.  Survival instinct is to reach out.

In any case, it’ll probably be a good week or more before they can fit me in.  No problem.  I’ll just go back to what I was doing before the ship began breaking apart, and maybe there will come some warmth that is deep and unseasonal.

Three trips to Baton Rouge was a little more than I could handle. I’m glad I did it, for Rocky’s sake, but it’ll probably take me an additional three days to recover from the exhaustion. The drive wasn’t all that bad; it was walking and walking, and sitting through movies, and trying to find parking, and trying to find another place to eat, and going the whole day without a fresh cup of coffee.

But Rocky got constructive criticism on his work. He was exposed to amateur work other than his own. He got to speak with professionals about training, direction, technique. And he got some workable suggestions on his style and approach. He’s inspired, motivated, and exhausted, too.

Have to admit it was inspiring for me, too. The thought has crossed my mind to try my hand at animation, though I doubt the end product would be destined for anything but my personal archives. Not so much a story as an expressionistic impression. It would require a ton of work, because what I have in mind is 100% hand-drawn, moderate detail, and somewhat intricate backgrounds.

Like I have time for that.

But it was edifying to draw a little today. “Cartoon Drawing Workshop,” which turned out to be more of a doodling session for me. The girls enjoyed dreaming up characters from the idea prompts the hosts provided.

I chose “Alien,” and began with the classic spindly concept, but it didn’t take long at all for those luxurious/anemic/creepy ortho-nightmares to infiltrate. Same basic pose from the same well of inner-conflict. It made me sad to draw it, so much that I could feel the tension between my eyebrows and around my lips. If the room weren’t so crowded and bright, I may have cried.

My mind and I are not getting along well. It keeps trying to break loose of me and go bounding off into fields of poisonous nothings, or to leave me scrambling for some remnant organization of thought. It astounds me I can keep it together enough to follow what’s going on around me and participate, but I’m continually aware of the primary consciousness locked up in a little muted room inside, cowering, scratching at the walls, naked and wild-haired and furious that tears are so ineffective.

My Four Humors must be out of whack. Or at least my sense of humor. I’ve been so Hor(rible)monal the last few days. It’s ridiculous. Totally ill-proportionate to what it should be, or what I think it should be.

I tried to offer an explanation, but it sounded a lot like an excuse. “Blah blah blah…irritable…blah blah blah…over-stimulation…blah blah noise questions traffic blah blah blah.”

I don’t know if it was something I instilled in him over the years, or if it’s his natural agreeable disposition, but Rocky nodded his head and acknowledged me like he understood what I was talking about. He even went so far to say, “Well, I’m glad you told me that, Mom. I was beginning to wonder….”

Yeah, I’m wondering, too, kiddo.

Doctor’s appointment on Monday. Everything revolves around that single meeting. The thing I need most in the world right now is an answer to what in the world is going on with my body. Strange, strange things happening to me, and I have no clue why. I just know I’m miserable, and I’m pledging my compliance to whatever plan for care they throw at me.

I barely made it today. Skipped Squeak’s ballet class, here in the final weeks before the recital. But I couldn’t handle rushing to make the couple required stops during rush hour traffic. Usually, I grin and bear it. But today, I just threw in the towel and said, “Forget it.”

The night routine was shot to the ground, too, because I couldn’t find the energy to straighten up, clean the kitchen, get the lesson plans in order for the morning. Good thing I thought ahead and prepared most of it at the beginning of the week, but if we’re missing anything, I doubt I’ll feel up to fixing it.

I almost passed on that last cup of coffee, but I didn’t, because I haven’t had one all day, and my nerves were knotted and twisted up like a ball of wire. Touch of a migraine threatening to sink its teeth into my head, but the caffeine held it at bay. And I needed just a tiny bit more time to decompress before I try to sleep.

Sleep is tough enough. Another red flag something is awry. Consistently waking up in the middle of the night from grossly disturbing dreams, life-realistic, sticky and shivering in damp pjs. Ick. And Drat. Hard to go back to sleep like that.

Counting down the days till the clinic visit, and I think I’m prepared for whatever they tell me. Suffering from a known cause is a whole lot better than suffering blind.

I made a point to organize my thoughts on paper, type them up, and print them out to take with me so I’d be prepared to articulate myself, partially to avoid that terrible anxiety from recurring because I found myself at a loss for words, and partially to stay focused. After all, in counseling, “time is money.”

Contemplation/Conclusions

Over the course of the week, I came to recognize the decision to change to long skirts and dresses was–ultimately–an “act of consecration,” a way to distance myself from who I was before I committed to God, and a way to set myself apart as a Christian.

At first, the counselors considered I might be following a “Nazarene”-type creed. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, so I asked if it was a modern faith group. Not much info was introduced to me on that, but I assumed it was a fundamentalist, Pentecostal style code of dress and conduct.

I insisted my choice of dress was not a form of distinction, per say, but rather, a form of protection and departure from the past. I admitted I was aware that for me, there is a certain temptation to pride and vanity that accompanies any form of dress “other than ultra-conservative, feminine attire.”

That is, whenever I wear things that might be completely harmless and normal for anyone else, I personally have a tendency to be very aware of my appearance and presentation, to the extreme that I become proud and vain about how I look. And so, spiritually speaking…by eliminating those kinds of clothes from my wardrobe, I–in effect–eliminate the entire temptation. Dresses and skirts are “safe” to my spirit.

On the psyche level, wearing only dresses and skirts, in a sense, protects me from social expectations. If I’m unremarkable, indistinct, plain, I effectively remove myself from any expectations that might be placed on me on account of my appearance. It’s “safe” to my psyche, and so I don’t have to deal with any anxiety for not pleasing other people in how I dress.
I admitted the realization I’ve been projecting my fears and anxieties onto my children, overprotecting them in efforts to prevent them from repeating my downfalls in my past. I’ve created too-strict boundaries in order to keep them from ever venturing into that territory of pride and vanity.

Consequentially, the kids have become hyper-aware of the modesty issue. Although I don’t feel I’ve consciously led them to view pants and shorts as “evil,” they notice my insecurities and my reactions to such clothing. Some of them model my behavior, anxiety and all. Others question and rebel against my rules and reasons. Either outcome is deplorable to me. Two of my greatest fears for them–1) They utterly revolt and rebel against everything I’ve ever tried to teach them, and 2) They become just like me.

I’ve been trying to prevent sin in them, instead of leading them to appreciate and strive for purity.

How to Address the Issue

I purposefully made this section very vague and general, because I didn’t want to go straight from recognizing the problem to trying to solve it in detail. I decided to jot down a couple “goals,” more as a target to shoot for, rather than launching off a thousand arrows, praying one of them makes the mark.

First, I’ll need to let go of my fears and cease trying to fight off the fears with rules of modesty.

Second, I need to explore ways to teach modesty and humility through lessons that have less to do with dress and more to do with character.

Simple, concise, and at this point, realistic.

Possibilities For Change

Now came the time to brainstorm practical application. I thought the first step would be to establish the most extreme boundary, to mark off the territory I am either unwilling or unprepared to explore. Once that boundary is established, I can work freely within it.
I already know that I’m very uncomfortable seeing the kids in anything higher than mid-calf. Jeans and pants are not something I feel I can allow. Also, items that reveal the back and shoulders are inappropriate.

However, I could be comfortable with a dress, long shirt, or tunic over leggings. I could be comfortable with flowy gouchos or wide split-skirts. These items would be a bit more relaxed than the long, prairie skirts we’re used to wearing, and yet, they keep with the unclinging, tasteful presentation of skirts and dresses.

How to make a gradual transition?

Well, I thank God for His timing. Fall is just around the corner, and I have not yet begun buying fabric and patterns for their fall wardrobes. It’s the perfect opportunity to introduce a variety of new items into their wardrobes without making a premier event of it all.

It can be a fun, positive experience if I allow the kids to participate in the planning and design process. Not only do they feel empowered and learn a lesson in independence; they also have the opportunity to add their own “personal touches” to their clothes, with their own little embellishments and inspired details. Dress becomes a positive subject, one they can feel good about, a way to express themselves and strengthen their self-esteem and individual senses of identity. (And as added benefits, they get Home Ec credits; learn an important skill; and perpetuate a beautiful family tradition of sewing and clothing design.)

Questions

I had only one major concern in taking the first step to change: How do I answer my kids when they ask, “Why are the rules changed?R