No sneaking
No whispers
No clandestine act
Engine patters
Garage door rumbles
Back door slams
Yet a happy greeting yields hours of anxieties.
Something is not working here.
poem-dreaming April 1, 2015
Last night,
I wept over your broken body,
watching bloody pools expanding
beneath your feet.
Today,
you needed seven anti-anxiety pills
and still paced and cried,
your heart throbbing.
Were we dreaming side by side?
Did you see my vision?
Were you scared by day
from mother dreams
of death?
.
.
.
(The dog again. Sigh. Put him in the Gentle Leader halter after dinner and he calmed down. Might try that during the day tomorrow.)
poem-dragons March 12, 2015
You rest content
curled and snoozing
until bedtime.
Then the dragons come.
They wake you
harass you
scare you,
so you pace and tell us about it.
Dear dragons,
Go away.
We all need sleep!
Here’s a little pill,
a magic tablet,
to send you on your way.
.
.
OJ the dog is about to try some anti-anxiety meds to see if that will help him with his grief and anxiety for a few weeks, until he’s used to being the lone dog. I can’t believe my dog is officially suffering from mental illness. Old dog.
poem-distress signal March 10, 2015
whimper
pant
pace
whine
pant
woof?
pant
woof
pace
pant
woof!
pant
WOOF!
pant
cry
WOOF wooooof!
pant
sigh
.
.
My 15 year old standard poodle is still unable to manage alone after we had to put down our 16.5 year old miniature poodle last month. We now allow him to sleep in our bedroom. Last night, after he’d been pacing and whimpering from 1:30 to 2 a.m. (post snack and pee-break) I actually got out of bed to lie beside him on the floor for 20 minutes until he settled. I’m not sure if that’s enabling, but we were all able to sleep afterwards. A visit to the vet this week, and a trip to his favourite kennel master next week, and I have hopes that perhaps he’ll be able to cope soon. The mourning process is a challenge for us all.
poem-anxious sovereignty March 4, 2015
You and I are independent souls.
I move through the house;
You rest comfortably in contented sovereignty.
You do not need to dog my heels
to glorify each moment at my side
or expect me to worship at your feet.
You ignore me for hours,
sleeping in peaceful, self-sufficiency.
We are independent souls,
until the moment I step outside the door,
and calamity explodes in barks and whines.
It pants, scratches, and pees displeasure
at this, your desperate circumstance,
wailing at the injustice of loneliness,
vomiting up fathomless grief.
For the hours I am present, I do not exist;
for the hour I am absent, I make your world
a cavernous void.
Dog ironies
amid anxieties.
,
,
OJ is not doing well since Dusty went to the Rainbow Bridge. We’ve tried swaddling as per Thundershirt. We’ve got the Rescue Remedy. He’s in his safe, contained space. We fill the Kong with goodness. Still the dog thinks the world is ending when I walk out the door. Got any other suggestions? Except a new dog companion. Hubby imagines a dog-free household in our near future. (I’m allergic to cats, so that’s not an option either).
please never die! August 30, 2012
This is purely selfish, I know.
Since October 2011, I’ve been obsessed with author Diana Gabaldon and her Outlander series (though I read anything by her I can find: the Lord John series, blog posts, articles, tweets, Facebook postings). Like millions of rabid fans around the world, I am waiting desperately for the next installment in in the adventures of Claire and Jamie Fraser, et al. Written in My Own Heart’s Blood (aka MOBY) isn’t due until SEPTEMBER 2013!
>>Insert anguished groan here<<
Recently, Diana went to Scotland to celebrate the wedding of her daughter. I found myself praying passionately that there would be no plane, train, bus, ferry, or auto accidents. What if Diana was to expire in some sort of dramatic, Fraser worthy way? She puts her characters through enough, fate might just mock her with an ironic twist, and she could be caught in such a scenario up close and personally! Worse, some ignominious event could fell her, some blip of biology could shut down that brilliant brain and still that witty pen.
😦 NOOOOOOOOO! The very idea makes my heart pound in dread.
Yesterday, in my audio book of Gabaldon’s Drums of Autumn, Jamie fought off a bear with a dirk, bare hands, and sheer determination. (Claire contributed to his defence by whacking at the combatants with a dead fish). After this attack, Claire shakily observes,
Anytime. It could happen anytime, and just this fast. I wasn’t sure which seemed most unreal; the bear’s attack, or this, the soft summer night, alive with promise.
I rested mv head on my knees, letting the sickness, the residue of shock, drain away. It didn’t matter, I told myself Not only anytime, but anywhere. Disease, car wreck, random bullet. There was no true refuge for anyone, but like most people, I managed not to think of that most of the time.
I am not a worry-wart. I have a generally relaxed, laissez-faire attitude about most things. I believe in doing what you can, and then letting go. I wait without anxious fear for results of jobs, test results, admissions, reviews, and queries. Impatient curiosity may cause frustration, but not anxiety. My kids and husband are on their own, provided only with my good wishes and sensible advice. I never panic over their prospective demises, despite their penchants for death defying recreational activities that would indicate I really should. Yet, Diana Gabaldon’s books can keep me up all night, fretting about how things are going to turn out for a character who’s stuck in another impossible situation. Her fictional world stresses me out far more than the real world does.
I love her for it.
So I worry about Herself .* This is slightly absurd, and definitely selfish. I know it, and yet I can’t help it.
Please be immortal, Diana. Or at least, get yourself into a time loop next time you’re in Scotland. I recommend looking for wild flowers at the base of standing stones around Beltane.
—
*I also worry, not infrequently, about Davina Porter, narrator of the Outlander audio books, for much the same reasons. She HAS to keep narrating this series! She can’t die or retire!
Imagine my head, cupped in my hands, shaking in embarrassment. This is quite pathetic, but very real. Am I alone in this absurdity? Tell me someone else shares author anxiety?
July/2013 Especially now that MOBY won’t be released until March 2014 now!
Shawn L. Bird 
quote-not talking September 5, 2012
Tags: anxiety, discussion, middle of everywhere, Monique Polak, relationships, resolution
~Monique Polak in The Middle of Everywhere. p. 148
I hate that ‘hide it under the rug’ thing that happens with some people. No one ever discusses issues, so nothing changes. People who are terrified of conflict, never discover the satisfaction of resolving an issue. Ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. A little healthy discourse can clear the air enough to bring people even closer. Not talking keeps everyone in bubbles of isolation.
Talking is better.
Share this: