Alicia (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} aliciak) wrote,@ 2007-03-01 12:49:00 |
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Sights and Sounds
I recently started writing a story called Sense, which pertains to my hospital time and how my senses are bombarded with so many stimuli. It also refers to my lifelong lack of sense, especially regarding issues of health. In my housebound days of recent, I realized that my sensitivity to stimulus is always present. I have always been affected profoundly by sights, sounds, smells, touch.
Over a week ago, I didn't leave the house, at all, from Saturday until Wednesday because of severe disease activity. Do I get cabin fever? The real question is, does it matter? I don't have a choice sometimes. After starting on rectal suppositories (music to your ears, yes?), I started to feel significantly better. They sound a lot worse than they are, or maybe I'm just used to things going in and out of my ass by now, and that's definitely NOT referring to anything of the sexual kind. Anyway, Wednesday I decided to walk the two blocks to the UPS store, where I can send my Etsy items by regular mail without any lines or stupid people.
Walking out the door after being bound to my bathroom is monumental. At my worst, I fear doing the laundry one flight down, b/c if I have an urge, I won't make it to the bathroom. The outside world did its usual bombarding; it was sunny out and the snow was melting. I feel literally attacked by sights and sounds when I exit the house. I step in puddles because I forgot what a puddle is. I forget my sunglasses because I haven't had to deal with glares. I trip on uneven sidewalks because I am used to level surfaces. My skin burns from the wind because I am unaccustomed to the effects of weather.
I am amazed and confused and scared at all the people, at how they talk to each other and go about their usual business. I don't fit. A block away, someone asks me directions to a particular intersection. I don't hesitate; I know exactly where it is. Minutes after I leave UPS I see a UPS truck, and it is my usual UPS guy, who has talked to me when I receive packages for Ian. He waves to me, and I am thrown off because of this meeting "out here." I am only used to hearing the birds from inside, predicting if that is the sound of a UPS or FedEx truck, watching my geranium bloom with such fervor.
I feel that I am without a community. I don't mean without friends, and I know that I am active virtually, blogging, writing, crafting. But those aren't communities, at least in my mind. I used to have workplaces that were so much more than that. They were communities of like-minded people, places to teach and learn, places to belong. I had so many of them, but I don't have any now. A week or two ago, Ian asked me for suggestions for the Gawker sites/blogs and I thought of some, since I am not only a writer but a commenter on posts. He relayed these suggestions at a meeting that day, but never said they were from me. He claims he wasn't passing them off as his own, but when you suggest something, and don't reference where it comes from, you are implying it is your own. That angered me so much, because I am constantly feeling community-less, so to suggest something that everyone received positively at his work would have made me feel like I contributed. I didn't even want to look at him. It wasn't about credit, it was about acknowledgment. They are different, and I received neither.
Just today I gave jelly thumbprints I made last night to Ian because he was attending something called "Jelly", a semi-regular gathering of people, mostly guys, who work on projects, computer stuff, etc. at the Jelly creator, Amit's house. I had responded earlier to Amit that I couldn't make it, but would send a jelly dessert along. It turns out that there was no internet there, so after a while, the group moved to the New York Public Library. I find out that Ian never even took out the cookies. Again, I became so mad, told him so, and cried for twenty minutes. I know he'll read this, and I know he just doesn't get it, but me making those cookies was the same as making that suggestion earlier. I am not part of something, but I want to be so badly. Those are my only makeshift ways of being part of a community right now, and it saddens me that the person I love and live with doesn't understand that. And yeah, it's just a stupid suggestion and stupid cookies, but they meant something to me.
I recently started writing a story called Sense, which pertains to my hospital time and how my senses are bombarded with so many stimuli. It also refers to my lifelong lack of sense, especially regarding issues of health. In my housebound days of recent, I realized that my sensitivity to stimulus is always present. I have always been affected profoundly by sights, sounds, smells, touch.
Over a week ago, I didn't leave the house, at all, from Saturday until Wednesday because of severe disease activity. Do I get cabin fever? The real question is, does it matter? I don't have a choice sometimes. After starting on rectal suppositories (music to your ears, yes?), I started to feel significantly better. They sound a lot worse than they are, or maybe I'm just used to things going in and out of my ass by now, and that's definitely NOT referring to anything of the sexual kind. Anyway, Wednesday I decided to walk the two blocks to the UPS store, where I can send my Etsy items by regular mail without any lines or stupid people.
Walking out the door after being bound to my bathroom is monumental. At my worst, I fear doing the laundry one flight down, b/c if I have an urge, I won't make it to the bathroom. The outside world did its usual bombarding; it was sunny out and the snow was melting. I feel literally attacked by sights and sounds when I exit the house. I step in puddles because I forgot what a puddle is. I forget my sunglasses because I haven't had to deal with glares. I trip on uneven sidewalks because I am used to level surfaces. My skin burns from the wind because I am unaccustomed to the effects of weather.
I am amazed and confused and scared at all the people, at how they talk to each other and go about their usual business. I don't fit. A block away, someone asks me directions to a particular intersection. I don't hesitate; I know exactly where it is. Minutes after I leave UPS I see a UPS truck, and it is my usual UPS guy, who has talked to me when I receive packages for Ian. He waves to me, and I am thrown off because of this meeting "out here." I am only used to hearing the birds from inside, predicting if that is the sound of a UPS or FedEx truck, watching my geranium bloom with such fervor.
I feel that I am without a community. I don't mean without friends, and I know that I am active virtually, blogging, writing, crafting. But those aren't communities, at least in my mind. I used to have workplaces that were so much more than that. They were communities of like-minded people, places to teach and learn, places to belong. I had so many of them, but I don't have any now. A week or two ago, Ian asked me for suggestions for the Gawker sites/blogs and I thought of some, since I am not only a writer but a commenter on posts. He relayed these suggestions at a meeting that day, but never said they were from me. He claims he wasn't passing them off as his own, but when you suggest something, and don't reference where it comes from, you are implying it is your own. That angered me so much, because I am constantly feeling community-less, so to suggest something that everyone received positively at his work would have made me feel like I contributed. I didn't even want to look at him. It wasn't about credit, it was about acknowledgment. They are different, and I received neither.
Just today I gave jelly thumbprints I made last night to Ian because he was attending something called "Jelly", a semi-regular gathering of people, mostly guys, who work on projects, computer stuff, etc. at the Jelly creator, Amit's house. I had responded earlier to Amit that I couldn't make it, but would send a jelly dessert along. It turns out that there was no internet there, so after a while, the group moved to the New York Public Library. I find out that Ian never even took out the cookies. Again, I became so mad, told him so, and cried for twenty minutes. I know he'll read this, and I know he just doesn't get it, but me making those cookies was the same as making that suggestion earlier. I am not part of something, but I want to be so badly. Those are my only makeshift ways of being part of a community right now, and it saddens me that the person I love and live with doesn't understand that. And yeah, it's just a stupid suggestion and stupid cookies, but they meant something to me.
