You would not believe how many posts I've started and then left to languish in "draft" mode. Why? Because they're cack. Spew cack. Cack of the toxic runoff variety. And no matter how pretty I shape it, I'm just not going to post that sort of thing.
Mostly I'm tired. Really tired. I spent all day Sunday on the couch watching old Medium reruns. Actually, I did leave the house once. I went to the mall, bought thermal pajamas with wide-eyed, psychedelic owls all over them, went straight back home, then went back to the couch with my new jammies on.
I'm having many small pity parties. Several a day. Served with green smoothies and roasted broccoli, and okay, leftover pumpkin walnut gluten-free cake from the xmas dinner I attended. I'm drinking green tea, and okay some half decaf Newman's carmel coffee. I lay down on the couch, the kitties climb atop me and drape themselves up and down and in every nook and cranny, Season 3 of Medium lights up my laptop, and the latest small pity party commences.
I remember trying to watch Medium when it first came out but I didn't like it. People were always hollering at her, ridiculing her. She'd have a dream, and because it wouldn't be perfectly spelled out, like watching a documentary, or reading a research paper, people would give her grief, tell her she was nuts. It felt upsetting to watch it, watch the anguish she'd go through week after week. But a couple of weeks ago I started watching from the pilot episode, and it's been a great source of comfort, even as it's the ambient backnoise for my small pity parties. Each episode brings nuggets of understanding, of sympatico, that only another psychic could pass on. And I'm grateful for it. And it sure adds a dimension of "social" to my pity parties that drone on with just me and the fuzzy guys.
A lot of what I've been dealing with the past few months has been around coming to terms with my psychic abilities, what they mean, what I'm supposed to do with them, how I live with them. They come with so many down sides, and I don't think I've really admitted it to myself before, what a burden they are in so many ways.
People think it would be so awesome to be psychic. They think they'd avert Bad Things, and bring Good Things to their lives, the lives of folks around them. But the truth of it is that it makes you a freak, a freak who can never be a part of the flow of living that is this culture we live in, but who still has to make a living, deal with landlords and coworkers and department store clerks and family.
I keep trying to come up with a way to describe what it is like to be psychic in the way that I am - I hear, see, and feel things - like watching a movie going on right behind the regular movie of "reality" that's playing. And a couple of days ago, when I jetted in and out of the mall to get those pajamas it hit me: it's like being around shrieking people. Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, picture the people around you shrieking. Shrieking at a high pitched decibel. But they're not aware enough to know they're shrieking. And so not only do you have to deal with the fact that your ears are freakin killing you, you have to pretend there is no shriek. And even though I've gotten very good at dealing with it over the years, very grounded and practical, it still doesn't change the fact that when I leave my house, and enter the world, there is so very much shrieking, such loud shrieking, and everyone insisting they are so very quiet and lovely.
Poor me, right? Poor, psychic, misunderstood me. I told you there were pity parties afoot.
But there's more going on than I'm writing about. There's a job, an amazing job. A job with one of the top medical facilites in the country. A job that would utilize my MPH, the program management experience I have, and my knowledge of the holistic world. A job that would mean a ~8K raise. Where I'd get to work with MDs on the cutting edge of global holistic medicine. And I'm going to turn it down. Actually, they haven't made a formal job offer, only invited me to come back up, do a second interview and meet the whole team I'd be working with. But I'm not going to go. Because my psychic ability has spelled things out very clearly - it's not the place for me to be, that it's very existence in my world is nothing more than a test by Life to see if I'm ready to move on. And I know I'll email them, tell them I'm withdrawing, but in the meantime, all I can think about is the money and the prestige and f*cking Hiveworld and my oven that doesn't work.
Poor me. Poor, poor psychic me. Saved from a hell job by warnings from psychic postcards from the Yes.
And so I lay on my couch, then go into Hiveworld, even though I was supposed to have this week off, but can't because the Hilarious Coworker's replacement quit and someone needs to man the cubicle. But then after work I go back to the couch, watch some Allison and Joe, Manuel and Lee, watch what it's like to be her: a psychic who talks to dead people, then comes home to a man she can talk to, kids she can snuggle with, a context of Love and Yes she can do her psychic work out of and not go nuts from the echos.
Me? I'm just over here on a couch, throwing small pity parties for myself. I'm grateful to be out of range of the shrieking, grateful that I have a job that allows me shelter and food, holistic clients that allow me to use this psychic stuff for more meaningful use, kitties that snore and squeak and sigh and lick, and words, that I can string together so that my inside can flow a bit to the outside.