Have a nice face!

 

 

"The smile did not mean that he was happy." 

-- Michael Cadnum, Flash

     

Smiley face balloon with a knife 6-17-13

 

 

“Anyone who has a continuous smile on his face 

conceals a toughness that is almost frightening.”

-- Greta Garbo

“Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.”

-- Mineko Iwasaki 

It's hard to smile when everything hurts.

If I don't sleep, I can pretty much guarantee that the next day is going to be painful. 

Today is one of those days. 

If you have chronic pain, like me, whether it's from fibromyalgia, or an injury, or some other ongoing  condition, then you probably know how restful sleep can function like a "reset button."  

A good night's sleep can miraculously switch off the pain. Not permanently, but it can provide enough of a break for me to catch my breath, relax and remember, if only for a short time, what "normal" feels like.

Last night I didn't sleep, so I didn't get the "reset." All of the pain I went to bed with stayed, and built on itself, and this morning it is still here --  mine to keep and to carry with me for the rest of the day.

Yellow smiley faces tend to pop up here on the blog from time to time, usually when I'm feeling anything but smiley. Smileys don't happen on my good days. They usually coincide with "those days" --  the ones when I have to try real hard to grin and bear it.

The yellow smiley face became popular during the '70s. It was on coffee mugs and bumper stickers, usually coupled with the phrase "Have a nice day."

I typically place the smiley faces under some type of duress. Unlike me, they keep smiling through the pain, whether I've trapped them under a jar, taken a bite out of them, or stabbed them with a Ginsu knife.
 
It's how I deal.

Grin and bear with me.

Oh. And have a nice day.

Simple as that

"We spend so much time creating a facade of what we want to project to the world, 

we almost forget what we ourselves are truly about in the process."

-- Jason R. Thrift, The Civilization Loop: The End Is the Beginning

Self portrait 5-24-13

Self portrait 5-24-13

"Sometimes the simple

 is the most difficult.”

-- Linda Olsson

When I tell people about my self-portrait projects, I get mixed reactions. The response that intrigues me most is one of sheer horror. In this Facebook world of self-image over-indulgence, believe it or not, there are people who just can't fathom even taking, much less sharing, photos of themselves. 

I must admit that some self-portraits are easier to share than others. It's the simple ones that are, for me, the most difficult. No costume to hide behind. No effects. No makeup. No disguises. No body paint. No sunglasses. No nothing. Just me. Me looking straight into the camera. Exposed. Open. Unadorned. Vulnerable.

These are the self-portraits that put a lump in my throat as I press the "publish" button.

The ones of the "real" me. 

If you look intently enough, this kind of self-portrait contains flashes of me at age 4, at age 8, at age 21 ... all of me are in there looking back at me. It can be unsettling. Disturbing. Scary.

But I find a kind of solace in these images as well -- a sort-of settling as I lock eyes with my self. It's a "Well, I guess this is where we are" kind of feeling. It feels true, and honest, and basic, and actual, and real, and centering somehow. Like getting back to the most basic basics. To the barest bare bones.

Lately, my daily existence feels as if it has been ground down to its bare bones. As I scrabble to live with the unpredictable and arbitrary side-effects of chronic insomnia, sleep deprivation, chronic pain and fatigue, I am learning a different approach toward how to live. Less is definitely more when you don't have the energy for much. I am adapting, surviving, by keeping my agenda as clear, as empty, as unscheduled and as simple as I can. I have pared away all but the absolutely necessary-est involvements, relationships and commitments.

My brain can't handle complicated right now. My spirit can't handle difficult. And my body can't handle hard. Sometimes I can't even bear the weight of clothing much less the weight of demands or expectations. My softest, least binding t-shirt and a pair of worn, loose jeans is as dressed as I can get. 

Anyway.

Even though it might seem like I am looking out at you from this self-portrait, I am actually looking in, at me. I am simply letting you see what I see.

And that is the hardest part.

Mayday. Mayday.

"When you're drowning, you don't say 

'I would be incredibly pleased  if someone would have the foresight 

to notice me drowning and come and help me.' 

You just scream."

                                                                                                            -- John Lennon

Drowning styrofoam face 5-1-13

Mayday is an emergency procedure word 

used internationally as a distress signal in radio communications. 

It derives from the French venez m'aider, 

meaning come help me.

Is that all there is?

“It's a very salutary thing to realize that the rather dull universe 

in which most of us spend most of our time 

is not the only universe there is.”

                                                                                                 -- Aldous Huxley

Self portrait 4-12-13

I am a prisoner held captive by chronic pain.
It is a lonely confinement that holds me hostage, day and night.
Some days are better than others.
Sometimes, my pain allows me some freedom -- a little fresh air and sunshine, some semblance of "normal."
But other times ... other times are something else entirely.
Other times, daylight is snuffed out and the prison walls close in.
The unrelenting pain is exhausting -- physically, emotionally, psychologically.

It starves me of precious sleep. (The stingy sleep rations here are like watery slop shoved under the door on a filthy tin plate.)
It steals my confidence.
It grinds down my defenses.
It erodes my relationships.
It devours hope and shits despair.

It's tempting to give up.

Except that I've found an escape.
I've located a secret passageway that takes me to another place. A place beyond the pain.
These faces.
This art.
This blog.
This is how I escape the pain.

I can't stay here forever, of course. My visits are clandestine. It is a temporary sanctuary. But a sanctuary nonetheless.
Here, I forget the pain if only for a little while.
Here, something like a blessing lifts me up and out and away.
Here, there is a kind of relief, even if it is simply a momentary distraction, a fleeting illusion.
Whatever it is, I don't care.
Until the pain snatches me back from this other place, I'll sink hard and deep into the sweet beautiful weightlessness of this atmosphere. I will cling desperately, begging it to devour me, to gobble me up so that I never have to go back into my hungry captor's claws.

But I know pain will hunt me down.
I can already hear its footsteps closing in.
Feel its hot, sour breath on my neck.