N.K. Murray

I had written that quote down from Frida Kahlo on Friday January 14th this year. It’s true – I write what I know, what I feel, what I see, and my penchant is to write about sorrow and anger and grief and death. It’s wholly uncomfortable to write about the antithesis of all of those things – light instead of dark, happy instead of sad, hopeful instead of pessimistic. I’ve tried. I. Have. Tried. It reads trite and fake to me.

I didn’t write anything for Mother’s Day. I usually do – some well thought out missive my demons danced around with in the weeks before the day. This year, nothing came. My demons had been busier than normal with other concerns as of late. Other than the typical feeling of ick at the idea of the onslaught of emails and Facebook posts and happy people celebrating their mothers at brunch when I just wanted to eat my bacon and eggs and drink my mimosa(s), listening to the jazz wafting from the rafters of Beer Project. I felt empty and had no desire to acknowledge the day.

Which, for those who have lost and lost deeply, is not atypical. Nor is it something to be ashamed of. I’ve always felt the expectation to feel and digest those feelings and subsequently emote appropriately. Lately, I have been trying to prioritize the feelings that I can actually action, rather than those that just require recognition.

I’ve spent the last several months examining every aspect of me under an electron microscope. Picking apart the fibers of my being, trying to figure out where there are knots and weaknesses in the warp and weft of my fabric. Mid-life crisis? Perhaps if one is blessed with longevity, one could consider it so, but as they say, I don’t have any chickens to count as of yet.

I’ve discovered a lot about me.

I’ve discovered that a lot of what makes me the way I am is neurodivergence, instead of just being a pile of broken pieces of what’s left of me after my experiences (which is the cleanest term I think I could sanitize them with). The way I process things, the way I do or don’t do those every day tasks which make up a life – I always thought something was wrong with me. That I was from the Island of Misfit Toys, and even though I had moments where I was seen as cool and a novelty, for the most part, I was just trying to figure out how to crank the handle of my Charlie in the Box and hope nothing scary would pop out.

It’s painful to realize all of the years of trying to fit in, trying to figure out why I didn’t care about certain things, or cared way too much about others wasn’t all because something was damaged in me. You see, now I realize that I had this incredible tool given to me, and was told as a child to figure out how to use it without anyone understanding the stereo instructions were written in another language I couldn’t quite follow. But, I figured it out. I was smart, but not the smartest. I was athletic but not an athlete. I was motivated and dedicated and wanted all of the things but just seemed to get to a point where I just couldn’t put any more effort in. I was loud and annoying and talkative on the outside, but spent my happiest moments alone reading books by people with years on their tally sheet that I hadn’t earned yet. I equal parts wanted to be seen and recognized, but honestly would have preferred to not have to work so goddamn hard at every single thing I did. I have spent my life perpetually mentally exhausted from trying to find the proverbial browser window with the music cranked to 11 on, yet have spent countless hours opening others so the cacophony would drown out my demons.

And now, I’ve taken time to catalog the pieces of Nikki. The good and the bad. The strong and the weak. The asshole and the angel. (Definitely not angel but you get the dichotomy.)

Realizing this, realizing where the light switches are for those corners of the gothic mansion inside my head where I always got stuck or lost was amazing. It was depressing. It was horrifying. BUT, it was INCREDIBLE.

I’ve had conversations with this gelatinous mass knocking around in my skull, and found that it’s not that I’m ten cents shy of a dollar and needing to run to catch up all the time – instead, the fare was only ever fifty cents, and I just couldn’t find quarters in the couch.

It’s been a learning exercise for me – how not to dwell on the fact I didn’t know before. Taking the realization, talking about it with people that can help me with the logistics of this, allowed me to grieve for the years of my life that I lost to the hamster wheel, but venture beyond onto a path through the woods. (As Ted Lasso quipped – “it’s kinda like taking a hike with Robert Frost, it could go either way” at this point.) What do I do now that my browser tabs are at least somewhat organized, if not closed completely when I am done with them. For a change, the music playing is something I chose, rather than the Swedish Metalcore I hadn’t listened to recently that keeps creeping back into my psyche when I least expect it. (Which, is by no means a BAD thing – because doesn’t everyone absolutely love Swedish Metalcore, and if you don’t, are you even a music fan?) Learning how to function with all of this energy and subsequent, unexpected exhaustion from processing all of the everything in a way that made sense, instead of trying to drink through the firehose spewing uncontrollably my mind. Trying not to faceplant when that exhaustion finally catches up to me.

It makes me happy. . .? I think I forgot what what that word means. Happy that I have the chance to see what it’s like to fire on all cylinders, instead of with my pants on fire all the time. I’m still learning. I’m still figuring out what’s the best way to do the things I used to wing before, so that I don’t have to be so drained by the exertion.

But this happiness comes at a cost – as does all happiness. The cost-benefit analysis of this happiness fortunately trends on the benefit side. However, the cost is still there and likely will always be there. Sleep can be challenging. My heart rate is beats higher than before – even at “rest”. Sometimes I talk even faster than I did, which is saying a lot. The thoughts flowing out of me previously caught in the attic of that antebellum house are threatening to destroy my writer’s voice, and it’s taking some getting used to. I have to tell myself to write things down more than I used to, because otherwise they will certainly get lost in the ether (miasma?) that still lingers around the veranda in my mind. At times, I feel nearly manic with all of the things that I want to do, yet I still get caught in the analysis paralysis of the best manner/order to do those things in, and whether or not it’s smart for me to even start them. I’m sure as the days progress, I’ll find some secret passages or a hidden door which will lead me to streamline some of what I’m doing. When I do, I’m certain there will be this sense of relief that I don’t have to keep running up and down all those stairs.

While it shouldn’t be transactional, I’ve yet to find an unmitigated case of happiness, one which didn’t require payment of some sort. (Hey, I’m still me.) I love sitting outside and listening to the sounds of the pond, but holy shit, the seasonal allergies and the sun’s death rays sometimes make those times fleeting (because, gesturing at the fish belly white legs, French Canadian albino). I can ride my bike and enjoy the feel of the air in my face, as long as I ignore the train whistle rising louder through my trachea. I can read the best book, all the while ruminating that I’ll never be as good as _______.

For now – I have a unique opportunity to explore this new way of thinking/feeling/being. I have the time and ability to figure out what works best for me, due to an unexpected job loss (which. . . while unsettling, also showed me how much of a break I truly needed), and breathe. To find the balance between the 100-meter all out sprint with the serial killer breathing down my neck, and the leisurely meander around the neighborhood in the sun. It’s wholly uncomfortable and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it yet. I can say – there is something about watching your fat male blue jay shriek at the resident cardinal couple, while the grackle family plays in your pond’s waterfall and the orioles flit through the garden, that truly soothes the soul. (And ya, I guess I am now THAT girl watching birds in the backyard and I am good with it!)

I still have my moments. I still feel the weight of the losses – innumerable in many ways, immeasurable in so many others. I am still angry, but the anger is not the Anger that it used to be. He’s learned to bide his time, and only crop up in the dark when the others are exhausted from making their presence known, which they still do from time to time. But, for the most part, and perhaps only for now, the demons are sitting quietly at their table, mollified perhaps that they feel they have a light shining on their inhabitance in the dark manor in my head. While they’ve always served a purpose for me, I wonder if they too are maturing and recognizing that just because they want to dance, doesn’t always mean it’s time to. Perhaps we’ve come to an unlikely accord – one allowing them the freedom to express themselves as they must, while abiding by certain constraints of decorum and timeliness. If for no other reason, I’m grateful that this renaissance in my head has allowed me to recognize that the spiders weren’t as bad as I thought, and that maybe my demons weren’t ghosts in the cellar, but instead were just tenants who wanted to make sure their complaints were heard.

And with that, I will continue to paint my own reality – in deep midnight blues, with splashes of the late-day sunshine that used to beckon me home as a child.