I joined Seamwork a few weeks back because I got a dandy deal and I liked a number of the patterns. One pattern is for a long, v-neck pullover dress. I’ll be modeling for the art department at New Mexico State University this semester and I’ll need some sort of cover-up for when I model nude. Yep. I’m a geriatric nude model. The dress pattern would make a perfect cover up. I’ve been toying with ideas. Do I want to do color blocking? If so, I need to start figuring out what kind of shibori pattern I want and start dyeing fabric. Or I could do batik. Or I could order one of the fabrics I designed in my Spoonflower shop https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman. Or I could sit here with indecision growing all around me.
I thought I had found my favorite shorts pattern, but I was wrong. It’s a pattern from several pounds ago. Seamwork has a shorts pattern that’s close to my favorite pattern. I have some old sheets that we no longer use that would be good for making a muslin. I got as far as printing out the pattern. I haven’t taped the pieces together. I haven’t measured me. I haven’t gotten out an old sheet.
I signed up for a Seamwork class and made a disconcerting discovery. I don’t have a clothing style. I also don’t want to have a clothing style. I don’t like what’s on the market. I don’t like anything I’ve seen on Pinterest or Instagram. I’m overweight and clothes shown on the covers of sewing patterns or on Instagram and Pinterest are modeled by anorexic women. No idea what these clothes would look like on me. Patterns for “plus size” women usually look like a tent with an elastic waistband. Um, no.
I’ve started getting jewelry ready to sell at the local farmers market. I’d planned on setting up in November when it’s cooler and everyone is looking for Christmas presents. Unfortunately, the self-centered, selfish people who refuse to get vaccinated or wear a mask have caused a surge of covid cases. There’s now a waiting list for an ICU bed in all of New Mexico. I don’t know if I’ll want to set up at the farmers market. Selling my art is nice. Dying because some people don’t take this virus seriously is not nice. My online store, Deb Thuman Art, http://www.DebThumanArt.com has a generous supply of jewelry and fiber art for sale.
Having been cleared to have cataract surgery, I called the specialist in Albuquerque in early July and got an appointment for October 1. I’ll keep the appointment, but I can’t imagine elective surgery being scheduled before next summer. With the ICU beds filled, the hospitals full of covid cases, elective surgery can’t be done safely. Meanwhile, I’m having problems seeing especially seeing up close. I am beyond angry at the self-centered, selfish people who insist on not being vaccinated or wearing a mask.
Brady ate dental floss yesterday. Dental floss can be deadly. We gently squirted hydrogen peroxide down her throat to make her throw up. After she threw up, I had to take a stick and fish in her vomit until I found the dental floss. It was a terrifying hour before the crisis was over.
She’s faster than a speeding shutter. She’s chomping on an unimaginative toy I made for her. She demolished a toy and I grabbed the squeaker before she could eat it. I put the squeaker into this toy, but the squeaker doesn’t squeak. It just clicks. This is good; that squeaker was obnoxious.
I’ve been doing a bit of photography. We’ve had a lot of rain for a desert in the past few weeks. The light when there’s a storm blowing in makes for interesting, albeit frustrating, photography. Do I keep the photo dark which reflects what I see? Do I tinker in editing to make everything artificially bright?
I’ve been experimenting with evaluative and spot metering. After seeing the shots on my laptop, I decided that I’ll stick to evaluative metering. I seem to be getting better color that way.
Bipolar disorder sucks. Near as I can tell, I’m having a mixed episode – both manic and depressed simultaneously. My responses to things are enlarged. I’m depressed and am having problems shaking the depression. The PTSD, which is likely driving this mixed episode, has taken a miserable turn. While I still have flashbacks about growing up in a house run by a violent, drunken narcissist and her violent drunken husband, the flashbacks are no longer debilitating but they are still a nuisance. Now, I’m having flashbacks about working for the public defender department. There was a lot of trauma in that job. I moved from western New York to southern New Mexico by myself. Jim stayed in New York to sell the house. I didn’t know anyone in New Mexico. My supervisor refused to talk to me for two days when I arrived. That should have been a serious warning sign but I wanted that job so I stayed in New Mexico. Nine years later, I had to sue the department because of discrimination based on my age. I had a boss who was, to put it gently, a raving, screaming lunatic. I had 11 jobs in one year because he was trying to force me to quit. I stuck around because I wasn’t going to let anyone screw me out of my pension. Just writing this has unearthed miserable memories. I retired when I got pushed once too often. Within two weeks of retiring, I no longer had back pain and I didn’t need medication to sleep. Within six months, I no longer needed medication to control my blood pressure.
Brady is now five months old and she either has the doggy version of the terrible twos or the doggy version of oppositional defiant disorder. At least she seems to understand that she needs to pee and poop outside rather than on the kitchen floor. Now that I’ve given up on trying to confine Brady to the kitchen, she and the cats are having peace talks. The talks aren’t going well. I’m staying out of the discussion.
I’ve gotten some new, exciting beads and haven’t been able to work with them. The one time Brady snuck into the sewing room where I make clothes, quilts and jewelry, she picked up a discarded scrap of fabric and proceeded to chew on it. It’s not that she could hurt the scrap, it’s that the scrap could get stuck in her throat. Although I’m home all day, creating has to wait until the weekend when Jim can occupy Brady.
Three years ago, we flew to Buffalo, NY. In part to see a quilt show, in part to see friends, in part to give me the opportunity to bury the ghosts. We went to Rushford Lake where so much misery happened to me. I found a nice spot and buried the ghosts. Several years back, I took an acting class taught be someone who understood visions and intuition. During one class, I saw my spirit dancing in the woods. My spirit was an iridescent figure. I’ve been wanting to turn that vision into a quilt. I will be having Spoonflower print up one of the photos from that trip. Now to figure out how to make an iridescent figure and to show the figure dancing. I’ve got some chiffon that might work. I’ll have to play around with this idea some more.
When things got unbearable, I’d take a walk. Here’s where my walk would start.
Here’s where I buried the ghosts.
My birthday is Sunday and major life events happen around my birthday. I started college the week after my 25th birthday and started law school on my 38th birthday. For the first time in I forget how long, I can eat whatever I want and drink whatever I want on my birthday. For a few years, I would either have a crown pop off or a tooth break. We’ll be going to Starbucks for my free birthday drink. I’m going to be baking a pineapple upside down cake and making croissants for my birthday. I’m also planning on going to Walgreens to get a flu shot. If I get my flu shot around the time of my birthday each year, I don’t have to worry about forgetting to get the shot.
Brady barks non-stop if I put her in her crate and leave the room. So I took her into the bathroom with me so I could take a shower. While she had fun trying to drink water from the shower spray, she didn’t like it when I gave her a little squirt. She tried to wipe off the water with her paws.
Jim cut a piece of foam and I made a pillow cover so Brady has a lovely, new bed….that she refuses to lie on. The cover is made from heavy duty upholstery fabric. I pre-washed the fabric in hot water and put it in the dryer. If it’s going to shrink, I want it to shrink before I sew. The pillow cover has to be machine washable.
I went through computer hell yesterday. First, I tried to hook up a Brother printer. Per the box, it works with Mac. Except it doesn’t. Turns out, Brother hasn’t bothered to keep up with Mac OS updates and the only Macs that it will work on are at least three updates ago. Next, I tried hooking up a Canon that’s supposed to work with Mac. Except it doesn’t. Jim is dealing with the university book store to see if it will work with a cable or in the alternative, what do they have that works with the latest OS update for Mac. All I need is a printer that prints color as well as B&W, and will scan a document. I don’t need, and am not going to pay $200+ for options I’ll never use. So far, I’ve brought home two overpriced doorstops.
I don’t handle frustration well and was screaming (literally) at the inscrutable instructions. Would it kill manufacturers to put some words with those schematic drawings? Canon claims to have 24/7 customer service. It doesn’t. It claims to have a chat function. It doesn’t. I don’t know how to handle situations like this. I don’t want to be screaming at instructions. I did take three klonopin, but it didn’t help. I’m at the point where if I have to try to hook up yet another printer and can’t, I’ll gladly scream (literally) at a customer service rep. If a company puts out useless products, the customer service people deserve what they get. I’ll be discussing calming techniques with my psychologist.
I had never tried binder clips, but after having miserable experience after miserable experience sewing binding on quilts, I bought binder clips. I like them. Not only do that make binding a quilt a stress-free event, they also work better than pins at holding two pieces of heavy fabric together.
After having FMQ misery, I wrote to Superior Thread and asked for help. I bought the needles recommended on the website – 90/14 topstitch. That sort of helped, but the real solution was to use a different quilting foot. Pfaff makes a sensor automatic quilting foot and a spring quilting foot. Superior threads work best with the spring quilting foot.
After five years of making dark quilts about suicide, isolation, sexual assault, and depression, I’m trying to find a happy design I can live with.
I model for the art department and I always pay attention to the critiques because I learn so much from them. One critique was for an assignment to use gray scale for a still life. That got me thinking. We ordinarily think of dark, smaller objects farther away, and lighter, larger objects closer. But what if that were reversed?
I sat down with my sketch book and tried to find something that appealed to me. I like this idea, but I don’t like this sketch. If I changed the shapes into people…..that could be an interesting social commentary.
Usually, the larger objects are in front to show they are closer, but what happens if I put the larger objects in the back? I like this idea as well. I don’t like the sketch.
Right idea, wrong shapes.
Still not right. I’m going to have to give this a rest for a while. Maybe I’m just not ready to leave darkness.
Meanwhile….the cactus are blooming.
The clumps are maybe 10 feet apart, but the colors are different.
I’m not sure when this happened. Used to be, my quilts were pictorial. Now, they are emotional. Apparently, I haven’t been in a happy emotional place in more than four years. During those years, my quilts were about suicide, frustration with neurologists who refused to listen to me, isolation, depression and sexual assault.
Fury.
It’s hard to get everything in one photo. The quilt says: If you touch this without my permission, I will break your fucking arm.
Suicide.
Depression.
Isolation.
Mass shooting.
My quilts went from having beads, buttons, couched fancy threads to unadorned, stark quilts. The one exception is the quilt I made for human physiology.
Lots of beads and lots of whimsy on that quilt. The quilt is about my biology journey starting as an undergrad in 1977 and continuing during the last fall semester.
One happy quilt didn’t stave off a massive, all-encompassing depressive episode that left me so desperate, I considered electric shock treatments which I know are barbaric. During the last three years, my writing has become increasingly depressing. I write about suicide. I write impassioned pieces, which will never be shared while I’m alive, that are an attempt to calm the emotional roiling inside me. I write about the frustrations of having a mental illness in a world that still stigmatizes mental illness – an attitude that should have been dumped at the end of the Dark Ages.
Dark subjects started appearing in my work in 2007. I was going through hell at work – a hell caused by a lunatic supervisor who kept trying to force me to quit. Around that time, I started making dark ceramic art. Bowls with words written on them: I’m a nice person, why don’t they like me? If I stay small and quiet, maybe they won’t hit me. A ceramics classmate looked at the bowls, said they were pretty. Then she looked at what was written on the bowls. And walked away.
Self-portrait ceramic sculpture entitled: Fuck You, I’m Still Alive. Complete with bullet holes.
I tell people that art is a snapshot of a tiny piece of the artist at the time the art was created. Depression, isolation and suicide don’t seem to be tiny pieces of me. I knew that depression was a constant emotion while I was growing up. I didn’t realize, because I chose not to look, how overwhelming depression is now.
I tell people that I frequently don’t understand what I’m feeling until the feelings come out of my hands. When are those feelings going to be happy again? Or were those feelings never happy?
I’ve been working on the depression quilt. I’ve quilted the middle, but haven’t decided how to quilt the border. I thought about meandering, but I want something different from the middle. I want to show depression surrounded by no depression. I want something more open, but I haven’t figured out what. I designed this quilt while I was having an all-encompassing depression that would not go away.
My grandmother always had very little money. She sewed her clothes because when she was growing up, home sewing was far more economical than buying ready to wear. My grandmother was good at spelling and won every spelling bee. For one spelling bee, the prize was a length of pink gingham fabric. My grandmother took the fabric home. She spread out newspaper and drafted a pattern. She made a dress from the gingham, and entered the dress in the Erie County Fair. She won first prize – $3. At the time, that was a week’s wages for a woman.
She never threw away leftover fabric. Instead, she rolled the leftovers into a fat roll and tied the roll shut with a scrap of fabric. Ribbon was precious, and she never used a ribbon for fabric rolls. She used to save the cardboard that trim was wrapped around. The cardboard was used as a template for quilt pieces.
We’ve had rain in the desert and there’s enough humidity to trigger desert sage blooms. I played around with aperture. I did a bit with my macro lens as well.
No idea what I was trying to get here, but I like the effect.
I think there’s a drop of nectar at the end of the pistol.
I may try to design fabric with this one.
This isn’t an easy bush to photograph. If I get back far enough to shoot the entire bush, there’s an ugly background. If I use my macro lens, it’s hard to have a subject. The flowers are in bunches and, short of plucking a flower, there’s no way to get a single flower.
In other earth-shattering news…… I had an odd feeling that I needed to check the credit card statement. I check the statements before I pay the bill, but I rarely check the charges in the middle of the billing cycle. Turns out someone has been using my credit card to pay for meals, Starbucks, Lyft and who knows what else for the last month. Jim called the bank, our card was immediately cancelled, and they will send us new cards. Eventually. First, we were told that it would take 8-10 business days to get the cards. We objected to that and the cards, which we haven’t gotten, have been expedited. Meanwhile, Consumer Cellular billed my credit card for the regular monthly bill. I’ve been paying Consumer Cellular like this for about 2 years. Because this is a recurring charge, the bank allowed the charge.
I would dearly love to sit down with this thief after I’ve been off my meds for about a week. Bipolar disorder does come in handy from time to time.
To avoid having this misery happen again, I’m looking into VPN. There are several apps, and I’ve no idea how to tell what I need. Actually, I know what I need. I need to have a 12-year-old kid on retainer to help me with these technical things.
I’ve been manipulating photos and designing fabric.
First, start with a photo. This is part of the mat outside the sliding glass door.
Next, play around.
The editing program I use is PhotoScape X. Much of the program is free. For a one-time payment of $40, the entire program is unlocked.
Once I’m finished playing with the photo, I upload to Spoonflower and play around until I get a design that repeats in a pleasing way. I have to proof my designs before I can sell them, and I’m about ready to have another 42 designs proofed. After that, the designs go into my Spoonflower shop here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman
Does anyone really know who they are? I certainly don’t. I am forever a woman. I am forever an attorney. I am forever a wife. I am forever an artist. I am forever a writer.
I never get to be all those things at once. It’s as if my life were pieces of a broken mirror. Each piece is both the whole and a part of the whole.
All of those pieces. None ever changes. None ever leaves.
Floating above all the broken bits of mirror is bipolar disorder. I am forever mentally ill. I can medicate my illness, but I will never be free of moods that have a mind of their own.
That’s the difference between me and the people who think they know what being mentally ill is like. I live with mental illness that will never go away. I will die being bipolar. I may die because of being bipolar. People who have bipolar disorder have a suicide rate 20 times that of the rest of the population.
I wonder. What precipitates the deepening depression that takes me down and down until I must fight the thought that were I dead, I’d never again have to deal with bipolar disorder crap. Sometimes, I’m lucky. The depression takes me down below suicidal. It’s safe there. I’d have to feel better to kill myself.
But what precipitates the depression? Is it a brain chemical composition that bypasses the need to survive and sends me soaring into mania or plunging into depression? Or is it the crap I endure at the mouths of those who both fear mental illness and have no clue what living with a mental illness is like. The subtle pulling away when I disclose being bipolar. The not at all subtle backing away when I disclose being bipolar. The people who exert a tremendous amount of energy in a futile attempt to shove me back into the mental illness closet. Don’t talk. Don’t disclose. Don’t upset my world with your brain. The jackass who told me he admires how I accept no shame for being bipolar.
Damn fucking straight I don’t accept shame.
The only difference between a mental illness and a broken leg is the location of the pain.
The jackass’s stupidity belongs to the jackass. Fear belongs to the ignorant. Shame belongs to the jackass. Shame belongs to everyone who doesn’t fight to kill the stigma of mental illness.
Shame doesn’t belong to me. Shame has never belonged to me. Shame will never belong to me.
You can be part of the problem. You can be part of the solution.
To be part of the solution, listen to me. See me. Accept me when I’m in med hell with a med that no longer works for me. Accept me when I’m going through the three-month long withdrawal that always comes after discontinuing an antidepressant that no longer works for me. Accept me when I’m going through the three-month long adjustment to a new med. Accept me when I’m soaring. Accept me when I’m plunging.
Being part of the problem is easy. Being part of the solution is hard.
Per the NIH, prior to the pandemic, 26% of the population of the United States had a diagnosed mental illness. During the pandemic, the estimate was 50% of the population had a mental illness.
Suddenly, people have this idea that they know about mental illness simply because they experienced depression and anxiety. They wear their depression and anxiety as if it were a merit badge.
I have this to say to them: You don’t know anything about mental illness.
Has your health insurer limited the amount of mental health care you can receive? Has your health insurer made the cost of an emergency room visit for a mental health crisis double the cost of an emergency room visit for a physical health crisis. Has your health insurer told you that you need prior authorization in order to go to the emergency room when you have a mental health crisis? Have you panicked after learning Medicare won’t pay anything until you spend $1500.00 out of pocket. And after the out-of-pocket limit has been reached, Medicare has strict limits on what Medicare pays for mental health treatment.
Have you spent days when you couldn’t stop crying and your meds weren’t working? Have you experienced an all-consuming, heavy, black depression? Have you had to go to work every day while you spent three months adjusting to your new meds which are working a whole lot better than your old meds? Have you planned out how, when and where you will kill yourself? Have you had a doctor say you show no sign of depression after you disclosed you want to kill yourself and you brought someone with you to the appointment because you might need someone to stop you from buying a box of bullets on the way home? Have you ever had to ask someone to hide your guns so you couldn’t shoot yourself in the heart?
Has your supervisor, insisted you go back into the closet and never again mention you have a mental illness? Has your supervisor told you that you’re crazy? Has your supervisor dared to tell you that he doesn’t like the medication you are on? Has your supervisor demanded you see a psychiatrist as a condition of your employment? Have you discovered upper management is having private meetings about how your mental health is effecting your employment without ever talking to you? And you accurately determined upper management was looking for a reason to fire you?
Has a psychiatrist ignored your concerns about the side effects of a medication and told you that you’re on a good medication? Has a psychiatrist told you, after you say that the dose of an antidepressant is working well, ignored you and doubled the dose of your medication? Have you tried to tell a psychiatrist that you haven’t slept in two months and the psychiatrist refused to listen to you?
Has anyone literally backed away from you after you disclose you have a mental illness?
Have you had to listen to well-educated professionals say that mentally ill people don’t come to court because they don’t know better? Or say that all the normal people should be let out of jail? Or say that the withdrawal hell that happens after coming off an antidepressant that isn’t working is just the depression coming back? Have you been laughed at by a room full of well-educated professionals after saying that lying on the floor while trying to make the walls stop moving and then dragging yourself to the restroom because you had to throw up isn’t depression?
Have you been told to just snap out of it? Or that your problems are all in your head?
Have you had two psychiatrists and four psychologists fail to diagnose bipolar disorder forcing you to live in mental health hell for 40 years? Have you had three school psychologists decide you were more trouble than you were worth and refuse to treat you?
Have you ever felt the need to tell someone you aren’t violent? Or that you aren’t broken? Or that while your brain works differently from theirs you are still normal?
All of that happened to me.
Until it happens to you, you don’t know anything about mental illness.
I’m having a rough day. There’s no particular reason for it; it’s just part of being bipolar. I have limited energy, but I seem to be manic. Bipolar disorder doesn’t have to make sense, but I have to live with bipolar disorder. Meds help dull the extremes, but they don’t cure bipolar disorder. Bipolar disorder is always with me. Sometimes just under the surface. Sometimes exploding through the surface.
Brady, the Australian labradoodle puppy I have, did something remarkable today. She could smell my distress and instinctively leaned up against me – something psychiatric service dogs are trained to do. Of course a couple hours later, she decorated the kitchen floor with poop and pee. It’s not easy being a puppy. Not easy being the puppy’s human, either.
Good thing Brady didn’t like the doggy wading pool Jim found in the garbage. The pool grew legs the other day. Now, there’s a security camera covering the back of the house.
The sciatica is still hanging around. I’m able to walk farther, but farther is a relative term. It means I can walk out the back door with Brady, so 10 feet to her potty spot, and then come back in the house. I need to exercise. Brady gets separation anxiety whenever I leave the kitchen. She’s not ready yet to have the run of the house so I have to keep her in the kitchen. I’m sure the healing process has stretched out because of how inactive I’ve been.
We seem to be surrounded by randy quail. So far, I’ve counted four batches of day-old baby quail. When I shoot quail, I have to do it through the sliding glass door. As long as the quail aren’t aware of me, they don’t run off. While I would have liked to have my 150-600mm lens on the camera, what was on the camera was my 18-400mm lens. Taking the time to change lenses would have meant missing the shots. I played around with cropping the shot when I was editing. The John Prine fuzz on the baby quail’s head cracks me up.
The original shot. While this is the quail version of Where’s Waldo, it’s easy to see how tiny day-old quail are.
The first crop. Quail are easier to find, but they look bigger than they are in real life.
The second crop. Almost there. There’s more detail, but the edit didn’t seem right.
The third crop.
My Spoonflower order is now about 40 miles away and I likely won’t get my package until Monday. Sigh. I really want to start making undies although my time in the sewing room is limited to when Jim is home. There are too many places in the sewing room where Brady can get into trouble. I’d go into the sewing room, which is off the kitchen, and close the door, but Brady has severe separation anxiety. I’m trying to help her with that, but I don’t seem to have made much progress.
Brady likes to hide out in the pet carrier in the kitchen. I think it’s because it’s dark inside the carrier and she feels safe in her den. She’s not fond of the crate we have for her. I decided to make the crate more den like. I took a sheet, crudely attached the sheet to the crate, and created a darkened den. I put Brady’s toys in her new den. She refuses to go inside the den.
I’ve been playing around with designs that might make interesting fabric. Here’s the latest:
Living with a puppy makes life interesting. Brady has to be by her humans. The sewing room needs to be deep cleaned, but I can’t do that if I’m the only one home. There are way too many places where Brady can hide and leave deposits. Plus, she has only two speeds: Mach III and asleep. Temperatures are hitting 99-104 this week. Brady doesn’t want to be outside when it’s this hot. I suppose if I wore a fur coat, I wouldn’t want to be outside either. Once she has all her shots, I want to get her groomed. I think she would be more comfortable if she has less hair.
Not being able to clean and use the sewing room means binding won’t be put on three quilts and a fourth won’t be quilted. I get spiritually constipated if I don’t make art. Making art without having enough room to make art requires creativity.
I have a sketch book that contains the drawings from a plant taxonomy class I took, reminders for what to put into the novel, and quilt sketches. I’m a multi-media artists, and my sketchbook reflects that.
These are from my plant taxonomy class. I thought they were something I’d never use again until I looked at them today. There are quilts in these.
These are the germination of quilts. Some have been used after some tweaking. Some might never be used.
Ideas for things to put into the novel I’m writing.
I’m still awaiting the arrival of the fabric I ordered from Spoonflower. I took five of my designs, ordered them in a 4-way stretch lycra, and the fabric will be turned into underwear.
I’m also awaiting an order from Nancy’s Notions. The order was placed May 31, and won’t be here until Friday, June 11. Because of the slow shipping, I probably won’t be ordering from Nancy’s Notions again. Pity – I used to love ordering from them.
I had ordered beads fromJL Dream Works https://www.etsy.com/shop/JLDreamWorks?ref=yr_purchases Great service, and the semi-precious gem beads are all good quality and great prices. It’s nice to have another reliable supplier for beads.
I’ve used up all my spoons, and It’s only 11:30 AM
Spoons are a way of explaining energy or lack of energy. If energy is represented by 12 spoons, after all 12 spoons are used, there’s no energy left. No energy to walk around. No energy to cook. No energy to make art. No energy left for anything other than shuffling into the bedroom and taking a nap.
The sciatic problem is becoming less and less each day. With that comes the ability to walk more and more without my walker. That’s the problem. I feel better, so I walk without my walker longer than I should. That’s how I used up all my spoons this morning. The worst was me walking Brady and discovering I was out of spoons. I wasn’t near a door when the spoons were all used up. I leaned against the car, called to Jim to take Brady, then gingerly made my way into the house.
My feet hurt because they are swollen, they are swollen because I’m not active, I’m not active because I have no spoons left. This sucks.
I was hoping to get outside and photograph the yuccas blooming, but that’s no longer possible today because I have no spoons left. I’d have to push the walker up hill. Through sand. While trying to find a large enough distance between cacti that can accommodate the walker. All while trying to keep my camera from knocking against the walker. I’m missing spring.
I got down on the floor yesterday so I could photograph Brady on her level. I shot in RAW only because I had the camera set on RAW when I saw we had day-old baby quail and I wanted to be ready to photograph them. I set the camera to rapid burst. 92 photos, and some were even decent.
Spoons are a way of explaining energy or lack of energy. If energy is represented by 12 spoons, after all 12 spoons are used, there’s no energy left. No energy to walk around. No energy to cook. No energy to make art. No energy left for anything other than shuffling into the bedroom and taking a nap.
The sciatic problem is becoming less and less each day. With that comes the ability to walk more and more without my walker. That’s the problem. I feel better, so I walk without my walker longer than I should. That’s how I used up all my spoons this morning. The worst was me walking Brady and discovering I was out of spoons. I wasn’t near a door when the spoons were all used up. I leaned against the car, called to Jim to take Brady, then gingerly made my way into the house.
My feet hurt because they are swollen, they are swollen because I’m not active, I’m not active because I have no spoons left. This sucks.
I was hoping to get outside and photograph the yuccas blooming, but that’s no longer possible today because I have no spoons left. I’d have to push the walker up hill. Through sand. While trying to find a large enough distance between cacti that can accommodate the walker. All while trying to keep my camera from knocking against the walker. I’m missing spring.
I got down on the floor yesterday so I could photograph Brady on her level. I shot in RAW only because I had the camera set on RAW when I saw we had day-old baby quail and I wanted to be ready to photograph them. I set the camera to rapid burst. 92 photos, and some were even decent.
Spoons are a way of explaining energy or lack of energy. If energy is represented by 12 spoons, after all 12 spoons are used, there’s no energy left. No energy to walk around. No energy to cook. No energy to make art. No energy left for anything other than shuffling into the bedroom and taking a nap.
The sciatic problem is becoming less and less each day. With that comes the ability to walk more and more without my walker. That’s the problem. I feel better, so I walk without my walker longer than I should. That’s how I used up all my spoons this morning. The worst was me walking Brady and discovering I was out of spoons. I wasn’t near a door when the spoons were all used up. I leaned against the car, called to Jim to take Brady, then gingerly made my way into the house.
My feet hurt because they are swollen, they are swollen because I’m not active, I’m not active because I have no spoons left. This sucks.
I was hoping to get outside and photograph the yuccas blooming, but that’s no longer possible today because I have no spoons left. I’d have to push the walker up hill. Through sand. While trying to find a large enough distance between cacti that can accommodate the walker. All while trying to keep my camera from knocking against the walker. I’m missing spring.
I got down on the floor yesterday so I could photograph Brady on her level. I shot in RAW only because I had the camera set on RAW when I saw we had day-old baby quail and I wanted to be ready to photograph them. I set the camera to rapid burst. 92 photos, and some were even decent.
Spoons are a way of explaining energy or lack of energy. If energy is represented by 12 spoons, after all 12 spoons are used, there’s no energy left. No energy to walk around. No energy to cook. No energy to make art. No energy left for anything other than shuffling into the bedroom and taking a nap.
The sciatic problem is becoming less and less each day. With that comes the ability to walk more and more without my walker. That’s the problem. I feel better, so I walk without my walker longer than I should. That’s how I used up all my spoons this morning. The worst was me walking Brady and discovering I was out of spoons. I wasn’t near a door when the spoons were all used up. I leaned against the car, called to Jim to take Brady, then gingerly made my way into the house.
My feet hurt because they are swollen, they are swollen because I’m not active, I’m not active because I have no spoons left. This sucks.
I was hoping to get outside and photograph the yuccas blooming, but that’s no longer possible today because I have no spoons left. I’d have to push the walker up hill. Through sand. While trying to find a large enough distance between cacti that can accommodate the walker. All while trying to keep my camera from knocking against the walker. I’m missing spring.
I got down on the floor yesterday so I could photograph Brady on her level. I shot in RAW only because I had the camera set on RAW when I saw we had day-old baby quail and I wanted to be ready to photograph them. I set the camera to rapid burst. 92 photos, and some were even decent.
Spoons are a way of explaining energy or lack of energy. If energy is represented by 12 spoons, after all 12 spoons are used, there’s no energy left. No energy to walk around. No energy to cook. No energy to make art. No energy left for anything other than shuffling into the bedroom and taking a nap.
The sciatic problem is becoming less and less each day. With that comes the ability to walk more and more without my walker. That’s the problem. I feel better, so I walk without my walker longer than I should. That’s how I used up all my spoons this morning. The worst was me walking Brady and discovering I was out of spoons. I wasn’t near a door when the spoons were all used up. I leaned against the car, called to Jim to take Brady, then gingerly made my way into the house.
My feet hurt because they are swollen, they are swollen because I’m not active, I’m not active because I have no spoons left. This sucks.
I was hoping to get outside and photograph the yuccas blooming, but that’s no longer possible today because I have no spoons left. I’d have to push the walker up hill. Through sand. While trying to find a large enough distance between cacti that can accommodate the walker. All while trying to keep my camera from knocking against the walker. I’m missing spring.
I got down on the floor yesterday so I could photograph Brady on her level. I shot in RAW only because I had the camera set on RAW when I saw we had day-old baby quail and I wanted to be ready to photograph them. I set the camera to rapid burst. 92 photos, and some were even decent.
Spoons are a way of explaining energy or lack of energy. If energy is represented by 12 spoons, after all 12 spoons are used, there’s no energy left. No energy to walk around. No energy to cook. No energy to make art. No energy left for anything other than shuffling into the bedroom and taking a nap.
The sciatic problem is becoming less and less each day. With that comes the ability to walk more and more without my walker. That’s the problem. I feel better, so I walk without my walker longer than I should. That’s how I used up all my spoons this morning. The worst was me walking Brady and discovering I was out of spoons. I wasn’t near a door when the spoons were all used up. I leaned against the car, called to Jim to take Brady, then gingerly made my way into the house.
My feet hurt because they are swollen, they are swollen because I’m not active, I’m not active because I have no spoons left. This sucks.
I was hoping to get outside and photograph the yuccas blooming, but that’s no longer possible today because I have no spoons left. I’d have to push the walker up hill. Through sand. While trying to find a large enough distance between cacti that can accommodate the walker. All while trying to keep my camera from knocking against the walker. I’m missing spring.
I got down on the floor yesterday so I could photograph Brady on her level. I shot in RAW only because I had the camera set on RAW when I saw we had day-old baby quail and I wanted to be ready to photograph them. I set the camera to rapid burst. 92 photos, and some were even decent.
Jim is making dog treats from a recipe I found. Oat flour (or ground up oatmeal – which is what oat flour is), banana and peanut butter. They’re baking at the moment. Brady adores peanut butter.
I intended to shoot several necklaces so I could list the necklaces in my store, Deb Thuman Art http://www.DebThumanArt.com. I shot just one necklace before my lower back started to hurt. I’m getting better, but I’m still having to push a walker to get around. Yesterday, I intended to do some cleaning in the sewing room so I’d have a larger space in which to work. I picked up something that was too heavy and I hurt my lower back. Having a neuropathy flare up rounds out the physical miseries.
I can’t photograph yucca blooms because I can’t push a walker uphill through sand. I can’t sew because I can’t remove the clutter from the room. I can’t walk Brady because I can’t walk far without my walker. Brady doesn’t understand why she can’t run and play if I’m holding her leash.
Brady is going through a growth spurt. Suddenly, her legs are too long for her body. She’s also faster than the speeding shutter.
My brain is dark. After my only ketamine treatment, my brain felt full and bright. Now, two and a half months later, my brain is dark again. So. Do I ask for another ketamine treatment? Do I ask to be a participant in a clinical trial for LSD or MDMA? Or do I just go forward and hope for the best? I don’t remember what happy feels like. I’ve been depressed for more than 60 years. Which is depressing. I’m not suicidal. I’m not happy. Right now, I feel like my life is all broken pieces. Pick up a piece, have pain, drop a piece.
Spoonflower had a sale, I had Spoon Dollars – commission on fabric designs that have been sold – and I needed underwear. Soon, five 1-yard pieces of fabric I designed will arrive at my door. Yes, I will post photos of the finished underwear. No, I will not be modeling the underwear. You’re welcome.
I suppose there was a time when I wasn’t mentally ill, but I have no memory of that time. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out where I am in relation to center. Above center is manic. Below center is depressed. Depression has levels. Depressed, suicidal, below suicidal where I’d have to feel better in order to kill myself.
I’ve been wanting a service dog. I searched the internet for service dogs. The one-size-fits-no one pre-trained service dogs aren’t trained for bipolar disorder. Eventually, someone took pity on me and recommended a trainer in Alamogordo (about an hour north of where I live). The trainer comes to your home and trains both you and the dog simultaneously. Brady’s puppy training starts tomorrow.
Once I found a trainer, I needed to find a dog. I tried looking in the local animal shelter. Every dog in there was 2 years old. Yeah, sure. Every dog was part pit bull. I’ve seen how vicious pit bulls can be and they aren’t appropriate for service dogs. Eventually, I decided on a labradoodle. The first labradoodles were bred to be a service dog for a woman who was visually impaired and whose husband was allergic to dogs. I contacted a breeder about three hours north of where I live. That breeder refused to sell a puppy to anyone who had never had a puppy. That’s like saying you can’t eat broccoli because you’ve never eaten broccoli. Eventually, I found a breeder near Pueblo, Colorado. Quite a few of her puppies have gone on to be service dogs.
This is Brady.
She is now 9 weeks old and we got her this past Saturday. It was a 9-hour drive home and I’m surprised how well behaved she was. I had gotten her a Snuggle Puppy and I made the heart beat. It’s supposed to mimic the mother’s heart.
For a few days, she was calm. That changed yesterday. She discovered her legs are made of springs. She decided to pee all over the kitchen floor. I can’t put down piddle pads because Brady thinks they are chew toys. Today, she seems more calm.
Jim brought home a tennis ball for her. She likes bounding and prancing after it as it bounces across the room.
Nap time.
At the moment, I have a sciatica attack down my left leg. It’s getting better, but I’m still pushing a walker around. Between the walker and a new puppy, I haven’t been able to do much creatively. Bleah.
Deb's Art 