Up the stairs, count the steps
1, 2, 3, 4
1, 2, 3, 4
1, 2, 3…
Crap, it didn’t come out even, it’s eleven
But 1-2-3-4-1/ 2 /3-4-1-2-3 will have to do; the middle is two
Plus 11 is prime, so that’s something
At book club, as with any circled gathering, the circle goes clockwise from my left:
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – me
becomes
4-5-6 (me) 1-2-3
Once I’ve calculated the delicate balance, once the gathering is complete, my mind can focus fully on the book we just read – wait, the meeting is over already? What was the book about again?
I knew our last house was perfect, because it was exactly 16 steps up from the basement. (I have been known to climb two steps at a time to make the sequence work out into even groups.) But my therapist’s office was 20, at least an even number.
This new place has 20, too. 5 x 4 will have to do.
© 2024 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For What’s Going On, Mary asked us to write a poem based on numbers. This hit home for me because the main part of my OCD is counting, specifically grouping to the point of anxiety. I know most people don’t number pavement or floor tiles as an extreme sport. Example: If there are alternating colors in striped tiles down the hallway, I not only count them; I make sure the number of steps per group are the same all the way down the hall. Three wide stripes can equal five steps, and a break in that pattern will annoy me, even if only for a moment. Anxiety is at its heart.
This used to cause me all sorts of trouble in school. How could I be expected to pay attention to the teacher when she just put up a new cardboard cutout balloon display and I had to find the center balloon, then group and number balloons by color (to determine which color won), etc. etc. I barely passed high school.
It’s exhausting, time consuming, non-productive. One of the many ways my mind deals with anxiety. Let’s hope I can find enough peace in 2024 that I don’t start, you know, counting the hairs on my arms. Or the beats of my heart. Cuz if that happens, I’ll never make it off the couch.
Amy
Cacophony © 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil (Click to enlarge, lots of detail)
My Wednesday night, up until 4 am, still fritterminded. Shared with ABC Wednesday. Miles to go before I sleep…or even shlep! Amy
Carpe See ‘em
Homeless souls – some call them “bums on the street”
Folded small into their desperate beat
Solo bench or so-low depressed bunch
Waiting for a handout or maybe a lunch
One lady says, “Why bring him into this place?
I don’t mind bums but, right here in my face?”
She’s talking about Ed, who’s depressed, just like me
We’re cousins in ways other people can’t see
Tells me over bagels, he’s long out of work
Routed from working by some kinda jerk
who left a buzzsaw blade-out where he shouldn’t
Blindsided my new friend Ed, who couldn’t
avoid it, no matter how cautious… so now
Ed lives on a deadwood bench – but somehow
he knows “sometimes better’s bound to come”
His faith is real strong… so now who’s the “bum”?
Aforementioned lady attends church every week
I say, “You know, you just called Jesus a freak”
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Image obtained through Creative Commons thanks to psyberartist – see licensing HERE.
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Grapeling challenged us to “carpe diem” and remember Robin Williams and his struggles with depression by choosing some words from a list and writing on the subject in whatever way we chose. Since I live on Bipolar Boulevard, all I had to do was walk outside, take this guy to lunch, and we ended up having a great conversation. He turned me on to a bagel place I’d never heard of; we had strong, fair-trade coffee; and over the speakers, I was gifted with a song I will use in ministry tomorrow… but that’s a story for another day.
Robin Williams used to make my hands shake a bit, remembering the cocaine days as he’d imp and jester his way through routines at spitfire pace. But I also recognized what lurked under the surface, as with Jonathan Winters (who was given a gig on “Mork and Mindy” at Williams’ insistence), Lou Costello of Abbot and Costello (whose depression was compounded when his two-year-old son drowned in his family’s new swimming pool, there’s Hollywood irony for you), and so many more. Lots of comedians learn their craft as children, trying to cheer up a family member or escape bullying or simply stand out. Jim Carrey comes to mind.
The woman in this poem actually ‘called me out’ while Ed took a bathroom break. It’s like people don’t want to see the homeless, but they don’t mind bitching about them when they are not in the room. She’s the kind of “Christian” who gives the rest of us a bad name.
May Robin’s family find peace. Thanks for the laughs, Robin. I’m sorry you couldn’t see a tomorrow in sight. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 