Glamsday scenario

No I can’t make this resolution. I have to fight for my life. Rest would be the last thing on my list.

I’m sitting in the dark room by candlelight; the solar power is scarce and I only turn on the Halloween garland for a few minutes, to shoo the depression away. I can’t sleep, worried sick about the future — and we’re running out of tea lights.

The yurt feels cozy for a moment but the firewood supply is low. I have injured my shoulder during this last Montana blizzard trying to sweep tons of snow off the solar panels, to be able to charge my lantern and phone. I kept sweeping it off the storage tent, from the new Dance teepee and the walkways. I did great but now there’s biting pains in my left upper back; I can’t move my arm, or lift anything heavier than a pan without gasping.

My partner gazes at me as I’m sitting at my “everything” desk in front of the laptop not used in weeks and crying. There’s the novel with unfinished edits. A few dance videos in need of trimming and overlaying with the music. A bunch of half-done art I didn’t get to in months. Laundry soaking in buckets and my Cat upset with me for not playing with her. On top of that we have to move. The new landlords don’t want us here. But we’re snowed in and there’s no money. Way out in the country, we have to walk a mile through knee-deep snow to get to the vehicle... which is in need of new tires, oil change and alignment. And good cleaning. Ugh!

Everything is falling apart and landing on my shoulders, one heavy chunk after another. I have no way to cope, to run. No drugs or alcohol — no thanks. And now my health gave in and I’m crying in pain.

“You shouldn’t make yourself so tired and miserable,” he says. I feel like kicking him.

“I don’t want to freeze to death,” I reply, putting the muscle pain cream over my shoulder, careful to not make an extra move. It smells like wintergreen; I love it.

“I’ll get the firewood,” he says, “Just relax.”

You’d better, I think, and keep crying. The pain doesn’t go away. I couldn’t move a stump now, leave alone splitting it.

It’s been a rough couple of years. I kept doing everything alone while someone was in his DIY hut, ‘A Beautiful Mind’ style. Writing down random ideas on random objects: mirrors, buckets, plastic boxes, pieces of cardboard and whatnot. Promising one day he’ll come up with a brilliant idea to make us rich.

I don’t believe it but I’m stuck, a struggling artist without a “real” job due to covid, and my green card paperwork before. More things around are falling into disrepair. I used my stimulus check to fix up the car, as much as possible; he wasn’t even aware he could get his.

I am chronically tired but who’s to do everything? Nature isn’t forgiving; if you live off the grid you have to be on top of things.

And now I absolutely have to get a job to afford another place to live; covid or no covid I’m a goner if it continues this way. However I may have to wait until spring since that snow hike is epic... we still have this time. Some people had shamed me for not taking up any job now, as if I’m a sissy and that snow is nothing. But what about running an off grid household? And getting firewood? After a full workday, a drive on icy roads and a killer hike?

I feel like diving face first into bed but not for resting. I just don’t want to wake up. This is a nightmare; my life was not supposed to be like this. No way out, no money, no more health like it used to be. Personal doomsday.

I sit up again, unable to sleep. The shoulder hurts. Ouch.

I get online compulsively, wondering how many people do the same thing, searching for solutions no one can give them. Offering something no one wants to take.

Sleep resolution sounds blasphemous; at first I laugh it off. Then something brings my focus back to my health. To the futility of effort. And to seeming like I’m not doing enough to the people who haven’t walked a mile in my shoes. Literally.

And what is rest, really? To me it’s intertwined with action — but inspired action. While working on my book I get tired but I’m resting; while taking a break from hand-washing the laundry I may take a nap but my tormented soul is restless.

I meditate myself to sleep. Next morning feels a little better, except for someone’s temper tantrum; it happens when he comes back to reality. I have been cleaning up his messes and I hear complaints that now he can’t find anything. Well how about me being exposed to all this bad Feng Shui, for years? I detest it. I don’t want to live with it.

I say nothing, do nothing — except grabbing my acrylic paints and a piece of watercolor paper. Yesterday I gazed at the drying laundry and the combination of colors appealed to me: orange with pink, black and blue. No idea for the image, I’m just doodling a sigil, a silent prayer to grant me some rest and quiet... and not punish me for not breaking my back any longer.

The argument continues, even though there’s only one person talking. I am the one who feels crazy and I’m being called crazy. I feel like kicking him again, really hard as his voice keeps getting louder. I never do that but it sure feels awful to put up with this... I just want to run away but where to? Show me the money...

I grab the golden glitter paint to add some final touches; it goes well with pearlescent white.

The wood basket by the stove is empty. The local woodcutters wouldn’t be able to come help me as they did before. Nothing can drive through this snow in rural Montana. An armored tank — maybe.

I have a small stash of emergency firewood I had prepared years ago, and put my foot down for him not to use it. “Poor planning is not emergency,” I’d tell him. But now it is and I step out to get a few logs. Ouch.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” he says as I bring them in, and takes them from me. Then gets dressed and goes out to get wood, from way up on the hill. I look at the painting; the glitter is now dry and sparkly.

“Doom and... glAm,” I name it and smile, for the first time in days.

I still have to do phone calls and online job applications... it feels surreal. None of it is what I like to do, it’s only for the money. My unfinished novel is crying out for completion; my dance videos are getting old. My Cat is meowing, belly up on the floor; I’ve been skipping our daily “mouse” game.

I grab the yarn chain and start playing with her. I recall my dogs, years ago, and how much time with them I had missed while studying like mad, earning best grades, trying to get somewhere in life and not live in poverty. I laugh; the Kitty makes a smart maneuver and gets the hold of the chain. She wins. Later she jumps on my lap and purrs; I allow myself to fall asleep and not worry about not having done much today. My shoulder is still hurting but there’s fire in the stove and more logs in the basket. And I didn’t have to break my back to get those.

“I’m going to town,” he says the next day. “And don’t you dare chop wood.”

“No worries,” I reply. “I can’t.” The last bit of the painkiller cream is squeezed out and put on my shoulder; it feels warm. I lean back on pillows in chair, mind racing about all things to do and how much I’m behind others. FOMO full blast, with my body as the villain.

We’re out of coffee. He’s willing to walk that mile through the snow with the sled and get the groceries. I let him and work on my book all day. Still lots to correct but my soul feels more peaceful. The best rest of all.

He is back with special treats for me. I thank him and continue the job search. It may not be possible to take one now, especially as crippled as I am, but would be nice to have options when the snow melts. Honestly I dread the day when most of my time is sold short for minuscule money. Just to not starve or be homeless. And I can’t do this hike every day, any weather... having almost no time left to sleep, leave alone anything else. My soul is crying for refinement... my body is crying for rest. I feel ashamed of being so weak. I must be a tough Montana woman, working a chainsaw and moving mountains when not at a job or two... but I want more than that.

What if I can use the rest of winter just to, well, rest? To finish my projects before the radical change that’s coming anyway?

I look up fearfully in search of the lightning bolts to strike me. I see none and it’s quiet. The moon is out, making me feel comforted. Bringing up the memories of Gothic parties... another guilty pleasure, years ago — and I could not afford a daring outfit. Ever. No matter how hard I had worked.

I find my favorite song by ‘Lacrimosa’ and play it on loop in my headphones as I slow dance inside, the yurt interiors swirling around... the beams, the recycled windows. The desk, the mess... all softened by the moonlight. I feel happier. My shoulder hurts less... perhaps I’m made for dancing, not wood hauling.

“I’ll cook us dinner,” he says, coming in. I say it would be a good idea. I don’t offer help, neither do I try to tell him he should think of where we’re going to live. I’ve been brainstorming it but I don’t want to be the one who takes charge of everything. I don’t want to carry more than my shoulders can bear.

Stepping out, I enjoy the moon casting sparkles on the snow, and a pine branch covered with frost, adding another constellation to the sky. It looks and feels glamorous, with Gothic atmosphere. I stop to take it in and ponder.

I’m not sure what about me has changed... probably nothing. I don’t know if he’ll keep stepping up so that I can rest more. I feel bummed it only happened after I became incapacitated. I sure hope to heal up soon but here’s my resolution: I will no longer work myself to injury. If there’s teamwork I will let others do their part... they’d better.

Next morning I find dishes in the sink — all mine to wash if I want to use it. But I don’t want to do any more chores without gloves. That dish soap brand is cancer causing, and what about having those ladylike hands I’ve always wanted? I go to the storage tent saved from being crushed by snow, and open the box of toiletries. “Glam Gloves,” the label says. I smile and put them on — red, cuffs decorated with cherry pattern. “Life is a pop of a cherry,” I recite the line from David Bowie, my favorite glam rocker.

The dishes are done... someone is sledding another load of firewood past the windows and splitting it. Teamwork? Really?

...It’s only 9pm; still time to be productive but I’m feeling sleepy. Me, a night owl... Life must have been hard!

I recall all the years when forced to get up early, to go places and do things I hated. Later I swore, as Robert Smith from ‘The Cure’ did, to sleep in like I mean it. I have Goth-rocked it, guilt-free. Now things are changing again and I have to adapt, pain-free; maybe my body has a grip on it.

My Cat is napping blissfully; just looking at her is an exercise in FOMO dissolution and it feels relaxing. How come she’s never frazzled like me yet always keeps the house mice-free?

I’ve never understood the sentiment that if one doesn’t know how to rest they don’t know how to work either. Honestly my mind is still in a state of shock, unable to process it. Even if not on the job or studying, all I do is work, work, work. Do something. Get somewhere. Become Somebody. No weekends, no holidays. I still protest what my body is whispering to me. Contrary to popular sayings I do want to be the richest person at the cemetery, and have the poshest, fanciest tomb. I don’t want to die a loser bum. It feels weird to make a conscious effort to rest... And humbling to realize that if I push myself more there may not be time to live that life of luxury I’ve fought so hard for and still don’t have... no time to save up enough to pass with decorum.

I’m trying to plan tomorrow, already knowing there’s more to do than I’m able to. Feeling like I can’t afford to live today — it must be sacrificed to the future. I have to break my back and my spirit for the money which is so much less than I am worth... or be shamed for avoiding it and pursuing my dream.

No it’s not the end and there’s yet no closure. But I remember that a while ago, when all that craziness began with learning that we have to move and everything that it implies, I promised myself something. That the next step I make in life would be on my terms. That despite being desperate and destitute now I will not be at anybody’s mercy. Ever again. I had no idea rest would have a part in it; all I know is “work harder”. But I want to be glamorous — and it’s not fitting for a diva to do all the scut work, all the time.

Ouch.