The long strange trip is not over yet

This week I was reminded once again that there are penalties for being a nomad. The USPS, in an effort to stem the flow of drugs through the mail (they say fentanyl but I assume they really mean mifepristone), is requiring all people who rent mailboxes from mailbox companies to produce two pieces of ID that show a residential address, and the addresses have to match. I have neither. What that means is the mailbox I've rented since I moved to Tucson four years ago is now going to be closed at the end of the month. 

I wish the mailbox company would engage in some "good trouble" and stand up to these new requirements, but I can understand their desire not to be put out of business. They will be losing a customer, and I bet I'm not the only one. However, I just renewed for a year last December, so I have eight months left on my box lease. They knew this was coming, and they waited until now to notify me. And here's the bummer: no refunds. Yep. They lose a customer, and I'm out about $250. Plus, soon I will have no mailing address.

What a strange trip this has become. I am having a hard time assimilating the ups and downs of the past ten years. Well, twenty years. Hell, get real. My entire life has been a series of . . . I don't know what to call them. Self-centered fearful choices might be one way to describe them. Safe roads rejected in favor of the most weedy overgrown crumbling cliff-edge trails I could find. 

In other words, I did this to myself.

That's one way to look at it. 

On the other hand, I did not create a shortage of affordable housing. I did not create the tendency for some members of society to ignore, exploit, or abuse senior citizens. I certainly did not vote for the human chainsaws tearing the US democracy into bloody bits. It must be a heady feeling to believe you can destroy a 250-year-old democracy on a whim, and do it in three months. It's a remarkable feat, a breathtaking demonstration of what happens when circumstances place wealth and power in the hands of insane megalomaniacs. I can destroy things, too, but I'm a lot slower. 

Some of my crankiness might be attributable to Keppra rage, but not all of it. There are lots of other reasons to be irritated. I've had some moments of irritation over the past week after compulsively watching the independent media channels I've started following. I know what you are going to say: Carol, why do you watch that stuff? It's almost like you want to be bludgeoned. Almost like you enjoy your simmering rage. Could be you are correct. I always choose the road less traveled. I'm sure you never feel that way.

It's not just meds and politics. Weather is pissing me off, too. Wind and rain are the product of air pressure changes. That means when there's weather, I'm dizzy all the time. My head is like an unbalanced washing machine stuck on spin cycle pounding the wall and making dishes fall out of your cupboards. That would annoy just about anyone.

Consider me annoyed. 

Meanwhile, I'm relocating my domicile to a place where I have the documentation I need to rent a new mailbox. That would be my brother's address. So, back to Oregon I go to become an Oregon resident again, before I hit the road for parts unknown, waiting for the affordable housing shortage to end. 

I reserve the right to blame drug-induced rage

When the world seems to be falling apart, when up is down, and nothing makes sense, I recommend finding something to alter your mood. For some, that might mean filling the cabinets with rum. For others, maybe Rocky Road is the drug of choice. Those are just two ideas. The possibilities are endless. Me, I am trying a new anticonvulsant, because, you know, the end of the world is no time to be convulsing. After six doses, my head is still doing it's spastic freight-train washing-machine antics, but the side effects are helping me cope with reality. So far, I'm too tired to care about anything. Being boneless is the bomb. 

Eventually I have to get my bones back together, what's left of them, anyway, given how arthritis is carving up my hips. That's a story for another day. It's so weird, though, how everyone I know is needing joints replaced. What's up with that? It's almost like we're getting old or something. I know. So weird.

I had a great idea for a blogpost, and once again, I forgot to write it down. Gone, off into the ether, to seek another writer whose brain can hang onto ideas for more than thirty seconds. I'm sure that other writer will do a great job with my great idea, whatever it was.

I'm not mad, although I could be. One of the side effects of my new med is rage. I know you are thinking, Carol . . . wait. What are you thinking? I'm trying to predict what you would say, and I'm coming up empty. Am I normally a rageful person? It's so hard to know from the inside. In fact, the neurologist told me I won't know if I'm acting like a jerk. I have to rely on the people around me to tell me. 

She was serious. "Let them know," she said. "Ask them to tell you if you are unusually angry or mean."

I texted my sister to tell me if I start acting snarky. I asked my Scottsdale friend to let me know if I suddenly start being mean. They both said they would. That covers the people I'm close to. But what about all the innocent folks I run into daily? The kind Walmart associates who check my receipt when I leave the store to make sure I haven't stolen a big-screen TV? The nice guys who changed the oil in my car and told me I'd soon need new brakes and a battery? The dude who hit me up for spare change in the parking lot with a sob story about being homeless and living in his car? (Like, get real, dude, who isn't?) 

Am I being mean to them and they are too polite or too hurt to show it? 

Maybe this is how Dr. Jekyll felt. 

Don't we all have reasons to be pissed off right now? Even in calm happy times, there's never a lack of things to get mad about. This seems to be a special case of world insanity, but I think I'm meeting the moment with equanimity. I haven't felt my blood boiling yet, so maybe I'm dodging the side effect of uncontrollable rage. On the other hand, maybe some righteous anger would be appropriate. I say, bring it on.

Speaking of righteous anger, I filled out contact forms for both my U.S. Senators and for my U.S. Congressperson, who happens to be a Republican. I made sure I wasn't snarky, mean, or angry. I was aiming for polite, somewhere south of flabbergasted. I didn't present a frothy emotional appeal. That never works. Cold, hard facts don't work either, though. So what are we left with? Relentless phone calls, emails, and marches. 

I got new marching shoes. I'm ready. 

There can be no rest. 

The intersection of angry and old

My lovely sojurn in paradise, i.e., Scottsdale, has ended, and I'm back on the road. I've stopped enroute for a couple days to enjoy free camping in the desert near Marana. Tomorrow I'll head into Tucson to check my mailbox, visit my possessions in the storage unit, and prepare for my afternoon neurology appointment. I'm joking on the last one. There's nothing to prepare. I have very low expectations that anything will change. I had my two months of remission. I'm grateful.

Meanwhile, as the world falls apart, I have had the luxury of complaining about the challenges of aging with my friend. Everytime we tell a story, we begin with the words "Have I told you this before? Stop me if I've told you this before." In my case, I don't remember what anyone tells me until halfway through the story when I realize I've heard it before. My diagnosis is I'm halfway to dementia. Wheee, look at me go.

The sun is setting over the mountains. The desert is half in shade, half still golden with the waning sunlight. It's a remarkable landscape. Mostly dry desert dirt, rocks, some scrubby bushes, and quite a few short green trees. In the distance, the mountains are varying shades of gray-orange with purple and blue shadows. If you've ever seen a Maxfield Parrish painting, you know what I'm trying to describe. I have grown to love the winter desert. In the summer, this place is an inferno no one in their right mind would visit, much less choose as their home. I'm lucky to be here at the best time. Along about April or May, I will vacate the desert and head for clouds and rain, i.e., the Pacific Northwest. I don't like gray skies, but I prefer them to baking to a crisp in Southern Arizona.

I thought I had something to write about in my weekly rant. It was going to be some eloquent poignant diatribe about the unfairness of growing old. Now that it's Sunday, I find I don't have the energy to complain. No one cares, and I include myself in that bunch. 

I emailed my U.S. senators. They are both Democrats. Preaching to the choir, I know. Now I'm composing a message for Republicans. I just need to figure out who to send it to. It's not a frothy plea for mercy and empathy. I know better than to go to the hardware store for bread. It won't be a threat, as in, I'm coming for you if you don't do my bidding. I don't believe in retribution. I'm a live and let live kind of person. I hope it will be a reasonable message from a person who cares about democracy and who hopes others do, too. 

I'm not sure what I will say yet, but I'll think of something. 

Meanwhile, we persist and soldier on.

Here's to the Resistance.