Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

Emotional Baby And Twelve Days

So, the Fiery One's job may be taking him away from me for weeks at a time on a regular basis. He mentioned to me the other night that his employers and he are going to start discussing his new position. Up until last night, I kept telling him that I preferred that he take this new position over staying in his present one, because he needs a change and would not be happy staying indefinitely in the job he has now. I have been telling him this. I have been telling other people this. I have been telling myself this. None of this mattered when he told me that his job description might shift sooner than later. He told me, and I cried like a baby. I still feel that I want him to take this job, but I was completely unable to express that last night.
As soon as he mentioned that he was going to start going on more trips right away, I felt like I had been hollowed out, hit by a brick wall, and weighted down with lead simultaneously. I had been knitting a poncho, and I put it down in my lap and stared at it. It was brown and mustard. The needles were twisted, and I was in danger of losing stitches. I felt thirsty. I could feel the cuff of the coat hanging over the back of the chair pushing against the right side of my back. I tried to concentrate on feeling numb until I could think and feel appropriately.
This reaction was entirely exaggerated. I have been growing steadily more emotional over the last couple of weeks, and I have been weeping over every little thing since the Fiery One arrived back home on Friday. Crying over the thought of him being gone from home more often was not a stretch for me. And I just couldn't quit. He sat on the arm of my chair where I was staring at my knitting and stroked my hair, which really helped, because I actually started getting caught up in what was on the television, but despite the fact that I was no longer even thinking of it, I eventually noticed that tears continued to slide down my face. When I wiped them away, they instantly ran again. After a while, I went to bed and cried there. I cried in the bathroom. I went to see the Fiery One at the computer to try to explain that I was feeling emotions more complex than and, in part, unrelated to his job, but I failed miserably at it. I cried there, too.
I ended up talking about how lonely I become when he goes away and how when he is gone that I feel like all I've got is a shitty job in a city I don't care for and a cluttered apartment. I should be slapped for that whole end of the conversation. The whole woe-is-me, life-is-against-me, things-aren’t-fair attitude drives me nuts in other people. I really surprised myself with my negativity. Usually, I’m a little more pragmatic. Sure, this is not the greatest city I’ve seen, but it’s got some damn fine people in it and my Fiery One and I am capable of putting out a little more effort if that’s all it takes. Could I see this the other night? No. My brain had run off with the spoon and abandoned me to piece together what last bits of my emotional life had been left lying around.
At some point yesterday afternoon, my brain returned, and I was much relieved. I had spent the whole morning feeling as wet and drippy and worn out and dejected as I had the night before, and I was going to search the first aid box at work for razor blades if things didn’t change quickly. As soon as I found myself feeling all put back together again, I e-mailed the Fiery One with apologies, explaining that my reaction had encompassed so much more than just his news about his job, which I was actually bittersweetly happy about, and asking him to join me for a beer later. He did, and it was good, and I didn’t cry over my fries at the pub or anything. A gold star for me, I suppose.

I think that my quitting smoking is largely responsible for my depressive mood swings over the last week-and-a-half. In order to stay quit, I have had to limit where I go, when I go, what I do there, and who I see. This means that I have nearly quit drinking (don’t die of shock, I said nearly) to avoid the smoking connection, and I haven’t been meeting up with any of the people I meet up with on occasion, because they smoke and are often in places where beer is, and nothing says psst, have a cigarette like beer does. I feel like my whole life is undergoing this massive change over one nasty habit going MIA, and I have to say, I’m a little bitter about it.
I know that my life will eventually morph into something that is not all staged around the I’m Not Smoking concept, and that I will be a healthier, more attractive individual who can taste her food, but until that happens, I’m all out of whack. I sit at home and knit for christ’s sake. I’m not knocking knitting or all the knitters out there, because I like knitting a lot, but it’s what I do now. Things that used to be hobbies to fill the dead space are now what I do to fill the not-smoking space, which is a huge fucking space. It feels like I have been tiresomely not-smoking for ages, but today only marks Day Twelve. Twelve days is no small feat for the average smoker trying to quit, but it feels more like twelve weeks. Everyone has told me that after the first week things get easier, but I have always found that from day seven on, things become much more difficult. It is after the first week that the necessary lifestyle changes really start to chap my ass, so yeah, I’m complaining about it. So, yay for me. Yay. Twelve days. La-di-da. Onward, ho.

Whales are altering their calls to be heard over the din of boats.

It sucks that Disney is blocking Miramax from distributing Michael Moore’s new film, but Mr. Moore is calling that censorship. That is awfully whiny, don’t you think? Disney is not the government, it’s mandate is not to protect free speech, and if a business doesn’t want to deal with you, do you have the right to complain that they are limiting your freedom?

The Canadian french fry king, Harrison McCain, is dead at the age of 76.

The Maya are even more amazing!

On with the old Russian poets!

I’ve always had a hard time grasping that gravity is what they say it is (Starcat, stop laughing), and now I find out that scientists do, too. In fact, they’re in the process of testing gravity right now.

Canadian Conservative MP Jason Kenney has apologized to aging sex kittens everywhere.

Check out the front cover of the magazine Saturday Night. Apparently, the people from whence I sprang are drug traffickers and contract killers. (Really, this is no surprise. I’ve known about the drug thing for years. A teacher in my Mennonite high school warned us that our last names would make us targets for drug searches in airports).

The world’s oldest living lady is 116.

A Miraculously Fine Mood, The Odoriferous World, Here/There You/We Go, And A Pink Dream

One Hundred Things In A List In No Apparent Order