Now featuring a less pretentious blog title!!
Last night, I read Quilting for Dummies cover to cover. A lot of the particulars I was wondering about during the design phase for my first quilt were answered. Like the long tradition of stubbornness in my family, I only read instructions when I absolutely have to. I went online and snooped around, researching everything from the most breathable batting to how much people sell them for.
There is a quilt on Etsy for $6,000. SIX GRAND.
I'm a long, long way from selling anything, though the foray onto Etsy wasn't a complete bust. People make all kinds of things by quilting. I'll avoid the "holiday vests," thanks and you're welcome. But wall hanging panels intrigued me. They can be small - the size of a standard piece of notebook paper - or big - like the giant annoying, canvas stretched engagement photos you'll have to burn during your inevitable divorce. It's pretty cool what people can do with some fabric and A LOT of time. I'd love to make some modern things, like recreating my favorate artists' works, but "Cherubs In the Beginning in oil paint, chalk, and water color on tree bark" (yes, I made that up) will have to wait a while, too.
I think quilting was a good choice for me. All that artistic creative my art teacher told me never to lose has been quite lost for a long time, and I'm ready to return to it. I'm still fidgetty and impatient, wanting to fly right through to the finished product, but this will teach me some patience, I think. I hope. The more I come off my anxiety and anti-depressant meds, the more I need distraction. I've come a long way on that journey. I'm not cured; I'll always have what I have. In fact, the older I get, the more intense those bad times seem. As a teenager, things seemed like the end of the world. As an adult, they really can be in a sense. At 16, being fat was unpopular, not enough clothes in my size, and a boy deterrent. At 28, it's a diabetes type 2 diagnosis and heart palpitations. I want to avoid those obviously. There is also the interaction factor. In high school, everyone was hopped up on raging hormones. Tempers flared, girls sobbed - it was a cauldron of "Like, OH MY GOD, WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?!?!" It can seem like that as an adult, but we can all hope we've matured enough not to rage against anyone when it happens. I don't have the necessary tools to always filter my interactions with others or my reactions to situations. It's been havoc on my adult life.
Luckily, I'm at least as good as Pavlov's dogs. I've learned my triggers, I know at least what portion of the manic spectrum my reaction will come from based on tiny little signs in my physical movement and thought direction, and I can brace myself and warn others accordingly. Sometimes, the strength it takes to pull in the reigns, both on outward reactions (30% of the time) and the inner hurricane (70%)is exhausting, and I no longer sleep to escape the world; I sleep to rest from managing it. Even then, I can control my dreams. Bad thigns start to happen, and I can choose to follow along out of curiosity or change it entirely, with full knowledge that it is a dream. I know a good portion of people can this, but when your brain is a battlefield in the waking hours, having to control dreams too is... stressful.
Ah well. Good Morning, Monday - the populace agrees, Fuck you.
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