I'm a goddam medical mystery. And a failure to boot.

I wrote this in June, but I was afraid to post it.  It was a dark time for me; I wasn't sure how many details I wanted to share.  Time has since passed, and now I want to share it - for any woman struggling through pregnancy, with or without complications and/or antepartum depression. 

*************

How common is pregnancy?

Probably about half the human population is physically capable, and it's safe to say that most of those do happen to experience it at some point in their lives.  Even for those women who don't experience pregnancy, there are several others who experience it multiple times.

Not only that, but pregnancy has been going on since the beginning of time.  It isn't even specific to certain parts of the world - women get pregnant internationally.  Plus Arnold Schwarzenegger in Junior.  

I think it's safe to say, then, that pregnancy is the most common medical "condition" of all time.     

So, I find it continually dumbfounding that the most common medical condition, particularly in an advanced nation such as Canada, is such a FUCKING MEDICAL MYSTERY.  

Perhaps it's because I've never actually experienced a significant or long-term medical condition, nor have I ever had much direct exposure to the medical system, but tell me:  How is it possible that doctors have so few immediate or precise answers?

Not only is my little Fraggle's health and well being entirely relying on me and only me, but I have essentially little-to-no control over her safety and development, let alone any true knowledge of how she is progressing.  

Every time I speak to a medical professional, they seem to apply 50 different random and uncertain measures of baby wellness, but they don't actually know the answers to anything.  

Is Fraggle happy in there?

Well, here, let's strap this monitor to your belly and listen to it for 30 minutes.

Is she growing?

Well, we can put this measuring tape on your belly to see if it's getting any bigger...

Can't you measure her?

Well, we can do an ultrasound, but we just did one last week and so any change would be imperceptible.  

Am I in labour?

Well, that depends on you - What's your pain level, on a scale from one to ten?

Am I dilated?

Well, if we check, we may dilate you, so we're not going to check.  Actually, let's check and make matters way worse.  

Is there a chance of me going into pre-term labour?

Well, let's do a test. 

What were the results of the test?

Well, they're inconclusive.  

Is she moving enough?

Well, that depends on you - Here, hold this little clicker and click it every time she moves.  

How many Braxton Hicks contractions are normal?

Well, you're having too many. 

What do you mean "too many" - what does that mean?

Well, we don't really know, except that you should sit still for several weeks on end.  

What causes them?

Well, there isn't a lot of research but we think your uterus is irritable.  

Huh.  Doesn't that just suit me perfectly.  What "irritates" it?

Well, moving.  So sit still.  But don't limit yourself.  But don't go shopping or anything.  And drink lots of water.  But don't let your bladder get full.   

So, my uterus doesn't want this little one in there, or what? I'm a terrible mother already? My body is incapable?

Well, no.  Maybe.  We don't know. This is not your fault.  Just sit still. 

Ok, so can these constant, uncomfortable, and terrifying contractions lead to labour?

Well, there isn't a lot of research but we doubt you'll make it to your due date.  Then again maybe we'll have to induce you at 42 weeks.  But just in case, stop moving.  

So now I'm terrified of pre-term labour.  How can I prevent it?

Well, sit still, and call us if anything changes, but no, Braxton Hicks contractions are not real contractions.  But we don't want you in pre-term labour, so please sit still. Hopefully we can just get you to 34 weeks.  

Ok, 34 weeks.  Good news right?

Well, yeah.  But let's get you to 37 weeks. You should probably sit still.   

Ok, what about after 37 weeks? Then we're good?

Well, every week after that is better.    

So, we're still aiming for 40 weeks then...

Well, no, 37 is full term, but yes, 40 weeks.  Please sit still.  

I never anticipated that keeping myself physically well would be so fucking emotionally exhausting... 

Fraggle ended up staying put until 40 weeks and 2 days.  And she rushed out of there like a bat out of hell.  

Hello Antepartum Depression

Is there such a thing as pre-partum depression? Or I guess it would just be partum depression? Because it's 4am and I've been laying here for an hour realizing that I have not felt any good for an extremely long time.

I've stopped blogging lately, because all I can really think to blog about is how hard this pregnancy is, but I'm pretty sure most people either don't understand that, don't buy it, are sick of hearing it, or are judging me for it. 

Add to that a month of pregnancy complications that are beating the shit out of me (and Hubby) and then ask us if we'd ever do this again...

So I stay silent. 

And it eats me alive.

Somehow I'm supposed to go into labour/delivery/newborn/parenthood mode on this remarkably *depleated* capacity. How the fuck am I supposed to do that?  Everyone keeps saying "the first three months are hell."  What am I supposed to do with that information? I apparently can't handle the 9 months prior to the three-month hell and you want me to raise a child on top of it?  My body and mind are clearly not strong enough to grow the human, let alone be its mother. 

At this point, I feel like the only thing I have to cling to is the possibility of upcoming *change*.  I already adore this little Fraggle more than anything and I really just need her to be OUT of my body. I need to go for a bike ride. I need to roll over onto my stomach. I need to pick something up off the floor. I need to hug her and soothe her and call her by name. 

But I can't do any of that. So instead I face every day like a marathon and try to find any single solitary little source of stability that provides any small fraction of peace. 

But I'm running out of sources...


****
Updated

Elle (below) shared this link with me.

The Beast Known As Antepartum Depression - By Allison Zapata

Although my situation hasn't gotten as bad as it can for others (yet), I apparently am experiencing what's called Antepartum Depression.  I wouldn't be so quick to self-diagnose if I didn't already have a propensity for Depression in the first place.  It's been a slow build-up over time, magnified by recent complications and doctors orders to stay still all the time - the Stir Crazy has added to the already-existing Crazy and I'm running out of power to overcome.

But having a name for it helps, and knowing there are some women out there who understand and who are maybe not judging me helps too.  I also have a therapist that will get me through and an understanding and supportive Hubby who *always* makes me feel unconditionally loved.  And then there's hope - hope that when this adorable little darling arrives I will find some form of peace... new stressors, sure, but hopefully some new strength as well.

The last birthday of all time

Sadly, my five-day birthday celebration has come to an end.

I'm not normally one to extend the birthday process, particularly since I instituted my "I hate birthdays" policy 3 or 4 years ago - right around the time I became closer to age 30 than to age 20.  

However, I worked really friggin hard this winter - both at the office and in the laborious task of growing a tiny human - so I decided that a five day mini-holiday was in order.

Day 1

My actual birthday, which was mostly spent hanging around the house with my cats.  I might have even emptied the dishwasher, which has recently become a really effective storage system for clean dishes, while the counter has become a really big shelf for dirty ones.

I did have one agenda item for the day: renewing my driver's license and health card.  You know what that means, right?  It means getting my photo taken. DUN DUN DUN. And not just any photo - a photo that is going to last for the next FIVE GODFORSAKEN YEARS.

Five years is a long time, yo.  It's the difference between late twenties and mid thirties. Is PRE-BABY.  And it's even being taken on a day during which I actually have time to make myself look half-decent.

Given these indisputable facts, nobody in the history of the world has ever seen me with such cute hair and makeup on a random Friday afternoon.

TASK ACCOMPLISHED.

The rest of the evening was spent shopping around, without being rushed, and having a nice dinner with Hubby - who got me the best birthday gift ever.  

Days 2 and 3

Mini holiday with Hubby!  We drove to la belle provence, visiting Montréal for a night.

LOVED IT.  We wandered and shopped, went to a jazz club, shopped some more, walked 10,000 miles (which Hubby didn't even complain about!), bought new footwear, laughed hysterically at stupid shit that wouldn't be funny to anyone but us, and, la pièce de la resistance:  FISH PEDICURES.

I know some folks aren't on board with this particular activity, but I adored it.  Neither of us has been so relaxed.  We both nearly fell asleep and I don't remember the last time my mind was so clear and calm.

Day 4

I think we'll pretend this day didn't happen.  I was bummed this day, demotivated and tired.  I have these random Asshole Depression days once in a while that are not always attributed to any particular trigger.   So.  Forgetting it.  Moving on.

Day 5

BABIES! My wonderful friend let me accompany her to a museum with her lovely toddlers who of course were more entertained by walking/sliding/running up and down a ramp than by most other museumy-type things.

I then undertook some art projects for a friend's wedding festivities which if nothing else helped me feel productive.


And thus, the end of a five-day birthday break.  Which is perfect because I intend on having no further birthdays ever, for the rest of eternity, being frozen in my twenties forevermore.

I fucked up Halloween

I totally screwed up this year. 

Despite the fact that I adore Halloween (eating and decorations without the long-term commitment and family obligations associated with other holidays that shall remain nameless), I really couldn't get on track this year.

Normally, I'm an awesome hallowennie.  I hang pumpkin lights and plastic ghosts and spider webs. 

Not to mention I'm a wicked dresser-upper. 

Last year I was a garden gnome.  (A cute one, because garden gnomes are generally terrifying.) 

The previous year I was Dorothy.  (With the homemade red shoes and everything.)

Before that I was Maryanne from Gilligan's Island.  (I could never pull off Ginger.  In hindsight, I think Gilligan himself might have been a better choice.) 

One year I was a zombie bride.  (Which was great because that was the year before my wedding. Not to mention it was before the whole zombie Apocalypse craze, making me very progressive and intuitive. )

But this year?  This year I had a great costume in mind, and I was really looking forward to it.  So were all my colleagues.  But I couldn't get on track. 

First, I had THE BEST VISITOR EVER this past weekend.  Ms Sarcasm came all the way up to Canada to see little ol' me.  She braved a delayed flight, a surprise angel-like co-passenger, good looking customs officers, a Beavertail, a giant gooey poutine, and cold rainy October days - all just to hang out with ME.  We didn't throw a raucous party or anything, but it was so nice just to have my friend hanging out in my house.

However, this meant that I didn't really prioritize my costume making and decorating.  Although I could have finished things up on my Monday vacation day (the best kind of Monday), I just ended up crying and then I didn't feel all that festive (a story for another day). 

Then, last night I was buying candy and I found all the required props for my costume.  Enter: costume guilt.  Did you know costumes cost a lot of money?  A pretty penny that I simply wasn't willing to spend. 

So I bailed.  I bailed on my favourite holiday. 

And then today, work was a fucking asshole and I just ended up crying anyway.  IN FRONT OF MY COLLEAGUES.  Which was excellent.  

Also, everyone kept asking "where's your costume?!" and I had to tell them that I was dressed as a lazy, depressed bum.  In business attire. 

What a fucking pathetic mess. 

Next year I need to get my shit together. 

Anyone want to dress up tomorrow instead?

Fuck, I'm nearly out of my twenties.

If you've been reading my crap for a while, you know I've gone through a transformation of late. 

It seems to have started with my Asshole Depression last year - which taught me to get a grip, take care of myself, and acknowledge reality. 

I also found some dark humour that I didn't know I had.  And my dear friend LB describes me as a recovering people pleaser.  I don't really give a shit anymore.  I have less shame, more strength, and I'm more comfortable in my own skin - even if my skin is fatter than it once was.

All of these new things can be attributed, in a twisted sort of way, to losing my path and then having to find a new one - essentially, it all goes back to failing. 

That, and, that normal process of growing. the. fuck. up.  Age and wisdom and all that  jazz. 

Let's be clear.  I've always been a 40 year old at heart.  I go to bed early.  I've had Hubby since I was 17 and we've had a house in the suburbs since we were 24.  I like Fleetwood Mac.  I take stay-cations. 

But the last couple of years have been a growing process for me.  An improvement, I think. A new paradigm altogether, in which I see, act, and face my life differently than I used to.  And I like this new me.   

Which is why I ADORE that my aunt, uncle, and young cousins saw this book and immediately thought of me. 

Fuck! I'm in my twenties.
By Emma Koenig.
Buy it here. 

This book is a perfect representation of the shift in my world view.

For example, cursing -slash- hating things:

I still take this approach.  Although maybe you could add a "this" and "that" and "you" to follow each of those fucks. 

Biting off more than I can chew:

Ugh.  I was SO like this in my teens and twenties.  I was a superhero.  Not anymore.  My Asshole Depression fixed that RIGHT up.  Now?  Weekends and evenings are precious, I don't always feel like leaving the house, and work can wait.   

PRESSURE:

Extremely applicable in my 20s.  Now, at 28, I've chilled out a bit.  Or at least I'm able to acknowledge when I'm freaking out, so I can fucking DO SOMETHING about it. 

Regrets:

This one I'm working on.  It does seem rather impossible, doesn't it?  To hate so many things about yourself and your choices so early in life?  Although I have lightened up on the self-judgement, it's still there.  Lingering...

Oh, hysterical meltdowns are aplenty:

This is more like me NOW.  I used to ignore the potential for a breakdown, whereas now I not only anticipate and expect a breakdown, but I plan my lunches around it.

The classic "waiting for life to start" syndrome:

 

 

I'm still figuring this out.  Am I encroaching on THIRTY YEARS OLD?! That CANNOT be.  I'm still such a childish asshole. 

 

And the related "David After the Dentist Confusion" syndrome:

 

 

 

I've been known to have some less than lucid moments of "where the fuck am I, what the fuck happened, and how the fuck did I get here."  Haven't we all?

 

And finally, people are pretending:

 

 



 

This took me a while to figure out, but I've got it covered now.  It's no longer a question.  The 28-year-old me knows that, yes, people are pretending.  Everyone is confused, annoyed, self-conscious, and messed the eff up. 

 

And if your response to that is "No, not me! Everything is great!" then you're in denial. 

 

The trick is knowing that just because you're confused, annoyed, self-conscious, and messed the eff up, this doesn't make you UNHAPPY, necessarily. 

 

Just own it. Face your crap, be honest with yourself and others, never assume you know everything, and it'll be a lot easier to live.  Promise.  

 

 



Adam's Song

You'd think I could never, ever forget what it was like to be anxious.  How could anyone forget that?  That exhaustion, that pain, that debilitation, that fear. 

But I did.  I forgot it.  I forgot how much my chest hurts with every breath.  I forgot the headaches and the butterflies in my stomach.  I forgot the restlessness, the racing heart, the crushing feeling in my ribs.  I forgot what it was like to count the days.  Count the hours.  Count the minutes trying to hold it together. 

I forgot. 

I forgot because I've been doing so well.  Because I let myself forget.  I slowly reduced my meds until I could cope without them altogether.  I was stable.  I was happy. 

Until something happened.  I'm not sure what exactly, but something.  Or many things.  Many little things that just aren't so "little" in the grand scheme of my childhood fear, confusion, frustration, mistrust.  Things that somehow triggered me.  One thing, or two, or a handful of external pressures that just... built up inside me until they burst.  Set me off like a bomb I forgot was there. 

Only not like a bomb.  Not a shell-shocking explosion.  More like a slow-releasing toxic gas that seeps into my lungs and pores without me even realizing it. 

And then.  Then the effects begin to make themselves known.  I start to feel it.  To know it.  To recognize it. 

It hits and I don't want to leave my bed.  It hits and crying seems easier and yet harder than it ever has.  It hits and Adam's Song on the radio shoves me into a panic.  It hits and... and I'm terrified that I'm back where I started, with no power, and no strength, and no logic to save me. 

It hits. 

And it hurts. 

And I'm trapped. 

Days 7, 8, and 9 - Three birds stoned at once

At some point in the very distant past, I started partaking in something called a 30 day blog challenge.  Well, actually, I took the liberty of renaming it the 100 day blog challenge. 

But something tells me it's been more than 100 days.  When was September?

In any case, I've only done six entries. 

Yeah.  I'm a role model.  Whatever. 

Anyway, I decided randomly to go back to it.  In fact, I'm going to get three birds stoned at once here, and wrap up days 7, 8, and 9 all in one go.  Yay me.  You should be inspired.  I'm a big time over-achiever, yo. 

So.  Day 7.  A hobby you have. 

Umm, let me think, maybe... BLOGGING? 

Well, at least I used to do some blogging, if you exclude the last 10 or so days in which I've not blogged even once. 

Although I love blogging, sometimes there just isn't inspiration.  Other times there may be inspiration, but no time.   And lately there's been a lack of both those components.  (The truth is, if I'd had inspiration, I would have made time.  I'm selfish like that.) 

Alright. On to Day 8.  A picture of someone or something that has the biggest impact on you. 

Ok, so you're all waiting for me to show a picture of Hubby.  So here. 

Of course Hubby is the light of my life, my hero, the wind beneath my wings.  But I wanted to think beyond the obvious.  Get creative and whatnot.  

So I started thinking about what's had the greatest impact on me lately, and this is what I came up with. 

Miss Sarcasm is the cutest most wonderful friend ever, internet or otherwise, and she decided last night that she's going to come. visit. me. this. fall. 

And then I nearly died. 

And then Carm said she'd come too and then I basically fainted.

This brings us to the third stoned bird.  Day 9.  Short term goals for the month and why. 

Blog more.  Because it's fun.  (This relates to the Day 7 entry.  Clearly.) 

I'd also like to make fun summer plans.  I'd like to go to Chicago as part of a blogger beer and cheese fest.  WITH MISS SARCASM.  (Note Day 8.)  And then I'd like to return to the death coffin water slide.  And maybe do some island living.  Aaaaaanddd... hmmm... other fun stuff.  Whatever.  Nothing is off the table. 

Finally, I'd like to get off my ass.  My ass is a lot bigger these days (Depression will do that to a person) so I'd like to ride my bike.  Throw a frisbee.  Get back to yoga and maybe even kickboxing.

Basically, I'd like to stop feeling like shit about myself. 

So this post is the first step (or first three steps, I guess) in doing that. 

The time has come.

Well, my friends, the time has come. 

Last year I lost my shit.  I went nuts.  I had some wicked panic attacks and some flashes of miserable ideas.  I took a month off work.  I started seeing a shrink, and when that didn't work (fast enough), I started popping the crazy pills like peanut m&ms. 

First a small dose, then a medium dose.  And after about six weeks I began to breathe again.  Not every day.  Not all the time.  But the breaths came easier and the panic attacks were fewer and farther between.  The pain - terrifying crushing immeasurable intolerable pain - began to subside. 

Huh.  Well, that's a relief, isn't it?

I finally had room to get my life back on track.  I tried to get active (even if I almost killed my friend v in the process).  I diversified.  I got VOCAL. 

And then I got better. 

Not perfect (what the fuck does that even mean?), but better.  Softer.  Calmer.  Safer.  More aware.  Happier.  Gentler.  More honest.  Less ashamed.  Just... better.  Not only better than the bad days, but better than before. 

A better me.  A new me.

Still a lazy fucking bum, to be sure, but at least willing to acknowledge it and admit why.

Still a crazy wack-bat on more than one occassion, but at least able to limit my outbursts to a more opportune time (such as after Hubby falls asleep in the foreign hospital). 

Still weak sometimes.  Still working on it.  But stronger.  Wiser.  More... hopeful. 

So, the time has come.  The time has come to try stepping out without the crutch...  *cue doomsday music*  ...to slowly reduce my meds until I can hopefully function (reasonably well) without them. 

Holy SHIT I am terrified.  What if the bad days return? What if I want to sleep all the time? What if amazing Spring weather isn't enough to hold me up?  What if I have to go back to relying on Hubby more than I ever thought I would?

What if...?

Christ I'm not sure if I can do this. 

But I have to. I have to at least try.  I'm not the same person I was when I started boosting myself up with pills.  But how do I voluntarily give up the one thing that I knew would save me if I could just be patient enough for it to kick in? 

I want to.  I need to.  But how?


This song.  This song is me, speaking to myself. 

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back

Hubby and I are back from our beach resort vacation. 

And I have never been so glad to be in my cold and snowy country than I am RIGHT NOW. 

Seriously. 

I have a SHIT SHOW of a story for you...  but since I'm trying not to resent the whole damn thing, I'm first going to recap the good news. 

The Good News:

It was gorgeous.  It rained a little, but not much, and the sun was warm. 

The beach was AMAZING. 

Our friends were so much fun.  The beers were unlimited.  The food was decent. 

We swam with stingrays and sharks and fed the tropical fish.  We danced on a party boat. 

The staff were incredible, even teaching us how to curse in Spanish... 

Quel Diablo!

We walked an hour to the market, bought a bunch of crap, and got happily taken advantage of. 

We swam in the pool near the pool bar.  Hubby took a poolside salsa dance lesson.  We made fun of others. 

We slept in and stayed up late.  We had an elevator dance party.  We played Jenga.

We made a GIANT sand prison (because castles are too predictable). 

WE BOOGY BOARDED.  We swam in the waves.

On our last night, we partied it up, slid down the kiddie water slide around 2 am, got shooed away by security, hit up the late night bar, and went to sleep by 4:00. 

And this is where the trouble started. 

The Bad News:

Hubby woke up on our final day with what seemed like a nasty hangover... until that "hangover" got progressively worse, and worse, and worse.  My friends and I went downstairs to check out at the front desk and choke down our final buffet lunch.  When I returned to Hubb, I found him desperately ill sleeping on a bench in the hallway. 

Ummm...

I tried to make him eat and drink, but keeping food down was a no-go.  I decided we needed our room back so he could rest, but the front desk wasn't havin' it. 

And then I started to cry. 

They said I should take him to the resort doctor, at which point I realized that he could never walk that far. 

And then I cried harder. 

A security guard took a very delirious and frightened Hubby in a wheelchair to the doctor, who, when asked by the patient if death was imminent, responded with "only God knows that". 

Quel Diablo.  What the FUCK.

The Trauma:

At this point cellphone roaming charges became immaterial so I started making calls to our insurance company.  Hubby was rushed (hallucinating, terrified, and puking up his insides) into a cab and we took off to the hospital.

A FOREIGN HOSPITAL. 

I checked Hubby in, and they started an IV for rehydration and antibiotics.  "Anti-biotico." He had a severe gastro-intestinal infection.  Hours passed, but he didn't get better, not even a little bit. 

I sat on the floor in the hospital hallway outside of Hubby's Emergency Room curtain, sobbing like a baby.  When the Spanish-speaking doctor found me balling, they scooped us up and devlivered us to a lovely little double room, admitting Hubby for the night. 

Around this time, I was about to lose it.  I'd already employed every possible grounding strategy and anxiety avoidance tool I had at my disposal.  I was alone, and helpless, and scared out of my already-crazy mind.  I was wearing my bathing suit under a skirt and tshirt, didn't have any food, and was even missing my crazy pills.  Nobody spoke any English, Hubby was barely conscious, and I very quickly lost my cool. 

So I called Momma - crying and alone, and needing to hear a friendly voice.  Momma did what she does best.  She calmed me down and kept me company.  She even offered to come there, which was more than was needed but appreciated all the same. 

She gave me the strength I needed to make a million calls: to our friends who were catching our flight; to our travel agency who would have to remove us from the flight; to our resort who would have to save our baggage; to our medical insurance company who would have to pay for everything; to our neighbours who were feeding the cats; to my boss who would wonder where the heck I was; etc, etc, etc. 

All while Hubby was knocked out in the next room. 

Time passed, I slept a little, and by morning Hubby was feeling a bit better.  We thought we might be able to catch a flight home - or at least close to home where our family could pick us up. 

But when the Doctor came in, he said we needed to stay ANOTHER NIGHT. 

Another night? Seriously?  Aaaaannnnnd... crying again. 

Not to mention I hadn't eaten in 24 hours - the solution to which was to hop in a cab BY MYSELF headed to the nearby gas station to buy a croissant, a tin of peanuts, and a can of Pringles.  All while still in my bathing suit. 

The Healing:

Hubby started to improve.  He ate some soup and his spirits lifted.  We watched tv, played Crazy Eights, and waited for the day to pass.  By night, we cuddled up in the little single hospital bed together and waited desperately for someone to tell us we could go home.  We woke up to the sound of crowing roosters (!) and complained about the humidity.  I refused to document this event, but was convinced to take this single photo. 

Momma booked a flight, while I paced the room thinking that if I never saw another damn palm tree again it would be too fucking soon, wishing I could rip off the damn resort bracelet shackle, and picking at my putrid bright pink nail polish. 

Remember how anxious I was to go on this trip?  How desperate I was?  How much I was clinging to it?  Well, when that doctor said we could go home, I had never been so desperate to leave a place as I was in that single solitary moment. 

Getting the Fuck Out of There:

We packed up Hubby's goody bag of drugs and took a $75 cab back to the resort to get our bags, and then to the airport.  We spent our very last US dollar, and even $5 Canadian.  We got on the plane, sighing a giant breath of relief. 

We landed in Montreal and were about to catch our connection home, when I realized that I didn't have our second boarding passes...

There had been an error in booking, and it turned out we were going to have to spend an extra night in Montreal. 

OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO FAINT. 

This can't happen.  We need to GO HOME. 

In the flurry of everyone running off our plane to catch their connections, the Air Canada staff saved the day.  They fit us onto the plane, switched our luggage, charged us an additional 300 bucks, and WE RAN FASTER THAN WE HAVE EVER RUN to catch that flight. 

We boarded that damn plane from the tarmac and tried to recover from our marathon in the cold, dry air. 

Home Sweet Home:

Aside from a smelly/wet suitcase and some very lonely kitties, home was the best thing that had ever happened to me. 

Momma said that when she went south, she was so happy for the warmth that she kissed the hot ground.  When I got home I thought I might eat the snow. 

Hubby was still sick but we were ok.  Glad to be home.  Glad to be safe. 

The Saga Continues:

Yesterday after I took Hubby to the doctor, I got nauseous.  By evening I was feverish and throwing up while Hubby held my head.  I have not gotten off the couch since.

Hubby still can't eat anything except soup and crackers, and he slept all damn day. 

I had to miss a psych appointment, a massage appointment, and tomorrow a dentist appointment.  Not to mention WORK, which I have entirely abandoned. 

I have not come to terms with all this yet.  I am struggling.  I am resentful and bitter. 

And I may never leave my house again.

_

Money can't pay for that. Not even close.

This one's serious.  And not at all Christmassy.  But I had to write it.

*****

I have a predicament.  An unorthodox Christmas gift/curse. And true to form, it's a doozy. 

I may have mentioned before, the man whose sperm contributed to my creation is an evil and disgusting criminal.  He's not even just a dead-beat-dad.  He's worse.  And beyond everything terrible that he's done, he never paid a damn cent of child support to my lovely mother who did everything possible to protect me from his Crazy. 

Since then, almost 25 years later, he owes, like, I don't know... hundreds of thousands of dollars in back payments, taxes, and arrears.  Not exaggerating.  Fucking asshole.

A couple of years ago the government dragged his ass to court and the judge decided that if he managed to land a full-time job at minimum wage he could afford to pay $700 per month of back-owed child support.  And if he doesn't pay?  Jail. 

Fine, I thought.  If this is where this shit show is gonna land, then fine.  I can deal with that. 

Not that simple.   

Of course the fucker never pays.  Sometimes they garnish his earnings (drug earnings I'm sure) and my mom ends up with 50 or 60 dirty dollars, which she usually splits with me, because she loves me. 

But here's what I've realized: 

I HATE THAT MONEY. 

I hate it.  That money represents my pain.  That money puts a dollar figure on what we went through, the abuse we endured, the struggles I faced, the struggles I still face. 

Beyond that, it haunts me.  It shows up randomly, out of the blue, and I have no idea where it truly came from or why I have it. 

But this is not my dilemma.  I've come to terms with this.  I've decided that as long as the money flies under the radar, I can live with it. 

Until last week. 

Last week my mother called to say that he was getting out of jail and she had $17,000 coming her way. 

$17,000. 

Mom was pretty excited.  Not pleased, per se, but glad to get a Christmas bonus.  And of course I understand.  She went through a lot of shit and having an extra $17,000 can't hurt. 

But it does hurt. It kills me.  It's like he's paying some penalty and then getting away with all the awful things he's done.  Not to mention that he's easily bummed that money off some other poor fool who will never see it again. 

On top of it, he's getting OUT of jail. When he's in jail for the wrong reason alltogether.  Just paying his fine and being set free. 

Free. 

While I suffer.  While I live with what he did.  While I try to figure out what to do with this ghost money that now sits in my bank account...

So I paid off my credit card.  Because the thought of having some one "fun" thing to treat myself to is sickening.  And the thought of having it stay in my bank account where I can see it all the time is just as bad. 

So I'm debtless. 

Debtless, in theory.  But so damaged. 

And money can't pay for that.  Not even close.

Trying is the operative word

Wow, December 19th and this is only my fourth post so far this month.  Must be some type of record or something. 

Everything's fine.  No need to worry. 

My Holiday Spirit is still nowhere to be found, but it doesn't really bother me - I'm not really investing my energy in trying to locate it.  I've done very little Christmas shopping, and I don't intend to do much more.  I've not sent any holiday cards, nor baked any goodies (although I still manage to eat a shit-ton), and there's a significant possibility that I won't get around to doing either of those things. 

Instead, I'm focused on our upcoming beach resort vacation next month.  "Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take ya... Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go..." I've spent a lot of time thinking about what type of new bathing suit I'll buy, where I'll find some cute summer dresses on sale, and how many granola bars I can fit into my suitcase, 

And today I researched how not to die while I'm in a developing country. 

And then I set up an appointment for Hepatitis vaccines and memorized the recipe for a rehydration mixture. 

All in all, my vacation is what I'm looking forward to.  As for the holidays, I'm looking forward to attempting a lamb dinner with Hubby on Christmas Eve, opening our gifts, and having some wine by the fire.  The Griswold Family Christmas may sneak in there somewhere too. 

After that, we'll see.  There will certainly be time for family hugs and minor gift exchanges, but there are no set plans yet. 

And I'm ok with that.  For once in my life, I'm ok with that.  I'm doing what I feel like doing and I'm trying not to put so much goddam pressure on myself. 

Trying.  And so far not failing, so at least there's that. 

Less is more. And elves on steroids.

K, so a fucking elf threw up in my house this weekend.

Despite the fact that my Holiday Spirit flew to the Dominican for Christmas, a dirty little elf apparently snuck in here last night and made a mess of my living room. 

It started with a tree.  And after that, the Christmas bins from my basement showed up in my kitchen.  And before I knew it, THIS happened:




It even SMELLS like elf puke

Luckily the rest of the crap stayed in bins. No garland, no second or third tree, no candles, no table runner, no smelly pine cones.  I think the bastard elf got tired. Or lazy. Or he realized none of this shit really matters. If my Holiday Spirit decided to skip it this year, why should the elf care?

But I guess he does care - just a little - because at some point yesterday this tree of some traditional winter species did appear in my house.  It's a small one, but still.  I don't even know how the little bugger carried it - it's too big for an elf to lift.  He must have some sort of super-elf strength.  He's probably on steroids.  I wonder if Santa knows.  Probably not.  If Santa knew, he would've called the cops or thrown him into rehab by now. 

They should make a rehab facility for elves.  I bet there's a lot of stress for an elf that could easily drive him to drug and alcohol abuse.  And overeating.  How could you not overeat with all those sugarplums around? 

Come to think of it, I think I might start a rehab resort for the mystical creatures of Christmas.  And I wont make them do ANY of the normal Christmas activities.  They can just sit around and eat cheese and peanut butter and play iPhone Scrabble. 

In fact, maybe they could take turns.  Every year, one third of all the Christmas elves can take a year off.  The remaining suckers will still assume the responsibility for the carols, and baking, and cooking, and parties, and lights, and trees while the chosen third enjoy a well-deserved vacation.  It'll be like a shift rotation.  Like a special workplace mental wellness program.  But for elves.

That way, no one elf has to take on all the requirements of the holidays for more than two years in a row.  And when they return to work after their retreat they'll be rested and reminded of the beauty of the holidays.   Distance makes the heart grow stronger and all that. 

Also, the workforce each year will be reduced by one third, which means we can cut one third of the "fat" from the holidays.  The level of cheer and generosity can remain, but with less toy building and crap gift exchanging.  A re-prioritization of duties, so to speak.  A restructuring of Christmas. 

And our new motto? 

Less is more.  We can't do everything, so we'll just do some.

I like this plan.  Help me implement it, won't you?

My Holiday Spirit flew the coop

I seem to have lost my Holiday Spirit.  My Holiday Spirit got a taste of my Crazy and got the hell outta here for fear it was contagious.  Turns out it is. 

Most years as it gets cold, as the snow starts to fall, as the decorations start to appear, my Holiday Spirit gets stronger and stronger.  It gets excited about digging out the garland and lights.  It starts to make mental shopping lists.  It looks forward to wearing a Santa hat and a blinking Rudolph nose. 

Not this year. 

This year my Holiday Spirit is watching Christmas commercials, watching Americans get into the post-turkey Black Friday frenzy, watching the lights go up around the neighbourhood.  Watching.  From the outside, looking in. 

Last Christmas I decided it was too much to travel to Hometown.  The thought of packing up the gifts and rushing around on the tour of relatives' houses threatened a level of frustration equivalent to watching 48 hours of The View. 

So I hosted dinner for 20 people instead. 

Yeah, I know.  But I wanted to try something different.  I wanted to have the best of both worlds - our family and our own house.  It worked out well, I thought.   I loved not having to load up the car and drive through the snow.  I loved lighting a fire and opening gifts and bottle of wine under our tree.  Our third Christmas in our own home, and yet only the first Christmas in our own home. 

But when it it was all over, I was so tired.  I decided I needed a few weekends to recover.  A few weekends soon turned into all of January.  My birthday in February was the only weekend I really left the house.  When Spring came and I couldn't get out of bed, it all went to shit from there. 

But over the last year I've worked really fucking hard to pull myself out of that miserable hole. 

And now? Now the thought of Christmas is exhausting.  The energy it takes to shop, and wrap, and decorate, and pack, and drive, and visit, and unwrap, and eat, and smile, and laugh is just a too much for my formally lively Holiday Spirit to bear. 

I'm just now getting back on track.  I'm just now finding a way to get up every day, and to go easier on myself, and to create a new routine - a new way of thinking.  I've been systematically identifying and trying to eliminate the Crazy.  Christmas just throws a wrench into that whole plan. 

So the new plan is to not make plans.  I'm going to take one week at a time and see if my Holiday Spirit finds me.  'Cause there's no way in hell I'll venture out into the cold hunting for it. If it wants to emerge from the shadows and face reality, FINE.

If not, I'll just skip Christmas altogether and look forward to my beach resort vacation in January. 

Because, as it turns out, my Vacation Spirit is entirely unaffected by my Crazy.  In fact, I think it was spawned from it. 

Proof positive that mornings are assholes

Hubby bought a car.  He bought a car and he did so even though I was supposed to be the one getting the new car. He beat me to it and I'm going to kick his ass. 

As much as he loves his pickup truck, his new job doesn't really require it, and he's actually been driving more (if that's possible).  I'm not sure if you've heard, but gas is a little pricy. 

[Sidebar:  When we were in New Orleans, gas was $3.30 per gallon.  I want to point out that up here in Canada, we pay $1.25 per litre.  My calulation reveals that we pay 32 cents MORE per litre than Americans do! And there are almost four litres in a gallon! Which means we pay, like, $4.50 a gallon!  $4.50! WTF you guys?]

So gas is expensive.  And Hubby had to make a tough decision to let go of his precious pickup and buy a car. 

Oh, pooooooooor Hubby. 

What's so bad about Hubby buying a new car, you ask?  Of course the problem is that it's an inconvenience to me.  I had to help him drive it home, seeing as he can't really drive two vehicles at one time - especially if he's texting. 

Well, I totally effed up the whole car-switching plan (two people, three cars, and asshole mornings that make it difficult for me to take the bus).  So... the shit-show ended with me leaving my car parked at the office last night. 

This morning I was supposed to take the bus to work and then drive my car home. 

But as I may have mentioned previously: mornings are ASSHOLES. 

I had a tricky time getting up today, but even when I did manage to get my ass out of bed everything still went to shit. 

First Tuxedo wouldn't get off my neck.  Which is ok, becasue he is the cutest thing in Canada, but still. 

This is real.

Then I had outfit issues. 

Then I had to let the neighbour's dog out, but I didn't have the key because I left it in my car (which was, of course, still at the office). 

So I struggled through the neighbour's garage and then struggled to get Doggie outside. 

By then I was late for the bus.  But I was determined. 

I drove half-way to the mall bus station (in Hubby's truck) before I realized that I wasn't wearing my glasses and I couldn't see a fucking thing. 

So I TURNED AROUND and drove home. 

Then I spent 10 minutes searching for my goddam glasses. WHICH I FOUND IN MY LAUNDRY HAMPER.  No, I don't have a clue. 

Then I decided to change my jacket to a warmer one. 

And of course forgot my phone in the pocket. 

By this time I was way too late for the bus, so I drove to work - in Hubby's truck... WHICH REQUIRED GAS - and parked his truck RIGHT NEXT TO MY CAR at the office.  So we have three cars, and two of them were parked in my office parking lot. 

The same office parking lot that has some remarkably passive aggressive parkers who leave angry notes on windshields.  Including this one that I saw on someone's window the other day.

Luckily this one wasn't on my windshield, but I still took a picture of it.

So I left my car at the office again tonight, and I'll attempt the whole damn thing once more tomorrow. 

Christ. 

_

There are so many effing things wrong with this

I've been driving to work more often lately, rather than taking the bus, since mornings are such giant assholes.  Driving takes less time if I make sure to leave after rush hour, which I can pretty much guarantee, since mornings are such giant assholes. 

I don't even have to pay for parking because nobody makes me.  I never seem to get a ticket.  I do repeatedly get "warnings" but this never translates into actually requiring anything from me, so why in the hell would I ever feel threatened?

The tricky part is that arriving so late to work means that most of the parking spaces are already occupied. But that doesn't really matter either, given that most people just park on the edges of the rows and in the corners anyway.  It's a gravel parking lot - there are no pretty yellow lines or anything. 

But then tonight I was walking to my car and explaining all of this to my boss (who was carrying my huge-ass pumpkin).  "No I don't pay. Yes, they give me warnings. No they never give me tickets."

And then we saw something on my wind shied from the distance, which I assumed was another warning.

Well.  It wasn't. 

A napkin?  Really? 

And I wasn't even blocking anybody! Why are people so uptight?

So, in response, I wrote the following open napkin note to my anonymous office-mate.

Douchebag. 

Day 5 - My Life in Music

Day 5 of my 30 (or 100) Day Blog Challenge is upon us, y'all.  And it's a tricky one. I may have been procrastinating on this one because it seems to require a lot of thought, and I'm pretty lazy. As you know.

So, I decided to just power through and come up with 15 songs that represent my life's soundtrack. Happy listening.

Childhood

The Polka Dot Door
This is a kids' show on TV Ontario which I LOVED. Turns out Hubby's new coworker's father-in-law was the one and only PolkaRoo! Amazing.



Father of Mine by Everclear
My biological father was a useless and evil douchebag. Enough said.



These Boots are Made for Walkin by Nancy Sinatra
Mom and I had to do some ass kicking in those early years.



I'll be Missing You by Puff Daddy
My lovely aunt (more like second mom) died at age 38 of lung cancer. It's been nearly 20 years and I'm not yet over it. DON'T SMOKE.  It's not worth it.




Lean on Me by Bill Withers
I don't know - I just got a good vibe from this song as a kid. My cousin and I used to sing "Pee on me."



Adolescence

Shimmer by Fuel
To this day  my fav song of all time. But it spoke to me in 9th grade especially.



Everything you Want by Vertical Horizon
I had some stupid boyfriends (and some not so bad ones either) - but none of them were Hubby. I didn't know what I wanted until Hubby saved me from myself at age 16.



Here's to the Night by Eve Six
Looking back, high school was not an ideal time in my life.  When I look back I have feelings of anxiousness and insecurity.  However, this song always reminded me that it wasn't all bad.



Ten Glorious Hubby Years

You Belong to Me by Jason Wade (from Lifehouse)
Our song.




I'm Real by JLo with Ja Rule
Our first summer song.



Lullaby by The Dixie Chicks
Our other song - our first wedding dance.



I Will by The Beatles
Our other song - sung to us at our wedding my my QSD (Quasi Step Dad).



The Last Year

Bad Day by Fuel
Blah.



Help by The Beatles
Ever really listened to these lyrics? Yep.



Don't Stop Believin by Journey
But I haven't given up yet.



You should join me in my 30 (or 100) Day Blog Challenge! Even if you skip some days or whatever, I don't care.  Link your posts up here so I can read them!

My new bugga-boo

My dear friends over at Motherhood Uncovered just launched their new website and I'm lucky enough  to take part. (Yes, I know I'm not a mother, but they say it doesn't matter.) My first Motherhood Uncovered post is republished here, for you to enjoy.

Please hop over there and check it out - it's really remarkable how well they've done.  This is one of my fav posts so far.

BUT BEFORE YOU DO! Please read my post about World Mental Health Day. 

*******

You may or may not know that I’ve been waging an angry war against nasty-ass Depression.

It’s been ugly, but my friend Mr. Drugs and I are holding our own. Even when we can’t rally against our enemies we just bunker down and avoid the weapons being hurled at our heads.

In a manner of speaking.

In another manner of speaking, my A-hole enemies haunt me every day. I’m constantly on guard. I walk around with one of those medieval shields and a giant lance just waiting for something to pummel me.

Full disclosure? Protecting myself all day is effing exhausting. And on top of it, I spend most of my time feeling ashamed, thinking about how I feel less and less like “myself” with every passing moment – more like a weaker me; a failure, an embarrassment.

I know damn well that I’m not supposed to think that. It’s silly. Laughable even. I’m supposed to tell that little jerk inside my head to shut his dirty mouth. But full, FULL disclosure? It’s remarkably difficult to dig UP out of that hole. Which, in turn, makes me feel like I’m failing at fixing myself – an even heavier hit to the gut.

So this is my new bugga-boo. My new pet peeve.

I am going to take everything I have and WIN this war. And then, THEN, I am going to bust through that tall, dark and ugly wall of Stigma that holds me back and throw every busted brick at every douchey person who gets in my way. I do not want to feel like a pathetic loser anymore.

And I’m asking for your help. Help me break the silence around mental illness. Help me kick Stigma’s rotten ass.

Maybe start with a joke.

“I start volunteering as a mentor soon.   Just don’t tell them I was recently suicidal.”

“I told Hubby I could either help him with the dishes or I could go pick up my crazy pills.  It was his decision to make… very. carefully.”

Maybe start mentioning it in conversation. Not with the random guy on the bus, necessarily, but with a friend or a coworker.

“I was late for work this morning (not because I had a headache but) because I’m facing some Depression and it was hard to get going.”

“Sometimes I feel like I can’t deal, but then I [fill in life-saving mantra here] and it gets a little better.”

Finally, talk to loved ones. Even if they don’t get it, they’ll at least listen, and maybe even offer you a book or a meditation CD (which will be infinitely unhelpful, but the sentiment is there).

And the best part? Most everyone you talk to will be able to relate.

“Oh yeah, I took a year off from school because I couldn’t handle it.”

“Oh yeah, my mom took a leave of absence from work when her parents died.”

“Oh yeah, my sister used to cut herself/binge and purge/cry herself to sleep every night.”

This is out there, guys. It’s out there, and the more we’re silent about it the greater chance it has of winning. And I simply cannot live with that.

So today, on World Mental Health Day, tell someone how you’re feeling. Or ask someone how they’re feeling. Or tweet something heartfelt. Or wear a shirt that says “I’m with Crazy -->;” for Christ sakes. 

But whatever you do, please speak up.

Day 4 - The Habit Scale (updated)

I'm pleased to welcome you to Day 4 of my 30 (or 100) Day Blog Challenge.  Link up your blog challenge posts at the bottom so I can read them!

I'm supposed to tell you about a habit I wish I didn't have.  There happen to be several habits I actually kinda wish I did have, like smoking crack and robbing banks, because I think I'd seem way more badass.  But that's not what I'm being asked about.

I do have a shit-ton of brutal habits, but I like to think of them as a series - a scale, if you will - that is very effective in eliminating self-judgement. 

Observe:

First, at the broadest, most forgiving end of the Habit Scale, are the habits that are birthed out of necessity rather than preference.  Things you do because you must in order to maintain a certain stability of mind, but that you nevertheless wish you didn't. 

• Sleeping in.  Getting up in the morning is a slow and cruel form of torture, when burying my head and ignoring the world would be so. much. fucking. easier. On a bad day it takes hours.  Every morning is s fresh battle with Asshole Depression, and my greatest line of defense is to take my damn time and preserve my energy. Regardless, I wish I didn't sleep in. 

You can't control things like this.  Let it go. 


Second, there are a few stages in the middle range of the Habit Scale, but the lines are blurry.  It's hard to tell what you can get away with in this mid-section.  It's where most of the nasty little habits exist, but where you haven't yet decided if you've crossed the line out of selfishness to where you truly wish you didn't do them.  For these habits, you're still in the "I could quit, I just don't wanna" stage. 

• Eating junk food.  I love junk food and I see no need to quit eating it.
• Picking.  There are few things more satisfying than picking a scab, or a hangnail, or a nailpolish chip and I have no intention of trying to stop.
• Making no effort whatsoever to plan dinner before the time at which I would like to eat it. I like the spontaneity of my meals, and until I have hungry children waiting for food, I will keep doing this.

If you really care about any of these, do something about it.  If not, let it go.


Finally, all your least-defensible habits live on the weaker end of the Habit Scale. What makes them the least defensible?  Well, if they make you a hypocrite, I'd say that's the number one tell-tale sign.  Or, more generally, if you feel like shit about yourself. 

• Like being late. I think being late is so rude, and yet I am always running a least a few minutes behind schedule.  Not because I want to, just because I can't seem to help it. I don't even have a good excuse. 
• Spending money I don't have.  I've gotten really good at this lately, and I assume I'll get even better on our trip to New Orleans next week. 

It's harder to argue that you shouldn't stop doing something if it annoys even you.  These ones, you should try to work on. If you feel like it. Probably.


I hope you've learned something here today.  I've prepared a diagram of the Habit Scale, for future reference.  Please consult it regularly to determine what you actually have to change about yourself.  I think you'll find it's very little. 

UPDATED: I'm an AWESOME cyclist

I was having a pretty good weekend. 

If you follow me on twitter you might know that 5 hours of my Saturday were spent on a MAJOR cleaning spree, the likes of which this house has NEVER seen in the three years that we've lived here.  And perhaps in its 25 years since it was built.  

I cleaned so much that I was actually sore this morning.  I cleaned so much that my cuticles are a disaster.  I cleaned so much that the top of my kitchen cabinets will NEVER mess with me again. 

As for today, I planned to make some progress in my Diversification Plan by going for a nice bike ride with my friend V.  It was a gorgeous day and it feels great to get out into the fresh air. 

So I went out and got myself some new gym pants and asked Hubby to load my lovely new bicycle into the back of his truck.  There I was happily sitting in the drivers seat of the red pickup, ready to trek out to V's new house and go for a ride by the river. 

Everything was going fine.  V may be an expert bicyclist, but she's very patient with my novice skills.  Needless to say, it was a leisurely trip. 

Until we got to the half-way point, when she asked if I wanted to actually get a work out at all.  Um. What has the last 30 minutes been?  But ok, sure, sounds good.  The next thing she said was worrisome. 

"Ok, so the hill is pretty big, so use your gears."

Fuck. 

Well.  That douchebag of a hill can lick my ASS because I managed to make it to the top.  I almost died, and I still can't feel my legs, and I was about 10 minutes behind V but I still did it.

Don't congratulate me yet. 

Remember how this was only the half-way point? Yeah.  I had to ride all the way back. 

That was ok.  I made it through, and then V says: 

"Oh, you mind if we just ride a bit further to find a better way back?"

Ummm.

And we were about 5 minutes from home when it happened. 

Ok, so this might be a slight exaggeration.  Maybe.  But still. 


UPDATED:

It turns out that there was a 4.1 earthquake here yesterday afternoon, so I was obviously knocked off my bike by the sheer force of the tremors.  For the record. 

Also, my crotch/ass bones hurt like you would NEVER BELIEVE.

_