The Art of Losing It

I have been losing my mind as of late.

I’ve taken my medication faithfully. I don’t have much of a choice. The only other option, one I will be trying soon, is weaning myself down. Because I’ve been trying desperately to maintain a balance in my bank accounts while paying out the ass for my insurance, appointments, and medications. This has consumed all of my time and energy, and 70 percent of my income goes to basic medical expenses. I’ve also paid a few thousand out of pocket on medical and dental in the last eight months for random errors and expenses. So there goes the rest of my income. 

And I’ve been attempting to earn this necessary money at jobs where my limitations render me terrified and incompetent. And full of the plague of doubt. And at the mercy of the general public when my social anxiety is so disabling that going to the grocery store is a struggle.

There has to be a better way, people. 

I’m grateful that the ACA exists. But it needs improvement across state lines if it is to be, in fact, affordable. I am wallowing in the gap along with thousands of other Idahoans here. 

Is it scary to be denied a basic right, one of maintaining a life free of suffering from mental illness? Oh, it’s horrifying to think of the multitude of intrusive thoughts that the medication suppresses. They bubble and babble just beneath the surface, just waiting for another chance to boil. And the compulsions that go along with them? Hell. And the sleeplessness, perhaps peppered with delusions. That’s the shit that keeps me up at night.

The truth is that the latest medication adjustment has actually made my anxiety much worse and not better. The path to hell being paved with good prescriptions and all that jazz. Something needs to be tweaked, but my world weary soul and my financial situation are impediments to this. I don’t want to give up. I really don’t.

I need a job in production, I tell myself. I need a job writing. I need to take a step back and reevaluate. But there is no time.

For two years I kept busy, and didn’t think about my divorce. I willfully ignored my doubts and misgivings. I plowed on through and got most of the legal work done myself. And now? I’m thinking about love, and loss, and the price of independence, and I’m overwhelmed. And scattered. And full of fear.

I would never start a GoFund Me campaign for medical expenses. But the thought has crossed my mind. 

How messed up is that?

Automate This

Let me tell you the terse tale of my Monday.

It started like any other Monday: there was grieving, and massive amounts of coffee. I relaxed and planned the week. My daughter got up and ready for school with little fanfare.

After running to Walmart, getting my hair cut, and running my filthy car through the car wash, I proceeded to the fairgrounds to pick up my daughter’s ribbon-winning drawing. Slightly proud mamma here. It was all going well: I even managed to avoid being hit by rabid fork lifts and other fairgoers picking up their items.

My employer called the day prior but because technology is imperfect, my phone never recorded the message that the assistant manager left. All I got was a message that wouldn’t play on my voicemail from an unfamiliar number. Turns out I was supposed to start work yesterday. Oops.

No biggie, I was assured. I can start work today instead. I called the counseling center regarding an appointment that I can no longer attend because of work. Was greeted, naturally, by an automated system. Got a real person on the line, and things went pretty smoothly.

Then I noticed some weird xfinity messages on my email saying someone with my email address had ordered a wifi pass. One was to verify my email address and another was to confirm my day pass to a wifi hotspot. I don’t have an account with them but naturally I suspected phishing, went directly to their official website online, and tried to log in for funsies. Someone who typed in my email address appears to have set up an account. They even set up a security question so that I could not log in through the “forgot password” link. Interesting.

Concerned, I called Comcast. I have heard so many horror stories about calling this company. I even heard a call once between a customer and a horrible representative who would not let him cancel his service. So I wasn’t expecting perfection. The first representative did not do an adequate job of checking to see if I had a fraudulent account, IMO. He ended by telling me to disregard the emails. I got off the phone with him because clearly this was getting me nowhere. 

The second representative was also pleasant but useless, she tried at first to transfer me to the technical department. Then between three holds she had changed her mind and transferred me to the abuse department. 45 minutes later, I got a rep who said it most likely was phishing and not fraud, but he didn’t check to verify whether my email was on file with the company. He did, however, give me an email address to forward the information to.

So, with high hopes, I forwarded the emails. I detailed my concerns. I was dismayed by the automated reply: we don’t have enough information regarding this issue. Why don’t you try one of there helpful articles that REQUIRES LOGGING INTO THE ACCOUNT YOU DON’T HAVE.

Paranoid now, I called my insurance company to verify that I had some sort of identity theft coverage. I got nowhere on their website. I was transferred to the wrong department, I just wanted to learn more about the services and did not want to file a claim. She told me she would transfer me and that a person would answer, and instead I was transferred to the automated system. I hung up.

Albertson's had also called through an automated system to verify that my prescription was ready. I called them back to verify that both of my medications were, indeed, ready, since I was lacking the new prescription number. They said that they were ready, and gave me some completely useless information about how I can track their readiness through an app. Thanks, if I had the damn prescription number in the first place, that might be helpful. I could have bypassed talking to another regular, seemingly incompetent person in that case.

When I arrived at the pharmacy later in the afternoon, YOU WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT EVERYTHING WAS READY. Another hour of my wasted time later, I finally had my pills that I’d already waited five days for.

So now I have a new pharmacy and, potentially, a fraudulent account with Comcast.

FML.

On Being Substantial

Thick is as thick does.

I matched with a local radio DJ once on a dating site. We chatted for a bit and then exchanged numbers, it seemed harmless enough. He wanted a picture of me, so I complied with a selfie of my face. Then he wanted a sexy picture of me, and well, I didn’t really have any. I had one where you could see my legs, but it was still pretty conservative.

He wondered why I didn’t have any sexy pics (apparently a bikini or underwear would have been more to his liking). He then asked, “Are you thick?”

This immediately put me on the defensive. I have had an issue with weight around my stomach and posterior since the birth of my daughter. “Are you thick?” I retorted. He denied having an issue with his figure, though his pictures online indicated otherwise. He then conveniently lost my number and “unmatched” us on the site.

Now, this wouldn’t anger me so much, but it seems a bit of a double standard. Especially with this viral post of a man who loves his curvy wife going around.  Some comedian acquaintances of mine were making fun of the post, and it inspired me to share my own experience. I also don’t understand why this man’s message is being seen as so inspirational. Basically, he’s criticizing his wife and getting lauded for it.

Another person shared this hilarious parody of the letter.

I’m kind of hoping that the wife in this so-called “heroic” letter writes a response. In it, she describes his perceived imperfections, pointing out, for example, his abundance of chest hair and his scrawny ass. Or his habit of drawing mass attention to the size of her booty. Or his inability to write anything truly sensitive.

I’ve dated men who others might consider unattractive: to me, true attraction isn’t a weight measurement or a beauty contest. Balding men, men who might be considered overweight: I’ve always considered the personality before the mane or body type. This hasn’t helped me to find a suitable mate yet, but I’ve gained some extraordinary friends in the process.

I’m hoping it’s just my undeniable crazy that’s scaring them off.

But for this, I certainly don’t tout myself as being some sort of relationship martyr. Just taking one for the team, ladies, no need for alarm.  If I wrote about how great it was that my man was less than perfect, I would get laughed or trolled off the Internets.

For myself, I fluctuate from body positivity to wanting to lose all the weight and become some sort of ancient pin-up model. For my health, and for my daughter’s benefit, I am going to attempt to lose the extra 40 pounds I am now carrying around. I’m not doing this to attract a man: any man who doesn’t appreciate me for the nutty cat lady I am, unexplainable ego and all, can go find some normal, boring, perfect looking arm-candy.

Anyone who doesn’t want me based on my present appearance or all the things I am, is truly is thick.

Following the Felines

I said goodbye to my fourteen-year-old cat the other day.

I miss Nermal terribly. She was feisty up until the very end but unfortunately, her digestive system wasn't working anymore. I held her in my arms for at least 30 minutes after the vet euthanized her. This was mostly because if I moved her out of my arms after she was dead it would have broken my heart.

It was also because no one at the vet's office bothered to tell me to notify the front desk when I was done. No one bothered to check on me either. "Oh, well, we usually give you as much time as you need," the assistant explained as she removed my cat from the room. "You're supposed to let us know when you're done."

Blame my lack of experience killing cats.

Moving on in so many ways, the new kitten, Starlight, is attempting to prove the old adage about curiosity. Though there are three dogs upstairs (including two rambunctious wiener dogs), she insists on prancing up the stairs ten times a day. So, my recent chore was to find a gate wide enough and tall enough to cover the entrance to the stairs.

This new cat is nothing if not a destroyer of worlds. She claws carpets and furniture constantly and knocks over random objects in her pursuit of bugs or cat toys. I made the mistake of opening my window for her: she proceeded to latch onto the screen and break it. It swung outward with her on it. I ran out front just in time to prevent her from running away.

The joy she brings my daughter is immeasurable, and she is a sweet little thing. I haven’t had a kitten in so long that I’m not sure whether this cat is truly crazy or I’ve forgotten the extent of the psychosis kittens seem to suffer from. She keeps us up late or gets us up incredibly early, she is hungry all the time and mostly for human toes.

I am going to emulate the cat, except for the eating toes thing (and the whole crapping in a box thing). She runs around all the time like a little maniac and she’s definitely not of the chubby variety. She seems to have joy in the sheer business of movement despite her frequent falls and fails.

To cope with my depression and mood swings, I need exercise in my life. Do I believe it’s a cure for mental illness? Absolutely not, but it’s definitely a combatant. As ya’ll may or may not have been aware, I tried Beachbody. And I liked it, and I lost some weight, but it’s just not for me. I may still use the abdominal workouts, but the lunges are too much on my knees at this weight.

Other than consistent movement, I’m going to struggle to make healthy choices, every day. Will I miss my cheese dip, sourdough bread, and multiple incarnations of the potato? Absolutely. But I am going to shop for fresh produce every few days and (gasp) eat it instead of chips. If I ever manage to go on another date, I will choose something somewhat healthy from the menu (adieu, bacon burger and fries. I hardly knew ye).

Though I am a crazy cat lady, I will not adhere to a diet of Friskies. I tried that once, it was a childhood “open your mouth and close your eyes” situation. Never again.

So I have written my resolution. Now, to put it into motion.

Pussy Power, Perfected

I was going to write a long post about a dead cat. Then someone pointed out to me that dead cats are a downer. This revelation came from someone from a dating site.

Like the dating site, the cat liked to play with my emotions. Never knowing which game or what expectations each individual cat had. One cat even told me that I played myself out of a game before it even started. Bless his heart! I didn’t know we were playing a game.  Sounds like some feather-chasing nonsense to me.

The dating site also illustrated that there are some crazy cats out there. From those who just want playful intimacy to those who are willing to marry you right then and there. Dangerous Disney bullshit, my mind warned. Beware!!!

Like a cat, some of these males were very proud of their anatomy and not shy about showing it. As I do when a cat displays its butthole, I said, “Thanks but no thanks” and went on my merry way.

The dating site also proved that most men are pussies. Weird, compartmentalized, non-committal pussies. Not looking for a relationship mostly because the menu of women is vast. And the promise of the perfect woman is just a swipe away.

What none of these cats realize, is that I am the red dot. Too elusive for them. Moving in too many different directions.  Scattered, as it were. Brilliant, enough to make you skid in your tracks or hit your head against a wall. It’s all part of my charm.

I have no use for people who don’t like cats. And, like a cat, the dating site can shit in a box for all I care.

Breathing Room

There was a time when I hung on your every word. Yet there were so many times you left me hanging.

There is a void in me now that nothing seems to fill. No amount of shopping, no form of entertainment, no amount of writing or work negates the absence of our companionship. I wake up alone. I go to bed alone. I have no one to prattle to constantly who even pretends to care about what goes on in my head. Gone are the days of wine and whiskey: my friend and partner in crime is gone.

The accusations are also gone: “you're not the woman I married.” Now, I am the woman you divorced. Your joke of introducing me as your first wife when we were together hasn't aged well.

I am not aging well since we stopped occupying the same space. I didn't realize what a hollow feeling it was not to have another half. Not to be dependent on anyone. Not to ask permission or need to modify my thoughts, opinions, or actions according to your mood. I went from walking on eggshells to walking through shards of glass, and often times I feel like I'm bleeding about my broken edges.

Is the time without you a struggle? Yes and no. Financially it is nearly incomprehensible. I have had to navigate an unpredictable job market post-homemaking. My degree in the arts, barely useful as it was, means even less with a decade of child rearing behind it. There is simply seen an absence of meaningful work, though the toil involved raising our daughter mostly on my own was certainly not easy or unrewarding.

But there is also a profound sense of relief personally. Because it's not all about you anymore. The military spouse role prepared me for an ultimate separation: yet, it never prepared me to think or want anything for myself. To learn not only how to survive in a civilian world, but to thrive in it on my own. And I'm flailing.

I saw a counselor recently and he suggested breathing exercises for my ever-present anxiety. At first, I scoffed. Something so seemingly simple surely could not be effective. I have three anxiety disorders, and his simplification of my issues seemed, at first, the ultimate form of condescension.

After writing a particularly pointed blog entry about the session, I saw past my scorn and sarcasm. I started to breathe, and reflect, and found that taking just a few moments to relax to is essential for many reasons. I need air. I need focus, I need strength. I need my family and my medication. But above all, I need to stop fantasizing and start actualizing.

Up until now I've lived a life limited by fear. Fear of death, fear of failure, fear of the unknown. And I ask myself whether the result is keeping me alive or, in fact, hastening me toward a living death. I feel like a husk, a cocoon with no glorious butterfly waiting to break forth. It’s stifling, it's frightening, it's no way to live.

I’ve been so busy gasping for air, and trying to keep my head above water these last few years, that I've lost touch with my talents. My passions may not be profitable, but they are spiritually essential. This day to day business of living, post-divorce, is suffocating my soul.

So maybe I do need to breathe. But to breathe, I need breathing room. And I need not only breath, but purpose behind it. I need some air forced from my diaphragm and out of my vocal folds. I also need to make something out of that breath. Sing, speak, raise my voice somehow. This isn't a rehearsal, this is a performance that spans years. And I've been missing out on it.

In this vein, I need to do something every day that terrifies me. I need to do this not only for myself, but for my daughter. And the scared, scarred girl inside will someday thank me for it. Purgatory was my practice but never quite my style.

I also need to remember that there is truth in simplicity. Though at times I seem to be doing nothing but drawing air, that in and of itself is noteworthy. Without reflection, life is meaningless: without breath and its associated benefits, life is impossible. My aspirations require the respiration; my attitude needs the resultant alteration.

Inhale, exhale. Live in the moment, not in spite of it.

The Losing Battle

I have recently been rejected for a community theatre production and had my writing rejected by a popular journal. So instead of sleeping as I should be doing, I am battling my feelings of inadequacy.

I have that feeling again that I am too odd and too old and that there is no place for me.

Nobody wants a 40-year-old has-been in performance or in print, a voice inside me says.

You have held me back for far too long, says another voice. Failure is a learning experience.

No one can create a well-crafted pitch on this little sleep, the logical voice cries. Perhaps I should add schizophrenia to my seemingly inexhaustible list of maladies…

And yet here I am, with seemingly displaced motivation. Wanting to write and having no place to publish. Wanting to sing and act with no place to perform. Except for the karaoke bar of course.

The crux of it? I need sleep to function at my new day job. I must drive as a part of my job. If you’ve read my thoughts about driving, well, ha-ha. No freeway, no left turns, no parallel parking. Because my anxiety has PTSD elements, likely from being hit so many times in San Antonio. It was less like daily driving and more like bumper cars down there.

So. Sleep it is. Or at the very least, an attempt at it. The battle starts afresh tomorrow.