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.

The Hardest Part

Hello, blank page. My old nemesis.

I'm waiting to discover the outcome of potential developments in my life. I am averse to change but it seems my life has changed continuously since my divorce in September of last year. So I guess I'd best put my head down and not draw any attention to myself. Or put my nose to the grindstone and embrace change in all of its glorious uncertainty.

The problem is, I suck at waiting.

Call me Instant Gratification Girl. I have to be doing something to catalyze change. I want what I want, and I want it now. I have no patience.

I  would like to establish a routine. But I want it to start, like, yesterday.

The bonkers part of me wants to freelance and transcribe and piece my income together, whoop-a-dee-doo! Part of me wants to establish a profession with a set schedule and guaranteed hours, and this pragmatic, OCD side of me is usually the one that prevails.

And then there's the whole Jack-of-all-trades aspect of my personality. Can I do just about anything well? Sure. But am I an expert in one field? Neeeoope. Many people take one look at the stay-at-home mom part of my resume and they are dismissive, despite the fact that I earned a bachelor's degree back in the day.

Have I thought of remedial training? Sure, but each path is fraught with obstacles. Mainly the time and the expense. I cannot even afford physical therapy though it is needed for me to walk without pain. So most programs are financially out of reach. Trying to parent around a retail schedule has already proved difficult. How would I juggle schooling, parenting, and a job?

So here's what I'm planning to do. Spoiler alert: it's nuts. I'm going to start auditioning for community theatre and schedule my jobs and freelancing around THAT. Because I need creativity and performance for my spiritual salvation. Think I'm being melodramatic?

You ain't seen nothing yet.

Paging Dr. Melfi

My anxiety issues are prevalent as of late. Pretty severe ones, forcing me to resign from my new job. I finally had the opportunity to see a therapist.

After nearly an hour of discussing my past hospitalization, struggles with OCD, daily anxieties and experiences with agoraphobia, he suggested something revolutionary: BREATHING EXERCISES. Like I’ve never done THAT before. Oh, silly me, of course! I’ve been holding my breath for the last two years. It’s only the most basic thing you could possibly suggest for someone suffering from anxiety.

So, I did the breathing exercises, frustration growing steadily with each breath. “Don’t you feel better?” He said. “I could tell the difference between before and after you did the breathing exercises.”

Uh-huh. Before I was anxious, now I’m fucking angry.

“Describe your anxiety for me.” Anxiety is a monster, I offered for a basis of comparison. He told me anxiety needs to be my friend.

Friends don’t wake you up in the middle of the night to prod you with your darkest fears. Friends don’t drive you to the brink of losing your mind. Friends don’t let friends write drunk. Friends don’t prevent you from doing things that you would otherwise enjoy. Friends don’t betray you by planting paranoia and delusions in your world-weary brain.

Why can’t I have a decent therapist? I know life isn’t as well scripted as, say, The Sopranos. But I yearn for someone who actually helps me talk through my problems, rather than just watching me cry and saying, “Hmmmmm. You seem upset.”

NO SHIT, SHERLOCK.

Most of the session I felt like he was going to stop and just say, “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” It’s like he thought that just because I was articulate about my anxiety that I somehow wasn’t really suffering from it. He even added, as an extra zinger, that I shouldn’t obsess so much.

IT’S CALLED OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE DISORDER. LOOK IT UP IN THE DSM SITTING, APPARENTLY UNOPENED, BY THE WINDOW.

I think you’ll be a lot better in two weeks, he said.

I think I’ll be doing a lot better if I see a better therapist.

Deluge: Defining Disability

"I'm getting tired of starting again, somewhere new."

                                                    ~~~ Foo Fighters, "Best of You," In Your Honor, 2005

Anxiety, you have won this time.

I haven't been writing on here because I thought the best way to survive in society was to hide. I deeply regret that decision. I should have learned by now that I can no more hide who and what I am than I can stop breathing.

I washed out of a great gig this morning. The hours were good and it involved customer service. I worked very hard in training, getting up at 3:30 every morning just to get to class. But that old phobia of phones, and the people who could be on the other end of them, won out. I feel grateful for the opportunity and it seemed like a great company to work for. I also feel that I was a waste of this company's time and resources because I just couldn't hack it. 

So I pretty much feel like crawling under a rock and never coming out.

Signing releases will be my primary business this week. Releases to prove what I always feared was giving up: that I am disabled by my illnesses. But I recognize that I need to take care of myself before I can take care of anyone else. And I know when to ask for help. Going back to counseling as well, hopefully, sooner rather than later. It seems as though since my divorce I haven't stopped to process my emotions or breathe. It also turns out that psychologically, such repression isn't healthy.

Also, recently stopped dating someone who I (gasp) liked. Apparently, I wasn't allowed to have feelings. Of course, there is a lot more to the story than that. But some songs are better left unsung. 

Started a new blog as well, on the entertainment front. Thought that I could get into the habit of reviewing films, television, and books again. My jobs have left me little time or energy for creativity. 

How I wish one didn't require a day job. ***Sighs wistfully before screaming into a pillow***

Square one in so many ways. And so very tired.

The Heart and Sole of It

I don't react well to failure.

I've been facing a lot of rejection lately, and everything is changing. I'm so stressed that I forgot my way around town yesterday (and it's difficult to get lost here since everything is a GRID).

Parameters, measured. Surveys, taken. Assessments, completed. Hopes dashed.

I knew this wouldn't be easy. But with a degree under my belt, you wouldn't think it would be so damned hard.

So here's the crux, alluded to: I need to find another part-time position to supplement my income. Or a good, old-fashioned, full-time job. I don't want to do this: I need to do this. I need to be able to support my child, as she is growing at an alarming rate.

She has big shoes to fill. No, literally. Shoes bigger than mine: a size 6. We went bowling the other day and the size 5 shoes, my size, were too tight for her.

But I wonder who will fill my shoes at my current position if I should need to leave. I love my co-workers and certain aspects of my job, of course. This is difficult for me. I work at my favorite store, for Pete's sake. But my gut is telling me that I need to make better use of my skills. And my wallet is telling me that I can't afford my bills and groceries, even with child and temporary spousal support. Life is wonderful and yet expensive.

Also expensive beyond measure: the cost of not seeing my daughter consistently. I need a job where I can support her emotionally as well as financially. Currently, that is difficult since I work until late at night, every night that I work. She told me that she feels isolated and abandoned. I can't really blame her. She rarely sees her dad and now rarely sees her mom. Again, I feel like a failure.

And of choices? Yes, I made the choice to leave my marriage for highly personal reasons. And I don't regret it. I still believe that though I am struggling (which I was warned by a lawyer that I would do), this is a better environment for my daughter. She needs her mom, and her mom needs her. She defines me in so many ways.

I wish so much that I could live my dreams, but frankly, dreams don't pay the bills. I dream about so many things, every night. I dreamt that my father was alive and we lived in a fantastic house. Yet there were so many leaks that the foundation was cracking. I woke up crying because, in the dream, I realized that my father was gone.

Her mother cannot be gone all the time. She needs some predictability: she needs to know that I have her back AND that I have the means to buy her new shoes.

And that's it, and that's all.

A Standing Ovation Is Also an Uprising

I first heard about “Hamilton: An American Musical” through friends on Facebook. Then there was the controversy surrounding Mike Pence’s attendance at a particular performance of the popular Broadway musical. And I thought to myself, here’s something worth listening to. I promptly bought the soundtrack, and immediately fell in love with the epic and captivating tale.

I did not realize that by playing the musical for my daughter, I would create a monster. A musical-loving little eleven-year-old. Just like her mother, a musical and history nerd. But I suppose there are worse things in the world.

She replaces the naughty words with silence. She researches covers of the songs on YouTube. She has researched deleted scenes. She tells everyone she knows about it, especially her teachers. She wants desperately to play Eliza Schuyler someday. She raps the lyrics to “Aaron Burr” with perfection, though she is clueless as to any adult references.

Because she is not into the whole infidelity and death thing, she refuses to listen to the second act. The first act, I will admit, has many of the catchier tunes. It is all glory and inspiration: the second act invokes Shakespearian tragedy. Though she doesn’t like the more adult themes, eventually I suspect she will have the musical memorized in its entirety.

Her respect for Lin-Manuel Miranda is profound, as it should be. He authored the entire musical himself and played the lead: quite the accomplishment for anyone. I was a music major and have only composed one song and a ton of bad poetry. In contrast, Miranda’s lyrics are terse, witty, and full of historical and theatrical references. I’m glad my daughter has found someone worthy of hero-worship.

And the voices? Violet loves them, and rightfully so. Performed by a multi-cultural cast, the sonorous complexity of the vocal performances is swoon-worthy. George Washington and Aaron Burr are my new imaginary romantic interests. The show stopping scene stealer, though, is Angelica Schuyler’s toast at Hamilton’s wedding: voiced by Renée Elise Goldsberry, who totally rocks it. I haven’t convinced my daughter that this role is the one she should be going for. But there’s time yet.

Sigh. As much as I love listening to and singing along with Hamilton’s first act, I’ve bought Violet some musicals that are new to us. I’ve always heard good things about “Into the Woods” and “Wicked.” So that is next on the musical agenda. Perhaps I’ll even pen some reviews of them.

But the point of my rambling this morning is this: listen to Hamilton. It is a uniquely told lesson about love, war, history, and intimacy. Here’s to hoping they tour close enough that I can take my daughter to see it someday, (someday)…

Tripping up the Staircase

Fear. Fear does many things for us. It keeps us alive, for starters.

My fear of turning left in traffic? I’ve had friends who have gotten into accidents that way. So it’s not a totally irrational fear. And the caution I exercise in turning left, in turn, keeps me alive.

Fear does many things to us. It causes me to lose focus. It causes me so much unrealized potential that it’s ridiculous. Why don’t you excel in one of your chosen fields? It asks me. The answer? I have an overwhelming fear of failure coupled with a fear of the unknown. The simple question, “What if?” Is always greeted with negativity. The “Na-na-na-na-na-na, you’re going to lose” kid in A League of Their Own? That little shit is a constant presence in my brain.

The result? I never move forward. Stagnant and unreliable. Unwilling to work at things unless there is a guarantee of success.

In short, it’s no way to live.

I have a million ideas. Tinder: The Musical could be a total possibility. I may not be able to set a song to save my life but do I have talented friends with whom I can collaborate? Eff yes! So why not??? Because, what if it’s, like, stupid? Says the Valley Girl in my brain. And she is convincing, if vapid.

And then the other side of me, the optimist, ever the idealist, says: quit being such a pussy. Live a little. It would be fun for your daughter to read someday if nothing else. And it’s educational. It would be a comprehensive “What Not to Do” list for online dating.

So nothing you do is ever completely useless, especially not if it helps you grow as a person. I must work at it and not see any failure to publish as an exercise in futility.

Beeeeliiiiieeeevveee in yourself, says the unicorn. Beeeeliiiiieeeevveee.

And then there are all the inspirational quotes out there to back me up. You don’t have to see the whole staircase to take the first step. Broken crayons still color and damn, I’m magenta.

This theory applies to the rest of my writing. I need to replace “What if?” with “Why not?”

I also need to learn how this whole “pitch” thing works. Because holy jeez, it seems to be important. You gotta get a gimmick if you wanna get ahead: a little Sondheim for ya. I need to learn how to sell myself and unbelievably, I am no good at tooting my own horn.

So there.

As a good friend told me, I need to replace my apologies with this phrase. It does make me seem more confident, if a bit callous at times. It’s a start.

And now I must truly apologize, because I have Elmo stuck in my head. Thanks a lot, you furry little bastard.

Miles to Go

I've slept a total of nine hours in three nights. I am exhausted.

I must journey to Burley, ID this morning to drop my daughter off with her dad for Spring Break. Thank God I'm not driving. Coffee is my friend.

I'm ready to jump in with both feet into the dark water. Do I think a shark or a scary clown is lurking somewhere in the depths? Most definitely.

That's the hard part of writing about my past with mental illness: though I am pretty open, I do have a great deal of shame and embarrassment regarding certain topics. I have saved them for "The Book." The Book has been in process since 2009. I have started it and restarted it. It has no primary sense of focus, as much of it was written directly post-hospital. When I was still highly paranoid but wanted to preserve some of the lovely memories I made.

I am fond of having mid-life crises, it has become quite the hobby of mine. I search for purpose daily. I wanted to go back to school to be a teacher, but hearing about the stresses faced by some of my teacher friends made me doubt that decision. So now I am left knowing one thing: I was not meant to clean up after other people for the rest of my life. It's certainly not beneath me but it makes me weary. 

I am still determined to write for a living, though working a day job has taken a lot of the living out of me for the time being. I am still terrified of failure, a hallmark of my OCD. But if I don't write and I don't continually submit I'll never get anywhere. Part of me is determined to find a full time job so I don't have to worry about paying the bills: another part of me is screaming, live your dream. Take risks. 

Quit being such a pussy.

And focus. And practice, practice, practice. This I'll-write-when-I'm-inspired nonsense has got to stop, I must follow the example of my successful writer friends and WORK ON IT. Not only that, but figure out how to reach a broader audience. Follow the examples of your idols: David Sedaris writes five hours a day. I'm lucky if I write for five minutes without distraction. Or incredible self-doubt.

And the reading has got to commence as well, damn the depression. Pretend you're in college and it's required reading. Make yourself read for an hour a day. Quit wasting time. Navigate the everyday stress without falling apart or into a coma. You've got this, as your sister would say. Beeeeelieeeeve in yourself and stop with the self-destructive self-deprecation. 

As for the pitches and the websites? Figure it out, you're not a complete moron most of the time. Set goals. Don't be afraid of rejection. View it as learning, not inadequacy. 

I could go on and on, but I'm going to mercy-kill this line of thought. 

I've got places to go.

Caring for a Character

I can't compel other people to care about me. I can't do it. They either do, or they don't. I would cite my humor and my other charming characteristics as assets. But that would seem like too much self-flattery.

The truth of the matter is, my character is ruled in part by my chemistry. My brain chemistry to be more specific. If you knew me before I was on medication for OCD and Bipolar Disorder, you would see why I wrote such depressing materials as a seventh grader. For example, in a project to describe myself, I wrote a poem in which I compared my existence to the moon. I don't science, I've made that clear. But I do emo. “Dawn arrives, filling the world with joy, yet I see only a glimmer of its brightness before fading into nothingness.” Top THAT, My Chemical Romance.

So, this Affordable Care Act controversy has been bothering me. To say I need my meds to survive is a lie. But to thrive? To function in a traditional (or a non-traditional, keep-my-ass-outta-the-hospital) sense? Well, that's an entirely different issue. I can rail and whine and cry about it all day, Republicans are going to do whatever they can to repeal this evil law more colloquially known as Obamacare.

This is what I leave to my daughter if I lose my mind. My writing, my online presence. In the musical “Alexander Hamilton,” Burr and the chorus ask, “How do you write like you're running out of time?” With the big tick of that political clock in the background, I am beginning to have some idea.

Not fair, I cry. Another quote from Hamilton emerges: “history has its eyes on you.” That means you, alleged government representatives. You cannot pretend to represent the majority of your constituents if you repeal this law, especially since a lot of them apparently didn't know that this is where their health care magically materialized from. Amazing, I know. And gee, only 40,000 or so lives will depend on it every year.

I guess being anti-ACA is, in a way, being an advocate for some sort of cruel population control.

Sounds messed up, right? Well, it is.

If you already have access to free health care, good for you. Is it too much to ask that you care about your neighbors and friends and family and what they might be going through? Because I'm thinking the 40,000 or so that will die pretty much outweighs any arguments that you are pro-life. Sure, you may argue, there are a lot more abortions than people who will die from repealing the ACA. And you might be right. But threatening to limit access to birth control as well?

That's even more messed up. Not only no, but hell no.

And no, the Women's March did not represent all women. Not all women agree with it, and that's fine. But I am not raising my daughter to be one of those women. That’s my personal prerogative. I want to teach my daughter to be all that she can or will be: yes, she is still allowed to choose her own path. That's the point. If she came to me and said Mom, I'm [insert religion], I would accept her. If she came to me and said, Mom, I'm a [insert sexuality or gender], I would support her. If she decided to be a [insert political agenda] I would say, honey, that's your right and your choice. I may not always understand why you made your choices. Or why you feel this way. But I do understand that it's your choice to feel and act and think and do and be.

My choice to think and act and think and do and be as I want is impaired by some bad wiring in my brain. I didn't choose it. But why do some people believe it is their right to take it away from me? The point is, I need (not want, need) to be there for my daughter.

I also don't always understand these folks who preach that we need to see both sides of this coin. I tell you what I've seen in the days since the march: I've seen two of those very dear to me, being attacked for marching and for standing up for women’s rights. It's not pretty, though in some ways it was expected. It is one thing to preach tolerance: it is quite another to live it. I'm trying folks. And I seem to be failing in some regards.

I guess I will just accept what I am: a single mom with a mental illness, who is intolerant to intolerance. I will no longer claim that I am not willfully insolent toward or ignorant of other people's perspective at times. I'm human the last time I checked. I am told, “Well now missy, you're not being fair, you're not considering the other side.” For me there is one side, and I'm seeing the very real prospect of my sanity slipping away. So, if you choose not to understand it, I may choose a path without you on it. I started this out trying to be funny. But for some reason, I'm not in the mood to laugh.

[insert punchline]

Reader, Resurrected

I found out yesterday morning that the allergy medication I’ve been taking for the last year expired in August of 2013.

Reading is fundamental. I could have saved myself a year of sinus trouble had I simply read the label.

Speaking of reading, what happened to the book nerd I used to know and love? I used to read while I was walking on my way home from school. Dangerous? Certainly. But my desire to consume fiction was insatiable. I even competed in “The Battle of the Books” in junior high, answering trivia questions from a list of 45 awesome books.

Now? Eh. I apparently can’t be bothered to read things like expiration dates.

I’ve been in the middle of John Green’s “Paper Towns” for about four months now. There are no less than thirty books sitting in my kindle or on my shelf, collecting virtual and actual dust. I belong to a Stephen King fan club online called “Constant Readers.” Ha! I started one of his short story books a year ago and bought another that is now staring back at me, unloved, unopened. Such a sad fate…

I even have friends who write books. Cynthia Hand, a college friend, writes excellent YA fiction. I buy her books and find time to read them perhaps a year later. Essentially, she is writing them faster than I can read them.

This is tragic, people. What is the matter with me? Is it depression? Lack of time management? Facebook? The answer is obvious: all of the above.

Rediscovering things that I love has been a struggle, but I have slowly been coming out of my post-divorce funk. My meds are balanced and I’m even contemplating exercise. I get as far as putting my running clothes on, even. Baby steps, people.

Yes, it’s true that most weeks I work an almost full-time schedule. But take, say, 35 hours out of the week (don’t hold your breath, but I am attempting to math). 24 times 7 is 168 hours a week. What have I been doing with the other 133 hours? Sleeping only takes up about 50 hours of my week. That leaves 83 hours of what, exactly?

The answer is: Facebook. It’s a time suck. It’s a trap. It’s a form of people watching and I just couldn’t get enough. Now I realize that it’s much nicer spending time with actual people. Which means: I’ve been spending time with other people in real life, outside of work. I know, I’m letting everyone down regarding the self-proclaimed profession of Hermit Crab. Somehow, I’m less than disappointed.

                                                                                                                   

I definitely do not lack reading material: there are even more books I found when I moved, my beloved children’s literature that I hope Violet will read someday soon. The House of Dies Drear. A Stranger Came Ashore. The Silver Kiss, a precursor to the Twilight series that is far superior to that Sparkly Vampire Crap. I bought her the Bunnicula series and I hope to re-read those as well…

So, no more excuses. I hereby resolve not only to read books, but to (gasp) write reviews of them. Even the dollar store ones I buy because hey, I would be lucky to find one of my books on the shelf of a dollar store someday. And I’m powerfully curious how they ended up wedged between The Bible and coloring books.

Babbles (Brain Baubles)

So. Tired.

I go to bed every night between 12 a.m. and 2:00 a.m., mostly due to a fairly consistent schedule of working until 11:00 p.m. I am up first at around 5 a.m. when my mother's alarm goes off. I am up (fully conscious and out of bed) by 7. Then I get my darling daughter up and go about my day.

So this leaves me a good 5-7 hours of sleep, right? Which would be perfect. Except the combination of medication I take requires at least 8 hours of solid sleep for me to function properly. Many a morning, I find myself somewhat short on sleep.

I may seem cognitively impaired during the day because in essence, I cannot...brain. I may seem flighty or bubble-headed but I assure you this is not the case. I'm still me. Even though I sometimes can't comprehend or articulate properly.

I am supposed to limit myself to one cup of coffee during the day due to potential exacerbation of my anxiety disorder. One cup??? Ha ha. More like three. But who's counting? Ignore the fact that my heart is like that of a hummingbird at every doctor's appointment. I get so hopped up on coffee that rest during the day is a struggle even though I often don't work until after noon.

Naps. Ahhhh...when I can take them, naps are awesome. But since it often takes me an hour or more to fall asleep it is not always possible to temporarily escape the pressures of reality. Also, I often get heckled from upstairs: "Why are you taking a nap? Are we boring?" Ah, my dear mother and grandmother, you are anything but boring.

I'm just tired.

When I manage to sleep, perchance to dream, I am moving around the country with my ex-husband. We are stationed in all kinds of strange places. There is one house in particular that has a swamp, and an extremely tiny upstairs that you have to crouch in.

In the latest installment of this dream we were moving to Afghanistan with the rest of my family.  At a house we stopped at along the way, there was a makeshift ladder to get to the second floor. Essentially getting upstairs was like climbing a rock wall. The second floor held a bathroom with a massive expanse of white tile. In front of this there was a tall step leading to another, blue, tiled area, featuring a shower head and about 50 mannequins. You could take a shower, but every time you turned your back to the mannequins they would advance toward you. This was as unsettling as it sounds. I have no idea what the motive of the naked mannequins was. But I strongly suspect that they were gonna get me.

The precursor to this strange dream? Discussion of military deployments with some gals from work. The mannequins are also work-related, as we have them along the corners in my department. I am sometimes so tired that out of the corner of my eye I mistake them for customers. I always stop myself before asking the mannequin how it is doing and if it is finding everything ok. So I suppose, in a sense, I am doing alright.

Anyway, I'm babbling, as I tend to do when I am tired. My mom and daughter woke me up several times last night. I am bordering on delirious, and was threatening to take a nap on the floor at work. An idle threat, of course, as evidenced by my swollen feet. But I digress.

Caught a third or fourth wind and am desperately trying to unwind. The cat's in her bad and all's right with the world. Care charmer sleep, son of the sable Night, brother to death, in silent darkness born, defeat the wretched spell of caffeine and come on, sugar. Let me dwell a little bit in twilight. Not the kind with Sparkly Vampires though.

Wow how's that for a poetry-YA mashup? Crap, I tell you. Crap, crap, crap. I write much better when I'm not a blithering idiot. So, without further ado, I bid thee goodnight.

Equal Opportunity VD post aka: Cupid's Stupid

Got a tad tired of the cutesy couples' posts. So... In honor of Valentine's Day, all singles: Make this your status and answer honestly! Just for fun.

How old were you when you became single? 38

Any prospects? Yes.

Have you tried dating sites? Yes. Tinder, OK Cupid, Plenty of Fish…or Plenty of Piranhas, depending on your perspective

Does your mom think everyone you meet online is a serial killer? You mean they aren’t? I’m still here…

 Divorced? Uh huh

What's your sign, baby? Aries

Who was your first kiss with? John…can’t remember his last name, I’m old. Hanks?

Who was the first jerk to dump you? Same guy

And the last jerk to dump you? Technically we weren’t together

Ever been ghosted? Just call me Casper

Ever been stood up? Not recently

Worst pickup line received at the bar: “Uhhhhh…your hair is purple.” I was, in fact, wearing a purple wig. Thank you Captain Observant. Next! Close tie with “Is your dad a baker because those are the hottest buns I’ve ever seen.” Lol

Worst excuse for someone breaking a date: He had pneumonia. Never heard from him again. Kinda hoping he’s dead

Tattoos: yay or nay? Depends on the guy. I don’t judge. Face tattoos are a bit distracting though

Your place or mine? Yours

Do you have custody of any children? My lovely Violet! 90% of the time

Favorite pint of ice cream? Haagen Daaz anything!

Favorite show with which to Netflix and weep? House of Cards

Hobbies, since ostensibly you have no life? Reading, writing, singing, snarking on Facebook

Where’s your favorite place to take yourself out to eat? The Viking

Any skeletons in your closet? Plenty

What exactly is wrong with you? We don’t have time for the intense psychological evaluation needed

Number of cats: 1

Do you believe in love at first sight? Aw, hell no.

Any felonies we should know about? Not even a speeding ticket

Favorite Lean Cuisine/microwave meal? I like the Michelina’s Salisbury Steak. It’s unnatural.

You’re eating chocolate right now aren’t you? No. I’m drinking beer.

Favorite drink? Besides this delicious porter?

Favorite band? Manchester Orchestra

Are you tired of starting over, telling strangers your life story? Yes.

Do you think you will ever marry/remarry? Uhhhhhhhh

Favorite chick flick: Thelma and Louise

Do you have a brain? Sometimes

Do you have a heart? No.

Do you have a home? Yes, and I’m very grateful

What about da nerve? Not so much

Are you awesome? Hell to the yes.

Are you a little tired of all the cutesy Valentine’s posts? Slightly.

Let it SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW

We in the Treasure Valley have had what is widely known as Snowpocalypse or Snowmageddon as of late. Here are some personal and family highlights:

Record snowfalls in the area, with plenty of melting and icing over to boot. Too many snow days to count in a school district that rarely calls school off. This has resulted in stir crazy people. Particularly my daughter, who has resorted to memorizing the first act of Hamilton. My poor grandma, who broke her shoulder last year, has been cautioned not to GO ANYWHERE or DO ANYTHING. Which made last week’s icy excursion to the dollar store a thrill-a-minute. The roads are like glass today. The parking lot where I work was so slick last night that a co-worker gave me a ride to my car since her car was closer.

The first day of the snowfall we had a pipe burst in the garage. So, there was a brief cleaning out of what I fondly think of as hoarder’s paradise. All useful stuff: tile (enough to re-do the bathroom) and a lot of power tools (the better to cut your thumb off, my dear). It took the plumber seven hours to get here and ten minutes to fix the problem. It took several days to reassemble the garage because bitch, it’s cold outside.

My younger sister was initially stuck in her driveway because of plowing. My older sister cannot move her car past her driveway most mornings. My mother has been toting her kids and grandkids all over town in her truck. She should have signed up to be an Uber driver before this nonsense started.

I fell in my driveway, twice. The first time, my daughter and I both fell in the same spot and then slid down on our butts. No major injuries thank God. I’m sure it was funny to watch. A friend suggested that a video would have been preferable, America’s Funniest Home Video style. Complete with sound effects (whooooooop and wah wah wah, I would imagine).

I was stuck in and just outside of my cul de sac four times. Even walking out to the car proved difficult. I signed up for AAA but they only have been offering towing assistance in emergency situations. Towing companies called directly were also not accepting short tows because the road conditions have been so bad. Basically, I should have left my car at the base of the hill instead of proceeding to get it out and stuck near the sidewalk. Drat.

As a consequence of my inability to move my vehicle, I could not get across town to let my sister’s dogs out. She was repeatedly trapped in the Portland area, unable to fly out for several days. My last attempt at letting them out, I was stuck at the end of her driveway for fifteen minutes with the rear end of my vehicle out in a busy street. A snow shovel and fervent praying finally got me out safely. Thankful that I didn’t have my daughter with me in the back seat, but not particularly grateful to the hundred cars that went around me without bothering to stop.  The poor puppies were eventually rescued by my cousin. Plenty of swearing and guilt on my part. I have never been so mad at Mother Nature.

Perhaps the funniest moment of all this came from my daughter’s blasphemous quip. After a bought of my colorful language about the lame weather situation she remarked: “You know who we really need to blame??? God.”

So thanks, God. Thanks a lot. No, seriously. Despite all the craziness, not one of my family members has yet been in a car accident or had a detrimental spill. The power has remained on. And we have plenty of frozen and canned food here in the event of further snowfall or zombie apocalypse.

All in all, we’re doing pretty good.

The Incredible Shrinking…Woman

I’ve been sick for two months.

I don’t know if it’s a persistent sinus infection, or overactive allergies, or if that alien implant in my brain is giving me trouble again. The bad news is, I’m exhausted all the time. Especially at work, which requires me to be on my feet all day. The good news is, I’ve lost weight. I now fit into pants I haven’t fit into since 2009.

Have I made any real effort to lose this weight? Nope. Unless you count swallowing a daily Mucinex and a large receptacle of green tea just to get through my day. I also have been living off deli sandwiches. My grandma asked me if this made me like Jared from Subway. Yes, grandma, yes. Minus the unfortunate affinity for child pornography.

But on to *ahem* lighter subjects. Here is a photo from my college years, when I was a mere impression of a thing, approximately 90 pounds. That's me on the right, next to my super-fit sister. Holy Gods, BITCH WAS SKINNY.

And here is a photo of me at my heaviest, when I weighed approximately the same as the house that flattened the Wicked Witch of the East. Nine months pregnant. Hungry every step of the way (though clearly I did not miss any meals). BITCH WAS LARGE AND IN CHARGE.

And me at my lightest since my early twenties, when I was eating an iceberg salad for lunch every day and working out consistently. I weighed about 120, but DAMN, BITCH WAS STARVING.

I am now blissfully between these healthy and unhealthy weights. Still overweight, not obese. A medium instead of a large. I’d sure like to lose the tummy that has plagued me since baby, and that has stayed with me since beer. But that might require a little thing called exercise. And right now, BITCH HATH NO ENERGY.

Alleviating the energy issue may require more antibiotics, or an allergy pill combined with a decongestant. Each has its respective consequences. Antibiotics generally put my system off-kilter. Decongestants help a great deal with some physical symptoms, yet also raise my blood pressure considerably. Plus they make me high-as-a-kite-euphoric, which is not good considering my potentially manic mental malady. ESSENTIALLY, BITCH GOES CRAZY.

The alternative? Just stay sick. And waste away to nothing. Lay me where sad, true lover never find my grave to weep there. And all that jazz. Because BITCH IS A TAD MELODRAMATIC AT TIMES.

A popular theory (one I often consider, because frankly, BITCH DOES NOT SCIENCE), is that I am simply allergic to something at work. Or that I am allergic to work. One of the two. Either way my symptoms are aggravated at work. I must carry tissues with me wherever I roam on the apparel floor. THAT IS ONE SNOTTY BITCH.

Me and my persistent case of sniffles are off to enjoy the snow day.

Later, bitches.