tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71873047031456180132024-03-05T15:02:20.991-07:00The Art of LifeA little about me, my art, my kids, some blunt honesty about bi-polar depression, my goals, or whatever else I feel like typing about.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.comBlogger265125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-37084461659042011632019-06-17T12:14:00.002-06:002019-06-17T18:57:27.411-06:00grumpety grump grumpIt's that time of year. My Womb Escapement Anniversary is tomorrow. (Thank you, Daria, for the title.) Yesterday I was so angry over nothing that I scrubbed my house down. I was mad at the dust, mad at the whatsits needing to be swept from my floor. Mad at the cat for defiling the floor with his cat litter. Angry at everything.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>It was father's day. And I'm NOT okay with my dad. I wanted to talk to my grandfather, who really WAS my dad. The only real father-figure I have. But whenever I call his home phone it just rings and rings. When I call his cell, I get a message that the voice mail hasn't been set up. And that makes me cry. Because he thinks I don't love him. He thinks I only go visit him when I want something. No. That is NOT true!!! I don't go visit because gas is expensive. I think about him constantly. He's been the one constant in my life.<br />
<br />
<br />
---<br />
Then I stepped on the Wii, because I have decided to finally start working out. It's no surprise to me, but it was to WiiFit that I weigh 223. So of course it blew my Mii up into this obese thing, just like my kids predicted. My 15yo said I'm halfway to being the size of Violet the Blueberry in Willy Wonka. She was not wrong.<br />
<br />
On a related note: The weekend after I said I wanted a divorce last year, my husband tried to yell me into staying with him. He made my 2nd daughter sit in, told me to just listen, then proceeded to tell me all the things he thought were wrong with me. For an hour. (How this was supposed to convince me to stay, I don't know.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, most everything he said was absolutely ridiculous. (Did you know I was suicidal? I didn't, but apparently that's why I wanted a divorce. Good thing he told me, because I had no idea I wanted to end my life. When I asked him what my plan was so I could definitely not follow it, he looked at me like I was crazy. Yeah, ok, I AM crazy, but I'm not, nor was I at the time, suicidal.)<br />
<br />
However, he did say this one line that I cannot get out of my head: "It makes me sick that you now weigh more than I do. Just physically sick."<br />
<br />
Now, I KNOW his opinion doesn't matter. But I can't get those words to stop playing through my head. Every time I look in the mirror I see a body that makes people sick.<br />
<br />
I have gained weight, this is true. I'm working at a sit-down job answering phones. I take meds that give me dry-mouth, so with all the talking, I'm thirsty all the time. Soda here is all of $.25 a can, so it's easy to drink Coke all the time. So yes, plump, plump, ugly fat arms, tummy, and face fat I've never had before.<br />
<br />
Which means kids saying, "Hey mom, come work out." "Hey L, I'm worried about my mom's health." Friends saying, "Hey, come work out at my house." And I stick my heels in the ground and say "LEAVE ME ALONE! If you loved me, you'd love me anyway. My looks wouldn't matter."<br />
<br />
Now I'm growing out of my clothes. THAT is reason to start working out, which is why I am doing it. NOT because everyone else can't stand the way I look. Well. Except L. He adores my body just the way it is. And his opinion is the one that matters, thank you very much. It's really hard to believe him, but I try to. Because he means it.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
I have a daughter who wants to clear the air. I haven't responded because I'm terrified that I'll be in a spot where it's "Just listen and don't speak" again. And I'll have to listen to everything I've done wrong again. It seems any time I have contacted her recently, I'm doing something wrong. So I'm being the baby and not responding. It's just easier not to. Yes, I'm aware that I'm choosing to be a coward. Currently it hurts to much to try to adult about this.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
I have another daughter who only loves me when she needs me. Mom, can I borrow (have) your art supplies. Mom can I use your make-up. Mom, can I use this or that? Mom, can you do this? Can you show me how to--? And then after that she hates me again. Won't talk to me. Ignores me if I'm right in front of her or is incredibly rude and disrespectful.<br />
<br />
She's angry at me for getting a divorce and leaving her dad. She's angry at me for being with L. She believes the poison being told to her by people I once thought were friends --- oh, they most definitely aren't. Wow, did I learn that in a truly sucky way.<br />
<br />
But she still needs me once in a while. And I give to her because I love her. I try to be there for her when I can. Even if it's only once in a blue moon and only because I'm her last option. She's still my baby, whether she wants to be or not.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Saturday I went to this vacation club presentation at 9:45 a.m. They called me and bribed me with a $100 restaurant gift card to get up and go early instead of at 1:45pm. I thought, COOL! I can go to dinner on that one day that's tomorrow and maybe have a fun night out with L.<br />
<br />
They lied!! It's NOT a gift anything. It's a discount card. A buy-one, get-one card. Anyone want it? I'll mail it to you. Work gives me the same thing every year. If I could afford to go buy one/get one, I would already be doing that. But I currently have $1.37 in my bank account. Child support and the changes work made to the cost of insurance are killing me right now. I bought gas and groceries with what I had leftover after rent. So I can get to work, and I can eat. Yay for basics!<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
And then there's art. In the corner of my living room is this huge pile of ideas and sketchbooks. It's sitting there with the beginnings of projects that will never come to fruition. WHY I started an Etsy page, I have no idea. What was I thinking?? Why I even call myself an artist, I don't know. I've drawn some really cool things, but that was when I was in college and had to do it for assignments. Now? Now I don't know why I even bother thinking about ideas. Why did I buy this Wacom Tablet with super pressure sensitivity and tilt functions? WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING???<br />
<br />
---<br />
Everything just sucks.<br />
<br />
I really need it to be two days from now so I can start to be human and non-emotional again. Everything makes me want to cry right now. And that's just stupid. Feeling all sorry for myself isn't healthy for anyone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-78083195274981678022019-06-04T11:50:00.001-06:002019-06-05T14:19:20.690-06:00Babbling about my qualitiesI've been thinking about my qualities as a partner...<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Good things:<br />
<br />
1- I don't get jealous or insecure over past girl-friends. I don't mind discussions of past girlfriends or relationships. I don't mind specifics. I don't feel like there are comparisons that devalue me. They're part of someone's past which has influenced who they are today.<br />
<br />
2- I don't get jealous or insecure over people-watching. In fact, the artist in me will point out people I think are gorgeous so I don't have to enjoy the eye candy alone. I consider the lights and shadows, bone structure, and curvature, while sketching and drawing in my head. I'll look at the comics and other images right along-side them and make observations. /shrug. The human form is beautiful and amazing.<br />
<br />
3- I will forgive just about anything. Except consistent anger, demeaning myself or my children, and constant yelling at loved ones. And really, I can say that I TRIED to live with that for a very, VERY long time. (Ok, so in my whopping 46 years on this planet, 26 years feels like an enormously long time.)<br />
<br />
4- Not doing the dishes? Picking up your socks? Leaving dishes at your desk? Meh. There are bigger things in life to worry about than clutter. I'll clean it up if I have an issue. I expect the same in return.<br />
<br />
5- I don't expect a guy to listen to me all the time. I talk to my cat, I talk to the air. I talk to my food, my fingers, my shoes. I talk all the freaking time.<br />
<br />
If I want my guy to actually hear what I'm saying, I tap him on the shoulder and get his attention. Once eye contact is made, then I can expect him to listen and remember whatever it is I am saying. Otherwise, I really don't expect him to care about or acknowledge my constant babbling.<br />
<br />
6- I don't give one flying fig about financial status. Money issues happen. They're a thing. Perfect credit, bad credit, whatever. I love a person for who they are. How they treat me is way more important to me than dollars or numbers. As long as they're working and not expecting me or the world to take care of them when they're perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, I have no issues or expectations. Treat me like a queen and I'll happily live in a cardboard box with you.<br />
<br />
7- I'm funny. I'll play and tickle and randomly make you laugh. Just because playing is FUN! I'll try to drag you to new experiences just to see what they're like. I'll also sit at home in front of the computer next to you, perfectly content.<br />
<br />
8- I love deeply and accept a person as a whole - imperfections, bad things, good things, wonderful things, scary things. And I don't give up on someone easily. (See #3)<br />
<br />
<br />
Bad Things:<br />
<br />
Reasons I'm <b>not</b> easy to partner with:<br />
<br />
1 - I'm grumpy in the mornings. I don't growl <b>at</b> my partner, but I do growl *near* him. So if they tend to take my growling personal, well, that sucks. For me and them. And if I haven't eaten, I'm even more bitchy. About stupid things. Why is that driver doing that thing? They're SO STUPID! Why does this earring fit so wrong. It's stupid!! And it's 7:30 in the morning!! Whoever invented mornings was evil and I hate them. And I can't find that sock or that shoe and GARRRRRR. And the cat has to have his litter all over the ENTIRE house??<br />
<br />
You know, that kind of stuff. I'm fairly sure it's not exactly fun to listen to every morning. The really crazy thing is that in all my growly growliness, I expect people to recognize that I'm in that mode until it rights itself. I am *always* surprised if/when someone get upset about it.<br />
<br />
My partner, L, thinks my bitching and growling is hilarious. So that works. And then he'll feed me so I cheer up. He doesn't take it personally -- which is easy for him since none of it is directed at him. He just accepts it as one of my quirks. Which is great, because I'm sure it can be frustrating.<br />
<br />
(Note my unforgivable thing, #3, up top? Hi pot, I'm kettle.) I rationalize my behavior as being ok because I'm not telling people I love that they are stupid or lazy or awful because they ate a piece of cheese without putting it on a piece of bread. But I do know that grump really isn't ok. It's a thing of mine in the "con" column.<br />
<br />
2 - I worry over things I can't control. I stress over being able to pay rent and buy food even when reality says it's all ok.<br />
<br />
3 - My feelings can get hurt easily. Then I have to logic myself into realizing that what was said wasn't even aimed at me. Or if it was, work through it and not let it have rent-free space in my brain.<br />
<br />
4 - I have a mental illness that affects my emotions. I can't always control them. I am doing much better, so I can control them 80% of the time now. Which is HUGE!!! But there are still times that the funk is the funk and I just have to work through it until I am able cheer up simply because I want to.<br />
<br />
5 - I am insanely insecure when I meet new women. Women scare the hell out of me. Faceless people I've never met? Meh, who cares. But real life? In person? OMGosh you have boobs and indoor plumbing and I have to be in the same room with you??? Kill me now.<br />
<br />
It takes me forever to feel like I measure up. Even longer to really, REALLY, decide friendship is an okay thing with a "her". Me: married for 26 years to an only son with four sisters. FOUR sisters; 26 years later and I don't really know any of them, nor my mother-in-law. Because female. -- yes, I have issues.<br />
<br />
Unless that person and I click. That's a rare thing, but I love it when it happens. I can count on one hand the women who don't count as people. They count as part of me.<br />
<br />
Now, give me a room full of guys and I'll be chatting and playing and goofing off without a care in the world. -- which could be a problem if my other half had jealousy issues? But it's never been a thing.<br />
<br />
I do NOT understand the possessive jealousy thing. But I also understand that I'm weird.<br />
<br />
6 - I'll sit at home in front of the computer, perfectly content, and forget that you exist for a time. Until I see you gesturing for a hand-hold. Or a kiss. Or you need to ask me a question.<br />
<br />
7 - I have all kinds of great, wonderful, beautiful ideas that I kind of start and then talk myself out of. ALL THE TIME.<br />
<br />
8 - I hide when I'm upset, scared, insecure, depressed, feeling like a failure, etc. If I'm not happy with myself, I will hide. I hide in my bed. I hide in computer games. I hide in books. I'm very, very good at hiding.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm sure I have other issues that drive people up a wall and far, far away. I don't know what they are, but I'm sure they exist.<br />
<br />
<br />Edit: 6/5/19 -- This was on my mind because I noticed that L tells me often the various reasons he loves me. That's pretty awesome compared to the "I don't know why I love you. But I do," answer I got for a couple of decades. Just sayin'<br />
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-76637121205893465572019-04-07T18:57:00.004-06:002019-04-07T18:59:21.482-06:00Cleaning is Cathartic??Ok, so I know cleaning can be cathartic. I just didn't expect the boil-over of anger that burned through my soul as I was scrubbing grease off of my stove this afternoon.<br />
<br />
Earlier in the day I was doing great. Feeling calm, peaceful, happy. Listened to the morning session of General Conference. Sat down and read a book. Went and did laundry when prodded by L. Who hugged me and looked at me with this goofy grinny look and called me his queen and made me melt all over with gratitude and love and conviction that I'd fight anyone and do anything for this man. Then we came home and vacuumed, noticed the counters were in need of a good cleaning, and then BAM! Not so good.<br />
<br />
Pissed off. Angry. Scrubbing for all I was worth as years of resentment and anger poured out into the suds.<br />
<br />
Who worked two jobs with two toddlers for years? Me. Why? Because Mr. Man had racked up TEN credit cards that needed paying off. And then got sick and was in the hospital for a month. Lost his job. And then didn't want to apply for another one when he was recovered.<br />
<br />
I had to call his mom, who then bullied him into putting in applications and wrote a resume for him. Bought him dress clothes for interviews.<br />
<br />
Mr Man who was upset when I quit my job to be a stay at home mom because -- believe it or not, I don't care,-- God TOLD me to. Audibly. Sternly. "You need to BE A MOM. YOUR CHILDREN NEED YOU." And they did. So I did.<br />
<br />
So he quit his. Because his job was expecting him to try to sell stuff, and he didn't like sales.<br />
<br />
And then got sick again and nearly died when we couldn't pay bills. And had both kidneys removed because he has this horrible disease, and my brother gave him a kidney to keep him alive. And my kids were traumatized and my oldest needed anger management therapy. I miscarried twins and it was this big huge thing we all lived through while living with his parents.<br />
<br />
And then when he was better, he again refused to get a job because he was disabled because he'd had a transplant. Although he wasn't disabled. He was in great health. His version of a job was Primerica, which IS SALES!!!<br />
<br />
And I shook with anger as these memories rolled over me, pissed off and angry that I did my best to raise my kids, to get a degree I could use if he died. And he was angry that I wasn't using my degree to get a job.<br />
<br />
And I was angry. ANGRY that he had a degree that he refused to use. He'd started school again to work in IT and didn't finish. He racked up thousands of dollars in student loans that will never be paid off.<br />
<br />
I'm angry that after I left, I found out that apparently he'd been doing all the work raising the kids, cleaning the house, while I just sat around and did nothing. For 26 years.<br />
<br />
Now. I did a lot of nothing while in the depths of depression. This is true. But I was always changing diapers, potty training, and doing what little I could when I was sunk low in the depths. But when I wasn't, I was doing Girl Scouts and involved and doing my best to teach and play and read and volunteer at schools, braid hair at midnight and worry and feel guilt over all the things I did wrong and, and, and, and, you know... all that stuff that goes into momhood that no one ever really understands until they've been a mom. Or a parent figure.<br />
<br />
AND that whole time trying to deflect Mr. Man's anger from them to me. Because I could take the irrational shouting and yelling about people not pushing the garbage far enough down. Or eating the wrong piece of cheese without putting it on bread. Or opening a bag of cheese when there was one already open. The shouting and anger that would go on for half an hour or more. That had my daughters convinced life wasn't even worth living because they could never do anything right. Could never please him.<br />
<br />
Angry at the years of effort I put in, trying to change, trying to be good enough, trying to measure up and consistently failing. Angry that my marriage experience has more bad memories than good.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. There were good things. I have six kids. There was at least one part of the marriage that worked. But the constant anger we lived with overshadows everything.<br />
<br />
I shook and ground my teeth as I scrubbed. Decided I should probably write this out. Because if it's bubbling up, it must be ready to leave.<br />
<br />
You know anger is a secondary emotion, right? It covers hurt. Anger is so much easier to feel than the pain. And oh boy does it hurt. It hurts that I was never, ever good enough. Not good enough to try to work and provide for. Not good enough to try to control a temper. Not good enough, period.<br />
<br />
It hurts so much that the idea of ever getting married again makes me want to slap the person who invented the idea of shackling me to someone, telling me I'd live happily ever after ... FOREVER.<br />
<br />
Yeah, well, I don't want forever with that. I refuse to have forever with that. I'm worth more than that. And I much prefer the happiness I've found now, even if it is only for this life, than what I had before. Because what I had before hurt. It picked away at me until I broke.<br />
<br />
I have an awesome support system. I have so much to be grateful for. So much in life to look forward to and live for. I don't want to spend my life resenting the last 26 years. I don't want to spend the rest of my life bitter and angry.<br />
<br />
I am lovable. I am loved. And that is amazing.<br />
<br />
I feel so much better after writing that all out.<br />
<br />
Run-on sentences be damned, that felt good to purge.<br />
<br />
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-51163276491954438662019-03-04T12:21:00.000-07:002019-03-04T17:33:50.025-07:00Emotions. I have them.Today my car decided to overheat on the way to work. Massively. Not completely destructively, but bad enough that we sat on the side of the freeway for 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
My interpretation of the terminology is this: my car is allergic to its radiator fluid, threw up most of it in my parking stall last night, and continued to spew out what we force fed it on the limping drive home. My poor mechanical baby is sick.<br />
<br />
I have no skills in the area of fixing this. This terrifies me on that level that hates feeling out of control.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Money stuff is currently out of my control. I don't have a cushion of emergency funds large enough to fix this. Moving into this apartment pretty much ate everything I had as well as putting me in debt. Everything else extra I've had went into Christmas, getting a new mattress and month-to-month upkeep. What cushion I put aside every paycheck has enough in it right now for a month's worth of groceries and gas.<br />
<br />
Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, Rent is due tomorrow. So there's that.<br />
<br />
I hate being out of control. It's scary and crazy and I panic for a bit. Which is okay, so long as I don't wallow in it. Writing this is helpful for me to get the panic and fear and terror out.<br />
<br />
This will probably be one of the least organized posts because I need to ramble about the feels. So if you're a grammar nazi or writer, this is probably going to offend your senses. I'm sure I didn't catch all the wrong words or typos. I tried. But I *always* need a line editor when I'm thinking clearly. Today I'm definitely not. So, to anyone who reads beyond this point you've been forewarned.<br />
<br />
The first thing I panicked about was getting to work. Not only that, but missing a day of work because I was so sick two weeks ago I went into the negative on my sick time. And oh my gosh now I have to figure out bus and train schedules.<br />
<br />
On top of that is the knowledge that I am not super capable of reigning in this level of emotion within a few minutes. Or a few hours. Because right now, I'm running on adrenaline and babbling verbiage.<br />
<br />
The need to just talk about what's going on inside my head makes the very idea of answering calls and solving problems laughable. Not losing my mind over the constant sad stories?? Or finding the brain power required to figure out some of the complicated issues -- well, that's just not happening today.<br />
<br />
Seriously, I stalled out just realizing that it's $10 a day for public transportation for L and I to get to/from work. Just stared blankly at L as he told me the costs while I nodded my head and said "Yes. I can do that." I do have those emergency funds sitting in that jar on my dresser. I can even cover L's portion of that if he needs me to. (He doesn't. And he wouldn't let me unless there were no other options.)<br />
<br />
But I LIKE having that extra cash sitting there on my dresser. I don't WANT to use it. I want to keep adding to it, not reduce it.<br />
<br />
Then logic kicked in. Options. There are always other options. There are people at work who live really close to us. (And thankfully L and I work at the same place.) Carpools and temporary ride-shares are a possible thing. Oh look, options!<br />
<br />
The next thing that kicked in: I've lived through worse.<br />
<br />
Having my car be unusable, possibly even needing to be replaced, is not the most horrific or scary thing that has happened in my life.<br />
<br />
That time my husband was in the hospital for over a month, dying from kidney failure? And we had to move in with his parents? And I miscarried twins? Yeah, THAT was a much harder time that this.<br />
<br />
That time we had two weeks to move out of our house because the lawyers we paid forgot about us and didn't get paperwork filed? Yeah, THAT was much harder than this.<br />
<br />
That time my husband was in the hospital for a month and then had massive surgery that pretty much cut him in two, while I was working two jobs and had a 3 yo and an 18 mo old and was shuttling kids between sitters and getting three or four hours a sleep a night for two years??... yeah, THAT was harder than this.<br />
<br />
So putting today's stutter into perspective with the other hard things in my life helps. I'm still feeling the feels, but I also know this is going to work out. I don't know how. And that's okay. I just know it will.<br />
<br />
Also putting things into perspective: L was able to determine the problem. Knew how to convince the car to get home. Was able to communicate with my brother the issue. They can do the mechanical talk and figure out the best option. He's come up with things in his control financially to help deal with the situation.<br />
<br />
He's also doing the feels thing in that manly-man way. "I should be more flush so I can take care of this. I need to be able to take better care of you. You deserve someone able to make sure things like this are just a small hiccup."<br />
<br />
*blink*<br />
<br />
Yeah, that bit made me blink in surprise. I'll even tell you why:<br />
<br />
I don't talk about this next bit publicly, but the emotions are here, so I'm going to anyway.<br />
<br />
Usually I'm the one who has to hold it together. Usually the other half is saying things like, "I can never catch a break. This is so bad, I don't know what we're going to do. What are we going to do? Why is everything so horrible to me? I don't even know why I try." And then I comfort and try to convince that it's going to work out. And I find that second job or I do whatever I can do to solve the problem and prove to him that, See? It really is okay. (Toward the end, though, I put my foot down about some things. The two job thing? Not an option for ME. I already did that, thank you very much. But he can take a turn. You know, if he's willing to.)<br />
<br />
This is the first time my other person has hugged me and said, "Go ahead and cry. It's going to all be okay. I'm having the same panic, but it's going to all be okay." And meant it. I didn't have to be the one doing all the reassuring.<br />
<br />
Do you have any idea how awesome that is??<br />
<br />
There wasn't any blame being thrown around. (I'm not going to quote that part. It's not worth remembering and definitely not worth reliving.) There were no fingers being pointed. Just a, "This wasn't something that could be prevented or even predicted. It just was. It's an old car. Not anybody's fault," when I started to apologize all over the place and worry that I hadn't done enough maintenance.<br />
<br />
Words of reassurance. Words of comfort in a time of "AAAAH Unexpected Issue!!"<br />
<br />
K, this is pretty darn wonderful.<br />
<br />
I'm going to say this because I mean it: I'd much rather have this person who *wants* to take care of me, who cares about how I feel, who treats me like I'm the most important thing in his universe, than all the money or cars or things in the world.<br />
<br />
Ohmyholyfreakinggosh, I'm more important than a broken car!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
Do you have any idea how amazing that feeling is? It's freaking fantastic!!! And it's a NEW feeling. And it's a REAL THING!!!!! This is a thing! I'm more important than whatever thing went wrong today!!!<br />
<br />
I will never, not ever, be sorry for getting divorced. For then finding a friend who turned into being so much more. For feeling that mutual support I've heard of my whole life but never experienced.<br />
<br />
The crap that happens now, because life, proves this to me every single time. It's all bearable. It's all going to be fine. Because I have a partner who bears the crap with me. It's an even load. I don't have enough words for how awesome a feeling that is. I've shouldered so very much, It's nice to have someone willing to shoulder it with me. I will never take this for granted. (If I ever do, someone slap me)<br />
<br />
Emotions. Too many to name. Panic, terror, aaaaaaaaaaah!!!!! Hugs, comfort, loves, more hugs. Gratitude. Overwhelming love. More gratitude.<br />
<br />
I can do this. I can handle this. We can handle this. I can gird my loins with my big-girl panties and do what I always do: find a way to get around/over/under the hurdle. And this time it's not so hard at all because I have someone working with me.<br />
<br />
I just want to shout out that gratitude to the universe. Yep, my lack of transportation sucks. #FirstWorldProblems. But I have so much awesome in my life that this isn't a major set-back. It's just a bump in the roller-coaster of life.<br />
<br />
Deep, cleansing breath.<br />
<br />
Wow, expressing that felt really good. I even had the tears while writing it.<br />
<br />
And now that the feels have been expressed, I can get on with getting on.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-43013720905485311362019-02-06T12:21:00.000-07:002019-02-06T12:21:39.882-07:00Writing Wednesday: Shadowrun: Whisper's brainstorm.Every other Saturday I play Shadowrun. When I first created this character, I had rudimentary knowledge about how the game worked, absolutely no idea how to play a caster, and pretty much relied on the GM and one of my gaming buddies for help with the basic creation. So, here I am, half a year later without much clue who this gal is and why she does what she does.<br />
<br />
As I did for my D&D character, I am doing an introduction diary entry. Well, that's the plan. After I work through my thoughts on Whisper's stats and creation and stuff, it will probably be me freestyle writing as I figure out her motivations and back story.<br />
<br />
Here's what I'm working with:<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
She's an Elf; a Hermetic Mage who specializes in summoning/banishing. Her primary function is healer/protector/utility. At first, she was also the face for the group, but our group dynamics changed a few months later when we got a new player. When that happened I had a much better handle on what skills I needed, what I didn't, and things I'd do to personalize her a bit. The GM told me go ahead and re-create her from scratch.<br />
<br />
So. Whisper is a full-blooded elf who's a hermetic mage, extremely well educated, and she's a runner. Why?? She has degrees in anatomy & physiology, quantum mechanics, astral theory, magical theory, arcane history, and photography. This build I bought her an astral camera in addition to a regular one just to give her some kind of hobby for personality quirks.<br />
<br />
sidenote: Another quirk: While hermatic, she talks to and treats her summoned spirits well. Um. Or tries to. Sure she considers them a creation born from her magical manipulation of matter, but they each have personalities. So she reacts to them accordingly because she's curious. Several of them state quite loudly that they want to go back where they came from. So she's not entirely convinced anymore that she "creates" them. Anyway, she's a unique hermatic chica who is not a shaman. For reals. Not even kidding.<br />
<br />
I also gave her a British accent when I re-did her. Because elf. This totally threw off one of my party members, and I've been a little embarrassed to do the accent since then. I'll get over it. I like the Mary Poppins voice.<br />
<br />
Negative Qualities:<br />
* don't ask her to hold/use a firearm. As smart as she is, those things confuse the hell out of her and she'd end up trying to take it apart or do something even more stupid with it.<br />
* Low pain tolerance. -- see that big air elemental who follows her around everywhere? Yeah, he's there as a bodyguard because she's *really* squishy.<br />
* Weak Immune System. -- Again, see that Force 6 elemental bodyguard? She's a delicate flower. <br />
Yeah... At two physical or stun damage, she's got negatives.<br />
<br />
<b>Basic Stats:</b><br />
Body: 3, Agility: 3, Reaction: 3, Str: 3, Willpower: 5, Logic: 5, Intuition: 3, Cha: 6, Essence: 6,<br />
Edge: 2, Magic: 6. <br />
<br />
<b>Contacts:</b><br />
She has a beat-cop friend with a loyalty of 5 but contact rating of 2. Apparently His mom is a detective, higher up in the Lone Star police force and she's sort of adopted me and wants me to check in once in a while. My buddy, though, sometimes he's cool and capable. Sometimes he gets mom in on whatever it is I need help with. I need to flesh this out.<br />
<br />
There's a Mr. Johnson, contact of 5, loyalty of 2. Victor Vallejo. All I really know about him is he contacts our team lead or our new face w/ jobs. How did I even get to know him??<br />
<br />
There's a Talismonger, connection 4, loyalty 2. NO clue about this guy. I've had to bother them once; it was during the current module we're running and this one is a "play the module, reset to normal when it's done" adventure. So I'm not really counting the one meeting with him/her as in-game fact. That being said, I could probably use that info to build on.<br />
<br />
I know Whisper loves clothes. Especially the floaty whispy kind that are more translucent in nature. Her body armor? Well, she wears it when she must, but she kinda hates that jumpsuit. She prefers skirts and loose shirts/scarves that get picked up by the small breeze her elemental creates. I kinda think she wants to fly like the wind herself. Huh. Noted. Anyway, She has a low lifestyle, so she's super great at the bargain shopping. (Negotiation skill of 8, so she does okay.) She collects glass figurines of dragonflies, butterflies, and other pretty flying things. (Another girly addition I gave her on this rebuild.)<br />
<br />
She's also not shy about her thoughts/feelings. I discovered on my first attempt at Shadowrun that I am incapable of playing a character who is shy and doesn't want to be noticed. Ever. One of my gaming buddies had to keep telling me my character didn't say that. No, she wouldn't have said that, either. No, shut up and let the other kids do the talking.<br />
*cough*<br />
Lesson learned. THIS character *would* say that. In fact, this character isn't shy at all. One of the first runs we did, she helped "distract" some guards we took to a night club so our pick-pocket could lift the mark's security badge. The guys still tease me endlessly about that particular session.<br />
<br />
So. How did a well-educated mage drop down to a low lifestyle, Running for her money, using a fake SIN to stay off the radar of the corporations in Seattle? Does her family know? Do they care? What the heck was her family life even like?<br />
<br />
Something happen at university? Something happen with her parents? Did she learn/ see something she shouldn't have and got framed? Maybe running was the best way to put her knowledge of healing and magic to use without having to be a doctor? aaaand, if that's the case, why would that be worth getting bullets/magic shot back at her? um. The money's good? not that good. Well, okay, yes, sometimes it really is. She could upgrade her lifestyle now if she wanted to. But that's now. Not when she started.<br />
<br />
Someone would have needed a healer. Or a spirit to do something. Someone she knew, or kind of knew on campus. Ever curious, she was a bit egotistical about her abilities? Because she's so well educated and all that. Maybe she went on the run for a simple pop & swap and things went really bad. Maybe she learned she could use her skills on the run/under pressure/while bullets were flying.<br />
<br />
oooh, what if whatever she did with that group was noticed by someone else? . her face/name associated with...something that is obviously not anything her beat-cop friend would want to lock her up for. hmmm. Maybe it was an internal thing at the university? She had to leave the school, but whatever it was for would be an embarassment to the deans/etc, so they're not actively hunting her, but they'd prefer she not be around?<br />
<br />
that's kind of too easy. Not really requiring a second identity. Something going wrong on a "we just need you this one time and it'll be fast"<br />
<br />
Maybe it didn't happen in Seattle. That could be a thing. Maybe she came to seattle because it wasn't safe to go home but seattle was close enough?<br />
<br />
Dad wanted her to be a professor, mom wanted her to be whatever she wanted. Now she's shunned from the school, dad is extremely displeased. She can't go home because ... because Dad would give her back to university? No. No, he's an elf. He's almost anti-human. He'd never let her leave the elf country again. He'd be impossible to live with, though. Mom, well, she's loving and supportive, but doesn't understand how her little girl could get into such trouble. It would be best if Whisper would just listen to her father. He knows best.<br />
<br />
I just channeled my mother there. Um. Sure, let's roll with it. Mom loves her, but follows dad's lead. ok then. I'll buy that for a dollar.<br />
<br />
So to avoid dad and to avoid being linked to whatever it was, she's hiding out in Seattle. Fake SIN achieved with the help of the guy who got her in trouble in the first place. Hook-up with the Mr. Johnson also happened through the same guy. Maybe she dated him? Met him in one of her math classes or something? And he's a human so dad really disapproved. I like that. But then shit hit the fan and so she had to leave... um... wherever has a super amazing university. Had to leave there and head somewhere waaaay opposite. So... let's say she was in London. Seattle is not only across the ocean, but also across the continent. Cool. Works for me.<br />
<br />
Got a few small jobs. Picked up as a healer for odd jobs, but didn't think about becoming a member of a team until she was offered this one when contacted about a team being put together. I don't like that sentence, but I know what I meant.<br />
<br />
K.<br />
<br />
Family girl: 1950's mom and dad. Goes off to college and dates the "enemy." Not only that, but additionally said enemy introduces her to the underground illegal life of shadowrunning. It'll just be this one time, sweety. We really just need you to bring an earth spirit so we can blah blah, and it'll be super quick. no one will see you or know it was you.<br />
<br />
except no, it wasn't simple. Yes, she was seen. She lost everything in that life and had to start another one.<br />
<br />
I can run with that. tomorrow I'll come up with names and details and get an actual journal introduction written. Yay brainstorming!<br />
Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-86783411056758105532019-02-04T16:16:00.003-07:002019-02-04T16:34:59.175-07:00Those Damned DemonsFriday night I had an experience that reinforced the why's of my divorce. I'm not going to go into detail.<br />
<br />
What I will say is that the rest of the weekend I struggled with the old familiar insecurities that I thought I'd fought through and won.<br />
<br />
Why am I not lovable?<br />
What is so very, very wrong with me??<br />
Why am I not worth any effort?<br />
Why don't I deserve the same treatment as a stranger on the street?<br />
<br />
You'd think after 26 years I'd have the answers to these questions.<br />
<br />
I don't.<br />
<br />
Logically, I know the truth: I *am* lovable. I *do* deserve the same politeness and respect that a stranger on the street receives.<br />
<br />
However, wow, once these demons get resurrected, they are nasty little insidious buggers that take a LOT of effort to shut up and silence.<br />
<br />
Let me tell ya, I'm quite aware of my imperfections. I can write a big long list if anyone's curious. I tend to rip up and/or burn the list once I flip and describe two positive attributes for each negative -- but trust me, I can make a list!<br />
<br />
One of the wonderful things about life is that most people are lovable in spite of - or because of - their imperfections. And happy day, I'm one of those. Some people even find a few of my idiosyncracies adorable.<br />
<br />
There was a reason I left and I'm a stronger person for having the guts to do it. And to stick with it.<br />
<br />
It's nice that I can talk to myself about it, but it's even better when I get a hug from someone I trust who reinforces that I am loved. No matter what.<br />
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-60900128777950458622019-01-30T11:04:00.000-07:002019-01-31T20:42:41.301-07:00Wednesday Writing: D&D JournalI play D&D 5e every other Friday and after having some rp issues, I decided that I needed to write a journal entry for my character. This accomplishes two things for me:<br />
1 - I am writing!<br />
2 - I begin to understand the character more, so my role-playing choices are more in line with <i>her</i> not with <i>me</i>.<br />
<br />
This time around, I picked a paladin. Never played a paladin before, but every pally I've played with has been a self-righteous law abiding member of society. Sooooo, I went a different route.<br />
<br />
Stipulations of the game: We all had to be human. No, we didn't get the human bonus. We were given specific stats to apply as we wished: 18, 18, 14, 14, 10, 8<br />
<br />
My stats ended up as follows: STR 14, DEX 10, CON 18, INT 8, WIS 14, CHA 18<br />
<br />
Those of you familiar with gaming stats will recognize the significance of an 8 intelligence. It makes for some really fun game-play. It also explains the grammar and thoughts in the journal entry below.<br />
<br />
<b>Widget's Introduction</b><br />
Read this with a super-thick Russian accent and you're good to go.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
They call me Widget. Why, I do not know. I am certain it is
not the name I was graced with, but my parents, they have not been to correct for
long time. That is the thing with names, I have found. What people call you,
that is what you are called. So I am called Widget.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My country, Lioness, it is beautiful and wonderful. It is
also filled with power hungry “nobles” –ha!— constantly with the fighting over who gets this piece of shrubbery or that part of hill. This makes for very
interesting lifestyle for rest of us. We get to see entire country before age
12!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You build house or cottage one day. You plant field next
day. Three days after, all is burning because Lord Anatoly’s uncle’s brother’s
aunt’s best friend’s cousin wanted to pick fruit off that tree, and Lady Sasha
said, “Not today. Come tomorrow after tea.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I become Widget. In all my travels, I see nobles rise, I
see them fall. Everything changes. So I do, too. My two younger sisters,
Katrena and Vidina, they survive even today because I do what I must to keep
them in clothes and food. It not always be tasty, but it fits in the stomach,
so that is good. I keep them in laughter, and that is even better. Laughter may
not warm the toes, but it warms the soul. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Warming the toes, well, is easy enough: Relieve lords and
ladies of heavy wool loads they bear. So heavy, they are stored in wooden
drawers. I do my patriotic duty by storing their burdens on my sisters’ feet.
Perfect solution!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lords, bah, they may have the power today, but maybe
tomorrow they be the one with the burned house and fields. Or maybe resting uncomfortably
in bed, not knowing why they pee green for a month. Strange things what certain
herbs dropped accidentally in a well can do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps I am not greatest at picking the locks, but I am
good enough. I am not greatest at the sneaking, but I was much better before Watch
leaders dressed me in half-plate, trying pull me from Vidina and Katrena to use my skills to fight the evil. Was
problem until they agreed my sisters be taken care of. Put in school, warm beds.
I not worry about them so I can worry about fighting what comes through the
veil. So okay. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now my goddess, the incredible and wonderful Leira, she
grant me the power of laughter and trickery, and I use it to slay the demons from veil. I charge in first because why not? I have shield,
I have sword, I have power of laughter. Anyway, is better me first than the
others who are not so good at getting hit. Or are too good at getting hit, yes?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have met the holy holy holy warriors. So very serious. So
very… what is word… religious? Proper? No, Boring. So very boring. Is much
better to bless and sanctify the desecrated with a bad joke – or good joke sometimes – than with the prayers that go on and on and on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their gods, they have power, yes. Gets job done. But the
smiles, smirks, and snorts of laughter when I am done quickly is very
satisfying. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now I fight the evil instead of fight for food. I have
team, we are the Watch for little outpost in middle of nowhere along eastern
edge of veil. The sea, it smells very interesting. I have never seen the sea.
But to look at the veil separating us from the dead beyond, well, that is
something no one in right mind can do for long. Cannot see the waves through veil.<br />
<br />
No matter. Can make waves in bowl with water. Same thing! Put my
little Nibbles in the water and get even more waves as he swims and swims. Feed him some crumbs, could be sand as the shore, yes?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My companions, they are mixed as the lands we traveled to
get here. There is evil thief Kezdaya. She fights the big evil with her little
evil, so ok. She has nose in books all the time. Words, words, words. Always
the talking, always the books. Bah! Words, they mean nothing. The actions, they
mean everything. She will learn this. Maybe after she die, but she will learn
it eventually. Also, is very good with her crossbow. One day it will be my
death. Will be great joke from my goddess! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is drunk monk Bataar. He is amazing at the fighting
and the stabbing and the punching. Also very good at the getting hit. Perhaps
this why he prefers to stay drunk? He drinks all the ale in the cellar. Leaves
us with nothing. Makes for a lot of glaring and muttering. But is okay. His
room, we give to our “dirt mage.” (I learn this term from innkeeper with the
sad eyes.) I declare this fair. No ale for us, no room for him!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is our dirt mage Asha. She is earning much of my
respect with her jokes and teasings to the thief. Makes into a very good bat.
Also speaks with the dogs and mule. And cats. Follows the thief as cat or dog,
which makes thief jumpy jumpy. This makes me laugh! My goddess, she is very
happy with this druid. Asha also very good at the healing. This is good for
thief and monk. They two very allergic to the arrows and the swords and
the spells.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is singing rich boy Eras. His father this, his father
that, again with the words. BUT! His words, they heal. His singing, it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i>. Half his words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> the action, so is good. Other half,
well, he is spoiled pretty boy who cannot get his hands dirty. He is much
better with his words than the thief, I give him that. But the complaining to
daddy for everything deserves much eyerolling and mocking. Plenty get through
life with no papa and see? Just fine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am healthy, I have roof, I have skills. I have amazing
Goddess. All is good for me and I lost papa many years ago. But there are
always the complaints about mess. What mess? I repair and fix armor as needed.
Getting hit with swords and spells is no good! I need armor. But the scratches
and dirt? They give character. Tell the story of what has
been faced and defeated. But always with the thief and the bard is bathe,
bathe, bathe. Why? So she can steal armor when I am in the water? No. This, it
is not happening. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My little Nibbles and I, we will continue to face the evil,
continue to joke, and he will squeak with laughter when he nibbles on corner of
thief’s books, and I will laugh when we defeat next burning skeleton.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-64322144498358003832018-10-19T13:32:00.005-06:002018-10-19T13:32:58.845-06:00Ick. Money issues suckThere's a long story behind my life at this point, but for the next little while, I'm the parent who gets to pay child support.<br />
<br />
For those in the know about why I'm getting divorced, I'll just say that he asked quite strongly for the opportunity to actually BE a dad. In order for him to make that possible, I felt he needed to be the full-time parent. Because if he is going to really do it, really be there for them, my children deserve that. My young ones aren't happy about it, not happy about the divorce itself, but it is what it is.<br />
<br />
Aaaaaaanyway<br />
<br />
My divorce isn't even final yet, but ORS has gotten involved. They have decided the amount determined by Davis County Court system's online help system is about $100 too little per paycheck. AND they objected to the way we'd agreed to handle healthcare for the kids. No, I don't have to pay all of it, but I do have to pay half.<br />
<br />
This sounds like I'm a horrible mother who doesn't want to take care of her babies. That is not the case. What IS the case is that this impacts my ability to pay rent and buy groceries and pay utilities so that I can live.<br />
<br />
When my kids come over, I need to have the funds to buy the extra groceries. I need to be able to buy them shoes and pumpkins for school projects and things that sometimes get overlooked.<br />
<br />
I was just given the quote for my health insurance, and I'm not going to lie - I'm panicking a bit. Money issues always make me panic. Especially when it threatens having a roof over my head.<br />
<br />
There's nothing like the memory of being evicted in the middle of a Wyoming blizzard at the age of 10 with nowhere to go but the car to make current reality hard to resolve.<br />
<br />
My roommate continues to tell me it's going to be ok. He's done the math and shown me. He's not wrong. But my feels don't agree with the logic.<br />
<br />
Ever have that issue?Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-70436479725743250912018-09-30T04:34:00.000-06:002018-10-01T04:49:35.054-06:00One year later and another post about deathOne of my best friends died Saturday night.<br />
<br />
I suppose calling her my best friend is a true statement. She was by far a better friend to me than I was to her. We were opposites.<br />
<br />
She was an extrovert who loved company and to be surrounded by people. I am an introvert who is perfectly happy alone in my cave.<br />
<br />
She was agnostic. I am very religious. We learned quickly that one cannot argue faith with logic. But we also learned that it was pretty damned awesome to have differing points of view --and differing core values and beliefs -- yet still be able to be friends and confidants.<br />
<br />
She said what she thought. Period. I try to be as diplomatic as I can because I hate confrontation and I especially hate hurting people's feelings. She couldn't understand why people didn't see the logic in what she was saying, regardless of how she said it. Quite often she couldn't understand why others were offended.<br />
<br />
Saying that, it's understandable when I say that she was that one friend who got on my very last nerve, but I loved her anyway. Even when she hurt my feelings. And she loved me anyway. Even when my distance hurt her feelings.<br />
<br />
She was fun. She was imaginative. She loved books. She loved to giggle and was extremely ticklish. She hated the sun. She loved, loved, loved animals and nature. She'd offer the last twenty dollars in her bank account to any of her friends if she thought they needed it. She loved getting presents for people and took a lot of time picking out the right thing, wanting it to be something they'd love.<br />
<br />
She loved movies. She loved magic and worlds with different rules than ours. She immersed herself in World of Warcraft because she loved the mounts and the pets and the story lines and the achievements and the people she met online.<br />
<br />
26 years of friendship -- with its ups and downs almost like a marriage. And I'm angry. I'm angry at myself for not getting over some of the hurts enough to spend more time with her at the end. I'm angry that the cancer changed her personality, made her hard to be around, made her not-Peggy.<br />
<br />
I'm angry that I hurt so much, even though the cancer was eating her up from the insides out. At the end, she was starving to death because the tumors had grown into her intestines so much they were pinched completely off. She couldn't digest food because it couldn't get in there.<br />
<br />
Her death was a release from all of the discomforts and pain and frustrations she's had over the last five years. So many things in her body had stopped functioning properly.<br />
<br />
I'm angry that my last hours with her, giving her a last farewell foot-zone and putting her to sleep, were not enough. That I couldn't do much more than offer what temporary comfort I could. I couldn't fix anything.<br />
<br />
I could hug her. I could hug her husband. I could let her vent at me the same way she let me vent to her. Anything and everything was talked about in venting sessions and there was no lasting judgement.<br />
<br />
I know that if she's existing on another plane she's released from her non-functioning body. (She firmly insisted death was death; there was nothing else but decomposition into her essential atomic bits - so she may very well refuse to exist in the afterlife out of pure stubbornness.) But if she's there, there's no more diabetes. No more super bad back pain from scoliosis. No more chronic fatigue. No more feeling the tumors growing inside of her. No more forgetting what she was saying halfway through her sentences.<br />
<br />
I know all this, I believe all this, and yet I'm here, angry, pissed off, wanting to flip off the world and stare at the wall and listen to sad, sad music because nothing feels right.<br />
<br />
There will be no Peggy logging into the game late at night wondering if anyone wants to do dailies. No texts telling me about the coolest book she'd just read. Or the yummy food Aaron made for dinner. Or the hummingbirds that came to visit the flowers she planted. Or the cute animals at the zoo she'd seen.<br />
<br />
*sigh*<br />
<br />
I thought typing my thoughts out would help me sleep. But it's not working.<br />
<br />
Instead I'm thinking of our goodbye. Which wasn't said. We just said, "I love you" as I left her hospital room. But before I left, she looked at me with her big green eyes and asked if I was happy. She wanted so badly for me to be happy.<br />
<br />
And that, at least, I could do. I could look her in the eye and assure her that I am happy. I love my life. It's not easy. Divorce sucks and it's hard, but my life is so much better now than it has been for... well, it feels like forever. Deep down the core of me is at peace. I feel good. I'm free, my wings can spread and fly, and I'm suddenly good enough. I'm still the same old me that I've always been, but that same old me is good enough and lovable and an okay person. Wow, that's amazing.<br />
<br />
So it wasn't hard to tell her that I'm happy. I feel like that would and did (and does) make her happy for me.<br />
<br />
It doesn't change the fact that I'm upset that she's gone. That I'm upset that cancer took her away long before she died. But now she's actually dead. Dead.<br />
<br />
I have a file of photos I took years ago during college called "Dead Peggy." She was a model I used for one of my art projects. Now that just seems so wrong.<br />
<br />
Death sucks. I don't care if it's a natural part of life. It sucks.<br />
<br />
Aaron's right; it's Sucktember. I'm glad it's over.<br />
<br />
I miss my grandma. I miss my Peggy.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-61525129939489285612017-09-01T01:21:00.000-06:002017-09-01T02:17:13.288-06:00My grandma died today.I've read accounts of people who were with loved ones at the time of death. It's supposed to be this peaceful, quiet last sigh where everyone is sad together but knows their loved one has moved on, guided by family and friends who preceded them to the afterlife. Everyone then continues with their lives, comforted through their grief, knowing that it will all be okay, fine, and dandy and the rest of us will feel that way, too.<br />
<br />
I'll tell you what it was like for me.<br />
<br />
Terrifying. Sweet. Horrible. Tender, yet gut-wrenching.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Grandma was surrounded by those who could get there in time to say goodbye. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and even her only great-great-granchild and his sister-to-come.<br />
<br />
We all got to hug her, kiss her, listen to her when she was lucid and laugh with her. Cry when she babbled and made no sense. And sit mournfully with each other while she slept. We as a family held hands, hugged, cried on shoulders, and felt each other's grief.<br />
<br />
For a while she was on assisted breathing. A b-pap for those of you who know what the heck that is. I don't. I don't want to know. I've heard, "Oh, it's like a c-pap, but not." Don't know what that is either. Whatever. I don't care, but for those who are interested, that's what she was attached to.<br />
<br />
The nurses turned it off while we were there. They gave her some pain medicine because her pneumonia made the breathing hard. After some family time talking to her, she was given some anti-anxiety medicine to help her relax through the coughing and breathing. That pretty much signaled the end.<br />
<br />
Grandma said the following things between long silences, coughing, and awful wheezing breaths: "I have my lover right here," as she grasped grandpa's hand every so tightly. She never let him go, the entire time. Their connection was adorable and heart-wrenching. "I'm so grateful I'll get to be with him again. I love him so much. I've spent the best 71 years with him." "I tried the best I could to do right by all of you." <br />
<br />
"Some lotion on my hands wouldn't be a bad thing." (At which point we all laughed and my uncles and aunts took turns rubbing in the lotion as they each held her hand)<br />
<br />
"What are you all doing here?"<br />
--"Well, we thought we'd drop in and say Hi."<br />
"Why thank you! Hi!" <br />
<br />
"I need to get up and get dressed. I need to go for a walk."<br />
--"What are you going to do on your walk, mom?"<br />
"Skip down the street!" <br />
(It took two aunts and an uncle to convince her she didn't have the energy to get out of bed, let alone get up and get dressed. She disagreed; said she had plenty of energy.)<br />
<br />
--"Grandma, your great-great grandson is here."<br />
"Oh good! How many of those do I have now?"<br />
"One!" (everyone answered this with a laugh)<br />
Daria put grandma's hand on her very pregnant tummy, "And this will be your second great-great grandchild. Her name will be ---"<br />
"Oh good, I'm so glad." (or something like that. At that point, I couldn't hear through my tears)<br />
<br />
Then more breathing. Wheezing. The waiting filled with gutteral soul-wracking moans that I can't describe, other than to say they were the sounds of her soul trying to separate from her body.<br />
<br />
Grandma needed to go, but part of her fought against it to the last. Those deep agonizing wails would come out, seemingly from every pore, and they now haunt my shadows. I can hear them in the wind.<br />
<br />
We gave her permission to go, told her we'd miss her. My oldest daughter came in and sang her a Jewish lullaby. The family sang primary songs. Still the moans persisted.<br />
<br />
How do people watch this and still manage to keep breathing? Witnessing her body not know how to let go of her spirit was just as painful as my own emotional agony.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
One of the most important people in my life was struggling to let go, and I couldn't do anything to help her.<br />
<br />
The little kid in me was panicked. Wanted to know what would happen to me now. Who would pick me up and love me and feed me and clothe me and provide that security that we never had in my youth. What if her death affected my entire timeline and I was abandoned completely in those early years? Abandoned. That's what it felt like. It felt like I was being abandoned all over again.<br />
<br />
Irrational yes, but she and grandpa were my stability. My home. My everything. Grandpa isn't complete without grandma. I don't know how to reconcile this abrupt change in my reality. <br />
<br />
When the adavan finally kicked in and knocked her out, the moans stopped. At that point, I had to go sit in the waiting room. I couldn't be there at the very, very end because the pain in my chest was too crushing.<br />
<br />
Grandma is a part of me. I'm proud of my heritage, proud of who she was and who she always strived to be. I'm grateful that Grandma could make us laugh at the end. Those memories will stick with me in honor of her spunky and fun personality. But they are accompanied by the darker skin-crawling sensation of life trying to crawl out of its tired 90 year-old shell.<br />
<br />
The cycle of life, they say. "The wheel turns 'round like a merry-go-round; it lets some off and it takes some on..." <br />
<br />
My daughter will be having a new daughter next month. One great woman leaves this realm while another soon-to-be great woman enters.<br />
<br />
I don't like it. I don't want it to be a universal truth. I don't want to let go. I'm angry that my favorite people have had to age and be in pain and discomfort. I hurt. I feel like my heart has been ripped to shreds, leaving me with the task of figuring out how to put it back together again.<br />
<br />
Platitudes like, "She's in a better place," or "She lived a long and wonderful life," Or "She's finally at rest," or "You'll see her again," are all things I already know. I already believe that. That doesn't make this any less traumatic.<br />
<br />
The hospital we were in has awful memories for me, anyway, but now I never want to set foot in it again. Ever. I think I'd rather be numb than feel all these feels. I love her so very deeply.<br />
<br />
I knew it would hurt when this day came. I didn't know it would hurt this bad or be so disturbing.<br />
<br />
As far as I am concerned, death is not a beautiful thing.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-71382861439227802942016-10-14T02:40:00.001-06:002016-10-14T02:41:24.735-06:00The Art of DramaWhen I was in High School, I lettered in Drama. I loved the the soliloquy the best. Getting into someone else's head and expressing that emotion from the depths of one soul was one of the things that got me through high school. I loved that. It was my escape. <br />
<br />
My children also are drawn to theatre and drama. It makes me happy to see them on stage singing, acting, getting to be someone else for a while.<br />
<br />
That's the happy kind of drama. I LIKE that kind of drama.<br />
<br />
And then there's the other kind of drama. The kind that tears and rips at your soul, trying to hurt your everything - intentionally or not. I usually think it's intentional because somewhere behind that drama lurks selfishness or extreme insecurity - or both.<br />
<br />
This week, month, no, last couple of months has been drama filled. And not with the good kind.<br />
<br />
Firstly, there's a wedding coming up in a day and a half. My 2nd daughter is getting married, and she has put a TON of effort into planning, crafting, and making sure everything is done and prepared on time. Her fiance works with her, and they take each other's opinions and feelings into account. Choosing the venue for the ceremony was a joint decision. The date of the wedding was a joint decision. The invitations were approved by him, while she picked the pictures. I could go on and on.<br />
<br />
I'm proud that they're working as a team.<br />
<br />
I want to scream in frustration at the drama surrounding the whole thing. It's a wedding. It's a celebration of two people coming together and pledging their lives to each other. And, most importantly - to me - is that it's my daughter's wedding. It's HER day. And someone else is trying to make it about them.<br />
<br />
Someone else is making her life miserable and instead of looking forward to this, we're all just hoping to survive it and get it overwith. Because drama. This other person will not stop with the temper tantrums (I am not kiddng. Adult temper tantrums) or the whining. Neither my daughter or her fiance should have to deal with that. The hardest part is that her fiance is the one directly being whined to.<br />
<br />
I'd love to shout their name and disparage them to the internet, but I won't. But I'm angry and protective of my daughter because someone else is trying to steal her day. These feelings are making me extremely anxious, and I dread having to do anything wedding related now.<br />
<br />
This wedding is something that I don't want other people to whine to me about. My daughter can complain to me about it, but I am not able to handle hearing other people complain about times, dates, or location. It's two days away. RSVP or not, just show up or don't show up at this point. Don't whine to me about it. I cannot handle it, and I don't want to hear it. It's happening whether anyone wants it to or not. <br />
<br />
Personally? I want this wedding to happen. These two make each other deliriously happy. He treats her with respect and honor - the way I would wish for any man to treat one of my daughters. She loves him and values his opinion. She takes his feelings into account when making any decision. I am kind of jealous of their relationship. (Ok, hers and my older daughters. Both have husbands who treat them as precious and valued partners.)<br />
<br />
Secondly: My husband lost his job a couple of months ago. Now, usually this means tightening the belt and getting through the job hunt. But it's been more drama filled than I can handle. I overreact and freak out about the food in the house. Or lack thereof. For a couple of weeks there I would look at the fridge in despair, trying so very hard not to revert to childhood.<br />
<br />
And the rent. Oh my goodness the rent. I do not want to lose my house. For the last two months, our landlords have been extremely gracious in letting the rent be late. They are not the cause of drama, I am. I had to cut my hours at work because the stress was making me inefficient at my job. I feel ineffective at life. I feel like I should be stepping up and fixing the situation, but I am emotionally and chemically unable to succeed at that. But I feel obligated and guilty that I can't fulfill that obligation.<br />
<br />
Thirdly: This parenthood thing. Drama. My adult children don't want to confide in me. It hurts. Being put on the 'direct to voice mail' and 'no return text' list makes my heart hurt. I honestly don't know what I've done. I would do my best to rectify it if I could, but I simply don't know. And that feels like drama to me.<br />
<br />
My smaller children feel the stress in the household and are acting it out. And I want to cry because more and more they are emulating the short fuse tempers, the harsh words, and the sometimes very mean things that they've heard from their father. Well, I have a temper and super grumpy moments, too, but ... well, maybe I am just as mean? I certainly hope not. But it's hard to see this behavior in my children. <br />
<br />
It's even worse given the fact that my 9yo has become terrified of the weather. Any wind, rain, thunder, anything, and she is reduced to a terrified ball of tears and worry. There is no logic to fear, and she won't listen to the logic and comforting words that I can think of to say, hug, reassure.<br />
<br />
I can't say she's needlessly worried, considering that there was a tornado in our area a couple of weeks ago. There were some massive thunder storms a few weeks prior to the tornado, some rumbles that shook the house - some lightning flashes that were right above our house and startled all of us.<br />
<br />
Fourth: Well, I am a drama queen myself. I feel something and I over-feel it. I recognize the hurt that is under my angry emotions, and I feel both so powerfully that at times I can only send myself to bed and hope the feelings go away. The pity parties over what I don't have and feel like I will never have. The frustration at having so many skills and talents and not being able to fully utilize them anymore. I am angry with myself for feeling this way, because I know very well that I draw on those skills in many different aspects of my life, even though I don't use them 40 hours a week.<br />
<br />
I'm angry that I need a doctor's note to prove that I am not capable of working more than part time. And that I have to repeat that it's not temporary. My BiPolar disorder is not going to just go away. Neither is the anxiety. I do what I can to manage it. I do hard things, but it's NOT GOING AWAY.<br />
<br />
And... there's me being dramatic. This morning I had to have a meeting with an employment counselor because we had to ask for state help. It's humiliating and awful, but it is what it is. She wants me to be able to work 30 hours a week, and given my management, training, and degrees, I should be able to find work. Yeah. I know that. I HAD management jobs before I became a stay at home mom.<br />
<br />
Yes, some days I will admit are simply lazy days. And some days are "hey, I made it out of bed today" Today is an "I need chocolate and lots of it because I'm an emotional ball of cry" day. Today I hate life. Everything - every single stressor, obligation, expectation, and hurt feels like it is weighing me down.<br />
<br />
I'm supposed to read this certain thing daily. I do, but today it just made me angry. I'm supposed to pray daily. Today I don't know how to have a conversation with god and sit there for five minutes and listen to him. I don't want to listen. I just want Him to fix things. I know, of course, that's not how life works, but that's how I want it right now. I want my children comforted, at peace. If they don't want that comfort from me, or if I'm unable to say the right words and offer the right things, that they can get that comfort and peace from some source. Any good source. I wish it were me, but I don't always get my way.<br />
<br />
So. whine, whine, whine, drama drama drama. I'm so picked on, me me me.<br />
<br />
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-49347032692499608262016-07-03T11:20:00.000-06:002016-07-03T11:41:10.275-06:00It was my birthday, so I had thoughts43 years ago at 12:48 pm on the 18th of June, my mother gave birth after 12 hours of labor.<br />
<br />
Completely natural: no pain meds, no husband in the room. In labor. For twelve hours. All to bring me into the world.<br />
<br />
12 hours may seem like a breeze to those who have horror stories, but to me the idea of being in labor for twelve hours makes me quiver in fear. The idea of doing it without pain meds?? AACK. <br />
<br />
Me, I had one child completely natural whose labor & delivery lasted all of 20 minutes. I was convinced I was going to die, that the nurses were trying to kill me, and vowed to never, ever, ever, EVER have a child without an epidural. In fact, I swore on tape I would never have another child because that experience sucked so bad. I STILL remember the pain. (I had four more kids, but it took almost 5 years before the next one came.)<br />
<br />
So 12 hours of labor? Oh heck ya, my mom is a super hero!! <br />
<br />
What did she get for all that hard work? One horrendously ugly baby. I'm not even joking. Teensy new little me was NOT pretty. I weighed in at exactly 7lbs. Not exactly small, not exactly large, but I was the largest of the children she's had.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifw7LFncRH9Nqs03_JFL-7c5oQVxL4NuOwNEcsRe5JtivkGBvO5Z2qM0W9QHH_y5XdOJRDcE1u-BEx_L8VLx5HEZCQSMYDMlDZ2sie-HWh8TQhayigu2LFOwmFD0IPqhB7WxCHe9esxfQO/s1600/ugly+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifw7LFncRH9Nqs03_JFL-7c5oQVxL4NuOwNEcsRe5JtivkGBvO5Z2qM0W9QHH_y5XdOJRDcE1u-BEx_L8VLx5HEZCQSMYDMlDZ2sie-HWh8TQhayigu2LFOwmFD0IPqhB7WxCHe9esxfQO/s400/ugly+baby.jpg" width="317" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
See?? Not cute.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
My extended family insists I was cute as can be, but that's because I was the first grandchild and they're completely biased. Now, maybe I could have been considered cute at three months?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghB3LbO3o8nYAoxmZUNgvw5TUwabppiWDWzrHrGDdNcIB7jjo9IDOOgq_M9Wg57Gy6HD1N5OZPyeOEVgyppFVMyr6xHDdjnf6FfZEG9Fi1jR7eIK8FLSnJkjAmxlbm-jQWFDG7RNQJL71W/s1600/Maybe+cute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghB3LbO3o8nYAoxmZUNgvw5TUwabppiWDWzrHrGDdNcIB7jjo9IDOOgq_M9Wg57Gy6HD1N5OZPyeOEVgyppFVMyr6xHDdjnf6FfZEG9Fi1jR7eIK8FLSnJkjAmxlbm-jQWFDG7RNQJL71W/s400/Maybe+cute.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Umnmm, maybe. If you're feeling generous. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
By the time I was five, I was definitely cute.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzh5Rrt9nmQjcgTuO78Qm2OCsRlD1j6zm9kTL536MZb9I9LWNdfGMXjgaRPikDnaM-DNBbKSY5UwvODNROZM4EGCo9szCOgzsvpz52-6lutUPogThnmIShYSdol1p3WJgHGBNR7j0irdgK/s1600/Definitely+Cute+age+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzh5Rrt9nmQjcgTuO78Qm2OCsRlD1j6zm9kTL536MZb9I9LWNdfGMXjgaRPikDnaM-DNBbKSY5UwvODNROZM4EGCo9szCOgzsvpz52-6lutUPogThnmIShYSdol1p3WJgHGBNR7j0irdgK/s400/Definitely+Cute+age+5.jpg" width="271" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Aaaand then I ruined it by cutting my hair:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdttoBBHXvTNTdNSjGl6zCdqcQCYDR7XFeLdHdV1xnVB1gR40OGykNTu7D-ZmVuD98CekrsqzWbb8cnwaTAHdrrUdLb5Nl5piXhyCQdjUi6LyDhtJc65sq1YWEZZerra5rBR2vWdhJrAMB/s1600/Cut+my+own+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdttoBBHXvTNTdNSjGl6zCdqcQCYDR7XFeLdHdV1xnVB1gR40OGykNTu7D-ZmVuD98CekrsqzWbb8cnwaTAHdrrUdLb5Nl5piXhyCQdjUi6LyDhtJc65sq1YWEZZerra5rBR2vWdhJrAMB/s400/Cut+my+own+hair.jpg" width="262" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Not only did my mother get an ugly baby, but she got a tomboy who hated wearing dresses and wanted nothing to do with being a princess or sparkly. Oh that made her sad. <i>(I provided her with some very sparkly and princessy granddaughters, though.)</i> I did, however, love dolls. The smaller and more miniature the better, but dolls of all sizes made me happy and she loved sitting with me to dress them up and do their hair. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigBN27ZpGCbmtMmcmnllI9-5hHcQQTCr5nKPkTLtJ1qsFnCnv65wy-rM3CKGW1AwX4Su6mrRL4dn_uep5w8u6IHZi1_yybgEPBfCK0FVUZOzYplkc40Xjjoyuxrm84T9AIIGZuHzlIUquj/s1600/Loved+Dolls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigBN27ZpGCbmtMmcmnllI9-5hHcQQTCr5nKPkTLtJ1qsFnCnv65wy-rM3CKGW1AwX4Su6mrRL4dn_uep5w8u6IHZi1_yybgEPBfCK0FVUZOzYplkc40Xjjoyuxrm84T9AIIGZuHzlIUquj/s400/Loved+Dolls.jpg" width="382" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I should probably also note one other thing. In addition to being as reckless and tomboyish as possible, I hated having my hair done. Hated it. Allowing ribbons or braids or anything was a battle that was only won if my dad got involved. I would purposely lose my hair brush just so she'd leave my hair alone. (Can you say snarls? Oh yeah, snarls)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
In addition to fighting over hair, I had three brothers. As the oldest child, and only girl, I was determined to keep up with them. I raced my bike, jumped off ramps, flew down steep hills on roller skates and skateboards just as fearlessly (well, maybe not as fearlessly) as they did. </div>
<br />
There were some pretty deep ditches where we lived, and we would bike down one side and up the other to see who could do it and land perfectly. Pretty much our version of the x-games but on dirt. There was one day my brother and I were doing the biking down/up/down in the big ditch and we both ended up crashing. The day before school pictures.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7IoxTrfqfK-6m0pBU0Zp7yBmZvBDv5dQ-nGUge7d9m9WmzoTNRnPSgbItoC5ydLDp64UhYUmIMWzkMuTMGA6RryK6n_i1GF_TV8V9Jb_SlP-Tv239OVKKd3iuFmL-AwnkskC6VpwYgmV/s1600/Wounded+brother+and+sister.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7IoxTrfqfK-6m0pBU0Zp7yBmZvBDv5dQ-nGUge7d9m9WmzoTNRnPSgbItoC5ydLDp64UhYUmIMWzkMuTMGA6RryK6n_i1GF_TV8V9Jb_SlP-Tv239OVKKd3iuFmL-AwnkskC6VpwYgmV/s400/Wounded+brother+and+sister.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Aren't we just the cutest pair? We had even more scrapes and bruises on elbows, knees, hands, etc. Were we sorry about our wrecks? Heck no! My mom, however, sighed and fretted over these pictures. I can't really blame her. At least my brother is cute!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Now... the next couple of pictures might not mean a whole lot to you, but when I saw these pictures I wondered who that girl was. It took a while before I realized that since those were my brothers, my mother, and my grandparents, then that too skinny girl had to be me. I was always hungry. There was never enough food in the house unless we were visiting grandparents.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
We sure were a happy lot. /snort </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9lVHrO6VAHc7i3GYndFqT5_94VFWgso9EAnOkUnRTGXF3GvDQvh8j7EpsT6iBDmX-_fZYw2YC7xF_qP8e69exjd8hBg6e7rBaztZA34QoiSFXWPr-rGcO8f6MSAbVtC6Kyx6Z7LnG0d4/s1600/Very+Skinny+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9lVHrO6VAHc7i3GYndFqT5_94VFWgso9EAnOkUnRTGXF3GvDQvh8j7EpsT6iBDmX-_fZYw2YC7xF_qP8e69exjd8hBg6e7rBaztZA34QoiSFXWPr-rGcO8f6MSAbVtC6Kyx6Z7LnG0d4/s640/Very+Skinny+Me.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
My best friend in the whole wide world, Kelly, had shared her ice-cream cone with me!!! Oh it was yummy. I can still remember the taste of the strawberry ice-cream and the feel of the sun on my face. Mom snapped this picture. Probably because I was wearing pink. --At that point, I wore what fit because that was all we had. Being picky wasn't an option.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyku7y7tCDxqsMWpOidI8_yoVdqmADtj0jFS0ixOQKnrnGbrP6HSa_iPUKXhBr9hD3uI8U7IvvuzelllAMBfY6ZKWEmqUWBqo6HX15JALhZ3XcN5sIDwAIfJeB_SxAnUZ6xMHwJcIPrrkY/s1600/Best+Friend+Kelly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyku7y7tCDxqsMWpOidI8_yoVdqmADtj0jFS0ixOQKnrnGbrP6HSa_iPUKXhBr9hD3uI8U7IvvuzelllAMBfY6ZKWEmqUWBqo6HX15JALhZ3XcN5sIDwAIfJeB_SxAnUZ6xMHwJcIPrrkY/s400/Best+Friend+Kelly.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I don't know if you can tell, but my brothers and I were smooshed into one bedroom. I had the rollaway bed which folded up. My brothers had the bunk beds with trundle. In order to have room to play, we'd fold up my bed and roll the trundle under. I can't count how many times I pinched my fingers on the metal latch that kept my bed together when I folded it up. I never minded, though, I had a cool bed compared to everyone else.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKBjPHiB-pVApfDidjEZJzYP4E0N9-gB2BLHqwN-y6RUh6idbvU038bB3XGdmCeM1frbNUOGj06h1g52T6UrvQueXVRPLi9lcAvzbyhyphenhyphenBF2ui5_P_VePSVww_RV-WFHaU5I75Lawq58qV/s1600/favorite+quilt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKBjPHiB-pVApfDidjEZJzYP4E0N9-gB2BLHqwN-y6RUh6idbvU038bB3XGdmCeM1frbNUOGj06h1g52T6UrvQueXVRPLi9lcAvzbyhyphenhyphenBF2ui5_P_VePSVww_RV-WFHaU5I75Lawq58qV/s400/favorite+quilt.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Mom , bless her heart, did the very best she could to wrangle her very hyper, very curious, and very rowdy children. I think the only peace she had was when we slept.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
When I was in Jr. High, I was snotty, bratty, and horribly disrespectful to my mother. We fought over everything. One time she took the hinges off my door because I'd blocked it off with a chair. I hadn't wanted to talk to her or do whatever chore it was she had in mind for me. -- My brothers tease me endlessly about this whenever we get together -- I grew out of whatever teenage angsty anger that was, and wow do I regret how I treated my mother. (insert jr. high pic here.)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thankfully I did grow up. Here's my High School self, who grew out of awkward and into kinda pretty. I love this picture. I think it captures my feisty, snarky, impish, intelligent, and playful traits.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSsbBeNsl_gmv6ePO0YTMPEuahIpF_GVm7Km3dblRb9HiGiVFYsZ1LmbIQW-yV9vgJL68iDiNDr2NTz43IpeoKGAG3z0p5dleNmVUmrrSVsW2FftzfoRRZmsDdmAdNOecS3yk6TLLt6jG/s1600/1936525_1166239642962_4649027_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSsbBeNsl_gmv6ePO0YTMPEuahIpF_GVm7Km3dblRb9HiGiVFYsZ1LmbIQW-yV9vgJL68iDiNDr2NTz43IpeoKGAG3z0p5dleNmVUmrrSVsW2FftzfoRRZmsDdmAdNOecS3yk6TLLt6jG/s400/1936525_1166239642962_4649027_n.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Obviously, six children and nearly 30 years later, I do not look like my high school self anymore. However, my face and height are pretty much the same. I think. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Today mom and I exchange jewelry; she fusses over my princess daughters who love sparkles and pink. She loves on the others, taking pride in their accomplishments, and sits on the floor to play with my little ones and her great-grandchild. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
She's pretty awesome. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thus my awe at her 12 hours of labor for me. I took the longest for her to birth, she was the sickest with me, and, oh, did I mention that I had colic? yeah. I cried ALL the time until I was 9 months old. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
She deserves flowers every year on June 18th, a certificate from Daryl Hoole and Dr Laura (two of her heroes) applauding her efforts to feed and clothe us, and a big gold star that allows her automatic entry into heaven.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-69068853717286985312016-06-17T15:51:00.000-06:002016-06-17T15:54:00.555-06:00TherapyToday was my psychiatrist appointment.<br />
<br />
In the past few months since the last time I saw him, I've had a drunk day, some pretty low days where it was a giant effort just to get out of bed, and some normal I'm fine days.<br />
<br />
I was reluctant to go see him because I did not want to report on the homework assignment he gave me the last time.<br />
<br />
Homework: Approach my marriage like I approach Christmas. Figure out a way to make it fun.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I did not like that. He told me my face was going to stick in the expression I was making.<br />
<br />
When I reported back to him today, I let him know flat out that completing that assignment was flat out impossible. How in the hell does one make verbal abuse fun???? Is that even possible? I'm thinking whoever managed to do it would be some kind of masochist. Who in their right mind likes to be criticized and made to feel 2 inches tall and stupid constantly?? How is that fun?<br />
<br />
It's bad enough that my daughter has moved out for the rest of the summer and moved in with her fiance. I certainly don't blame her. She deserves to live in an environment where she feels safe and loved and allowed to make mistakes without a huge and loud freak-out session.<br />
<br />
So... yeah. I tossed that homework aside and did something else. Bought some books. Had a frank conversation with Mr. Grumpster. Started reading. Told him he needed to get some therapy. He doesn't believe me - he thinks it's just a temper thing. It's not. It's a 'watch what words come out of your mouth' thing. It's a 'stop blaming everyone for not being perfect' thing. It's a 'do you love this person more than you love <insert gone="" thing="" tiny="" wrong="">' thing. </insert><br />
<br />
My doctor asked about my energy levels, my ability to focus, my appetite, and on a scale of 1-10 with 10 being the worst, where would I rate my depression. Oh, and any thoughts of suicide. (I can at least say no to that one.)<br />
<br />
He feels that my stress levels are contributing to my need for constant sleep and low everything else. I'm pretty sure he's right. He also says that my 'drunk' moments are my brain's version of mania. They're tiny in comparison to regular bi-polar, but they're mania all the same. So... yay. I've gotten stressed enough that mania is back in the works.<br />
<br />
I love my doctor because he's very frank with me. He looked at me and said, "We could change up your meds, but you're extremely sensitive to side effects. Not only that, but taking a pill is not going to fix your stress levels at home."<br />
<br />
That is true. Messing around with the chemicals in my brain and my body causes all kinds of issues. Right now I'm totally fine with dealing with the nausea/dry-heaving caused by the Effexor. The side effects of the other stuff I've been on so far were soooooo not worth it.<br />
<br />
He said the following were my options.<br />
<br />
* Therapy - for me. If nothing else, I need someone to talk to in order to face and handle the stress of my marriage and coping skills. And this was not a suggestion, it was something he said I NEED to do. Not really an option if I want to feel better instead of continually getting worse.<br />
<br />
* Couples therapy. I don't know if hubster's willing to do that. He's not even willing to talk to a therapist on his own.<br />
<br />
* Um... there was a third thing, but I've forgotten it.<br />
<br />
Money might be tight, but I am going to spend the $90/month on the therapist visits. She's worth it, she's amazing, and even though I should probably see her more often than once a month, it's better than nothing.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-66230435975733692202016-06-15T17:41:00.001-06:002016-06-16T15:26:17.599-06:00To-Do listI am feeling overwhelmed by the things on my to-do list. Some are more important than others. Some are things I *want* to do vs things I *need* to do.<br />
<br />
Today they all seem to be bombarding me at once. Therefore, I'm going to type them all out so that maybe I can look at them instead of having them roll around in my brain demanding attention.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
* <b>Dishes</b> - I load this week, my son unloads and loads the glasses and bowls. It's not a horrible task; it's much better than laundry. Put simply, I'd rather sit here and type about it than do it. lazy, lazy, lazy<br />
<br />
* <b>Cherries</b> - they are ripe and need to be picked. If I ignore them, they will make a huge mess on my back patio. I've put the word out that people can come pick them. I would also like to juice them, but that involves driving to Orem and borrowing the equipment from my grandparents. I am currently terrified of visiting them. This is crazy because I love them so very, very much, but they are close to the end, and I don't want to face that. It scares me silly to see them fading away. They've been my rock my whole life, the sole source of my stability, my true parental figures. Because of this, the cherries are giving me massive anxiety. Maybe I'll take the coward's way out and freeze them so someone who loves cherries can use them to make syrup or something. I know I need to go give hugs and reassurance to my grandparents. I need to let them know that I love them no matter what. I need them to know that their legacy of unconditional love will live on through me. (I hope) I want them to know how very much I appreciate that they saved my brothers and I; that they've always been there for us, no matter what. When no one else was there, grandma and grandpa were - they were always a safe haven from the awfulness of my childhood. Man, these cherries are freaking me out.<br />
<br />
* <b>Living Room</b> - It's cluttered. So cluttered that I can barely think when I look at it. I'm dying to move the furniture around and toss out the stuff we never use.<br />
<br />
* <b>Storage Room</b> - Holy mess of messes. I need to go through and cataloge what is in there. What needs to stay, what I can toss, and organize the whole thing. I found the china and am saving it until my oldest gets a bigger place and can pick which set she wants. I cannot stand the maze of boxes, the lack of work space, and inability to find anything when I need it.<br />
<br />
* <b>Family Room</b> - My family room is not my favorite place to hang out. There are a pile of storage bins against one wall -- they've spilled over from the storage room -- and they currently block off the gas fireplace. There are three couches in there - each in their own stage of disrepair. All in need of a deep cleaning. The dog kennel is down there which certainly adds to the air quality. This room currently does not feel like a homey place, just a convenient place for the kids to go to watch movies or play the Wii when I don't want them upstairs. I want to rearrange it, clear out the bins, organize the books, and put the board games in order.<br />
<br />
* <b>Patio</b> - I am dying to hang the big bag of white christmas lights all over the trellis and roof of the sun-roof thingy. I want to be able to hang out in the back yard during the evenings and mornings. I want to enjoy the patio.<br />
<br />
* <b>The Vine From Hell</b>- my back yard has been overtaken by a mean, biting vine. This sucker has unforgiving thorns, has overgrown the garden, the fence, and the swingset. I need to chop it down to the fence, pull up all the sprouts, and try to kill it. It provides awesome cover and privacy from the car dealership on the other side of the fence, but wow, it's invasive and mean.<br />
<br />
* <b>The Front Yard Weeds</b> - Ok, these NEED to be dealt with. City ordinances and all that. We are making progress - the kids help with this, but it requires a lot of energy to do. I can't seem to summon motivation and energy to do it daily - regardless of the benefit it gives to my brain and body. I really do feel better after I work in the yard. I am exhausted and need a nap afterward, but it does help with my mental happy state.<br />
<br />
* <b>Wedding Invitations</b> - MUST FINISH! I have an illustration that I must finish so that my daughter and (future) son-in-law can either approve or disapprove the design. I have several alternate designs for them, but this particular design was their favorite. Now I need to kick my butt into gear and get it done. I did manage to complete their Save The Dates, so I guess that's something. Of course, that didn't involve any serious drawing on my part.<br />
<br />
* <b>Clothing</b> - My children have grown. I need to get rid of all the clothes that no longer fit them. Right now this seems like a daunting task. Although when finished, the amount of laundry and piles of clothing in their rooms will be much more manageable. It takes time and the creation of a big mess to do it, though.<br />
<br />
* <b>Deep Cleaning</b> - The kids and hubster do help with this when I say, "Ok, we're gonna do this today." The ceilings and corners need to be swept and cleared of the cobwebs that collect. Baseboards need to be dusted and cleaned. Walls need to be washed, the ceiling in the bathroom needs to be scrubbed down, some of the walls need to be re-painted, the kids' rooms definitely need to be scrubbed down (the walls by my son's bed especially). Nail holes need to be spackled and painted and replaced with command strips. Old piles of junk mail that my husband likes to collect need to be shredded and/or tossed. Computer desks need to be dusted and cleaned out. I have zero clue what to do with my bank statements and check stubs. I know I need to keep them, but I currently have no idea where to put them. In a box? In a binder? Somewhere out of clutterific piles.<br />
<br />
* <b>Register the 12yo for Jr High</b> - yeah, that's right. I didn't do it. She went to a charter school, therefore the junior high didn't come to her. Of course, it wouldn't have mattered if it had. I want to get a boundary variance for her so she can carpool with her cousin to his boundary variance Jr. High. (we live on the same block.) So, yeah. That needs to be done. I've filled out all the paperwork, she's chosen all of her classes. I simply have to call the school, make an appointment with a counselor, and get it all done and finalized. <br />
<br />
* <b>Staining the new furniture</b> - my father-in-law is awesome. He made bookshelves for my girls, and then left the staining to us so we could personalize them. Therefore there are two raw-wood gorgeous and lovingly made pieces of furniture in a 9yo and 12yo's bedroom. I need to protect them from scratches by staining and putting an acrylic coat on them. And yes, the girls will happily help me with that, I just have to DO it. I'd have the hubster do it, but he gets grumpy and it's not nearly as fun for the kids when their every move is criticized.<br />
<br />
<b>* My Son's Window</b> - The contract in our rental agreement states that all the windows will have blinds and/or curtains. My son was trying to open the blinds and pulled the whole thing down. They may be broken, I haven't been brave enough to check. Speaking of his window, he also knocked out half the screen. I know how to fix that as well as the blinds - but again, it's an energy thing. "Why don't you have Rob fix it?" is the common question. Well, because he'll just yell at Wil and the rest of us, complaining that no one takes care of anything. Accidents happen, kids happen, and yep, my 7yo has learned from those mistakes. I don't think he needs to be constantly reminded that he made them. Thus my insistence that *I* will fix them with my son's help.<br />
<br />
* <b>My Nails</b> - vain and stupid, right? Who worries about their nails with everything else going on?? Me. I do. My hands are the prominent thing customers see besides my face. I don't like that my nails break at work. I don't like that polish makes them crack. I don't like that the Jamberry pulls flakes off the top when I remove them after they've started to peel up- even with oil. I don't like that my nails look like I'm still living on a farm. I want pretty nails. I want to look as nice and professional as I can at work. I want to look like I care about myself. Crumbly nails are frustrating for me. I'd try acrylic if I could afford it. I don't want super long nails - I need to function. I just want pretty. It's the one really feminine thing I care about, although I rarely find the time to do anything about it. Of all the things on my list, this is the one that is always shoved to the back, and it's the one thing that makes me want to cry the most.<br />
<br />
So, yeah.<br />
<br />
There's my overwhelming list of to-do's. I'd add in 10 mins of sketching a day, but I do that at work. I'd add in 30 mins of writing a day as that's a personal goal. But currently that feels like one more straw on my back. I write when I want to, and read when I don't. I enjoy both, so I assuage myself of the guilt for not working on completing a story by telling myself I don't have to do it if I don't feel like it.<br />
<br />
Sitting here at my computer, though, I am in full view of my living room. It's driving me crazy. But I can't rearrange until I have room in the basement for my art desk. And obviously my nails are driving me crazy. Some are much longer than others because two have broken down to the quick.<br />
<br />
You know what I want?? I want my son's room to be my art room. I want to be able to lock away all of my art supplies that my children seem to think belong to them. I want the light that shines into that room, I want a place I can close off that's mine and mine alone. Not something I have to share with the grumpster. Something without a television, something with only the noise that I choose to have in it.<br />
<br />
Does anyone else give themselves to-do lists like this? Am I simply a masochist?Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-24230095611570937402016-06-11T15:29:00.000-06:002016-06-16T15:31:38.453-06:00Save The Date!I did manage to complete this project for my daughter! Yay!<br /><br />Here are the three options I made for them. She and her fiance will take their favorite and mail out 300 of them to their closest friends and family. :)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJm5i54KqDV3nY45EUgXEDY3kP0gb3D3bGvT2IcbRaIomNs2RHDYYR0mwgF5B1cP6mbfrhC1JEia31BKQ7VWt45PNRcgc4IitRcSoka8adjY_7XZbHqRRQyTgyLfxHj7yB9qIcJcLjXVQ/s1600/save+the+date+1c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJm5i54KqDV3nY45EUgXEDY3kP0gb3D3bGvT2IcbRaIomNs2RHDYYR0mwgF5B1cP6mbfrhC1JEia31BKQ7VWt45PNRcgc4IitRcSoka8adjY_7XZbHqRRQyTgyLfxHj7yB9qIcJcLjXVQ/s640/save+the+date+1c.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ywiYjz1AhP3H2knJImFWViGTHMxIHBZV6cqlTJBHE5c4gwHpzeFEEGq0E77-EEob4v-5xpIuhVb3iofGRmcA9ZMcmvNKAGSZEynFr3rUnq3iNC02qeoEpZ-h-waCv4TThGsWUUew1GfO/s1600/save+the+date+2c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ywiYjz1AhP3H2knJImFWViGTHMxIHBZV6cqlTJBHE5c4gwHpzeFEEGq0E77-EEob4v-5xpIuhVb3iofGRmcA9ZMcmvNKAGSZEynFr3rUnq3iNC02qeoEpZ-h-waCv4TThGsWUUew1GfO/s640/save+the+date+2c.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4hW6ho1CPOb6CYwL13HTPt6mAaMWN0IOvV0-tfeHTxpmqepBdmFV9kQNzoWo5uQM8tZE8TioWhEB4E7uDRL96IlGG6Uikylar7J_4Eyil1gNbb-0XOoWWfOPt6DD_lnLvBSUTc2MnUuU/s1600/save+the+date+3b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4hW6ho1CPOb6CYwL13HTPt6mAaMWN0IOvV0-tfeHTxpmqepBdmFV9kQNzoWo5uQM8tZE8TioWhEB4E7uDRL96IlGG6Uikylar7J_4Eyil1gNbb-0XOoWWfOPt6DD_lnLvBSUTc2MnUuU/s640/save+the+date+3b.jpg" width="420" /></a></div>
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-36894524771992152612016-06-10T20:59:00.000-06:002016-06-16T15:27:56.986-06:00HeartbrokenFamily dynamics are so different on each side of my family.<br />
<br />
The side I primarily grew up with and spent the most time with are very tight knit. We're there for each other, we see each others' warts and spend time together anyway. There's a knowledge that if there's a problem, any one of us will step up and help the other.<br />
<br />
Well, maybe I'm wearing rose-colored glasses about it, but that's how I feel my family works. That's always been my experience.<br />
<br />
Now, the other side of my family has completely different dynamics. They aren't close-knit at all. I have recently connected with the few relatives I have left on that side and have enveloped them in my heart, whether they want me to or not. I have memories of them from my childhood that are happy and fun.<br />
<br />
I know life happens. I know 30+ years have happened since I have seen these folks. I have no idea what has gone on in the details of their lives, what choices they made, what hardships they suffered, or what crosses they bear.<br />
<br />
I do know that I love them. Probably more-so because I can see and feel their pain, even though they've not discussed it with me.<br />
<br />
Today I saw a comment on one of these relative's FB posts that horrified and broke my heart. My 7yo asked me why I was crying, and all I could say was that I read something that made me sad.<br />
<br />
Now, I have no clue what happened in their past. I have no idea what the child or parent went through. I completely understand child/parent trials, and struggle myself with forgiving past hurts. "hurt" being a serious understatement, but I'm not getting into that.<br />
<br />
Part of my heart being horrified was the fact that I cannot fathom or understand treating a parent so awfully in public for the world to see. Part was the venom bitten out in such a brazen and unforgiving way that I can't wrap my head around it.<br />
<br />
Why??<br />
<br />
Why do people do this? <br />
<br />
Why, if you feel someone is negative and constantly bringing you down, do you interact with them on social media? Why even connect with them there? The folks I have issues with I may not be able to "unfriend" on FB because I don't want to cause ripples, but I unfollow their feeds so I don't feel invaded or that my vulnerabilities are being threatened. And if I don't like their comments on my feed, I delete them.<br />
<br />
Now, granted, those are my choices. And I would never, ever, leave inflammatory comments designed to bring someone to tears and humiliate them in front of the entire world. That only serves to make *me* look like an inconsiderate ass.<br />
<br />
I truly don't understand.<br />
<br />
Emotional wounds cut deep, bleed for a long time, and take years to begin to heal. I am well aware of this. But, why share those hurts with the world? Why? It makes me want to wrap the attacked person in a large warm fuzzy hug and let them know that I love them in spite of all their imperfections.<br />
<br />
I'm not this way with everyone. There are a few people I've given my heart to who have smashed it to bits, and I can't trust them with it anymore. It doesn't mean I don't care, but it does mean that I hold myself aloof let someone else do the hugging and healing for them.<br />
<br />
But the public trashing, swearing, and tearing down of a relative? It hurts to read it. It hurts to know that people feel it's right and ok to treat other people so poorly.<br />
<br />
Why is it acceptable? And why do they tear their own wounds even more open by lashing out at others? It doesn't help heal, it doesn't make anyone feel better; it simply increases the pain and the bloody mess.<br />
<br />
They may not reconcile. I hurt for them. I understand how a child can feel that way; I fully expected my oldest to resent me and hate me after the post-partum years when she had to play mother and I didn't function at all. She had to take on more responsibility than any teenager should have.<br />
<br />
But so help me, I wish I could fix it. I wish I could wrap them in hugs and let them know they're lovable no matter what.<br />
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-40882382855816702592016-06-08T20:27:00.000-06:002016-06-10T20:29:18.618-06:00Rose Bushes Are SnobsI am not the world's greatest yard person. I claim to love yardwork, but getting myself out there to actually DO it is something else entirely.<br />
<br />
Due to city ordinances about weed height, I have been trying to clear up the front sidewalk area that has grown without restraint since spring happened.<br />
<br />
While weeding, the stickers and flag grass wanted to complain and fight about being uprooted. I reminded them that they knew good and well that they were just going to grow back, and to suck it up. They shrugged and let me go on with it.<br />
<br />
In the back yard, however, it's a completely different story with the rose bush. The homeowners planted a rose bush in a corner next to the patio and the gate that leads from the back yard to the front. I'm not sure why they picked that location, but whatever. The white roses are gorgeous when they bloom. <br />
<br />
The thorns, however, are another matter entirely. They are not small, and they are extremely sharp.<br />
<br />
I had a talk with this bush today. I informed it that it was growing into my children's play space, and that I needed it to bush out in the other direction, please. Also, it would be great if it would cooperate so we didn't get scratched to bits getting the lawn mower from front to back.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, the Rose bush felt like I was being unreasonable. How DARE I snip and trim at it. How DARE I prune off dead stalks. It is a rose bush, and deserves to use whatever space it wants.<br />
<br />
I insisted that it be socially acceptable and child friendly. It fought back. I won, but did not come out unscathed.<br />
<br />
The wild roses that grow along my fence are much more reasonable. They have smaller blooms, but they are so much nicer and easier to get along with. They're still somewhat snobby, but at least they deign to allow me to trim them when I ask.<br />
<br />
Blackberries are eager to please, lilacs are more than willing to take direction, and honeysuckle is sweet no matter what.<br />
<br />
Roses, however, are snobs.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-3001794214017532332016-05-09T14:41:00.002-06:002016-06-16T15:27:36.292-06:00MelancholyYesterday was Mother's Day. I would like to note that I am extremely grateful for my mother and all the mother figures in my life. I love them all dearly.<br />
<br />
My kids gave me the sweetest and funniest gifts. I love that my two youngest wanted to sit in my lap and hug on me all day. My 16yo made pancakes several times. My two oldest sent me some long and beautiful texts.<br /><br />--bit of a self-pity party, so read on at your own risk--<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
I couldn't find the happy, though.<br />
<br />
I called my mother last night to wish her a Happy Mother's Day, and wow, that conversation took an odd turn.<br />
<br />
I made sure she knew that my brother had recovered ok from his appendicitis, that she'd gotten my original message that he was in the hospital and about to have surgery. And as we were discussing that, somehow it came up that she didn't know I'd had appendicitis six years ago.<br />
<br />
Well, she knew. Everyone around me knew. And I burst into tears over it.<br />
<br />
Six years ago on the 4th of July I had my very first major surgery. Not only did they remove my appendix, but they fixed a belly-button hernia I hadn't known about and also removed an ovarian cyst.<br />
<br />
I was convinced after that experience that I would rather die than have any other surgery again, ever. Not because of my experience in the hospital, but because of my experience recovering.<br />
<br />
I've had a surgery since then, but it wasn't without trepidation.<br />
<br />
I wish I hadn't talked about my appendicitis last night because now it's all I can think about. I need to let go of it, but all the hurt, frustration, anger, and pain welled right back up. It's a victim, martyr, I'm-so-picked-on kind of memory thing, but it's nearly a tangible mess of emotion oozing around my chest and I don't know how to get rid of it except to type it out.<br />
<br />
I guess I had a hard time enjoying Mother's Day yesterday because I couldn't drag my head out of the past to see and feel what was happening in the now.<br />
<br />
The past.<br />
<br />
Six years ago was an emotionally traumatic time for our whole family, period. We'd had to move out of our house, moved in on top of someone else's stuff for a few months, and then found our current home to rent. Before we moved in, the girls and I spent a couple of weeks painting and scrubbing.<br />
<br />
As a family of eight, we have a lot of stuff. I'm sure you can imagine. Ten days after moving in there were still so many boxes filling the main floor that we had small paths to get from bedrooms to bathroom to kitchen. Seating was limited to the basement or the bedrooms as I tried to get through box by box. <br />
<br />
The hubster was angry at renting and was determined to hate this house because it wasn't our house. Well, we were all extremely angry at the circumstances that caused us to lose our home. So we were trying to get settled both emotionally and physically. It wasn't an easy process, which was why it was slow going unpacking. That and the fact that I was afraid I'd unpack only to have to pack up and move again.<br />
<br />
K. That was the state of my house and family when I got sick.<br />
<br />
When I came home from the hospital, I was in insane amounts of pain. I don't do narcotics well - they make me sick. Taking them for recovery of abdominal surgery made dry-heaving/puking unbearable, so I didn't take them at all.<br />
<br />
The first and foremost issue for me was PAIN. Massive amounts of pain.<br />
<br />
Second issue would be needing to rest and recoup from having surgery in the first place.<br />
<br />
Now add five kids living at home, the youngest of whom was 1 1/2, the oldest being 15. And also consider the meals, laundry, and kid wrangling that accompanies the having of children. Being the mom, these were all things I worried and stressed over, but couldn't do, er do well so that I wouldn't undo/ruin the mesh they'd woven in or whatever it was they did to fix the hernia.<br />
<br />
Well.<br />
<br />
Everyone heard "Appendectomy" and assumed I was fine, just needing rest. No one heard "Hernia"<br />
<br />
My big kids, when I asked them to please play with the little ones, to feed them, to spend time at home to help them out, just hung out on my bed. The hubster, dealing with his own frustrations and issues, didn't feel much like cooking or doing anything but going to his job and coming home.<br />
<br />
The religious community we had moved into was completely unlike the one we'd just left. I pretty much felt ignored after someone showed up, came into my bedroom and said hi, and said, "Well, if you need anything, let me know." and left. Just left.<br />
<br />
I had a list on the whiteboard of what was needed and/or wanted. I was curled up on my bed in pain, and she'd walked in, handed me a list of my assigned visiting duties, and left.<br />
<br />
no family, no friends, no new neighbors, no religious community, no meal assistance. The big kids/hubster didn't help, and I could hardly function, but still HAD to function because no one else could/would.<br />
<br />
After the four or five weeks it took me to be comfortable walking and to safely lift things again, I bounced right back to normal. I unpacked my house, cleaned it, organized it, made it livable and habitable while I went about doing all the other things that I loved doing.<br />
<br />
Life went on.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
I suppose that's what you call a character building experience.<br />
<br />
It's one of those experiences that still makes me cry when I think about it, feeling all alone and uncared for, frustrated that even the people living under the same roof with me couldn't/wouldn't lift a finger to help each other out.<br />
<br />
I'm still not sure how to handle this bundle of emotions now that I've pulled it out and looked at it. I don't like that it's still there, fermenting.<br />
<br />
I want to re-write it. I want the neighbors I'd had in my old neighborhood to do their thing and bring me a stack of frozen meals to thaw and cook each night, show up randomly and take my kids, let me sleep for a couple of hours without worrying about where my toddlers were and what they were getting into. Someone showing up and saying "Hey, let me help you because I love you." I think that's what it boils down to. When I needed someone the most, I wasn't worth helping.<br />
<br />
This is my waaah, waaaah, pity poor me story that I haven't yet figured out how to turn into something I can smile over, learn from, or at least accept as a part of my life. It's currently a part of my life that I resent, am bitter about, and try very hard to bury deep and forget.<br />
<br />
So yeah, melancholy. I feel meh. I reopened that wound when I started discussing it with my mom yesterday and now it wants me to look at it and face it.<br />
<br />
I don't want to. I want it to go back to being forgotten and buried in the sewers of my psyche.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-29057007639339236102016-04-12T02:30:00.000-06:002016-04-12T23:20:25.332-06:00A Little Bit SentimentalOk, a LOT sentimental.<br />
<br />
My father-in-law made this shelf for my 9yo daughter. Why? Because she asked. She wanted/needed a shelf to put her Equestria Girls High School on with shelves underneath to hold the dolls and ponies and other toys she might want to play with.<br />
<br />
She decided how tall and wide she wanted it, helped measure, wrote down all the numbers, and then helped text the information to grandpa.<br />
<br />
Grandpa used leftover and reclaimed wood to make this for her:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojNEzEQ55neRmfExJv4gZYFo3Lst5Ez1StSvqufw43C3aIW34GhIF_1o9UL8ka1JvISFJ_lbicVdlSXi30CnrPM-9G9QxGalhzU1ZvUhx80a4u7_VFM5iVNnUhbxXBczFqYy2x8dREO1p/s1600/shelf1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojNEzEQ55neRmfExJv4gZYFo3Lst5Ez1StSvqufw43C3aIW34GhIF_1o9UL8ka1JvISFJ_lbicVdlSXi30CnrPM-9G9QxGalhzU1ZvUhx80a4u7_VFM5iVNnUhbxXBczFqYy2x8dREO1p/s400/shelf1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzrthHNh3dRTSp7u1fEB61ZmLoO5i8vYu0e8PjRX2QEF0lhnRsnYYPERgv-pFL_90X0zjHmr_0w1tIOJnsqYCBlfKxuiz-Xd2C4XVytaSavcYgXsHvLNXdTtc3Sz1u3uWN9xmhraIb3ril/s1600/Shelf2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzrthHNh3dRTSp7u1fEB61ZmLoO5i8vYu0e8PjRX2QEF0lhnRsnYYPERgv-pFL_90X0zjHmr_0w1tIOJnsqYCBlfKxuiz-Xd2C4XVytaSavcYgXsHvLNXdTtc3Sz1u3uWN9xmhraIb3ril/s400/Shelf2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
Look at that. This wasn't some super-fast thrown together shelf. No, he cared about the materials he chose. He used the best parts of the reclaimed wood, stripped it down to the beauty under the old ugly veneer, and put together this incredible piece of furniture for a nine year-old. For her toys.<br />
<br />
Because she asked and because he loves her.<br />
<br />
Not only was he happy to build it for her, but he took the time to show both her and myself how he was building it, what tools he was using, and how he was putting it all together.<br />
<br />
This dad knows how to be a dad. This grandpa knows how to be a grandpa.<br />
<br />
When I do wood projects, he shows me how to use the proper tools and lets me have at it. I now know how to use a drill press, select proper routing bits, use a hand router as well as a routing table, use a dremel and its various bits, as well as circular saws, jigsaws, and other machinery that I can't remember the names of. I love it so much that I started receiving power tools for Christmas.<br />
<br />
I will never claim to be a master craftsman or carpenter, but I feel comfortable with the big kid toys and have absolute confidence that if I go to him with a question, he will be more than happy to answer it and show me how to do it.<br />
<br />
Dad. Father-in-law. Grandpa.<br />
<br />
These are things most people take for granted, but it means the world to me that he shows up to my children's weddings, blessings, baptisms, etc. When they tell him they're in a play or have a rugby game, he tries to be there. He's excited for his grandkids' achievements, endeavors, and lives. He's INTERESTED in them.<br />
<br />
He doesn't just claim to be interested, he actively cares. For Christmas, he called and asked what the kids might want that he could build, and then had the items built and ready for Christmas. He follows through.<br />
<br />
He builds special race cars, vintage cars, and trucks for his grandsons. -- don't get all feminist on me, because I guarantee that if one of his granddaughters wanted a car, he'd build one for them, too.<br />
<br />
When my daughter's son was born, he had a handmade vehicle from Great-Grandpa V waiting for him.<br />
<br />
He doesn't wait for us to contact him, he asks about things, calls or texts, and remembers birthdays. He initiates contact if we forget or overlook things.<br />
<br />
He was there when I miscarried twins, holding me as I sobbed on his shoulder. He then went across the street to his friends who run an alternative funeral home and asked the wife to come over. She took the little 14 week old babies and cremated them, bringing me the ashes in a beautiful little porcelain Angel nick-nack so that I could have closure.<br />
<br />
He CARES; he's made me feel like one of his own daughters.<br />
<br />
Now, please don't think my mother-in-law isn't active in my kids' lives. She definitely is. Perhaps I take that for granted because I've seen/had that example from my own mother. She cares and loves her grandkids as fiercely as she loves her kids.<br />
<br />
But the dad thing-- You have no idea how much that means. I can't explain. Well... I could, but it's not right to put all that out here. Just know that for me, having a dad show up, to be there, to be involved. To WANT to include me and teach me the hands on things, not caring that I'm a girl, well, it's a very big deal to me. <br />
<br />
This Grandpa came to my oldest daughter's wedding (the oldest grandchild, just FYI.) He was early and ready for my son's blessing (my ONLY son, so it was a very big deal to me that I'd finally had a boy after five girls.) Ok, so Grandpa V was excited because his only son had finally a son to carry on the name. But still, he was there and he was just as excited and happy as we were.<br />
<br />
He was there. He came. And it means the world to me that he's come to everything important to us or to his grandkids - even things that I didn't think were a big deal.<br />
<br />
I will forever be grateful that I married into such incredible parents.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
-------- <br />
<br />
I'm still just a little bit jealous that my dad showed up when my brother was called as a Bishop. And granted, it's the ONLY thing for my brother that he's come to (aside from his wedding,) but still. He actually showed for that.<br />
<br />
I probably shouldn't have said that here, but I can't seem to be able to hold that bit in. My son and my girls have a good example of what good granddad's do. Even my step-dad shows for things. For a long time my younger three kids thought my step-dad was my father My 12yo pointed out that he's tall, I'm tall. He has dark hair, I have dark hair. He plays ball with them, interacts with them, comes to their plays and concerts with my mother, and generally enjoys their company. Surely I must have forgotten when my brain chemistry changed, because how could he *not* be my father??<br />
<br />
I pulled out family pictures from my youth trying to prove it. Then I brought up that that guy I tell them to call grandpa when we go to that barbecue once a year? That's really, truly, one of their grandpas because he's my father. They didn't believe me. Their older sisters had to confirm it. While my 12 yr old understands that he's my father, she doesn't understand how he's her grandpa.<br />
<br />
Funny how that works. It's amazing how kids interpret relationships when people are actually involved in their lives no matter what the distance is.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-34058852591069656332016-04-01T13:44:00.001-06:002016-04-01T13:44:22.281-06:00It's Been A YearExactly one year ago, I left home and headed west. By this time (1:26 pm) I had made it to the entrance gate that leads to Antelope Island. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I stopped there at the picnic table, put my feet up on the bench and slept for a bit. It would be the last time I felt the sun on my face, the last time I felt the wind in my hair, the last everything.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The cement was cool under my back, but that was ok. I would need my body temperature to be low so the shock of the water temperature wouldn't be unbearable. When I reached the water...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Instead of heading to the entrance gate and starting out along the causeway, I headed off into the lake bed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For the Great Salt Lake supposedly being this big lake, it was incredibly hard to find the water...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's a good thing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's been a year. I recognize the trauma that my death -- a self-caused death -- would have caused my family and children. I have continued to fight my demons.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, there are times when I still don't want to be here. There have been a couple of days I've wanted to take that long walk again. However, instead of acting on it, I call my psychiatrist, I call my friend who is a therapist. I let people know that I'm in a bad place. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Communicating is one of the reasons I'm still here.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have the best friends. I have a great support system in place. Even the people I work with are awesome. Ok, only one knows that I actually attempted to kill myself, but still. I love them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Earlier this week I was determined to throw a party and celebrate that I've been alive and here and more "with it" than I have been previously. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today I woke up and it just isn't one of my better days. On top of that, I'd spent a lot of last night scrubbing down my kitchen. When I woke up, my kids had decided it was a great day to cook corn bread muffins. Crumbs everywhere, the sink full of dishes, and a very grumpy 9yo yelling and crying because her sister is always giving her the muffins with cracks or that crumble.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's cornbread. There isn't a piece of cornbread anywhere that doesn't crumble. But she refuses to believe that they aren't like muffins.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In spite of the family drama, I am determined to at least make cookies and have something yummy to celebrate the good things. I have kids that I love. I have a house that I love. There is a perfect blue sky, snow on the mountains, and a clean scent in the air.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My daughter who is getting married in October has learned a new song on her Ukelelee (sp?) and it is adorable. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My daughter who worked so hard to bring a new life into the world has given me the most precious little grandson in the world! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have these amazing children with their struggles and their triumphs. I love them so much. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I truly have been blessed with good things. While there are times that I can't see that, when I honestly feel like I am a detriment to their lives instead of a good thing, today I can see the truth. I do matter to my children, and they do want me to participate in their lives, no matter what stage they are at.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am a lucky person. I am grateful for the people who have helped me so much. I'm grateful that I've made it through this last year. Here's looking forward to surviving another. :)</div>
Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-63389691493811147852016-03-30T05:56:00.000-06:002016-03-30T05:56:08.325-06:00A Curious ConsequenceNearly a year ago, I took a "Long Walk." That's what some of my friends requested I call my attempted suicide.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I walked close to 15 miles from my house toward the Salt Lake, determined to float in 40 degree water until I felt the sleep of the cold.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wasn't dressed for the weather - on purpose. I walked as fast as I could to get there before anyone could catch me on the main roads. I knew no one would have a clue where to look for me, and I was right. As soon as I hit the lake bed, I crossed as far from the causeway as possible so I couldn't be seen from the road, and kept the same pace through the sand as I tried to find the water.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, I never found it. When I finally reached the wet sticky mud of the actual shore, my shoes squelched through the stench as the lake itself receded from me. Finally I yelled at the heavens, feeling betrayed that what had felt like the right and only choice was being taken from me, and headed toward the causeway so I could walk home. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I can't describe the distance. Even now I look back and wonder how in the world I did it. Sheer determination, I guess.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I didn't realize how much I hurt until the guy who drove me to the gates let me out of his truck so I could wait for my husband. Walking to the other side of the gate to stand under the light pole took sheer force of will. I was determined not to let that man or his wife see what kind of shape I was in.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I got home, after sleeping and freezing for I don't know how long, wow. I had to have help walking. I couldn't support my own weight for the first couple of days. I limped around, my hips and legs bundles of misery as I tried to function. I can't remember how long it took for slowly crossing from my room to the kitchen to feel doable.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Walking. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Walking sounds so simple, so every day. People run and walk 15 miles easy for marathons all the time. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Before the walk, I loved to do cardio. Kickboxing, treadmill, fun upbeat video exercises like P90x and TaeBo, I would do it all. I had a gym membership and I LOVED going at any time of day. It was something I could do that was wonderful, freeing, and felt good. Stuff I could never do while pregnant.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now it's stuff I cannot do anymore.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's been 363 days, and walking the mile to work still hurts my feet. Sprinting from the girls shirts to the phone in the fitting room - what, 20 feet? - to answer the phone makes my groin muscles ache for 3-4 days.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I walk to work because it's good for me. The fresh air is great for my mental health, whether it's rainy, snowy, overwhelmingly hot, or perfect outside, the walk is *always* beneficial. Especially on my bad days.<br /><br />So mentally, the walking is great.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Physically, not so much. I can tell I'm converting some fat to muscle because I need to wear a belt with my pants now. (Whoo Hoo!) But the pain that accompanies the wimpy exercise is something that confuses me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's not nearly as unbearable as the pain that accompanied my last three pregnancies, don't get me wrong. THAT pain made getting out of bed, getting up from chairs, walking, riding in a car, pretty much any kind of movement, make me cry. Oh it was excruciating torture. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
However, when *not* pregnant, my body was pretty much willing to do anything. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, dangit, it feels like my body will never forgive me for what I put it through. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By now I should have recovered from the exhaustion and the muscle strain. Yet after a few hours at work it's hard to walk after I get home, and yes, I have awesome shoes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't understand. I assume it's an inconvenience for surviving. No, that's wrong. It's a side-effect of the attempted suicide. The surviving part includes this additional issue on a day-to-day basis. It's worth it for the survival part, though. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I still walk to work. I still love my job. I endure the pain because it's common enough that it's background noise while I'm working. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At home, it takes a few hours before my feet stop yelling at me, but I've gotten used to it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I may never know the biological reason for the weirdness. I wish I could understand the science behind the muscle changes and my body not functioning even after twelve months. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I feel like it wouldn't bother me so much if I knew the why I haven't healed as well as I thought I would. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's sad that the idea of hiking to Timpanogos Cave with my kids sounds too hard. So does visiting the zoo, the aviary, DisneyParkOfChoice, etc. My current reality is Let me stay home, please, please, please.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Consequences. Sometimes they make zero sense.</div>
Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-81581602120023648222016-03-29T05:05:00.000-06:002016-03-30T05:06:24.853-06:00Thoughts On Self ImageI looked in the mirror after my shower today and realized that I liked who I saw.<br />
<br />
I don't mind saying that for the first time in my life, I think my breasts are beautiful. I am not overly blessed in this department, but I as I studied myself I realized that they are not horrible looking.<br />
<br />
Sure, there are a few stretchmarks from six pregnancies and nursing six babies, but their shape, size, and the way they hang is perfect for me. I discovered one is larger than the other. Yay child #5 only wanting the left side. They are soft, creamy colored, and with the added weight I have put on due to medication and a few years of sedentary life, I actually have cleavage when I wear a bra.<br />
<br />
This may seem as TMI to a lot of you, but it's groundbreaking for me. Body image is a big deal.<br />
<br />
It's one thing to be able to determine the state of my mental health if I can look at myself in the mirror and like the person I see or not. That usually has nothing to do with my overall physique, but what I see when I look in my eyes.<br />
<br />
But to be able to look at my body as is, stretch marks, lumpy I've-had-six-kids rolls on my stomach that will never go away without elective surgery, thicker arms and thighs than I ever imagined I would have, and accepting it, thinking it's beautiful and mine, is a first for me.<br />
<br />
When the first mood stabilizer, Risperdal, had me gaining weight and tipped me over the 200 lb mark, I didn't ever want to look at an outfit in the mirror again. Even after I changed meds, I've pretty much stabilized between 205-215 no matter how much walking, kickboxing, trips to the gym, etc that I do.<br />
<br />
And for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I not only can live with it, I can feel good in my skin.<br />
<br />
When I say a very long time, I mean in probably 42 years. Well, ok, there were times when I was in starvation mode, working two jobs, sleeping 3-5 hours a night for 2 years, and barely having time to catch one meal a day that I could fit into some super cute outfits and felt like I matched what the world sees and expects.<br />
<br />
Of course, when that ended, my body said, "FOOD!! Save it up for the next time she stops eating!!"<br />
<br />
Also, given the fact that I am fairly close to 5'9", the extra fifty pounds could look much worse. Lets be real here, on my mom, who is 5 feet tall, fifty pounds would *really* show.<br />
<br />
I wish, very much, that when I was younger and had that fit body, the teenage health and vibrance of life in my 20's that I had been just as comfortable in my skin. There's something freeing, something that shines from within when there is that comfort.<br />
<br />
Only now do I feel that for real. Yes, I have cellulite. Some days I comment on it, because it's simply a fact that it's there. And because of that, not every piece of clothing is going to look good on my shape. And sometimes I will and do get exasperated at something that looked so good on the hanger not looking good when I put it on.<br />
<br />
This is simply a fact, and that's something that I can't always be happy about. But that doesn't mean I feel like I'm ugly or unlovable.<br />
<br />
I think that's the most important bit. I think that somewhere along the way, I've decided that yes, I'm lovable. Just as I am.<br />
<br />
Perhaps this has to start on the inside. When the bad days are bad and those evil demons of depression are telling me that I'm horrible and worthless, it starts with my thoughts. I feel like my soul is twisted out of shape, a disgusting waste of energy that shouldn't be a smudge on anyone else's existence.<br />
<br />
I know that distorts what I see in the mirror. It's like a dark overlay, causing me to hate what I see on the outside because I can't love what is on the inside.<br />
<br />
That being said, I didn't suffer from clinical depression when I was younger. I had NO idea what it was like until after my son was born and I had post-partum.<br />
<br />
I knew that my grandparents loved me, and I knew that God loved me. That was always a given for me, and somehow that was some stable rock that has stuck somewhere in my brain and has never budged. It's the tiny granite core of the sea-bed that makes up my emotions, self-image, and view of the world.<br />
<br />
Yet attached to that core is the fear that they will stop loving me if I make too many mistakes. If I turn out not as perfect as they had hoped. I am fallible; I have certainly not lived the life of a saint, and I have a great many regrets.<br />
<br />
For once in my life, for real, I have discovered that people love me no matter what. Perhaps not all people. But my true friends, my brothers, my sister, my mother. No matter what. And maybe that's helped me realize that it's okay for me to love me, too.<br />
<br />
Loving me includes loving the lumps and rolls and imperfections that come with aging, motherhood, and the quirks that make up my body. It's pretty darn cool to feel this way. :)<br />
<br />
<br />Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-25005357708383792252016-03-28T15:51:00.000-06:002016-03-29T00:47:56.859-06:00Another Thing on FearI know. I know, I know, I know that what other people think shouldn't matter.<br />
<br />
I am having a hard time with that currently.<br />
<br />
Ok, so you know I'm religious. My morals and values include a certain dress code and expectations of modesty.<br />
<br />
Not all of my children agree with or live to these values and expectations. I may be a tad disappointed about that, but they are their own selves and perfectly capable of making their own life decisions. I certainly don't hold them to whatever grand expectations are out there. I certainly don't live up to them all the time myself.<br />
<br />
My family is also very religious. Now, I love my family. LOVE them. They are generous, loving, and have always been there for me when I've needed help emotionally, financially, physically, or whatever.<br />
<br />
So I am having some fear issues.<br />
<br />
I do not expect nor want anyone to give me a fix-it for this. I just need to express it.<br />
<br />
The first big thing that is causing a bit of a rift is that my daughter is marrying a non-member of our faith. And I will fight to the death against anyone who judges her or gives either her or him crap about it. He is awesome, he is the best for her, and they both bring out the best in each other. Not only that, but they are talking responsibly about their future, practicing compromise already, and just being great together.<br />
<br />
A couple of family members have already tried to give her a... guilt trip? lecture? about all the things she'll miss out on. And I totally went mamma bear on them and let them know to leave her alone about her decisions.<br />
<br />
Well, now I'm feeling self-conscious because her perfect, wonderful, make-her-feel-like-a-princess wedding dress is sleeveless. It shows off her perfect arms and shoulders from her athleticism, and oh my goodness is she beautiful in it.<br />
<br />
My fear is that my family is going to think I am an awful mother and haven't raised my children according to my standards.<br />
<br />
I know that's a dumb fear. Of course I have. I have *also* raised my kids with the knowledge that they can make their own choices. I don't want them to make choices I'd make. In fact, half the time I wish that I hadn't made the choices I made at their age.<br />
<br />
I know that it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. It's her wedding, it can be however she wants it. Either my family supports her, or they don't. It's just painful. The very thought that they might not support her is painful.<br />
<br />
This is me borrowing a jack, of course. But I know without a doubt that I'm going to get an earful from my mother. There's nothing I can do about that. It's just going to happen. I'm prepared to deal with that. I am worried that my daughters and I will have to form a protective barrier for my daughter on her wedding day so no one makes her feel awful about her choices.<br />
<br />
Anyway, there's my fear. Perhaps with some guilt mixed in for feeling like a failure. Don't tell me how to fix it. I'll just have to work through it. I have no control over others, I can only control myself. And somehow it will all work out. I dont' know how, but it will.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-38317207841919300272016-03-26T10:22:00.001-06:002016-03-29T00:47:25.502-06:00Work and AnxietyBack in September when I was first hired, I didn't tell them about my mental illness. It was a personal test for myself to see if I could, in fact, handle a job.<br />
<br />
I took a xanex every time I worked for the first week or so. I don't remember. But eventually it became necessary only once a month or even less than that.<br />
<br />
Then came the day when there was a child throwing a complete and total tantrum. His mother just ignored it and continued shopping. Screaming, yelling, crying, loud loud loud. I broke down, freaked out, and my manager had me sit in the office until I calmed down - and the lady had *finally* left the store.<br />
<br />
Not long after that, my xanex kicked in and I was ok the rest of my shift.<br />
<br />
Since then, most of the people I work with now know about my anxiety. Amazingly enough, there are at least three other people there with the same issue. They each handle it in different ways. Me, I prefer the safety of the fitting room cave. Others prefer the register or they feel claustrophobic and freak out in fitting room.<br />
<br />
With the stressors in my life and the ups and downs with the bi-polar, naturally there are going to be some days that are better than others.<br />
<br />
Thursday there were a bunch of teenagers trying on dresses, a couple of moms with little kids, and some adult friends, all in the echoing fitting room. Oh my Holy LOUD. I thought I was going to lose it and start crying. The shakes started, and I was having a hard time breathing.<br />
<br />
I called on the radio and asked if there was anyone on the sales floor that I could trade with for a few minutes, until all the loud was out. Immediately one of my co-workers came and took over for me and I went and helped finish the area she was recovering.<br />
<br />
I didn't have to ask more than once, I didn't have to explain myself, it was just taken care of.<br />
<br />
So far as I know, that has happened for every co-worker that has had an issue with their anxiety flaring.<br />
<br />
We cover for each other, management doesn't resent it, and after it's calmed down, we go on with the work.<br />
<br />
I don't regret not telling them up front about my issues and why I was looking for a job. I didn't know if they'd hire me if I wasn't sure I could hold a job.<br />
<br />
While there are days that I don't want to go to work, don't think I can handle it, or just don't think I can crawl out of bed, I have to admit that it is an immense relief that my co-workers know.<br />
<br />
People aren't nearly as judgemental as I assumed they would be. At least not in my workplace. Reasonable Accomodation is what they call it. I call it basic good humanity and I am grateful for it.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187304703145618013.post-81986688573681132862016-03-17T19:17:00.002-06:002016-03-17T19:48:31.040-06:00The Importance of FeedbackI write. I'm an artist. I footzone. I am an unrepentant creative spirit.<br />
<br />
I earned a degree in Illustration, and am a couple classes shy of finishing a degree in Graphic Design.<br />
<br />
I honestly and truly believe that I do these things well. Oh boy do I have my fears of failure, but it does not mean I believe I suck at the things I love. I can certainly do better and wow is there room for improvement, but I was blessed with talent and it would be disrespectful to my *self* to say otherwise.<br />
<br />
One of the reasons that I have the confidence that I can be successful at these endeavors is because of the feedback I receive.<br />
<br />
Yes, I know this sounds vain, but let me explain the difference between good feedback and bad feedback. Also, I would like to address how a person handles feedback and constructive criticism.<br />
<br />
Firstly, in order to refine and improve, you have to be able to see the flaws and the areas to improve. As a rule, the creator is usually blind to many of these things. While it is true that artists are their worst critic, sometimes it is difficult to step outside of themselves and see the whole.<br />
<br />
Due to this, it is vital to hear feedback from an outside source. Preferably from someone who knows what they are talking about.<br />
<br />
Constructive criticism is NOT going to be 100% positive. If the writing, the portrait, the design or the artwork is a rough draft, a tight color comp, or something you may have thought finished, that feedback may not even be 50% positive.<br />
<br />
In order to take the suggestions, ideas, and bluntness, be emotionally prepared to hear things like, "This doesn't work for me and here's why." "Do you have any other ideas or layouts that you might want to try because...?" or "This seems completely out of character, why did this person make that choice?" "The pacing here is very slow. I became bored and skimmed to the end of the chapter." Or "I really love how you did this, but it doesn't fit with how you did this."<br />
<br />
KNOW you aren't going hear things that will proclaim you as a faultless god in your endeavor.<br />
<br />
**Put on your emotional armor, have a notebook handy, and realize that the people you trusted to view this baby are not attacking YOU.<br />
<br />
** Write down all of the suggestions and take notes on ideas. Things they say may inspire you while you're listening. <br />
<br />
** Ask questions after they are done. <br />
<br />
** BE WILLING TO LISTEN.<br />
<br />
There will be feedback you feel is completely ludicrous. You'll hear stuff from folks who don't understand what you're trying to say. They'll try to change it to the way 'they'd" have done it or what they think you should be doing. Be polite, listen, and disregard what you don't agree with. Think very consciously about what they are saying before you throw it out, because sometimes it can spark a brilliant idea.<br />
<br />
In that same vein, valuable positive feedback will tell you what you did great and WHY it is great. The most important thing is understanding what works and why it works so you can put that in your file of workable techniques.<br />
<br />
Bad feedback attacks you personally. Disregard it. Seriously. It sounds a lot like, "What were you thinking??" "This is dumb, what a waste of time." "You kind of suck at this."<br />
<br />
Bad feedback is vague. "I don't like it." "Oh, this is great!"<br />
<br />
I'm sure it's possible to improve without hearing from outside sources, but it will take a lot longer.<br />
<br />
If you are pursuing writing or any kind of artistic field, please, PLEASE, be open to honest feedback. It is the most frustrating thing in the world to tell someone why you feel a, b, or c isn't functioning as well as it could, and have them get defensive, angry, and attack. Don't be that person. Just don't.<br />
<br />
Defensiveness makes your critique group walk on egg shells around you, simply supplying your wanted platitudes. That's a waste of your time and theirs. OR, they ostracize you. That sucks, too. Defensiveness will never help you improve. Ever.<br />
<br />
If someone says, "That's not something I would ever read/buy/commission," take it for what they mean. It's something THAT PERSON isn't interested in. It doesn't mean it's worthless; it means they are not in your audience. There is no convincing them they will love what you're doing, and no point in getting hurt over it. Simply acknowledge their position and move on.<br />
<br />
We all feel defensive about our babies. It's the nature of being a creative. The trick is to recognize the emotion, admit it to yourself, and tell it to shut up until you are alone. Vent it all you want at the wall, at a friend, or in a diary. When you're calm, look at your notes and get to work.<br />
<br />
Boom, growth.<br />
<br />
That's the importance of feedback.<br />
<br />
--<br />
The biggest reason that I believe my story is worth finishing is because of the comments and criticism of my critique group. They are complete strangers - er, they were to begin with. I have pages and pages of constructive criticism that I need to address for the re-write. Yet the positive feedback from strangers and from some very picky readers that I know - who I trust to give me honest and blunt feedback - is extremely encouraging.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I will need a content editor when I feel confident in the draft. I will definitely need a line-editor, since my ability to type a coherent sentence or use correct words is obviously impaired now. Um, also my love of commas and apostraphes. <br />
<br />
I have designed my daughters' graduation announcements and their wedding invitations. I've done High School musical programs, designed logos, and portraits. In *EVERY* project I have asked for and expected feedback.<br />
<br />
I've worked with printers and professional designers on several of these projects. Their input was invaluable and certainly not always ego boosting.<br />
<br />
I do not expect nor wish to be coddled.<br />
<br />
I want to grow as much as possible. I expect every artist does. Accepting criticism is imperative to this.Chris vhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02920938015472296076noreply@blogger.com1