Christmas Tree Hunt

I feel like I have just rebounded from the brink of death. 

My husband is a recruit commander---the Navy's term for "drill instructor"---and the result of spending 18 hours a day in closed compartment spaces with 88 teenagers from all over the country is ,well, not difficult to understand.  Imagine being sneezed on simultaneously by an entire daycare full of snotty nosed toddlers. 

Needless to say I was not surprised to learn that I had contracted the H1N1 virus.  Despite my best efforts with a vat of hand sanitizer and isolation, the kids caught it too; and the three of us have spent the past week in bed.  My daughter and I recovered without much issue; but my son, who is an asthmatic, had to be rushed to the ER a couple of days ago due to this virus's ability to literally knock the wind out you. 

Fortunately, it was early enough for him to be prescribed Tamiflu--an antiviral that helps shorten the duration and severity of influenza. Thankfully and blissfully, the medication has helped and my son is feeling so much better.  He may even be able to go back to school in a couple of more days. 

It was a scary illness for sure. 

Sadly I don't have much else to report, probably because I'm still feeling pretty blah and blank after my swine adventure.  Today I am mentally making a grocery list of things I'm going to need for Thanksgiving dinner.  Greg will most likely be babysitting recruits that day (big fucking surprise); so I'm debating whether or not to go all out with a big dinner for the kids and myself.  

I also need to purchase a Christmas tree.  And soon.   I bought one last year, but it was such a cheap piece of shit that I threw it out before we moved.  This year I am on the hunt for one that at least looks like a tree rather than a couple of green pipecleaners being rammed into a wooden pole. 

Have you ever noticed how expensive artificial trees are though?  Holy shit, especially those pre-lit things---you know, the ones with the lights already attached.  The ones that you don't have to do anything but unfold like a friggin' beach umbrella and toss some ornaments on it.  I guess the convenience of it all is what makes them more expensive. 

I am more of an old fashioned type.  I like to wrestle with tangled lights, cuss at the kids and dogs for stepping over everything, and especially the part where you have to strategically place individual lights to "fill in" the spots of the tree where you can see the wall through the other side---hence, cheap piece of shit tree. 

I'm in a rush and out of time.  More on my Christmas Tree Hunt soon!

Little Things.

Today is a good day.  It is cold, but the sun is shining.  I found my camera.  I cross stitched a bit last night and plan to today as well.   Dinner is in the crock pot.   The house is clean.  Kids are off of school tomorrow so we can chill in front of the T.V. until wee hours together. 

Sometimes it's the little things that matter. 

One Of "Those Mornings"

It's one of the "those mornings". 

Firstly, I woke up with a headache.  While reaching into the medicine cabinet for a Motrin, I noticed that despite using Proactive for the last week religiously, I have a new volcanic eruption (aka pimple) on my chin, on the opposite side of the other one I have been trying to get rid of for the past week. 

I will be 35 years old next month and I am still acne-prone. 

I wonder if Pam would deem this as my "inner child" trying to come forward.  (C'mon that's funny)

So then I throw on some sweatpants to come downstairs, and have one of those horrid moments when you realize that you can no longer fool yourself into believing that your expanding waistline is imaginary.  Or just "water weight".  Or the result of maybe shrinking the clothes in the dryer. 

The size of my ass is erupting in sync with my chin pores.  I cannot deny it. 

On my decent down the stairs, I see the mayhem that is my house glaring at me, as if to say, "Clean me.  Today.  Or else."

 I am learning that teenagers/tweens are creatures that are hard to tame.  They are messy.  They sleep alot.  They eat five times as much as I do.  They "forget" all things associated with responsibility and accountability.  They seriously wear the dumbest looking shit and yet feel it imperative to insist to me that they look cool. 

And then layer on some more dumb shit to stress the point. 

Puberty makes them stink.  No matter how gently I try to tell them that they must adjust their hygiene habits to match the changes in their bodies, their little brains still believe two showers a week are suffice; and simply dousing themselves with cheap cologne is the best way to cover the problem.  I guess turning on running water, lathering soap, and towel drying are too strenuous for their growing bones.  Teenage osteoporosis I guess. 

I will leave the topic of their hair for another blog.  My head hurts too bad to dive into that one. 

So as I'm coming down the stairs and noticing, as I said, the mayhem that is my house---as well as the strange creatures that my children have morphed into---I then turn to my dogs....my babies.....my little bundles of fat furry joy...for solace and comfort.  For it is my dogs, Tiki and Bonsai, that remind me the world can still be a wonderful place with all of their licks, pouncing around, clever tricks, and snuggles. 

And what do I see? 

Tiki has gotten into the trash can, and is gaily chewing on some leftover french fries from yesterday.  How the little shit (she is a french bulldog/pug mix) got into the trash is a mystery.  I seriously can't figure it out. 

And Bonsai has apparently had an episode of loose stool outside; because she is dragging her ass across the floor pet leaving a remarkably well-defined brown streak on the one part of my house that is clean:  the carpet.  Once I yell her name to stop, she looks at me as if to remind me that I had a nervous breakdown, and the horror is all in my head.   She proceeds to sit back down on the carpet with her poopy behind, and turns circles to wipe herself. 

Right next to the poopy streak, was a poopy polka dot. 

And my kids are looking at me like I am the one who should be cleaning this up.  As if I get paid extra money or something. 

As if cleaning up poop is going to make them stink.  *snort*

So I must close this blog and start the cleaning spree.  Hopefully I will find my camera, and post some pics of some craftyish things I am working on.  My Mile-A-Minute afghan is sloooow going, but is coming along gorgeously.  Gorgeous enough to be a Christmas present for Greg, I think.  There are 8 panels total, and I am just about to finish the forth.  Half-way there!  I am also planning on starting a Christmas afghan for the house, but haven't decided on a pattern yet.  If anyone has any suggestions or pattern links, let me know!

My therapist has been recommending for weeks now that I keep a regular journal to "stay in touch" with my feelings, since she seems to believe that I possess a mastered ability to "shut down and tune out" when life gets tough.  Though I agree with her (the part where I shut down), I have to admit I have been more than skittish at the thought of coming, as my friend Lisa says, "out of my crypt", and reentering the world of communication.  I suppose journaling is the same as talking--in the sense that if I say it (or write it), inevitably there will be feelings that follow as a result of what I have stated.  And let me tell you, after the last few months, feeling anything is the very last thing I want to do. 

Like the therapist says, I prefer to shut down. 

So what's all this talk of a therapist, you ask?  It's a long story really, and one that I really am in no mood to describe in detail.  However, I will give you the brutal truth as to why I've been away, in a social crypt, and "shut down"---however you want to describe it----

I had a nervous breakdown. 

And not one of those pansy assed, "oh my God I can't handle life anymore!" breakdowns where you spend a week eating ice cream and crying over your life type of breakdowns; or the kind where you see a doctor for a little bit of psychotropic assistance in the form of Prozac or Xanax to help you "cope" with the stress of life. 

Nooo.  I had a goddamn official nervous breakdown. 

The kind where you get to spend a few days "taking a break" within the confines of a psychiatric ward under the observation of professionals who follow you around the hallways as you pace back and forth wondering how in the hell your life wound up the way it did.  The kind where an intravenous shot of Ativan calms you only enough to remember your name and maybe pace the halls a little slower. 

The kind of breakdown where nothing matters anymore except trying to figure out how to stop whatever pain I was feeling; but being too frozen by fear to ask for help because of the sky high pile of fears of what others might think if you admit to them that you need help. 

It was bad.  Really bad. 

The exact circumstances leading up to my breakdown are debatable.  I don't really know, and neither does my shrink or my therapist.  We all are fairly certain it was just the result of a lifetime of brutal stress and pressure starting with my childhood abuse that has never been resolved; followed by the pressure I tend to put on myself to be absolutely perfect at all times to avoid the fears I have of losing all that I love. 

And when I try to be perfect, I shut everything off.  And when you shut everything off for a lifetime, the feelings get stored inside like a pressure cooker. 

And eventually you explode. 

Well, I exploded. 

It's been about four months since the big "B", and I am still recovering.  Surprisingly, I am not on the loads of meds one might expect.  A smidgen of Cymbalta seems to be helping me stay afloat.  I see a therapist....Pam....twice a week.  She's a social worker who specializes in childhood trauma, and though sometimes I question the level of her intelligence, she has been a stable force for me to hang on to, and a cheerleader when I was too afraid to ask for help or encouragement. 

In many ways, she has replaced the mother figure I never had; and I am still amazed today how soothing it feels to have someone say "I care about you" even when I am at my worst. 

So, I keep her in my life---not because she's earth shatteringly insightful or intellectually stimulating---but because she believes in me when I find it impossible to believe in myself. 

And it is she who, like I said, recommends this "journaling" as a means to stay in touch with my feelings to avoid another pressure cooker moment.  After the breakdown, I shut off everything.  Everyone.  I was too afraid it would happen again! 

So, here I am.  Doing the best I can.  I'm still emotionally wobbly, and I feel right now, very embarrassed and ashamed that ME---STACY THE PERFECT---is sitting here this morning admitting to myself and all of those who might still be around reading---is not perfect.

This is a hell of a first entry for a new blog, isn't it?  I have to laugh a little through my tears.  You see, originally this was going to be just a crafting (crochet and cross stitch) blog; but I had to scrap that plan because I lost my goddamn camera and can't post any pics until I find it or get a new one. 

So, since Plan A--the crafting blog---didn't pan out, I had to go with Plan B---talk about the deep recesses of my injured mind. 

Maybe Plan C should be a little bit of both?!