On Sunday night, I stepped out of the shower to hear my daughter wailing in agony.  She was in her bed, hunched up in a ball, crying out about pain in her stomach.  She was short of breath and she could not move without worsening the pain.  She was red, hot to the touch, and her pulse was like the Grand Prix!  She said the pain was under her ribcage mainly on the right side, and without hesitation, I called an ambulance because the first thing I thought was "Holy shit it's her appendix".  Of course, I don't know crapola about appendixes, but when you see someone in that much pain you assume the worst and hope for the best. 

While waiting for the ambulance, I called Greg, so everyone arrived at the same time.  Bailey claimed the pain was beginning to ease up, but she was still miserable.  The EMT examined her and said she was not showing the signs of appendicitis, but that she had unusual sounds in her abdomen that indicated something, indeed was wrong.  Plus, she had a fever.  I remembered that, earlier in the day, Bailey had joked to me about a bad case of diahreah she'd had overnight, presumably from the entire bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos she'd eaten that day. 

Greg rode in the ambulance, Korbin stayed with the neighbors, and I followed behind.  Mind you, my kids have been sick before, injured themselves and made several trips to the ER for various issues in the past.  But I've never been so scared as I was that night.  I had never seen either of my children in that much pain and misery before, and the only thing I could think was someone at the hospital better make my child more comfortable; otherwise, I would personally make everyone there VERY uncomfortable. 

Fortunately, they were very good to her.  The excitement of her ambulance ride, the hospital gown with teddy bears all over it, and her personal TV with remote were a good distraction from her pain.  The nurse allowed Bailey to hold the tubes as they drew blood for tests, and the doctor was good natured and told her she did a "good job" peeing in a cup---that it was the "best urine sample we've gotten in a long time!"

It turns out that Bailey had a high white blood cell count, which indicated she had something going on her stomach/intestines.  The doctor said she had overly active bowel sounds, which told him that her stomach was very "pissed off".  LMAO.  After the x-ray showed that her digestive tract was full of nothing but gas and bloat, the doctor diagnosed her with gastroenteritis and informed us that Bailey would need to stay through the night for observation and IV hydration until things calmed down. 

Let's just say the IV part did not go well with Bailey. 

After a few bags of hydration and rest, the doctor said she could go home and remain on a liquid diet for 24 hours.  This, of course, was at 6:30 in the morning when they discharged her.  We brought her home, exhausted, and put her to bed.  Greg's chief told Greg he needed to be in to work, so Greg went without an ounce of sleep. 

This to me, is inhumane on the Navy's part.  How can they expect these instructors to train recruits if they are so tired they can't think straight?  The recruits are guaranteed at 8 hours of sleep per day....why aren't the instructors? 

I slept for a couple of hours, then it was off to the dentist at 9:00 for an evaluation for my tooth.  A few days ago, I bit down on a piece of chewing gum, I and I fucking swear the entire right side of my face exploded with pain.  After the initial pain subsided, I had this horrible dull throbbing pain in my jaw which would worsen everytime I sucked in a breath of air or drank something of any extreme temprature.  Assuming it was a cavity, I expected the dentist to do a filling during this appointment.  Of course, sleep deprived and experiencing dental anxiety, I was told there was nothing visibly wrong with my tooth.  So then the asshole dentist takes this metal stick looking thing and starts banging around my tooth.  He obviously found the area of concern when I jumped eight feet out of the chair. 

"You have a fractured tooth!", he says, like he just struck goddamn gold or something. 

He then declares to me that he no longer does root canals, and he also cannot see this fracture.  He then tells me I need to see a specialist who will find the fracture and either do the root canal or extract the tooth, depending on the severity. 

I'm so tired at this point I don't give a shit if he pulls all of my teeth so long as I can lie down somewhere and close my eyes.  He then starts talking to me about my insurance, and how they won't cover the whole thing; so a root canal may cost me between 300-500 bucks. 

Well, that woke me up.  Are you shitting me?  500 bucks to pull the nerve out of my fucking tooth? 

Needless to say, I was upset, tired, nervous and panicked about the financial situation.  I have been steadily putting extra money into our savings account because things have been really hard for us; and I planned to use that money for other things.  Not a little fuckin' tooth. 

When I got home, I called this specialist's office to schedule the appointment.  The guy's first name is Kermit. 

Kermit

I know. 

So I am headed to visit Kermit the Tooth Guy today at 11:30; and keeping my fingers crossed that he dosen't find anything worthy of drilling into immediately.  Either that, or I might run out of there screaming before he does anything at all.  Hell, I might run screaming as soon as I see him. 

I haven't decided yet. 

The only way to cope with this deep anxiety of Kermit is to focus on my crafts.  I finished an adorable little lapghan last night that will get sent to Gram for Christmas.  She's getting a crocheted bed doll, a doily (the one that was saved from the brink of death by coffee stain), and this little 'ghan as a matching set for her bedroom.  It's not a large ghan' but just enough to cover her lap or throw over a chair for decoration. 

And then I finally put the border around my Babette blanket, which has been sitting here for weeks, because it turned out ickish, and I don't care for it much.  The actual process of making it was fun, and I loved the adventure in color; but sewing up the squares--since they each are different---left the sewing seams visible and I don't like that.  It looks cheap.  I looked at other's projects on Ravelry, and they have the same issue, so I know I did it correctly; however I didn't see the point in going any further on a project I just don't care for.  So I eliminated sections 9 and 10 (which were large), and used a dc border to call it finished.  It's still quite large, very heavy and very warm. 

 

It was used with my scrap yarn....19 colors I think.  Since I enjoyed the process of creating it so much, I may do it again in a different colorway, maybe monochromatic or pastels.  But either way, it's finished!

I have one more strip to do on Greg's Mile A Minute afghan, and I have to say, in my opinion, it has come out beautifully and I hope he likes it when he opens it up on Christmas morning.  He has no idea I am making it for him, which is neat because he loves homemade gifts!  He always sees me working on other things, he probably feels like I don't remember to make him anything.  I'm so excited to give it to him, and I will post a pic as soon as it's finished. 

In the next couple of days I plan on starting a very ambitious project, and working on it exclusively.  Otherwise, I'll be working on it forever. 

Instead of the pictured colors, I am going to use baby pink for the roses, sage for the leaves, and white for the backround.  And I'm making it for ME, as a bedspread.  There are 70 blocks to this bad boy, and it's huge.  I'll be using Hobby Lobby's "I Love This Yarn" because it is so so so soft! I can't wait. 

The dogs are whining to go outside, so I must close!  I'll update as the story of my poor little tooth unfolds. 

Smell Of Cinnamon

As I look out the window, I see the clouds are a unique shade of gray that only the promise of snow knows how to paint.  The resulting darkness is fooling my family into staying asleep later than usual; for it is impossible to tell that it is, in fact, morning.  As for myself, I cannot sleep late through a morning.  I love them--the idea of being awake when the rest of the world is quiet and not yet expectant of anything. 

And so I am sitting with my coffee, wearing the warmest pajamas I own, and gazing at the only lights on in the entire house:  my Christmas tree.  Situated near a large window, I love the contrast of the colored lights against the dismal backdrop of gray skies and a white ground.  Upstairs in my bedroom, a single white candle is lit along with the scent of cinnamon incense in thanks and honor for this special time of day.  The flame of the candle is believed to bring  wishes and desires to fruition, and the smoke of the incense will be carried away to the Gods so they, too, may assist in helping my desires become reality. 

This morning, however, I do not desire anything other than to define exactly what this time of year means for me, and to reacquaint myself with my beliefs beyond what tradition and religion dictates should mean. 

Though I left Christianity several years ago and converted to neopaganism incorporating several branches of it's belief system, I cannot look up in a textbook of religious studies and point out a list of criteria that specifically describes me.  Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ--the Son of God--and his representation of hope and redemption.  They exchange gifts, as the Three Kings bestowed upon the baby, with the message of peace, love, and thanks.  I, myself, am still in love with the story of the Holy Birth--not because I actually believe Christ was God's son---but because the the very idea that a child so holy and so loved could bring so much hope to the world is an image that often brings me to great emotional joy. 

Pagans believe, in a vague summation on my part, that Christmas (Yule) marks the "birth" of the Sun.  A group of nature based religions, Pagans celebrate the winter solstice---the shortest day of the year---followed by the promise of longer days to come as the Sun's light grows stronger and longer each day until spring.  They light fires and candles to represent the Sun's birth, as well as to symbolically provide light and promise on the darkest calendar day of the year.  Yule is a season of quiet, reflection, self evaluation, and love. 

What I find amusing is that contrary to all of the fighting and disagreeing amongst religious groups, the message of both of these belief systems is the same:  Christmas, Yule, Winter Solstice (and maybe even other religions) all promise the same thing:  the birth of something/someone so full of promise and hope that we cannot help but feel the urge to spend time with those we love the most in celebration and anticipation of greater things to come.  We exchange gifts, share feasts, decorate, gather for games and parties, etc---all in essence, for the same fundamental reason. 

We are celebrating hope, thanks, family, friends, and love. 

As for myself, personally, I am a mixed bag concerning my personal beliefs.  I do not pay much attention to the technicalities of anything like attending church on the Christian front, or lighting a Yule log to light the dark path until the Sun is old enough to shine on His own. I do not cast spells or go outside and chant at the moon (it's too cold here!) on the Pagan side of things either.  I do not find the idea of gift giving to be all that exciting either, to tell you the truth.  What I mean by this, is that I do not find it at all 'celebratory' to rush around worrying about getting the gift that someone wants so bad that I must compromise my own finances and sanity to find it!  To me, that is the contraindication of the season.  My gifts are usually handmade, if I comfortably have the time to make them.  If not, then a note or a phone call or some other form of emotional expression is how I give to my loved ones.  Because, seriously, what tangible thing could I give someone to express how much I love and appreciate them?  A hand made gift, though not nearly as extravagant or expensive as a purchased one, can help the recipient understand that I thought about them for many hours and many days as I created it.  Unfortunately, not many people understand or appreciate this; and I am certain that most of my handmade gifts are stowed away in a closet and never to be looked at again. 

So, my belief system over the years has evolved. No longer do I scramble around like a nutcase hoping someone will like what I am giving them.  No more shopping in crowded malls and stores unless it is for something extra special. No more giving a "little something" to EVERYONE I know in hopes they'll appreciate it, or because somewhere society says we are supposed to be giving.  I believe in giving to those who I know will appreciate them as much as I loved making the gift for them.  For it is those relationships worthy of celebrating and praising.  It is those relationships that deserve to cherished during a time of year designed for cherishing all that we love! 

Since I have such a small but meaningful gift giving process, I believe this time of year, for me, is a time of quiet.  Not depression and isolation quiet----but simplicity's quiet.  Christmas/Yule marks both the end and beginning of things albeit via Bible or Calendar, and this is my time of weighing and deciding and reflecting on what I wish to begin or end in my own life, be it habits, ideas, hopes, dreams, baggage, resentments, old anger, and even suppressed love for someone.  And while this seems very emotionally tiring, I spend this time of year surrounding myself with beautiful things:  my tree, warm blankets, candles, my favorite music, yummy things in the oven, board games with my children, movies that represent hope......and I use these "tools" to sort out these beginnings and endings.  I balance comfort with necessity.  

And I do it quietly.  I think this is my fundamental Christmas belief:  This is a time for ourselves.  To give what we want to give versus what we think we should or have to.  To relax and rest versus scrambling around trying to do what we think is best for someone else.  To stay home and watch a movie versus attending a party full of people we would not normally associate with outside of work or business.  Or to attend that party versus staying home and catering to the fear or hesitation of being social.  To give a card with a thoughtful note instead of buying.  To listen to our instincts about family rather than spend time in a situation that will just bring about old resentments and bickering.  Or to attend that family gathering rather than sitting fearful of what "might" happen.  To eat whatever goodies we want because it feels good to do so...versus stressing over how much weight we might gain or who might think we have no self control. 

For if we cannot do what feels best for ourselves....how can we do or be anything that is best for another?  If we do not know our own limits, how can we ever hope to accomplish the goal of setting boundaries?  If we cannot give what feels right, how can we ever know the true definition of giving, and feel joy from it?  If we cannot express ourselves truly to another, how can we ever learn who appreciates us and who does not?  
If we cannot begin aspects of our lives anew, or end parts of it that are not working for us, how can we ever really know what it is like to evolve in a healthy way, not only for ourselves, but for those we love?  If we cannot sit and be quiet...and enjoy the simplicity or what I like to call the "nothingness".....how can we ever learn to block out the noise and listen to ourselves? 

So as my candle burns today with my desires, my wish is for you (whoever is reading!) to enjoy this season on your own terms, and celebrating in ways that are best for yourself.  And through this, that you gain the peace, hope, and sense of fullfillment that each one of us deserves---which will inevitably spill out onto those who you love, as they too will see that you are more wholesome and capable of being whatever it is they need or want you to be. 

Because I truly believe that regardless of faith, religion, church congreation, or lack of religion altogether, it is our human right to celebrate exactly what makes us human:  the hope and desire to be whole. 

So as you gaze at your tree, or sit with your family, or wrap your gifts, parade the mall...whatever it is you do....stop and smell some cinnamon today.  It is my gift to you today, and all of the days of this season. 

Gum In the Dryer

Yesterday started off well enough.  I finished a mountain of laundry, paid bills, budgeted household funds for the next two weeks (and even managed to throw a little bit in the savings account which is always nice), straightened up the house, finished a Christmas afghan for Korbin's cute little girlfriend, went to the store to pick up dog food and toothpaste, helped the kids figure out some nightmare algebra problems, comforted Gram about my mother (who is now missing), made dinner.... 

And I even managed to squeeze in my soap operas. 

Not too shabby. 

But all the while I could feel it:  Anger.  Resentment.  Bitterness.  And any other fancy adjectives that describe being "pissed off".  It built all day.  What I should have done is stopped what I was doing, and acknowledged it. 

But I didn't.  I just let myself simmer, and kept my fingers crossed that if I kept accomplishing tasks, working hard, living that oh-so- perfect life.....the anger would dissipate and leave without me having to face it head on.  'Cause after all, that is what I do.  Ignore ignore ignore.  And run like hell. 

So when I went to add the final load of clothes to the dryer, and realized Greg had left a pack of gum in a pocket, I began to sob.  I think I even stifled an anguished scream as I looked at how much gum was stuck to the barrel of the dryer.  If this has ever happened to you, you know how hard it is to remove.  You have to pick and pick and pick and chip away until it loosens enough to wipe clear.  It takes time and patience.

In this case I needed help, because my elbows were so sore that I could not pick the gum away by myself. 

So my kids jumped in and started picking while I fetched a glass of water. 

On my way to the kitchen, I noticed that a cup of coffee I had left on the end table was now on the floor, alongside a gigantic stain all over the carpet.  Standing astride the mess was my dog, Tiki, wagging her little nubby tail and licking every drop she could manage.  As soon as I began to panic that she might have drank the entire cup (caffeine can kill a dog), I realized that the dog would be just fine. 

But I would not. 

Not only had the coffee spilled all over the carpet, but it also spilled on my very extra special crochet project that I have been working on for weeks now.  A 22 inch white lace doily with only three rounds to go until it was finished.  It was going to be one of my Grandma's Christmas presents. 

I rushed the doily to the sink with cold water, and spent the next hour doing all I could to remove the stain.  All the know-how I have....all the tears....all the panic that it was ruined....all of the yelling and cussing.....
all of the damn laundry stain remover and Woolite and dish soap......

Nothing totally removed the stain. 

I was left with a beautiful doily that was light tan on one side, and white on the other. 

Ruined.  

And then the flood gates opened.  I stood at my sink with my head buried in my hands, and cried so loud the neighbors could probably hear.  I didn't try to hide it from my kids, who rushed up and wondered if I was okay.  I mumbled something about "Mom's just having a really bad day and I need to cry", and then heard the doorbell ring. 

Who the fuck rings the doorbell at 7 p.m. other than the UPS man? 

Red eyed and wet faced I opened the door to receive the package.....the package......the contents inside of it being the very reason I had been building anger and resentment all day long.  I had known it was coming, and I dreaded it. 

Looking at me, you would have thought I was holding a bomb, or an envelope of Anthrax.  But it was just a book. 

"Healing the Child Within"----recommended by my therapist, and reluctantly agreed, by me, to read it with her together. 

Instructed by Pam not to devour the whole thing in an hour like I would any other books ---because let's face it, even though it's a scary book, it is still a book; and I take to books like moths take to light---I read the first two short chapters. 

I have to note, that right now I am feeling myself "leaving".  Splitting off, as if part of me is standing on the other side of the room.  I am in a great deal of pain, and I am terrified of feeling it.  I am more terrified of my memories.  I do this all of the time, and have no idea what to call the sensation.....other than what I have been told.  Dissociation.  I will try my hardest to stay present, and keep going. 

In summation, I gathered one point from my reading: 

When we are children, we do not have the ability to reason and logic as adults do.  Our parents(or caretakers) set the example.  They are, literally, Everything.  Because we cannot provide for ourselves, we must rely on them to provide us with what we need:  food, shelter, education, clothing as well as love, nurture, guidance, and ideally, unconditional love.  It is from this love that we grow to love ourselves...because we were taught to.  As we grow into puberty and teenagers, we begin to understand that we must prepare to become an adult ourselves.  Typically this is "easier" when we know and feel that we are loved and cared for.  We begin to feel free to make decisions, mistakes, take risks, care for others and ourselves and at the same understand (because we are taught) that there are consequences and rewards for the choices we make.  However, what never changes is knowing that we are fundamentally loved. 

But when a child is abused, they are taught something entirely different.  They....we....are taught that the world is not a safe place.  It is wrong to feel what we feel.  To think what we think.  We are told we are selfish, bad, wrong, and unworthy.  We are taught, before we have the ability to use reason and logic, that we are not fundamentally loved......but instead, fundamentally flawed.  Sometimes we are taught that it is because of our being flawed, that bad things happen.  We are taught that we should feel responsible for the failings of our parents (caretakers), and that we cannot be anything other than what the parents want or need themselves.  If we stray from this, we are beaten, abandoned, insulted, and blamed.  And because a child does not have that ability to reason, they believe what they are taught must be true. 

As we grow, our logic and reasoning skills are wrapped around what we lack, and what we were taught is true:  that we are bad.  That it is our fault.  That we are not worthy.  As adults, we continue to function in this way:  we live what we believe is true.  

And it is our responsibility to care for and nurture that "child" that was so horribly treated.  By going back and examining what happened, placing responsibility where it lies, and taking a tremendous leap of courage. 

Splitting again......stay with it! Keep going!

I remembered, like a series of flashes on a screen projector, images from my childhood, as well as my teenage years.  My mother putting the tip of a kitchen knife in her stomach while looking at me (and only me, even though there were four others in the room) as if to say, "this is YOU who's done this".   I remember once chasing her in the backyard, in the snow, as she made her way to the garage with a packet of razor blades, begging her to come back.  Telling her it would be alright.  But she pushed me down, and I didn't know what to do other than get help.  Only my stepfather laughed and told me she would be fine.  I remember watching her go to the car with a bottle of pills, and not able to see clearly in the dark through the window, if she was really actually taking them.  Five minutes later, she was back inside the house, hugging me and telling me in a very "teacher oriented" tone of voice, that things in the house were going to change...that things would be different---yet she made it seem like it was me who needed to do the changing. 

I remember her choking me because I wore the wrong shirt to school one day.  Beating me after I came home from a dance at school and eating a piece of cake in my dress.  Beating me over the head because my bedspread wasn't tucked in right.  Calling me stupid because the vacumn marks weren't a certain way across the carpet.  Throwing me out of the house because I didn't put the clean dishes on the right side of the sink; and when she let me back in, she told me how frightened she was of my "stupidity".  I remember being grounded, literally, to the house for an entire summer because I received a B in math.  She said even though the grade itself wasn't bad, it was my lack of initiative that made me bad----'cause I COULD have gotten an A but didn't try hard enough.  She told me I was lazy.  She told me that alot.  I watched her have sex with men in front of me.  I watched her self-destruct. 

And no matter what I did, or didn't do----bad or good (cause I did do bad stuff!)---it never got her attention away from whatever it was that haunted her.  I couldn't save her.  I couldn't make her love me.  I couldn't show her that I was good enough.  I couldn't even get through to her that I was, myself, on the path to self-destruction. 

I remember being touched in the swimming pool by my stepdad.  Being looked at by him.  Being given alcohol by him, because he said it would help me sleep at night.  Being confused by him because he was so sympathetic with what my mother was doing to me---but I know (don't I?) that he was touching me in my sleep.  Was he?  WAS HE?  I can't remember very well.  And when I told my mother that I felt uncomfortable, she would literally attack him---but then come after me and tell me that I was a slut who needed to stop flirting with him. 

But I was 10 years old.  I was only 10......did I flirt?  Maybe I did. 

Maybe I did alot and don't know that I did. 

I remember attempting suicide, finally, at 15.  She was there, after my stomach being pumped, and told me that she was sorry that I didn't die. 

She wanted me to die.  Because I was bad.  Or was I? 

Splitting.  

You're doing it!  Keep going!

When I came home from the hospital, she brought into my room the entire bathroom contents of pills, and told me to take them.  To be done with it.  To rid her of the headache.  To rid her of the burden.  A few days later, after reading something in my journal, she brought me knife and told me to just kill myself. 

And when I told people what was happening to me....my grandparents, my school guidance councelor, a teacher....I remember feeling like they wanted to help, but they were so shocked by what was going on it made them uncomfortable.  So no one helped.  NO ONE HELPED ME. 

Because I was bad.  I was bad.  I wasn't worth saving. 

I remember leaving home and seeking out my father.  Telling him what my life had been like without him there.  Telling him what my mother had done.  He rescued me.  Took me into his home.  Was my white horse knight....my father had finally come!!!  Two days later, he drove me to my grandparents house and told them he changed his mind.  He didn't say goodbye.  I didn't know he left.....I just thought we were visiting Gramma.  When I went upstairs, he was gone.  My bags on the porch.  He packed them when I wasn't looking.  He didn't even warn me. 

He left me like a dog. 

Because I was too bad for him to love.  I was bad. 

Or was I?  WAS I THAT BAD??????

I just want to scream....seriously.....WHAT DID I DO THAT WAS SO WRONG?  I'M SORRY!!!!  I PROMISE I'LL FIX IT!!!!!! 

I'll be cleaner.  Smarter.  More organized.  Less selfish.  Less needy.  Less slutty.  I won't flirt, I promise.  I will get the best grades.  I'll make something of my life.  I swear.  I will always be loving, and I will never---I promise---ask for you to love me or give me anything.  I don't need it.  All I need is for you to not leave me alone.  I won't be ugly.  Ever.  You don't have to buy me anything either.  I am always happy with what I have.  I will make you proud.  I will do nice things all of the time.  I will save you and fight for you when you need it; and I will make myself so strong and perfect that you will never have to worry about fighting for me.  I wouldn't burden you like that, because can't you see I am good now?  I am sorry that I was born, but I will stay out of your way as much as I can.  Please tell me when I'm in your way so that I know where to move to make it easier for you to move.  If you mess up, I will be there to take the blame.  Always.  You will never have to be responsible for anything.  Because I am perfect and strong and I will do it all. 

Just don't leave me alone.  Please.  I promise I will fix it. 

The above paragraph was very painful to write.  And yet I'm proud of myself.  And livid.  Because on some level, I say this everyday in my head to my parents.  I live this way.  I BELIEVE this. 

But I am beginning to wonder if what I believe is correct?  I wonder if that above paragraph is my "child"--the one who was taught to believe this by people who were sick? 

You see, it is easier to believe what I just wrote.  It is easier to believe it was my fault, and much easier to believe that I can fix it all because that gives me a little control.  It gives me hope.  It gives life to the daily "what if they come back?  what if they call?  what if they want to love me?  what if they decide I'm worth a try?"  It keeps me believing that I could regain all that I lost. 

But I wonder...no...I am beginning to believe that it also keeps me a prisoner. 

What is NOT easy to believe is the possibility that none of it was my fault.  It's NOT easy to believe that I can fix it.  If I am powerless over what happened, and of how they feel....than that makes THEM utter shit.  That makes me the victim.  That means I was powerless then.  That means that my parents...my "Everythings", did not love me. 

If I can't fix it, that means what happened was real.  It means I have to let them go.  It means a death. 

And it means pain.  Absolute, utter and gut sucking pain....the kind of pain that takes my breath away and leaves me feeling utterly lost and alone. 

I would walk thru fire for my own children, regardless of how "bad or good" they are---and I don't even define my children in those extremes.  They are people who have qualities covering the whole spectrum of desireability.  I love them regardless.  Love is love.  It just is.  There is nothing they could do to make me not love them.  The thought is absurd.  And if I did stop loving them, that would be something that was my own fault, not theirs. 

But mine did not love me. 

And I don't think I can "fix that".  I really don't.  If I could.....wouldn't I have already succeeded?  I certainly feel like I'm running out of solutions. 

And energy. 

I keep going back to the gum in the dryer.  You just have to pick and pick and pick until it's free enough to be wiped clean.  And the ruined doily.  Sometimes no matter how hard to you try to fix it, clean it up, etc. you have to let it go because it is ruined. 

I need to close this.  Enough "work" for today.  I have to go pick more gum out of the dryer.

And more muck out of my life. 

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?!