I've been saying this for a little while now... Mostly in a light, joking way... The thing is, is that it's true. One of the casualities of my friendship with R is that I don't trust folks very much anymore. And I certanly don't trust myself.
After knowing many of the ends and outs of someone else's relationship and looking back at mine, it's a real struggle to spend "social" time with people I don't know very well and trust anything that they are saying to me.
My mom met R years ago and her one comment about him was "Well Gosh. You can sure see how he is __'s husband. He's so attentive to her!"
And he had licked my lips just hours before.
I meet men now, and if they look at me too long I feel naked.
I meet women now, and I have no idea if I'm going to like them, wonder if they are telling me/themselves/anyone the truth. Wonder if their husbands are going to hit on me later.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Christmas 1984
So my brother is putting together a book of "family memories and/or contributions" This is ultimately going to be all of our Christmas presents this year. In his own words... "This is my clever way of giving people presents while making them do the majority of the work" Awesome huh?
I've been trying to cobble some stores together and finally finished fleshing one of them out. True Story:
The Time: Christmas 1984.
The Place: Woodhull, Ill. a.k.a. Small Town USA. Population: (on a good day) around 900.
The Craze: Cabbage Patch Kids.
Remember that wild time in 1984? When those plastic headed dolls that smelled like baby powder hit the shelves and then promptly flew off? Signed by Xavier Roberts (who is that guy anyway?) on the butt... these dolls were magic. Every.Kid.Wanted.One.
Myself included.
You see, I had visions of a red haired cabbage girl. In my most elaborate fantasies I pictured her wearing a green jogging suit. (Obviously fashion has always been an interesting and challenging venue for me. What kid wants a jogging suit for her doll? The ultra-cool kind I guess)
Well, at that time my family lived in small town Woodhull, we didn't have any big stores (still don't) and the likelihood of any store getting Cabbage Patch Kids... Well, it was more likely for some of the local pigs to learn how to fly than for there to be any Cabbage Patch Kids for sale.
Add to that, the media frenzy that fed into the craze for the Cabbages! The weeks leading up to Christmas, there were newscasts about it on the teevee. Film coverage of folks running each other over to get a Cabbage Patch for their kiddos. Radios were all a-chatter about this phenomenon. Everywhere you looked there was more coverage about how many disappointed kids there were going to be this Christmas due to the incredible popularity of these dolls.
All of this struck fear in my 9 year old heart. I knew, KNEW, that to ask my parents for a cabbage was to ask the impossible. If those parents on teevee were being denied in the stores, what hope did my folks have? So, I had to go higher up.
I asked Santa.
And I fretted. I had visions of my beautiful red haired Cabbage. The one I couldn't wait to hold, to cuddle, to marvel in. She was already SO REAL in my mind. She was all I could think about. And I so imagined Christmas morning... 2 ways... The first way was picturing waking up and going downstairs, rubbing sleepy eyes and blinking in disbelief at seeing my, MY, red haired Cabbage. The second way (the one I thought was most likely), started the same, but the blinking was in angst at realizing not even Santa would be able to fulfill my dream of the red haired Cabbage. Oh it was torture.
Finally, when I could barely walk under the weight of my hopeful wishes and dread of disappointment, I came to my Dad to have a very serious conversation about Christmas. I knew my Dad would be upfront with me. I had a feeling if I asked my Mom, she may sugar coat it so that I wouldn't feel bad now. But my Dad. Well, he'd be straight with me.
With a deep breath and a solemn face I asked him the question that had kept me awake for weeks:
"Dad? Dad, do you really think that Santa.... Well. (another deep breath)Do you think there is any way for Santa to have a Cabbage Patch for me? (Big Sigh. Looking down, I continue) I mean, there are so many kids that want one. (deeper breath and in a whispered tone....) Do you think there just might be one for me?"
And he said to me "If you believe. If you really believe. So. Stephanie... Do you REALLY believe?"
Emphatically, Enthusiastically, and with a conviction never before seen in a 9 year old I said "Dad. I really believe. I really believe"
So let's talk a moment about Christmas Magic. And let me tell you what was happening behind the scenes.
A store in Galesburg (the closest big town) was due to have a big shipment of Cabbages come in. They took names down for a waiting list. My mom happened to be on that list. She had even requested that if they, by chance, got a red haired Cabbage, then she would be so grateful if they would hold that one for her.
Then tragedy struck. The shipment came in, but instead of lots and lots of Cabbages... The store received 3 Cabbage Patch Kids.
My mom started working on the tale she knew she would have to weave for me about how Santa couldn't get a Cabbage to me. How to keep the magic of Christmas in my childhood, while at the same time delivering disappointing (soul crushing! To a 9 year old) news.
And. The phone rang.
It was the lady from the store.
Turns out my mom was one of the first ones on that waiting list.
Turns out that in the 3 cabbages that were delivered there was one with red hair. Wearing a green jogging suit.
And that lady was holding that particular Cabbage for my mom.
Her name was Kyle. And in her birth certificate it said that she liked horses.
I'll tell you what. Kyle still smells amazing.
And, I still believe.
I've been trying to cobble some stores together and finally finished fleshing one of them out. True Story:
The Time: Christmas 1984.
The Place: Woodhull, Ill. a.k.a. Small Town USA. Population: (on a good day) around 900.
The Craze: Cabbage Patch Kids.
Remember that wild time in 1984? When those plastic headed dolls that smelled like baby powder hit the shelves and then promptly flew off? Signed by Xavier Roberts (who is that guy anyway?) on the butt... these dolls were magic. Every.Kid.Wanted.One.
Myself included.
You see, I had visions of a red haired cabbage girl. In my most elaborate fantasies I pictured her wearing a green jogging suit. (Obviously fashion has always been an interesting and challenging venue for me. What kid wants a jogging suit for her doll? The ultra-cool kind I guess)
Well, at that time my family lived in small town Woodhull, we didn't have any big stores (still don't) and the likelihood of any store getting Cabbage Patch Kids... Well, it was more likely for some of the local pigs to learn how to fly than for there to be any Cabbage Patch Kids for sale.
Add to that, the media frenzy that fed into the craze for the Cabbages! The weeks leading up to Christmas, there were newscasts about it on the teevee. Film coverage of folks running each other over to get a Cabbage Patch for their kiddos. Radios were all a-chatter about this phenomenon. Everywhere you looked there was more coverage about how many disappointed kids there were going to be this Christmas due to the incredible popularity of these dolls.
All of this struck fear in my 9 year old heart. I knew, KNEW, that to ask my parents for a cabbage was to ask the impossible. If those parents on teevee were being denied in the stores, what hope did my folks have? So, I had to go higher up.
I asked Santa.
And I fretted. I had visions of my beautiful red haired Cabbage. The one I couldn't wait to hold, to cuddle, to marvel in. She was already SO REAL in my mind. She was all I could think about. And I so imagined Christmas morning... 2 ways... The first way was picturing waking up and going downstairs, rubbing sleepy eyes and blinking in disbelief at seeing my, MY, red haired Cabbage. The second way (the one I thought was most likely), started the same, but the blinking was in angst at realizing not even Santa would be able to fulfill my dream of the red haired Cabbage. Oh it was torture.
Finally, when I could barely walk under the weight of my hopeful wishes and dread of disappointment, I came to my Dad to have a very serious conversation about Christmas. I knew my Dad would be upfront with me. I had a feeling if I asked my Mom, she may sugar coat it so that I wouldn't feel bad now. But my Dad. Well, he'd be straight with me.
With a deep breath and a solemn face I asked him the question that had kept me awake for weeks:
"Dad? Dad, do you really think that Santa.... Well. (another deep breath)
And he said to me "If you believe. If you really believe. So. Stephanie... Do you REALLY believe?"
Emphatically, Enthusiastically, and with a conviction never before seen in a 9 year old I said "Dad. I really believe. I really believe"
So let's talk a moment about Christmas Magic. And let me tell you what was happening behind the scenes.
A store in Galesburg (the closest big town) was due to have a big shipment of Cabbages come in. They took names down for a waiting list. My mom happened to be on that list. She had even requested that if they, by chance, got a red haired Cabbage, then she would be so grateful if they would hold that one for her.
Then tragedy struck. The shipment came in, but instead of lots and lots of Cabbages... The store received 3 Cabbage Patch Kids.
My mom started working on the tale she knew she would have to weave for me about how Santa couldn't get a Cabbage to me. How to keep the magic of Christmas in my childhood, while at the same time delivering disappointing (soul crushing! To a 9 year old) news.
And. The phone rang.
It was the lady from the store.
Turns out my mom was one of the first ones on that waiting list.
Turns out that in the 3 cabbages that were delivered there was one with red hair. Wearing a green jogging suit.
And that lady was holding that particular Cabbage for my mom.
Her name was Kyle. And in her birth certificate it said that she liked horses.
I'll tell you what. Kyle still smells amazing.
And, I still believe.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Cat Stevens You Groovy Guy
2 years ago my heart broke in a millionbajillion seemingly unrepairable pieces. I was lost, blind and damaged. I felt numb and dangerous. The last 2 years have been an effort of clawing my out from the never ending horror of pain that I felt.
No one understood. After all, I had these beautiful daughters. I had this roof over my head. I've never known hunger. I had a husband who not only puts up with me, but is a generally nice guy. He doesn't beat me, nor does he throw me under the bus verbally (publicly or privately). God How Selfish Am I? I have a ring on my finger. I have EVERYTHING. And I'm sad? Whatever. Get over yourself.
I tried.
I tried fasting, cleanses, therapy, God, isolation, never-ending socializing, retreats. I poured my time into activities, I volunteered, I studied. I taught, traveled, and I thought about suicide every day. I tried to keep gratitude in my heart. Count my blessings over and over and over again. I practiced mindfulness. I took antidepressants. I stopped taking antidepressants. I threw dishes. I prayed. I begged. I curled up every night not understanding why. I would wake up wondering why. Why I had to get through another day. Thinking that this is what my life would be like till it was finally, blessedly, over.
I lost months of my life to depression. I look at my kids now and I wonder where in the heck I was, and then I remember, oh right. Depression. Stolen months of my children's childhood that I don't remember because I was barely functioning.
Bit by bit the last few months I've felt like a baby learning to walk again. Bumping into things, but standing. Albeit on shaky legs, still though, reaching out, and tentatively smiling and then grimacing and then wailing and doing it all over again.
And the last few weeks.... Something has really shifted. The despair isn't there anymore. I go hunting for it emotionally sometimes, a bit of a poke in the familiar places. Like fussing with a bruise. OW! That hurts.... And you touch it again. Its not there though. The OW! is gone. The vast empty places aren't there. I'm not sure if they have been filled up... I know they aren't there anymore though.
Turns out time was the thing that really helped. Big Surprise, no?. People told me time would help take the edge off and I didn't, no, couldn't believe them.
So I'm listening to Cat Stevens today - Wild World - and I can sing along. I don't wrap up tightly in despair. I mishear (or perhaps heard what I needed) the lyric of "Baby I'm grievin'" and instead hear "Baby I'm breathin'" and I realize that Yes. Baby I'm breathin'.
Better than breathin'.. Singing.
No one understood. After all, I had these beautiful daughters. I had this roof over my head. I've never known hunger. I had a husband who not only puts up with me, but is a generally nice guy. He doesn't beat me, nor does he throw me under the bus verbally (publicly or privately). God How Selfish Am I? I have a ring on my finger. I have EVERYTHING. And I'm sad? Whatever. Get over yourself.
I tried.
I tried fasting, cleanses, therapy, God, isolation, never-ending socializing, retreats. I poured my time into activities, I volunteered, I studied. I taught, traveled, and I thought about suicide every day. I tried to keep gratitude in my heart. Count my blessings over and over and over again. I practiced mindfulness. I took antidepressants. I stopped taking antidepressants. I threw dishes. I prayed. I begged. I curled up every night not understanding why. I would wake up wondering why. Why I had to get through another day. Thinking that this is what my life would be like till it was finally, blessedly, over.
I lost months of my life to depression. I look at my kids now and I wonder where in the heck I was, and then I remember, oh right. Depression. Stolen months of my children's childhood that I don't remember because I was barely functioning.
Bit by bit the last few months I've felt like a baby learning to walk again. Bumping into things, but standing. Albeit on shaky legs, still though, reaching out, and tentatively smiling and then grimacing and then wailing and doing it all over again.
And the last few weeks.... Something has really shifted. The despair isn't there anymore. I go hunting for it emotionally sometimes, a bit of a poke in the familiar places. Like fussing with a bruise. OW! That hurts.... And you touch it again. Its not there though. The OW! is gone. The vast empty places aren't there. I'm not sure if they have been filled up... I know they aren't there anymore though.
Turns out time was the thing that really helped. Big Surprise, no?. People told me time would help take the edge off and I didn't, no, couldn't believe them.
So I'm listening to Cat Stevens today - Wild World - and I can sing along. I don't wrap up tightly in despair. I mishear (or perhaps heard what I needed) the lyric of "Baby I'm grievin'" and instead hear "Baby I'm breathin'" and I realize that Yes. Baby I'm breathin'.
Better than breathin'.. Singing.
When It Rains.....
It rains.
I've been watching some movies lately. Oh, you too? Or not so much? Either way - I tend to go in waves myownself.
And I've been listening to some music.
And reading some books.
And thinking "fuck. I'm such a slacker. I need to EXPRESS myself!" (Thanks Madonna)
I've had this blog reserved for..... AboutAMillionYears. And never posted.
So I'm this...Well, Girl. Although lately I've been trying on the "woman" label. Technically I've been a "woman" for a long time. Well, if you go by rites of passages (then the age would be 12). If you go by what I look like on the outside you would probably guess late 20's. If you go calendar years, then I'm 35. And what the F does any of that mean? Nothing.
I have 2 kids. I consistently am surprised that the older one is 7 (didn't I just yesterday get the scare of the 2 pink lines and revamp my life?. no? Well. It feels like it) and the younger one is 5. (5? Aren't I still in postpartum? Aren't I still adjusting to 2? no? Well. It feels like it)
And if you are like everyone else in my world, the answer to the next question on your tongue is: yes/no/yes/no we are thinking of having a 3rd. Would I love to pregnant again? Erm..... Sometimes. Would I love to have another sweet, snugly baby in my arms.....? erm... Kinda.
Do I really want to bring another person into the world....? Shit - can you refill my martini and ask me in a moment?
I have a husband.
We're not exactly sure we should be together. We feel pretty great about the kids we've brought into this world, and 80-85% of the time feel like we are pretty great parents. (If you have a higher percentage in your own mind... Well. Awesome for you.. I think we've already met. You don't need to write me. : )
So the husband and I.
Well. Mostly we are pretty great. Mostly. Our bad, shady, would Shock-the-Church-Folks stuff though, is pretty juicy. And when we look at each other we mindfully think about how wonderful the other is. Very Mindfully. Very.
We're not really ready to split up though. But we're not really ready to be together either. And if you met us on the street. HAH! You would have no idea. Because we function really well together. And we look good together. Meaning aesthetically we look alright.
So here I am. Having this blog (although really I should journal. I loathe journal~ling though. Lucky You Interweb - You get bits of my head instead!).
~Orange Girl
I've been watching some movies lately. Oh, you too? Or not so much? Either way - I tend to go in waves myownself.
And I've been listening to some music.
And reading some books.
And thinking "fuck. I'm such a slacker. I need to EXPRESS myself!" (Thanks Madonna)
I've had this blog reserved for..... AboutAMillionYears. And never posted.
So I'm this...Well, Girl. Although lately I've been trying on the "woman" label. Technically I've been a "woman" for a long time. Well, if you go by rites of passages (then the age would be 12). If you go by what I look like on the outside you would probably guess late 20's. If you go calendar years, then I'm 35. And what the F does any of that mean? Nothing.
I have 2 kids. I consistently am surprised that the older one is 7 (didn't I just yesterday get the scare of the 2 pink lines and revamp my life?. no? Well. It feels like it) and the younger one is 5. (5? Aren't I still in postpartum? Aren't I still adjusting to 2? no? Well. It feels like it)
And if you are like everyone else in my world, the answer to the next question on your tongue is: yes/no/yes/no we are thinking of having a 3rd. Would I love to pregnant again? Erm..... Sometimes. Would I love to have another sweet, snugly baby in my arms.....? erm... Kinda.
Do I really want to bring another person into the world....? Shit - can you refill my martini and ask me in a moment?
I have a husband.
We're not exactly sure we should be together. We feel pretty great about the kids we've brought into this world, and 80-85% of the time feel like we are pretty great parents. (If you have a higher percentage in your own mind... Well. Awesome for you.. I think we've already met. You don't need to write me. : )
So the husband and I.
Well. Mostly we are pretty great. Mostly. Our bad, shady, would Shock-the-Church-Folks stuff though, is pretty juicy. And when we look at each other we mindfully think about how wonderful the other is. Very Mindfully. Very.
We're not really ready to split up though. But we're not really ready to be together either. And if you met us on the street. HAH! You would have no idea. Because we function really well together. And we look good together. Meaning aesthetically we look alright.
So here I am. Having this blog (although really I should journal. I loathe journal~ling though. Lucky You Interweb - You get bits of my head instead!).
~Orange Girl
What do you mean you Kant?
Dear A,
Tonight I grabbed a RealSimple from the bookcase - a magazine I always love to look at in the grocery store and never buy. You gave me subscription (yea!) and then I never looked at those lovely magazines that arrived in my mail either (sigh). Until TONIGHT!
And what do I find in my delight? (I imagine you are at the edge of your seat wondering the answer)...
Vegetarian Cooking for Meat Eaters.
Privacy Online
And lastly... Philosophy 101.
Did you know that I minored in Philosophy? Hmmm. I'm not sure if this question is posed to you, A, or RealSimple.
So, I'm reading the Philosophy Article in RealSimple (does this seem like an oxymoron to anyone besides me?) and of course I have to drag out my Philosophy book from college.
Wow - that almost sounds scholarly.
Let me back up.
I hated college.
Really hated college.
Granted I had the "college experience" i.e. smoked some pot (didn't inhale. BWHAHHAHA), had a lesbian experience (didn't we all? no? oh. well. Awkward!), and had extreme guilt over the good money my parents were spending on COLLEGE while I desperately tried to figure out WTF I was doing.
Even with all of that.... I had this Philosophy Teacher. He was amazing. And by amazing I mean, we (the students) would show up, some of us had actually read the material (OH! That was me! That was one class I actually cared about! ) and then we would pick his brain. He was an Asian man living in the rural Midwest. Granted it was a liberal arts college..... A liberal arts college surrounded by cornfields and guys with trucks filled with gun racks, guns, and dawgs. And he listened to us, asked questions of us, spoke softly and passionately. Put up with our shenanigans.
So for the first time in my life I was introduced to other folks who were AS full of questions and angst as I was. Why is a fucking chair called a chair?
And what about Christianity? (What does that question mean for you? Now that's a can of worms... Or not)
So I'm looking through my college textbook for the highlighted parts (I paid a lot of money to highlight words of my choosing...!) And the first one is this:
We must appreciate how important it is to nurture our curiosity.
Interesting! 15 years later that when I now teach childbirth classes, this is one of the things Itouch on drill in... The idea of being "curious" to the experience.
Was I truly that deep 15 years ago? Or am I just freakin' stagnant? Or neither. Or a bit of both? Am I curious to the answer?
Funny - in my anecdotal bits about college I tend to self-deprecate my slackeredness. In re-reading my philosophy book however, I was ALL kinds of serious. I have highlighted, underlined, and written in the margins. Maybe it's time to opt for a bit of forgiveness towards my time in college. Obviously I took some things seriously. Like my very core.
Tonight I grabbed a RealSimple from the bookcase - a magazine I always love to look at in the grocery store and never buy. You gave me subscription (yea!) and then I never looked at those lovely magazines that arrived in my mail either (sigh). Until TONIGHT!
And what do I find in my delight? (I imagine you are at the edge of your seat wondering the answer)...
Vegetarian Cooking for Meat Eaters.
Privacy Online
And lastly... Philosophy 101.
Did you know that I minored in Philosophy? Hmmm. I'm not sure if this question is posed to you, A, or RealSimple.
So, I'm reading the Philosophy Article in RealSimple (does this seem like an oxymoron to anyone besides me?) and of course I have to drag out my Philosophy book from college.
Wow - that almost sounds scholarly.
Let me back up.
I hated college.
Really hated college.
Granted I had the "college experience" i.e. smoked some pot (didn't inhale. BWHAHHAHA), had a lesbian experience (didn't we all? no? oh. well. Awkward!), and had extreme guilt over the good money my parents were spending on COLLEGE while I desperately tried to figure out WTF I was doing.
Even with all of that.... I had this Philosophy Teacher. He was amazing. And by amazing I mean, we (the students) would show up, some of us had actually read the material (OH! That was me! That was one class I actually cared about! ) and then we would pick his brain. He was an Asian man living in the rural Midwest. Granted it was a liberal arts college..... A liberal arts college surrounded by cornfields and guys with trucks filled with gun racks, guns, and dawgs. And he listened to us, asked questions of us, spoke softly and passionately. Put up with our shenanigans.
So for the first time in my life I was introduced to other folks who were AS full of questions and angst as I was. Why is a fucking chair called a chair?
And what about Christianity? (What does that question mean for you? Now that's a can of worms... Or not)
So I'm looking through my college textbook for the highlighted parts (I paid a lot of money to highlight words of my choosing...!) And the first one is this:
We must appreciate how important it is to nurture our curiosity.
Interesting! 15 years later that when I now teach childbirth classes, this is one of the things I
Was I truly that deep 15 years ago? Or am I just freakin' stagnant? Or neither. Or a bit of both? Am I curious to the answer?
Funny - in my anecdotal bits about college I tend to self-deprecate my slackeredness. In re-reading my philosophy book however, I was ALL kinds of serious. I have highlighted, underlined, and written in the margins. Maybe it's time to opt for a bit of forgiveness towards my time in college. Obviously I took some things seriously. Like my very core.
Monday, February 8, 2010
February 2010
It’s strange how it happens. I don’t think that anyone really believes me, when I tell them about the last year and a-half. They see my perky hair and smile (someone actually said to me last week “wow. I like your smile”) and they hear the words “I’m not doing okay, depression is overbearing in my life, but it doesn’t fit with what they are looking at.
Nor should it. For when I’m saying those words, it doesn’t fit. That’s because I’m usually sincerely glad to be where I am. Happy to be away from my life. Happy to be with the people I’m suddenly around.
Today though. I felt the shift. It was audible, physical. We’re in the car after I’ve been at the EC Meeting all morning. The kids are n the back and they are tired. Molly asks where is her pillow. The blue pillows that I bought for camping. And the car seats. That I have specifically set aside with their snuggies as car accessories. That are now packed, crammed away in the back somewhere.
How is this possible? And it’s not that I don’t see all the work that has obviously been done. I do. Of course I do. The car is FULL. I know that didn’t happen all by itself. The gas tank is full, the fridge has been cleaned out, the truck was packed. I SEE all of that.
So I say “Maybe you didn’t know this, but I bought those pillows along with the snuggies for car rides. So the kids could have them in the car. For next time, now you know.” And he replies “I packed them. There weren’t any specific instructions about them.” All morning, and parts of yesterday I tried to give specific instructions and then this morning tried to alleviate some of the remembering of all the instructions by taking care of a few things. I didn’t think to give specific instructions about the pillows and snuggies because My God, we’ve only talked about how those stupid snuggies and pillows are for the kids to have IN THE FUCKING CAR. I then take a breath and say “I’m not trying to be offensive, I just want you to know.”
And I just sink. Sink under the veil of miscommunication and depression. Vowing that as soon as I get back from this trip I’m going to start popping the pills. Why am I resistant. I just want to be numb to this life.
Am I finally getting to a point where the things that I’m “grateful” for are not worth enough for the things that I really want? I would rather be alone than have someone who can’t think of the little things that make us a family who thinks about each other. The small things like how he goes to the pantry and knows that something will be there because I think things like that. And I think of those things, not because I’m a goody goody, better than anyone else, but because it’s that little stuff that says I’m thinking about you. Your needs/wants are important to me.
Even more so though. Without those things – that would be fine. If he could have said something like “oh. Of course those pillows were for the girls in the car. I forgot!” Instead, the defense. And then the veil falls. Why do I keep being disappointed? Because I continually have some sort of different hope/expectation I suppose. And that’s what I want to get rid of. Just numb that chit right out of me. No more veil falling, just a continual fog instead. That’s what I want.
Nor should it. For when I’m saying those words, it doesn’t fit. That’s because I’m usually sincerely glad to be where I am. Happy to be away from my life. Happy to be with the people I’m suddenly around.
Today though. I felt the shift. It was audible, physical. We’re in the car after I’ve been at the EC Meeting all morning. The kids are n the back and they are tired. Molly asks where is her pillow. The blue pillows that I bought for camping. And the car seats. That I have specifically set aside with their snuggies as car accessories. That are now packed, crammed away in the back somewhere.
How is this possible? And it’s not that I don’t see all the work that has obviously been done. I do. Of course I do. The car is FULL. I know that didn’t happen all by itself. The gas tank is full, the fridge has been cleaned out, the truck was packed. I SEE all of that.
So I say “Maybe you didn’t know this, but I bought those pillows along with the snuggies for car rides. So the kids could have them in the car. For next time, now you know.” And he replies “I packed them. There weren’t any specific instructions about them.” All morning, and parts of yesterday I tried to give specific instructions and then this morning tried to alleviate some of the remembering of all the instructions by taking care of a few things. I didn’t think to give specific instructions about the pillows and snuggies because My God, we’ve only talked about how those stupid snuggies and pillows are for the kids to have IN THE FUCKING CAR. I then take a breath and say “I’m not trying to be offensive, I just want you to know.”
And I just sink. Sink under the veil of miscommunication and depression. Vowing that as soon as I get back from this trip I’m going to start popping the pills. Why am I resistant. I just want to be numb to this life.
Am I finally getting to a point where the things that I’m “grateful” for are not worth enough for the things that I really want? I would rather be alone than have someone who can’t think of the little things that make us a family who thinks about each other. The small things like how he goes to the pantry and knows that something will be there because I think things like that. And I think of those things, not because I’m a goody goody, better than anyone else, but because it’s that little stuff that says I’m thinking about you. Your needs/wants are important to me.
Even more so though. Without those things – that would be fine. If he could have said something like “oh. Of course those pillows were for the girls in the car. I forgot!” Instead, the defense. And then the veil falls. Why do I keep being disappointed? Because I continually have some sort of different hope/expectation I suppose. And that’s what I want to get rid of. Just numb that chit right out of me. No more veil falling, just a continual fog instead. That’s what I want.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Bell's Palsy. 12/2006
Monday, December 11th, 2006
We had joined the gym 2 months previously. I had high cholesterol and I was hoping to bring it down through diet and exercise. I hoped that The Husband and I would work out together. He had expressed a desire to be fit, and I was excited to try and have this be something we could share.
I was upstairs at the gym and I was drinking water while working out on the elliptical machine. And my water tasted funny. I remember looking at the bottle and wondering “huh?”. I thought almost nothing else about it other than a quick mental note to toss the water bottle.
Then that night I had the worst headache I have ever had. Terrible. I was lying on the couch begging my husband to rub my head. It hurt so much.
Tuesday, December 12th
The next morning I woke up and felt weird. Nothing was different yet. I felt odd though. I asked The Husband to call me in an hour or so just to double check on me. Just in case I was on the floor. It was a joke, barely though, because I felt scared. I really felt odd inside and didn’t quite know what was. Something was off though.
We run errands – First The Kiddo Doctor - I don't remember why. Next Target. We’re trying to get things done – we leave for Illinois on the 18th. My grandpa is dying and we need to get home.
Next thing I know I’m in the parking lot of Target. I don’t remember now if I went in or not. I notice that something doesn’t quite feel right on the left side of my face. My eyelid doesn’t seem to be shutting all the way. And my mouth isn’t smiling quite right. It’s barely noticeable though. But I start to freak out. I call The Husband and ask him to Google “having a stroke” because I’m scared. Then I call MaryQuite and she says “OMG I just saw a show on this. You probably have bell’s palsy”
What? I’ve never even heard of such a thing. I call the doctor and get an appt for later that afternoon.
I get home. I do a search on Bell’s Palsy. I don’t want to read too much, it’s scary and unknown.
My next door neighbor takes me to the doctor. I’m too scared to drive.
I remember it was dark. It couldn’t have been too late in the day, but by the time the doctor saw me it was dark outside. I felt such gratitude to my next door neighbor. Both kids were with us.
I am prescribed Prednisone and an anti-viral medication. The doctor says it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. I want to believe her. And I don’t know what to expect next. I ask about eye problems (I had read that it can be an issue) she downplayed it all.
I can’t talk to my mom about this. My mom is my best friend. Not talking to her feels like lying to her.
She is consumed with the family in Illinois and the impending death of my grandfather.
The following days…
Are a blur and a nightmare. Every day my face becomes more statue like. My eyelid will no longer shut on its own. I purchase eye drops, eye masks, whatever I hope will provide relief. I’m exhausted and I’m trying not to scare the kids. We talk about how Mommy’s face is sick and has a sickness.
I go to a UMW Christmas Celebration and cannot eat. To eat is grotesque. It’s difficult to chew and swallow and keep food inside my mouth. I tear up and feel helpless.
High Lights: I go to buy some cute cat eye glasses to minimize the effect the paralysis has had. The woman behind the counter says she’s had Bell’s Palsy twice. TWICE. Dear god. She’s fine now. I have some hope.
I get a new hair cut that looks lovely.
A random friend (one that is not that close, obviously closer than I realize however) brings me the loveliest Christmas basket ever. And smiles at me.
My lavender rice pillow. Heated up and placed on my face. That is how I slept every night. The weight kept my eyelid closed and the heat helped the tension in my face. It was a lifesaver.
Lows: My personal life is beyond horrific. While we’re all grateful I’m not dying, my husband has holed up with his fears and left me hanging. I realize that he never called me the day that I started to feel strange. I feel abandoned and frightened. I try not to think about the stories I’ve read where people live for the rest of their lives with this. Or months. Or for years. YEARS.
Finally I call my mom. I have to tell her, I’m sure at this point she thinks I’m pregnant. I’ve been telling her how tired I am and how strange life is right now. I finally let her know and tell her not to worry. There’s nothing that can be additionally done. And I’m going to be fine. (I try and believe it too)
The plane ride to Illinois is a nightmare. The kids and I are alone. Due to my eyelid not closing the air from the plane dries out my vision and I’m so so so tired. Fighting the infection in my body is exhausting. Changing planes is truly an ordeal and I’m all alone. The kids are so little. My grandpa has died on the day we fly. That is okay. That part wasn’t the bad part. We knew he was going to be dying and I didn’t expect that I would get to see him again. We had already said our goodbyes.
Time in Illinois
Oh god. To see people I haven’t seen in years at the memorial. We joked at the irony of being in shape and looking so great and then POW! Getting the Bell’s.
Riding the combine at the John Deere Museum. This was also the year of the super cute Guatemalan jackets for the kiddos and for me.
My brother, lovingly teasing me and saying “It’s not so bad until you smile or laugh” and then making me smile and laugh.
The year of the felt nativity and the blue aardvark.
And then the worst happened.
I saw a man that I have known since I was a child. He had something happen to him in his youth – I don’t even know what it was. The effect however, was that his face was permanently frozen. I realized I couldn’t bare to be around him, next to him. I couldn’t bare for anyone to think I was like him. And then I realized I couldn’t bare my callousness. It was horrifying to realize that I was mortified.
Gradually, in about 6 weeks the worst was over.
Every day though, seeing if it was worse, or if there was any improvement. Always wondering Will this be the morning I wake up and it’s better?
Sometimes when I’m very very tired I can feel twinges. Or if I’d had too much too drink. I worry about stress. Which is counterproductive….. I’m scared that I’ll get it again. Although it’s unlikely.
Benefits:
I didn’t drink during this time – between the holidays and the high emotions from Pop’s dying, it’s better that I didn’t. I would have had a difficult time abstaining though if it hadn’t been for the Bell’s. The idea of my face being frozen AND being drunk was to horrifying to bear. So, that probably worked out for the best.
I learned some challenging “truths” for myself. Some I am still figuring out and learning.
My husband had his world shaken. It was a powerful reckoning for him to have this happen to me.
We had joined the gym 2 months previously. I had high cholesterol and I was hoping to bring it down through diet and exercise. I hoped that The Husband and I would work out together. He had expressed a desire to be fit, and I was excited to try and have this be something we could share.
I was upstairs at the gym and I was drinking water while working out on the elliptical machine. And my water tasted funny. I remember looking at the bottle and wondering “huh?”. I thought almost nothing else about it other than a quick mental note to toss the water bottle.
Then that night I had the worst headache I have ever had. Terrible. I was lying on the couch begging my husband to rub my head. It hurt so much.
Tuesday, December 12th
The next morning I woke up and felt weird. Nothing was different yet. I felt odd though. I asked The Husband to call me in an hour or so just to double check on me. Just in case I was on the floor. It was a joke, barely though, because I felt scared. I really felt odd inside and didn’t quite know what was. Something was off though.
We run errands – First The Kiddo Doctor - I don't remember why. Next Target. We’re trying to get things done – we leave for Illinois on the 18th. My grandpa is dying and we need to get home.
Next thing I know I’m in the parking lot of Target. I don’t remember now if I went in or not. I notice that something doesn’t quite feel right on the left side of my face. My eyelid doesn’t seem to be shutting all the way. And my mouth isn’t smiling quite right. It’s barely noticeable though. But I start to freak out. I call The Husband and ask him to Google “having a stroke” because I’m scared. Then I call MaryQuite and she says “OMG I just saw a show on this. You probably have bell’s palsy”
What? I’ve never even heard of such a thing. I call the doctor and get an appt for later that afternoon.
I get home. I do a search on Bell’s Palsy. I don’t want to read too much, it’s scary and unknown.
My next door neighbor takes me to the doctor. I’m too scared to drive.
I remember it was dark. It couldn’t have been too late in the day, but by the time the doctor saw me it was dark outside. I felt such gratitude to my next door neighbor. Both kids were with us.
I am prescribed Prednisone and an anti-viral medication. The doctor says it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. I want to believe her. And I don’t know what to expect next. I ask about eye problems (I had read that it can be an issue) she downplayed it all.
I can’t talk to my mom about this. My mom is my best friend. Not talking to her feels like lying to her.
She is consumed with the family in Illinois and the impending death of my grandfather.
The following days…
Are a blur and a nightmare. Every day my face becomes more statue like. My eyelid will no longer shut on its own. I purchase eye drops, eye masks, whatever I hope will provide relief. I’m exhausted and I’m trying not to scare the kids. We talk about how Mommy’s face is sick and has a sickness.
I go to a UMW Christmas Celebration and cannot eat. To eat is grotesque. It’s difficult to chew and swallow and keep food inside my mouth. I tear up and feel helpless.
High Lights: I go to buy some cute cat eye glasses to minimize the effect the paralysis has had. The woman behind the counter says she’s had Bell’s Palsy twice. TWICE. Dear god. She’s fine now. I have some hope.
I get a new hair cut that looks lovely.
A random friend (one that is not that close, obviously closer than I realize however) brings me the loveliest Christmas basket ever. And smiles at me.
My lavender rice pillow. Heated up and placed on my face. That is how I slept every night. The weight kept my eyelid closed and the heat helped the tension in my face. It was a lifesaver.
Lows: My personal life is beyond horrific. While we’re all grateful I’m not dying, my husband has holed up with his fears and left me hanging. I realize that he never called me the day that I started to feel strange. I feel abandoned and frightened. I try not to think about the stories I’ve read where people live for the rest of their lives with this. Or months. Or for years. YEARS.
Finally I call my mom. I have to tell her, I’m sure at this point she thinks I’m pregnant. I’ve been telling her how tired I am and how strange life is right now. I finally let her know and tell her not to worry. There’s nothing that can be additionally done. And I’m going to be fine. (I try and believe it too)
The plane ride to Illinois is a nightmare. The kids and I are alone. Due to my eyelid not closing the air from the plane dries out my vision and I’m so so so tired. Fighting the infection in my body is exhausting. Changing planes is truly an ordeal and I’m all alone. The kids are so little. My grandpa has died on the day we fly. That is okay. That part wasn’t the bad part. We knew he was going to be dying and I didn’t expect that I would get to see him again. We had already said our goodbyes.
Time in Illinois
Oh god. To see people I haven’t seen in years at the memorial. We joked at the irony of being in shape and looking so great and then POW! Getting the Bell’s.
Riding the combine at the John Deere Museum. This was also the year of the super cute Guatemalan jackets for the kiddos and for me.
My brother, lovingly teasing me and saying “It’s not so bad until you smile or laugh” and then making me smile and laugh.
The year of the felt nativity and the blue aardvark.
And then the worst happened.
I saw a man that I have known since I was a child. He had something happen to him in his youth – I don’t even know what it was. The effect however, was that his face was permanently frozen. I realized I couldn’t bare to be around him, next to him. I couldn’t bare for anyone to think I was like him. And then I realized I couldn’t bare my callousness. It was horrifying to realize that I was mortified.
Gradually, in about 6 weeks the worst was over.
Every day though, seeing if it was worse, or if there was any improvement. Always wondering Will this be the morning I wake up and it’s better?
Sometimes when I’m very very tired I can feel twinges. Or if I’d had too much too drink. I worry about stress. Which is counterproductive….. I’m scared that I’ll get it again. Although it’s unlikely.
Benefits:
I didn’t drink during this time – between the holidays and the high emotions from Pop’s dying, it’s better that I didn’t. I would have had a difficult time abstaining though if it hadn’t been for the Bell’s. The idea of my face being frozen AND being drunk was to horrifying to bear. So, that probably worked out for the best.
I learned some challenging “truths” for myself. Some I am still figuring out and learning.
My husband had his world shaken. It was a powerful reckoning for him to have this happen to me.
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