Dysfunction Junction

You start to palpitate and the
jeep is shakin' the snake
Like a man upon the move for a
doll who doesn't hesitate
Manhattan Transfer--Blue Serenade

Ah, the morning after a panic attack.  I feel like I've been hit by a train. 

Taking stock, here.  I feel like crapola, I look like crapola, and if you measured my weight in crapola, well, you'd have a lot of crapola.

Plans for today:

• Hot, hot shower
• Make an effort with hair and makeup.  I'm sick, I'm not dead.
• Go shopping for healthier food than the sodium-laced junk in the freezer.
• Get outside and, at the very least, walk around the block.  Sick or no, I need fresh air.
• Take my medicine like a good girl.

All my friends are getting in shape, it seems.  Running 5ks, doing Weight Watchers, feeling good and being active.  Assholes.  I thought we were in this together, you rat bastards.

 

Assuming I don't die getting dressed, I'll be back later with an update :)

 

OMGomgOMGomgOMG

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again, after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground
Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was
Talking Heads--Once in a Lifetime

This certainly sucks.  Another 2 am panic attack.  I really hate these effing things.  But hey, I'm at least gonna get me a blog out of it this time.  Well, after I go downstairs and get a glass of water, and maybe some Motrin.

Okay then.  Ice cold water.  Ahhhh.  Please help.  Please, please help.

Yeah, so, okay.  This is a new development.  The holy-crap-I'm-wide-awake-and-freaking thing... not loving it.  Especially the fact that it's pretty much all my own fault.  I'm screwing my life up royally these days.  Can't focus on school, and can't seem to manage the million niggling details of being a working mom, wife, student, daughter, sister and friend.  I'm constantly dropping one damn ball or another.  Usually on my goddamned foot.

I don't know why I cannot seem to get it together these days.  I suspect my number one problem is the lack of sleep.  I have insomnia, and so do my two kids.  A full night of sleep is a luxury I get to enjoy once every two or three weeks at best.  So then I suck down gallons of coffee, shove crap food in my face all day, and then unwind with a bottle of cabernet at night.  My health sucks and my mood is worse.

Now, let's add into the mix the fact that my dad is ailing, my brother is sick and staying with me, I can't find a sitter for my autistic daughter, there's never enough money to pay the bills, my husband's job is in peril, and I may end up having to move and I have nowhere to go... and okay, I guess a wee bit of panic is not the biggest fish I have to fry. 

Oh, and I have pneumonia this week.  Aaaarrrrrrggggghhhhhh!

Phew.  Okay.  Deep, cleansing breaths.  There's a lot of good here, too.  My kids are adorable.  Kel is a terrific dad.  I like my job.  Tonight when I posted on Facebook that I was having a panic attack, two friends were right there to offer support.  My family is a loving and supportive one.  My health is not great, but it's not horrible, either. I am smart.  I am resourceful.  And as always, I have my bipolar disorder, which means eventually another round of mania will sweep over me and I'll get a lot of this shit taken care of.  And I just ended a sentence with a preposition, and I've learned to be okay with that.  See?  Okay then!

My biggest salvation is this, though.  Writing.  As soon as I sit down and put pen to paper, or pixel to page, I feel a change within me.  My heart stops racing.  My mind focuses.  My spirits lift.  It is this that I am meant to do.  I don't have to make a living at it; indeed, I don't think I ever want to make a living at it.  It's my "me" thing.  My happy place.  God forbid it should ever become a means to an end, I think I'd lose my very soul.

Sooooo... am I ready for sleep yet?  Let's give it a whirl.

The fault, dear Brutus...

Our hearts were ringing
In the key that our souls were singing
As we danced in the night
Remember, how the stars stole the night away...
Earth, Wind & Fire--September

August 29th?  How in the hell did it get to be August 29th?

So, the online classes for the Fall 2012 semester just went live today.  School has, for all intents and purposes, started. I'm ready to go, thanks to my new Nerd Girl glasses:

I was amused to see that the very first reading for American Lit was this:

When I first heard the learn'd astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the
lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wandr'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars

Oh, how perfect is that for me?  The fuzzy major whose every friend is a mathematician or scientist.  Too funny.  And to think just two nights ago I posted this quote from "learn'd astronomer" David Jewitt on my Facebook page:

Occasionally, the good young people of California ask me for my thoughts about a career in science. I tell them that 'career' is for car salesmen, doctors and corporate executives, not for me. Astronomy is an obsession, not a career. And they ask how best to do research in astronomy, as though I am some sort of an expert. But I am not. Everything I do, no matter how simple, feels to me like a new...

thing for which I am unprepared and which I know I will get wrong many times before I get it right.

 

I'm sensing a theme here.  I wonder if Whitman understood that for some people, science and math are poetry and magic?  That they are not about reducing the heavens to mere formulae, but that the formulae themselves sing to those souls? 

 

Hmmm.  Well, none of this is getting me dressed and ready for work.  Sighhhh.

So much for sleep

I've got no deeds to do
No promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morning time drop all its petals on me
Life, I love you
All is groovy
Simon & Garfunkel--59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)

No miles to go before I sleep, either?

Once again, I totally bolloxed the time frame for one of my summer psych classes.  I was so excited to have a night of nothing to do.  I thought I'd read, maybe watch a little mindless television.  (Cut me some slack.  I watch about ten hours a year, max.)  So anyway, imagine my dismay when I discovered I needed to post a couple of discussion comments, and write a paper on obsessive-compulsive disorder.  Ack!!!

Fortunately, I think I did okay.  Not as good as I would have under normal circumstances.  But when the hell am I ever going to experience normal circumstances?

I cut my best friend in the world loose today.  It hurts.  It was the right thing to do; my conscience is clear on that level.  But I miss him.  Now is the time of day he and I would be chatting, and I'd be saying "ugh, okay, I have to get some sleep now!"  But he is toxic as hell, and incapable of change.  For three years I've listened to his reasons why things are the way they are, and his promises that after this, or this, or this, or this, he is getting his shit together and doing what must be done to fix his life.  Today, the buzzer sounded.  Game over, babe.

Thank god I am not drinking.  (See previous post.)  No way I could stay calm if I had a litre and a half of malbec in me.  But tonight, when it should be at its worst, I am actually okay.  No volatile emotions.  No rage.  No desire to engage him and try once again to understand what the hell he's thinking.  Nope.  I still care, but I no longer care to listen to his excuses. Arrivederce!  A domani!  Not.

In just over a week, my abnormal psych class will come to an end.  I am relieved, I guess.  The pace I am on is intolerable.  Work, school, kids, all while trying to keep an iron grip on my mood.  While not drinking. Yuck.  I am really going to miss the class, though.  The prof is wonderful, and the material fascinating.  I'll be sorry to see it go.

So many endings.  But so much that's in progress, or about to begin.  I can't speak for tomorrow, but here, now, life is pretty good.

Merry Go Round, Merry Go Down

You see rabbits in the mirror
And you cry at puppet shows
You laugh at me when I take off my clothes
But underneath the dusty covers
Your madness, it almost shines
Yeah those sane girls they're so easy
But a crazy girl is hard to find
John Hiatt--A Crazy Girl is Hard to Find

What an up-down-up-down day it has been!

Should I go into the gory details here?  Nah.  Probably not.  On the off chance someone actually reads this thing, it could maybe be bad to share the events of the past 12 hours.  Suffice it to say that, after two years and ten months of riding a particularly crazy merry-go-round, I have finally had enough.  Ride over.  I think I'll stroll the midway for a while, maybe treat myself to a corn dog and try to win a goldfish.

It is so hard to blog when I'm not manic or depressed.  Oh, have I mentioned I'm bipolar?  Yep.  Certified by a nice Jewish doctor from Columbus, Ohio, who wrote me a script for lamictal and told me he was optimistic it would work well for me.

Ha!

Here's what lamictal did for me: 1) Virtually nothing for my depressive episodes.  I still felt that dull, grey hopelessness.  The lamictal may have taken the edge of the pain, but that was about it.  2) Abolished my hypomanic phases.  I was flat.  No effusiveness, no laughter bubbling over, no over-the-top optimism or crazy dreams. 

I wasn't me.

I am not alone in my desire to ditch the meds and stay crazy.  Many of us feel that way.  Many of us suffer, of course, and some of us even die.  Obviously, I'm doing my best to avoid those last two.  Whether or not I'll be successful... who can say? 

The biggest problem I've had to deal with is my drinking.  From 1989 till recently, I used alcohol to either jump start or prolong a hypomanic state, or to take the edge off the unpleasant form of mania that is extreme irritability.  Interestingly enough, I've never used alcohol when I've been depressed.  I think the one time I drank depressed, I felt positively suicidal the next day.  Okay, then.  No thank you.  We'll stick with coffee when depressed.

The problem is, that was putting mania in the driver's seat, and damn the consequences.  I knew I was damaging my body and my life, but I couldn't, wouldn't, stop.  I thought the only options were to keep going, or give in and take meds like a good girl.  Succumb to the nothing. 

Recently I made the decision to try to harness my bipolar disorder.  The depressions are rarely that bad, and don't usually last that long.  I think a couple of months was the longest.  I survive them because I know they're eventually going to go away. 

The mania... oh, how I love my mania!  The mania is why people always want me around.  The mania gave me the balls to be a rock singer, and rescued me after the death of my son.  The mania is why I can be 40 pounds overweight, and still have guys think I'm sexy.  So we'll keep the mania, then, and learn how to control her, the bitch.

That means no more drinking for me.  And what a tough thing that is.  Have I mentioned what I do for a living?  Take a look:

Yep, that's me.  At work.  At the liquor store :)

I haven't had a drop of alcohol in nine days.  And honestly, I am doing better than I thought.  Oh, I know it gets harder from here.  But I managed to get through the alcohol withdrawal, and not give in.  I am going to start going to AA, and hopefully hook up with a sponsor, so that I have someone to turn to when those voices in my head tell me that I will be just fine with just a couple of drinks, thankyouverymuch!  In the meantime, I'll be counting on my mania to get me through those conversations where I pretend I'm still the malbec-swilling party girl. 

Speaking of malbec....

Snicker.  I made that this afternoon.  And no, I didn't drink the wine after the photo shoot :)

I guess that's enough blogging for one day.  I have homework to do, and I should probably go spend some time with the family.  Oh, and I have to pee.  I think I might do that standing up, just to prove that I am still The Man.

Affine White Girl

You know you ought to slow down
You been working too hard
And that's a fact
Sit back and relax a while
Take some time to laugh and smile
Lay your heavy load down
So we can stop and kick back
It seems we never take the time to do
All the things we want to
"Take Your Time"--SOS Band

Hell to the yeah on that one, boys and girls!

I am rocking out to my favorite 12" disco hits this morning, knocking back some strong coffee and grooving like I'm in sequins and lycra instead of baggie sweats and faded Key West t-shirt.  As my friend Antoine used to tell me, I dance like a white girl... but a fine white girl!  Not sure Antoine would find me overly fine covered in Cheerio stains, but what the hell.  I'm sexy and I know it.  Snicker.  (Side note for my mathy friends.  Brenda Fallon: Affine White Girl)

This weekend marks the end of any free time I might have for a while.  I am taking not one... not two... but three online courses this summer.  Stupid?  Probably.  The odds of me holding that 4.0 GPA through the summer are not good.  But I am 43.  I want my Ph.D.  I have to grow a pair of balls, and bust 'em relentlessly, if I'm going to make this work.

It's scary that every single person I've talked to has begged me not to do this.  I can't do it.  It's too much.  I'll never survive.  I'll be miserable.  My health and my sanity will fail me. 

Yeah, they're probably right.  But what have I got to lose?  A couple thousand in tuition and books, and a few points off my average?  Eh.  I've risked less and lost more.  I've lived loud, fast and furiously for a couple of decades now.  This would be a shitty time to turn into a milqetoast.

A small aside: Godspeed, Ms. Donna Summer.  When I was a little girl in rural Washington County, I danced and sang to your music for hours on end, convinced I, too, would one day be a star.  I never won a grammy, but I did trade my hairbrush for a bonafide microphone, and spent ten years as a fairly successful musician.  I owe you much.  Thank you.

Pink or Orange Ain't Black or White

Without the woman I can make it
But I need the girl to stay
Oh don't you let the lady take it
All away
"Turn Your Love Around"--George Benson

I finished my Science Fiction and Fantasy class final with seven minutes to spare last night.  I venerated Helen O'Loy, and compared China Mieville's Avice Brenner Cho to a vibrator.  Can't wait to see that grade!

I'm listening to a lot of EWF and George Benson today.  Thank god I have no idea where I packed my roller skates, I can just see me deciding I'm gonna "groove tonight, share the spice of life, slice it right..." and split my forehead open in the process. 

I like music that makes me feel like a girl.  I LIKE BEING A GIRL!  That was the thrust of my argument against Mieville's work, namely that he created a woman so asexual it was impossible to like her.  I've no idea if this was his politically correct idea of what womanhood is destined to become, or just that, as a man, he royally sucks at writing from the female perspective.  I find myself wondering if Embassytown would have been any more palatable written from a male standpoint.  Hard to say.  It was a struggle just to accept a race of giant, talking grasshoppers.  Eeewwww.

The assignment, and the line from "Turn Your Love Around" have me thinking about what it means to me to be a woman.  Do men really need the girl more than the woman?  Do we become ladies who take the girl away from them? 

I think we need to be all three, honestly.  A mother is a woman, and sometimes our men are sweet boys who need to be held and loved unconditionally.  Other times, they need the lady, who can charm their friends and coworkers, and get the cable guy to run that second cable even though you didn't schedule that at the time you called.  And of course, they need the little girl, who appeals to their basic desire to protect and cherish.  As for which one they need in the bedroom... well, isn't it obvious?  All three.  Sometimes at once :)

In other words, chicka, make sure you have a variety of nail polish on the vanity.  Some days are cotton candy pink, others are whorange. 

Oh, hey, look who's back!

Could you be dead?
You always were two steps ahead
of everyone
We'd walk behind while you would run...
"Missing"--Everything But the Girl

Crazy, crazy dream last night.  This song was playing, and I was being chased by China Mieville through what I believe to be the streets of Beijing.  I am going to guess this was due, at least in part, to a late night snack of potstickers, which I indulged in while steadfastly avoiding my Science Fiction & Fantasy class final paper on Emabassytown. 

So, I really don't have a damn thing to say today.  Fortunately, that rarely stops me from--you know--saying it.

Did I mention that Mieville's limbs morphed into a hammer and sickel?  It kind of makes me wish I'd practiced that whole lucid dreaming thing.  I would've stopped running, whipped around, and smacked him upside the head with a copy of Road to Serfdom.  Ha--take that!!!

I'm having one of those bad stretches, where I simply cannot bring myself to do all the things I need to do.  Phone calls have gone unmade, as has my bed.  The aforementioned sci fi paper is due in eleven hours, and the closest I've come to working on it is to open a Microsoft Word document and think "Huh, yeah, not happening."  Thank god I enjoy writing on a deadline.  Come 9:30 tonight, I'm going to be freaking out and typing 90 wpm--though god knows what I'll have to say.

I guess I'll make myself a strong pot of coffee and see what I can come up with.  One might say this paper will require Perculean effort.  If one likes bad puns, that is.

Waxing Nostalgic - Part 1

Coast to coast, LA to Chicago
Western male
Across the north
And south to Key Largo
Love for sale
Smooth Operator - Sade

Today's topic: When Boredom Shows in Personal Grooming.

Today we're chatting with Brenda, a 40 year old woman who is currently on bed rest due to a high risk pregnancy.

BOB THE FICTIONAL CORRESPONDENT: Brenda, is it true you've gone insane with nail polish?

BRENDA: Yes, Bob. It's true. I noticed this morning that I have ten toes, and ten different shades of nail polish. I decided this was a sign, and painted each toenail a different color.

BOB: I see. And what about fingernail polish?

BRENDA: Well Bob, I'm a nail biter. Bad habit, I know. So for fingers I've gone somewhat conservative. All 10 nails are done in the same polish - clear with silver, blue and purple sparkly bits.

BOB: A wise choice. Is there anything else you'd like to share?

BRENDA: Well, yesterday I was sorting through an old cosmetics bag, and I found some Brazilian Wax stencils. I'm considering surprising my husband with a Shamrocked girly zone.

BOB: Do you think your husband will appreciate the new look?

BRENDA: The shamrock will amuse him. The fact that I'm dying it green might take him aback.

BOB: Well folks, that's all we have time for today. Tune in tomorrow, when Brenda shares her feelings on Matt Lauer, lava lamps, and the letter "Q".

**********************************************************************************

As the title indicates, this is part 1 of a 2 (or more?) part series on the serious issue of Brazilian waxing. I figure I've been writing about some heavy duty stuff lately, so it's time for a wee break. Stay tuned for Part 2 - Me, Myself and Aiyeeeee!!!!

A Mother of a Day

Zip-a-dee-do-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!
My oh my, what a wonderful day!
"Song of the South", as sung quasi-sarcasticly by yours truly

Another year, another Mother's Day. Ugh.

Don't get me wrong, moms are great and deserve to be celebrated. But the endless commercials, the Hallmark displays, the tear-jerking photos of first-time moms clutching cooing babes - these things are the salt in some very painful wounds if you are a woman who has suffered from pregnancy loss or infertility, or god forbid both.

Disclaimer: I am now blessed with a four year old daughter, and as of this writing am 28 weeks pregnant with a son. I am one of the incredibly lucky ones. But I am haunted by something akin to "Survivor's Guilt", or perhaps more accurately "Succeedor's Guilt". I have my family. I've held my living, breathing, drooling, smiling child in my arms and marveled at the intensity of the bond between us.

And so damned many women have not.

I first began to hate Mother's Day when I was in my mid-twenties. That's when it first became apparent that I was not one of those women who "gets pregnant when a guy smiles at me!" as self-proclaimed "fertile-mertyls" love to pretend-complain.

Publicly, I adopted the persona of the career-and-party girl who abhorred the thought of children. "Me, a mom??? Dear God no! No child should EVER have to call me 'mom'!!!" In reality, I was charting my cycle, buying supplement after supplement, and praying for a miracle. Every month I peed on a stick and felt the crushing blow of watching the one solitary, pathetic line appear in the window. I'd wait twice as long as the instructions said, and turn the damned thing every which way, convinced that maybe there was a faint second line there. But no, there never was.

Eventually I gave up. I didn't have money or the right insurance to pursue aggressive fertility treatments, and emotionally I wasn't prepared to deal with it, either. I decided to concentrate on my music, and to let my songs be my "children". I figured that at least on some level I could create something that would impact others, and live on after me.

At age 33, years after I'd abandoned the dream of having a child, I miraculously discovered I was pregnant. To say I was overjoyed would be gross understatement. I honestly, truly felt that somehow I'd won God's favor, and like some biblical heroine was being rewarded with a child who would be the delight of all.

On December 19, 2003, that child was born at 23 weeks gestation. He was my son, Rory, and he died two hours later in my arms. I buried him in a nearly-frozen grave two days before Christmas, and my heart, my soul, my dreams went into that cold darkness with him.

If I had previousy loathed Mother's Day, I now feared it about all else. How could I do it? How could I possible endure the onslaught of modern-day madonna and child that I would be forced to endure from early April through mid-May?

I consoled myself as best as I could by reminding myself that I was, in fact, a mom. The fact that my child did not survive did not make me any less a mom. Perhaps it made me more of a mom, because I'd epxerienced both the ultimate joy and ultimate sorrow with my son.

My family was my salvation. They bought me cards and jewelry, and reaffirmed my belief that I was, and always would be, mom to a very special little boy. Instead of trying to escape the discomfort of my grief, they opted to share it, embrace it, and help ease the burden. I don't know if I would have survived without them.

In April 2005, I gave birth to my daughter Ciara. That year, for the first time ever, Mother's Day came and I had a beautiful, living, breathing child to hold. I was inundated with gifts and cards from those who understood what this meant to me. And yet... the day was at best bittersweet. Like a child's first Christmas after he discovers the truth about Santa, the material aspect was nice, but my heart was heavy with the knowlege that the magic just wasn't there. Not for everyone.

I'm 40 years old. I'm the mother of one "angel", one daughter, and God willing, a healthy little boy named Matthew who is due to make his appearance in August. My closest friends in the world are women who've shared my journey: beautiful, strong, compassionate women who've fought the same battles I've fought, often in isolation and even shame. We've lifted each other up, and been lifted when we tear ourselves down. We get it. We understand that the day a coworker walks in and says "Oh my GOD, I cannot belive it, I'm pregnant again and Joey is still breastfeeding!" that our reaction will always be "F*** You, you ignorant piece of S***". Not that we really hate this woman, or resent Joey. But when someone plunges a knife in your heart - even if they do it unintentionally - you're going to bleed. Sometimes our chat rooms are more like a battlefield triage; we do our best to patch each other up so that we can continue the fight.

If you've never fought this battle, God bless you. I could lie and say we don't resent you, but the truth is, most of us do, at least a little bit. Hell, my sister is the best thing that ever happened to me, and the best friend I've ever had. And yet, I've resented the hell out of her along the way. Not through any fault of her own, but through the cruelty and suffering that comes with the territory I've been forced to navigate.

It doesn't mean we don't like you or love you. It doesn't mean we want anything bad to happen to you. It's just so hard for us to watch your happiness, when we ourselves struggle daily with bone-crushing sorrow.

If you have a friend who has no children, tread lightly this Mother's Day. Even if she laughs Cruella DeVille style and proclaims her intolerance for all things toothless and drooling. Resist the temptation to say "Oh, I bet at this time next year you'll change your mind and have a set of twins to show for it!" The fact is, many of us are consummate actresses. Not one of my friends ever even suspected I battled infertility for years. And I was completely, totally stunned by the number of friends who came forward after the death of my son and said "I've never shared this with anyone, but I lost a baby who would be 5 years old now" or "Joe and I struggled for years, we finally decided we couldn't afford more fertility treatments, either financially or emotionally."

I hope this post doesn't come across as an attempt to rob anyone of their right to enjoy and celebrate being a mom. By all means, enjoy the breakfast in bed, the homemade cards, the mothers rings, flowers and candy. Snuggle your bundles of joy, be they 6 weeks or 16 years old. "Mom" is the toughest job in the world, and you deserve your day! All we ask is that you spare us a thought, perhaps a prayer, and a kindly gesture. If you know we've had a miscarriage, don't say "Oh heck, by this time next year it'll be your turn!" Because nobody can know that, and even if it's true, it doesn't ease the pain of this year, and this loss.

What you can do for us is to be a compassionate and understanding friend who helps us to feel comfortable in our own, currently-unstretchmarked skin. We know you can't make it better. We just ask that you be there for us when it's at its worst.

God Bless, and Happy May 10th to all my friends.