A story of sea salt and yoga. Kind of.

This morning, as I was vacuuming sea salt off of the yoga mat in my bedroom, I had a moment to pause and marvel at what-the-actual-fuck brought me to this place of vacuuming sea salt off of a yoga mat as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

I graduated from my first yoga teacher training class (230 hours!) in April and, for mother’s day, I picked out a $100 yoga mat on amazon as my reward/mother’s day present. Seeing as I have no fewer than 10 yoga mats scattered in and around my house – not to mention the dozen or so others that I have bought and distributed out to the world – my husband would have had ample reason to question the necessity of my purchase. But, like any smart man, he learned long ago that questioning such craziness doesn’t usually result in an answer that changes the end result anyway. Fortunately, none of the other mats I had purchased over the years cost me more than $20-$30. This was to be my first “good” yoga mat. 230 (life changing) hours and a certificate of completion deserved a “good” yoga mat, in my mind.

Husband, as he’s preparing to hit purchase on the amazon cart: “Why do you have to treat the mat with sea salt before you use it?”

Me: “…what now?”

H: “Yeah, there’s a video and everything. Didn’t you look at this before you picked it out?”

M: “Well, yes, of course, but my looking was more about what color I wanted.”

H: “Are you sure this is the one you want?”

M: “Yeah, I’ll figure it out, whatever.”

Sure enough, it arrived, and the instructions for use – which, as an aside, no $20-$30 yoga mat I’ve ever purchased has come with instructions. Just saying. – started with allowing the mat to lie flat and covered with sea salt for 24 hours. More specifically, allowed to lie covered in sea salt and exposed to sunlight, during those 24 hours.

Well, like most things in yoga, there was no real explanation as to why my mat required sea salt and sun. But, like my husband, I have also learned to not question these things. I mean, why all the crazy poses? Who can even bend like that? Why am I in bare feet? How does sitting in silence and breathing help anything? I DON’T KNOW. But I’ve learned that it just does. So I laid my mat out and salted that bad boy like I was the salt bae.

(you all know this guy, right?)

Then it rained. For a week straight.

I mean, my mat was inside, so it’s not like I left it out in a deluge, but there was no sun. Like, none. For a full week. So, I left my mat sitting out – in my bedroom, right next to the windows – waiting for the sun to make it’s reappearance, covered in salt. I wondered idly if the cat would have it licked clean before the sun got to it, but he respectfully left the mat alone. Given his affinity for clawing at our couches and batting anything smaller than him around as a plaything, I attributed his newfound respect to the magic of the mat combined with the sea salt. Clearly there was something to these instructions.

Finally, the sun arrived, and this morning, I found myself wondering how to clean sea salt off of a yoga mat. The vacuum worked well enough and I followed that by cleaning it with organic yoga mat cleaner (hand to god: it’s the only organic anything in our house) and a rag. The mat is now ready for use. But, so far, the only use it’s gotten is the cat checking it out. Because I had to sit down and write about how vacuuming sea salt off of a yoga mat had somehow become completely normalized for me.

As I type, this smug bastard is clawing up the couch in the other room

Life is weird like that sometimes.

Honestly, my whole journey with yoga has been much like the mat and the sea salt: I didn’t know exactly why I was doing it, but it seemed like the right thing to do, so I followed the instructions. And, really, it both saved and destroyed me (and then saved me again, for good measure). My journey with yoga, that is, not the mat. Although the mat is pretty cool. The color just feels right to me. And I’m sure the sea salt has now imbued it with magic that I can’t even begin to understand.

With that, I think it’s time to get on my mat. More to come on this yoga stuff though. There’s so much more to tell.

Namaste.


This post was written while listening to the Spotify Acoustic Covers playlist, where songs like Wicked Game and Hotline Bling can coexist in harmony. Somehow.

I'm trying to think of a clever title. I got nothin'.

It's been almost two months since I've written anything here but I have a very good reason for it: I've been slowly and methodically losing my god. damn. mind. 

Since the two year clinical trial I was in was wrapping up this summer, my husband and I decided that if we were ever going to have a second child? this was the time to try. I mean, I'm not getting any younger and I'm certainly not getting any healthier. And maybe most importantly - for me anyway - Callie really wants a sibling. Even if there will be a large age difference. I mean, she's gonna grow up with a crazy momma. She at least deserves to have someone to commiserate with.

So, in order to even consider any of this, I had to get off of ALL of the medication I've been taking. Most notably, the psychoactive meds that have been keeping me somewhat sane the last 3+ years. And that? has proven much harder than I ever imagined. 

I've been white-knuckling my way through it, but it sucks. Everything in me just wants to scream white-hot rage at everything else.  And I don't think it's fair to put everything and everyone in the world on blast just because I'm broken. 

But I really *really* want to. 

So, instead, I find myself building walls and reinforcing old, well-established walls. Not only to protect myself but to protect others who really shouldn't have to put up with my shit. 

"Oh, but we love you and we want to support you and it's okay because we know it's hard...."

Bullshit. 

If you can say that, you obviously haven't yet been run over by the out-of-control trainwreck that is me. I am destructive, people. Give me something good and pretty, and I will crush it. Not usually on purpose, but, meh, it happens. Some people are water signs, earth, air, whatever. I'm TNT. I blow. shit. up. 

It has just been particularly difficult recently. I'm almost off all of my meds completely and everything in my body is screaming for the serotonin it seems incapable of producing itself. My anxiety is at an all-time high, I'm crying on a daily basis, my jaw is so screwed up from - what? clenching my teeth? I don't even know - that half the time I can't bite down anymore, I can't sleep, and when I do my dreams make me regret it. I'm in withdrawal from the meds and I know someof that will pass, but some of it won't.

And even as hard as it's been to ween off of these meds? I want more than ANYTHING for this next year to pass as quickly as possible so I can just go back on whatever-the-fuck-it-takes to keep me from losing my mind completely. 

I'm amazed at how much *better* I was actually feeling before. Even for my bad days, it was so much better than now.

So much better. 

I should come with a warning label.

This is the time of year that I love/hate. For FB purposes only - otherwise the summer kinda rocks. What, with the extra days off and ample chances to get drunk outside. I'm not such a fan of the humidity, but that's a whole different gripe. 

No, my ongoing frienemy status with this time of year has more to do with my former students. They've graduated. They are no longer my students. I welcome them to my FB world. 

Then the waiting game begins. 

You see, I spend every waking moment at work being as professional as I can manage. We all know this isn't as professional as most, but it's clearly not vodka-at-11am, vaguely raunchy/suggestive blunt cards, and fucking-cock-shit-balls kind of language. And, well, my FB is. 

The problem is, my FB is my real life. Not that FB *is* real life, but my posts truly are my thoughts and anything that amuses me? gets posted. I'm kinda easily amused. So I post a lot. It's my outlet to offset all the times I do have to pretend to be grown up. Trouble is, these former-students often think I *am* grown up. 

They are grossly mistaken. 

What happens when they land on my page? Well, I rarely know, actually. I think, for some - well, probably most - it's a shock, to say the least, that their adult-school-counterparts are 1. real people and 2. sometimes vulgar. Okay, a lot of times vulgar. For me, at least.  

But today I got this message, from a former student: "Mrs. Witzel, uhhh, I gotta say that from a guidance counselor the statuses I've seen are pretty damn funny. I'm glad I friended you."

Now, I'm pretty sure I can take this as confirmation of a few things: 

1. I am the most awesome guidance counselor ever. 

2. At least some of my statuses wouldn't actually be as funny if I *wasn't* pretending to be a grown up in my waking/working hours. I can live with this. 

3. It's okay to let your former students see that you're a real person. Some of them may even like you all the better for it. 

However, I do understand that not everyone will. But, that's real life. You're not going to like everyone, y'all. And if someone doesn't like who I am in "real life" (ie. my uncensored, vodka-swilling, self) then they should unfriend me ASAP. Like, seriously. In fact, maybe I should put that as a disclaimer somewhere because really? I wouldn't take offense. I'd actually totally understand. 

See how I just turned that into a muthafuckin life lesson? 

Best. counselor. EVER.  

(and I'll drink to that.)

Note to self: trust me on this one.

Dear Teenage-Me,

I know what it's like. All the negative self-talk? It's a lot of noise and it's distracting and it's consuming and, worst of all, it's all lies.

Let me clarify: I am you. And I wish I could explain in a way that you would truly hear me. But I know all that negative self-talk is loud. Louder than I can be from 20 years in the future. So instead, let me at least add my commentary?

"I need to be skinny because...."

Let me stop you right there. You don't NEED to be anything other than YOU. And who you are? Has nothing to do with how you look. Period.

".... I want people to like me."

If someone likes or dislikes you based on your size, shape, height, weight, hair color, skin color, etc, what concern is it of yours? You don't need people to validate your worth by validating your appearance. You? are awesome. And all that awesomeness? has NOTHING to do with what size you are.

Don't judge people for how they look and don't tolerate others that do.

You're better than that.

And better than worrying about what others think of you, okay?

".... I want a guy to fall in love with me."

Really? If that's the reason someone falls in love with you then they will fall OUT of love with you just as quickly. Because that isn't love. You don't judge people by the way they look - remember? We totally just covered that. Why would you want someone who does to "love" you? Those people? are ugly on the inside. And that kind of ugly rarely changes.

".... I want to stop calling myself fat."

Then stop. No, really, STOP. NOW. It's that simple. You're calling yourself that because - in your mind - it's the absolute WORST thing a girl could be. And you think you ARE that. You're letting a three letter word define who you think you are. And worse than that? You're perpetuating the idea that fat = bad, fat = ugly, fat = worthless, fat = not good enough. And you are WRONG.

".... I want to be someone's idea of perfect."

First of all, you already are. But I'll give you a pass on not understanding that until you've had a child of your own. How about just embracing yourself as the perfect YOU? No one else is exactly quite like you. You bring a light and beauty to this world that no one else will ever duplicate.

".... I don't want to be the fat-friend anymore."

Then don't be! Be the friend with the gorgeous eyes or fabulous hair or awesome-fashion-sense. Be the friend with the smile that lights up a room. Be the friend who people come to for advice. Be the friend who loves life. Be the friend that people can trust. Be the friend whose inner light shines. Be the friend who knows her worth. Be the friend who reminds her friends of *their* worth.

Just be yourself. And don't be defined by a size.

".... I want my stomach to be flat, I want my hipbones to poke out, and I want my thighs not to touch."

Who looks like that?! Even people who "look like that"? Don't look like that. Seriously. Go look. Don't buy the hype. (You're smarter than that, too.)

".... I want to think positive things when people are looking at me."

Chances are? The only person thinking negative things about you, is you. Most of the time? People are too busy with their own negative self-talk to worry about someone else. Everyone has their own issues and insecurities. Everyone. I promise. We're all walking through this world praying to go unnoticed and be noticed, at the same time.

It's complicated.

".... I want to be able to tell myself I'm beautiful and believe it."

*sigh*

You silly girl.

You young, vibrant, beautiful, gorgeous, silly girl.

You ARE beautiful. But that has very little to do with your size. Youth fades. Physical beauty? That fades too. Being "skinny"? Christ, that can disappear at any moment, regardless of your age.

But all of that is dynamic. It changes. It comes, it goes, it may never return.

Embrace your inner beauty. Let your inner light shine. Believe in your beauty. BELIEVE in yourself.

Silly girl. Someday you'll look back at the radiant beauty you are now and wish you could give that girl-you-were a hug and whisper in her ear: "you are good enough, you are beautiful, and you are loved."

Trust me.

Fuck. this. shit.

I started crying in the hallway of school today - fortunately between periods and I managed to make myself look preoccupied when kids did come wandering by (what's that hanging on the wall? oh yes, incredibly fascinating...). I left my office because I had already hit the point where being-alone-with-whatever-song-might-come-on-Pandora-next was the emotional equivalent of russian roulette. So I got up to walk around. And there I was, tears streaming, right in the hallway.

The HALLWAY, people. 

Of a high school. 

Full of teenagers.

(yep, never a dull moment) 

I'm weening off some of my meds and I'm tackling my anti-anxiety med first. Why? Meh, it seemed like the best (and safest) one to start with. Also, coincidentally, it's the worst one for me to be on long term. I'm down to half my regular daily dose. 

First came the return of the twitches. Little spams, or tics, in the muscles of my arms, legs, and torso. Basically anywhere is fair game, but it's the larger muscles that do it. Enough to make me visibly jerk. It's embarrassing and annoying at times but manageable. Livable. However, that's far from the worst of it. 

My startle reaction is also in high gear. Totally out if control. Meaning, any loud sound or unexpected stimulus makes me jump. Like, literally jump in surprise. I look like a spaz. (hey, there's a word you don't see enough: spaz. Apparently it's 1992. You know, in my head.)

For me, anxiety doesn't manifest in panic attacks. Not usually anyway. It's this constantly tensed state. Like my fight-or-flight reaction got stuck in the "on" position. But that constant state of "whatthefuckisgoingon" is incredibly draining. Like, insanely so. And instead of that energy ramping up into a panic attack, it usually results in crying.

Why crying? Seriously, beats the hell out of me. 

I'm not a cryer. I really dislike it actually. Not because I'm all, "I'm too tough to cry" but just because I'm not a cryer. I'm not overly emotional to begin with. It's just not me. But anxiety? Anxiety apparently likes to cry. And if I try to stop it? That's when the panic attack sets in. My breathing constricts, my heart races, and I basically feel like I will pass out. 

It's FUN. 

In the hallway...... *sigh*

Seriously? I don't have the energy for this shit. 

It's a Sunday night. I really don't have anything good to say.

Things I hate right now:

Disappointment. I can't decide if it's because I expect too much or simply because I'm not jaded enough to expect the worst, but I am rather tired of feeling this way. Hope is dangerous like that. It lies. 

Money. Because I'm fucking broke. And I've never placed the proper value on it, really. I mean, not the value others would have me place on it. It's just not important to me. Unfortunately, the debt collectors don't feel the same way. Bastards. 

Twitches. I'm trying to get myself on a lower daily dose of Xanax, as I may have to ween off it altogether soon. Aside from the increased anxiety - which, for me, has always equated to crying - I'm twitching more again. It's like I have MS with a side of tourettes. HATE. 

Things I love right now:

Friends. A friend was here Friday night and we talked until 4am. Alcohol wasn't even involved. We just hadn't seen each other in awhile and apparently there was a lot to cover. I didn't even mind missing the sleep - which is really saying something. I may not see him again for many many months, if at all. That should be a part of the first list. 

Other friends. I have two friends who text me on a regular basis and I'm quite sure I have actually just created them both in my head. They are my Tyler Durden. Most people don't even answer the texts I send - let alone text me first - so, again, I may be creating them. But they do humor me so. As I do myself. Which actually doesn't help refute my beliefs here. 

Alcohol, wine, chocolate, and anything salty. Because it's that time of the month. And either I embrace being fat or I kill people. I've chosen the former. You're welcome. 

Bitches be CRAZY.

It’s 40 minutes into detention duty, I brought a book and actual work down with me, but all I have managed to do is hold various text/email conversations and play 15 games of Words With Friends. Welcome to the productivity that shapes my life.    

Spurred on by the content of two of my conversations, though, I have come to a conclusion: Women don’t like me. I’d say it’s that *all* women don’t like me but that’s not entirely true either. Crazy bitches don’t like me, and since most women are crazy bitches, it’s clearly just the vast *majority* of women that don’t like me.    

(I can say this because I am a woman and I am legit crazy, so, yeah, there ya go.)  

((No offense intended to the other crazy bitches out there who may be reading this and are now totally agreeing with my assessment – I am infinitely unlikeable to the female population, I know.))  

This truth was pointed out to me by a male friend after I was telling him about a recent blow out with two female coworkers. He pointed out that this wasn’t the first time that I’ve dealt with similar issues and he was completely right. The best I can figure is that I simply don’t get along well with women. (although I’m not totally discounting his theory: “I’m telling you, it’s the boobs” (they are kinda powerful and stuff, but I’m still not 100% sold.))  

And it’s not that I actively look to NOT get along with other women, but it's that I don't actively look TO get along either. I'm not terribly girlie. Even in high school, all my friends were guys. Except for my one close female friend, who was known to befriend (and even date, with unfortunate results) strictly gay men. (although she was in theater so the pickings were slim to begin with) However, this brings me to my second conclusion: the women I do get along with are generally the women that other women don't like as well. But, gay guys? LOVE them. And they love them right back. As do I. (love me some gay men.) 

These conclusions, which are hardly earth-shattering, have only further cemented my new-found belief: My "inner girl"? is really just a gay boy in drag. It explains SO much and the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. 

Point 1: women don't like me - I'm not girlie enough to even care. 

Point 2: women who love gay men, love me - because my inner girl is a GAY BOY. 

Point 3: I can rock stiletto heels and fake eye lashes like no one's business. Obviously. 

Point 4: man-hating lesbians do not like me - because my inner girl is a GAY BOY. (gay, but a boy nonetheless) However, lesbians who still like men (just not *like* like them, because then they would simply be straight women who don't like me) do like me. (that's a complicated one, I know, but it still holds true.)

Point 5: I love gay men. I really do. Because - yes, you guessed it! -  my inner girl is a GAY BOY. I also just love men in general. Mostly because they don't give me the trouble that women have. Throughout my whole. goddamn. life. 

Now, when it comes to teenage girls, I have to say - this doesn't hold true. Most of my female students still love me. All I can guess is that their inner bitch is still maturing. They'll get there. And, in the meantime, they love me. And the more problems they have? The more they love me. I am the flame to messed-up-girl-drama-moths. 

Disclaimer: this blog has potential to offend, well, everyone. Except maybe straight men. (men are such pigs (there: equality for all))

Post-Disclaimer Disclaimer: that probably should have been posted at the beginning of this post. And, since it wasn't, I will simply just apologize en masse. I'm sorry if anyone's panties are in a bunch. But frankly? not as much as I probably should be.

Judgment vs. Judgement (or, "How I Spent My Spring Break")

Preface: it should be noted that I use the term "spring break" very loosely here. In that, when I think "spring break"? I think hot coeds getting drunk and stupid on some beach in Florida or Mexico, whereas my "spring break" was nothing more than a long weekend that was topped off by getting peed on by a cat. Totally different. But, I'm getting ahead of myself....

My long weekend began with finding Ghetto Dawg unable to walk, stand, or not try to bite my face off every time I cane near her. I called the vet and they fit me in right away - getting her into the car was another matter altogether. After dressing myself in a thick coat, Chris' work gloves, and throwing a beach towel over P-dizzy's head, I hauled her whole 25 pound furry body to the car as if I was carrying a whining yelping bomb with teeth.

It was awesome.

When we got there, she continued to try to eat the faces of everyone present, which was lovely as well. In addition to the Xanax I had slipped her (from my own personal collection, thankyouverymuch) before we came in, they gave her a shot in the ass to sedate her. And then still had to muzzle her because she *still* wanted to eat their faces.

Hannibal Lector Dawg is not amused.

Cut to many hours later, and the vet thinks she has something called "Beagle Pain Syndrome" which is roughly akin to doggie-meningitis, has the symptomology of MS, and has nothing to do with her NOT being a beagle.

Yep, you read it right. Princess-Ghetto-Hannibal-Lector-Dawg, for all intents and purposes, has doggie MS. Of course that wasn't the vets official prognosis, but it's mine. And of COURSE she's my dawg. We were meant for one another. I just can't bite people's faces off. Though I wish I could.

Later that night, I went to see Alex at Grace for a small new tattoo. It took me 30 mins to get into downtown Phoenixville (because apparently it's the cool new place for hipsters and wanna-be-hipsters to be seen (please note: I'm not even entirely sure what a hipster is, but it seems right)) and only 20 minutes for the set-up and tat to be done.

(it's a mantra and a personal reminder)

The tattoo itself led to an interesting discussion (and follow-up Google search) on the proper spelling of "judgment". Many long web-pages short, either "judgment" or "judgement" is considered acceptable, but the sans "e" spelling is considered correct and preferred everywhere except in Britain and Australia. So, as long my life-long trend of being hopelessly not-well-traveled continues, I should be good.

The next two days were uneventful, spent with family, eating way too much, and only about 65% of my time was spent in my pjs, which is about 27% short of what my preferred goal would be. Meh, you win some, you spend some time actually bathed and clothed.

Cut to today, the last day of my totally righteous and awesome "spring break" when I awoke early for a doctor's appointment only to find that my million-year-old, dying-slowly-from-what-I-have-diagnosed-as-kidney-failure (didn't we establish by now that I'm a vet? keep up, people) cat had slept on me, peed all over herself - in her sleep - thus peeing all over my covers and, yes, all over me.

Let me tell you - in case you've never had the pleasure - waking up at 6am with your boobs smelling like cat urine is as much confusing as it is completely unsettling. I'll leave it at that.

And other than my doctor explaining that I've had a significant weight gain over the last two years (no shit, you mean my clothes aren't shrinking? do you suppose it has something to do with the fact that I'm taking more drugs and hormones than a dairy cow?) and him asking "do you exercise regularly?" (answer: is working to keep my sanity considered exercise? because it totally should be), it was a fun visit. I followed up by making an appointment with my OB-GYN (because I need a second opinion on his whole you-must-quit-all-psychoactive-drugs-if-you-want-to-have-a-baby stance (which was slightly overshadowed by his Dr. Obvious announcement that I was fat (and by the possibility of waking up 4 months pregnant and finding you're so depressed that you want to drive your car off an overpass and that can't possibly be considered safe for a baby either)) for later this month and an appointment with my neurologist next month, because why should they be left out of the "wow-Jamie-you've-gotten-HUGE" fun.

(and if that last paragraph isn't proof positive that I need to be medicated I don't know what is.)

P.S? I've never been on a real "spring break", even in college. I'm thinking by the time I can afford to go hit a beach with a bunch of drunk coeds for a week, it will be more like "Geriatrics Gone Wild". (I'm gonna own that (wrinkled and sagging) shit.)

P.P.S? Callie made this today at pre-school. It's a rocket ship. (and that's all I'm saying about that.)

Move along, nothing to see here.....

Wow. It’s the end of March and this is only the second blog I’ve written in 2012. And, as I look back over the last few entries (sporadic and grossly spaced as they were) I realize they’ve all been about MS in some way. And none of them have been all, “Goooooooooo Team MS!”

I’m such a whiney bitch. Even I get sick of me.

(get it? “sick of me”? autoimmune disease?? Ha, brain-hole humor.)

((only I find me funny.))

I wish I had something awesome to blog about. Instead, it’s 2:29 and I’m hiding in my office until 3:00 so I can go home and hide there. Today started out with me yelling about everything little thing that needed no yelling about, making snarky comments in a meeting to no end, and generally bitching about everything to cross my path. Cue the unexpected-but-I-totally-should-have-seen-it-coming crying fit and you understand why I’m hiding.

Seriously, no one needs to see me like that. All, runny mascara and red eyes….. ew. Not fabulous.

So, back in November, I did this presentation for the high school here. Save for the kids that were absent that day, the vast majority of the people here know I have MS. As I mentioned before - it’s much easier telling a few hundred people at a time that I’m ill than those one-on-one conversations where people don’t know whether to feel sorry for me or ask questions or just run away. Just sit there and let me talk at you, en masse, for 20 minutes or so, and you’ll get the idea. Much easier for all involved, including me.



However, this time, I took my MS message and tried to use it for good. If I was going to drop the MS bomb on 1200+ people, might as well try to make something out of the shrapnel. (is that the word I’m looking for? “shrapnel”? I feel all foggy today. It just doesn’t seem right. There’re no red lines under it, so at least it’s spelled right, but please forgive me if the context is wrong. I’m too lazy to thesaurus that shit. (and btw? I totally spelled thesaurus right. *self high five*))

Watch the video and you’ll get the point. We’re all dealing with something. My something is MS. And depression. And hiding in offices. Oh, and drinking wine, but that’ll come later tonight.

If I have the energy.

(who am I kidding? They make straws for that shit.)

I’ll try to come up with something fun to blog about soon. Or, you know, I’ll try to come up with a better combination of meds. Pinky-swear.

I miss me. (and my size 8 jeans)

"You don't seem like your normal happy self."

Well, no shit.

Actually, I don't usually think of myself as either normal or happy, let alone both. But I guess the difference is that I haven't been wearing that mask of normalcy very well or consistently recently. It's just so damn exhausting. And unless you have to put on mental and emotional preparations everyday much like the average person gets dressed or does their hair and make-up, then you probably don't understand the energy that that preparation requires.

Good for you. Really.

But on the days that I can't even be bothered by showering let alone getting dressed or doing my hair, what makes you think I have the energy to mentally redress myself?

I actually rather miss myself.  

I don't even know, anymore, if I miss the real me or simply miss the ease at which I could wear my mask of normalcy, but either way - I miss it. I miss being snarky and witty and irreverent and intellectual and even occasionally charming. I miss me. This moody and depressed and insecure and pissed-off person really doesn't sit well on my psyche. Like most of my clothes these days - it just doesn't fit.

(but please don't get me started on the clothes not fitting thing - I can't even get my mind around the shear circumference of my body right now)

I find myself in a constant push and pull as I try to figure out where I stand - with myself, mostly, but others as well. Medication changes are always hard too. You can't have as many meds flowing through you as I do and change them without expecting to have some moments of readjustment and loss of equilibrium. Some days I think things are improving. Some days I feel very disconnected. And some days I am just worried and scared that I'll never be able to find the right combination to keep me stable.

I meant to write this as some sort of update to the last entry but I really don't have an update to offer. Like I said, some times I think things are better, some days I don't. So I guess I'm just still existing.... and waiting to see where that goes.

Interestingly though, to me anyway, I gained a bit of reflective insight recently. (Not that it has managed to effect any change but it was still an interesting insight.) I was talking to a student recently about cutting. I've never been a cutter myself though there was a time in ninth grade when I thought it would be a good idea to scrape a large area of skin off my arm with a house key.

(Cause yeah, that made sense.)

Cutting doesn't make sense. Not to the cutter or the people around them, but the behavior persists. You see, sometimes the noise and the agitation gets so great - inside your head - that you can't silence or calm the chaos. In an attempt to focus the noise - to scream louder than the screaming in your head - you take that energy and turn it on yourself.

That? I do understand. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I tend towards self-destruction. I'm not suicidal - and most cutters are not either, in case you were curious - but I do tend towards self-destruction. I want to blow things up. I want to scream louder than the screaming in my head. But that rarely manifests in clear cut (pun unintended) self harm. Instead, I over eat. I binge eat, even. I drink too much - not even for the buzz, so much, cause that's hard to come by most days - but mostly because of the volume.

Yeah, I don't really understand it either.

I mean, I do understand it, but it doesn't make sense. It's not any healthier than cutting. But the mechanism is surprisingly similar. In addition, there's the "benefit" of the weight gain. (sidenote: some psychologist somewhere at some point decided that fat people are fat because they find some sort of benefit in being fat - otherwise they'd be thin. Not so much; I'd like to argue that sometimes the benefit is in the action, not the outcome.) Anyway, there is a part of me though - and likely always will be - that doesn't believe that I deserve to be thin. So maybe there is benefit in there somewhere.

It supports my warped self-conceptions and my need to live down to my expectations of never being good enough.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.  We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?'  Actually, who are you not to be?  Your playing small does not serve the world.  There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.  We are all meant to shine.  It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone.  And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.  As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."  ~Marianne Williamson

I'm not afraid that I'm inadequate. Part of me will always believe myself to be inadequate. I'm afraid that that part of me is wrong. And how do I reconcile that with the screaming?

I am such a hypocrite.

I owe many apologies to many people. If I owe you an email, phone call, or some sort of otherwise consistent communication, and I've been completely lax in follow through on those - I'm sorry. If I've sent you texts or emails in a somewhat altered state and/or just pestered you out of a need to not have to listen solely to the voices in my own head - I'm sorry. I think I tend towards extremes. I either can't connect with people when I need to or I over compensate by reaching out to those who don't want/need my witty pesterings. (please note: in my mind, everyone needs my witty pesterings. (this is part of my problem.)) If I owe you anything else, including but not limited to, framing, design advice, a lunch/dinner date, and/or anything else that requires even the smallest output of energy - I'm sorry. Chances are, that shit ain't getting done.

Anyway, I went to see my neurologist the other day and a simple "so, how have you been doing" turned into a steady 20 minute litany on how NOT-well I've been doing and ended with her sending me out of her office with a bag of drug samples and an order to see my doctor for a medication check ASAP. That visit took place three days later and my antidepressant dosage was upped by 50% on a daily basis. We're currently in the "wait and see" stage of this process to see if the increase helps at all.

Helps with what, you may ask? For starters, feeling completely overwhelmed by nothing more than everyday life. For example, getting up and showering. Making dinner. Doing my shot. Paying my bills. Putting gas in my car. Doing laundry. You know, the hard stuff. Way too crazy to tackle.

I'm also waiting to see if the fog lifts. The fog that makes me feel like everything and everyone in my life is somewhat disconnected from myself. Like I am simply a spectator watching the spectacle of my life unfold in all it's banal glory through a pane of smudged and smokey glass. Hard to care what's going on when you can't even see the details clearly, right?

I'm waiting to see if some of the aches and pains subside. You know those commercials where they talk about the "pain" of depression? That shit's for real. Okay, maybe not the little black cartoon cloud that follows people around, but the pain is real. I'm just achey. It's nondescript but completely draining. And it sucks. Sure, I guess it could be MS. But maybe it's depression. And maybe it will go away.

Bah.

But, the hypocritical part comes in that I talk to students every day who are on similar medications. Students who may be new to these meds or old pros and I tell them all the same thing - be aware of how you're feeling. If something doesn't feel right, find a way to give voice to that disquiet and fix it. Don't settle for feeling sad or alone or helpless - because there are other options and other things that can be tried if your current meds aren't working. And the only person who can assess how well those meds are working, is you.

Um, duh, dumbass. So why did it take so many months to finally, inadvertently, blurt out that you're falling apart?

*sigh*

I don't know.

I guess I'm tired of the bitching too. Tired of feeling like shit and tired of having to give voice to that fact. Most days? I feel like shit. That's my norm now. AND I'M TIRED OF IT. I'm tired of living in the grips of some disease. I'm tired of not just living my life. And mostly, recently, I am very very jealous of those who can get up, get showered, pay their bills, do laundry, don't have to take meds, and don't feel constant aches and pains.

Then, after that small pity party for myself, I feel like a complete tool - because I know there are people who have it way worse than me too. So then I beat myself up for a bit for forgetting that fact.

*sigh* (again)

It's kind of endless like that. Some days are better than others, but most are like that. And it takes a lot of energy to get up, get showered, pay the bills, do laundry, go to work, etc etc, without just curling up all fetal-position-esque and asking in the loudest scream possible to be left alone. Because if I do that? That's when I get the 30 day vacation in the quiet white room with padded walls. And that would be bad.

Well, maybe not all bad. I hear they have the good drugs in there.

Something wicked this way comes.

I hate days like this. Especially when they line up, string themselves together, and don’t give me a moments rest. It’s not the uneasy agitation that I mind so much - though, it is ridiculously tiring - but it’s that those feelings usually signal the start of worse times to come. I can’t even blame it on the hormones - I’m not on the evil red pills right now anyway, but I am due for another cycle. I’m certainly not starting that cycle until this mood passes. I cannot imagine the apocalypse that would follow if I took them now. I also hate blaming all my mental and emotional swings on my meds when the truth is this: I blame MS.

In that first year, even before the official diagnosis, I had a lot of dark days. A lot. I even went for about 6 weeks without sleeping more than 3 hours a night. (That was bad. Really bad.) I didn’t want to acknowledge, at that time, that my issues may be MS related. I knew that’s what that year’s worth of testing was about; they were trying to determine my diagnosis. I knew it was likely going to be MS. But it was so much more convenient to ignore the fact that a very scary brain MRI had turned up unexpectedly in the first place. All those tests and bloodwork and doctor’s visits that year? what? didn’t everyone have that? Psh…. whatever, I was choosing ignorance and I was sticking with it.

March 13th 2009 changed that. I finally went to my one-year-later follow up visit (only two months later than I should have) and my neurologist looked at me very matter of factly and said, “well, you have Multiple Sclerosis.” Not-so-blissful ignorance: shattered. End scene.

I spent the next year falling prey to massive meltdowns that came, seemingly, out of nowhere. Eventually, I learned to listen to my body better and when the hallmark precursors would make their presence known, I would take it easy. Sometimes I could even avoid some of the more serious physical meltdowns. Not always, but sometimes. And that felt like progress.

The shit of it is, I don’t really know how to stave off the emotional meltdowns. I am aware of the precursors though. This simmering unrest? It’s my MS equivalent of a Kansas tornado warning system. You hear that siren go off and you better head for cover. It usually boils over into anger or crying fits or totally irrational unstableness.

Yeah, it’s super fun.

In these times of unrest, I find myself very torn. I don’t want to be around people. I don’t want to talk to people. I don’t have the energy to invest. But, at the same time, part of me hopes the right person will reach out and lead me out of that darkness. Trouble is, I don’t know who that person is. I don’t know if I’d let them get close enough to try. And yet, I am vaguely bitter at everyone for not trying.

(no offense intended; trust me, you’re better off not trying.)

((no, really.))

I actually hate people for living their lives without these feelings. Without having to worry about the tornado warning. And that’s *totally* ridiculous because I know everyone is dealing with their own shit too - different shit than my shit and sometimes shit that’s far worse than my shit - but I still harbor bitterness. Which, I then feel badly about. And then again, I totally don’t.

Maybe “torn” isn’t the right word. I’m clearly a head case.

I wish this storm would pass already.

I am the least "adult" adult that I know.

I turned 34 this month. I am in no way fooling myself into believing that this makes me an adult. In fact, I am even more convinced that this whole aging thing is a hoax. Aging certainly isn't linear and it seems every bit of me is aging at a different rate.

For example, a friend of mine likes to tell me that I'm eternally 22 at heart. I think he chose 22 just so my inner self wouldn't be subject to eternal harassment by the po-po for being drunk all the time, but the truth is, I don't even feel 22 most days. Some days I don't think I ever outgrew my teens. Other days I'm ready for social security. (in that, some days I am borderline senile, subject to falling asleep before primetime television, and I have two different days-of-the-week pill cases.)

My body? Ugh. I am as fit as an overweight 60-something. Although, that might be offensive to 60-somethings. MS definitely makes me feel older than I am, physically; from the twitches, to the stumbling, to the aches, to the injection scars, I am much more beat up than my 34 years would imply. And with a rack this size? And gravity?? You don't need to understand physics to understand the issue there. To be fair though, I have not a single grey hair and the smattering of pimples that my skin constantly produces would suggest someone much more youthful than 34. (I use the term "youthful" very loosely here.)

Financially? Ha. Just, ha. I still don't have a savings account and I think nothing of charging something that I don't really need but really must have despite already carrying a balance on my credit card. My debt to income ratio is for shit. Seriously. Adult? Psh. As if. Today though, I made my second financial step towards adulthood: I started a 403B. To be fair, the lady had to explain to me what a 403B was and I randomly selected an amount to invest each month without figuring out how it would impact our ability to pay our bills every month in our living-paycheck-to-paycheck existence, but yeah: 403B. Yay me.

(my first financially responsible "adult" move? (in case you're wondering) Getting half a mil worth of life insurance on both me and my husband when we had Callie. Because with an unstable mother and a father who rides a motorcycle? We owe her at least that much. Probably more.)

I just don't feel 34. I feel simultaneously older and younger than that everyday. Older when the pain hits or I happen to, I don't know, look in the mirror or try to button my jeans, and yet much (much) younger when I blow out the second set of speakers in my old as hell and poorly maintained car while rocking out to LMFAO or Kanye West. Granted, I feel slightly older when it's Aerosmith or Journey, but it's just as loud.

Also? As a final nail in the I-don't-know-how-old-I-am-but-I'm-sure-as-hell-not-grown-up coffin? I just made spaghetti for dinner. Kick-ass homemade sauce (so adult) with chicken nuggets covered in mozzarella cheese because I'm too lazy to make chicken parm (so not). I mean, I have college friends who wouldn't even stoop to that.

And, oh, yeah, I almost forgot to mention: I have college friends. Meaning friends currently in college. Which, of course, confuses the hell out of my friends who are actually adults. Because what could I have in common with people who aren't even old enough to drink legally? Other than a need to drink, bad skin, rash decision making, and a lack of a moral compass?

Well, frankly, that's enough for me.

Reflections from an outpatient surgical suite.

I cannot pee on command. How are you supposed to pee when you aren't allowed to have anything to drink all morning? This completely baffles me. And my bladder. I am a camel.

Generally speaking, doctors don't seem to get my sense of humor. Nurses? They do. But doctors? Not so much. Maybe at some point in all those years of med school their sense of humor gets shoved aside in order to make room for knowledge on how the limbic system works. I don't even know what the limbic system is, so maybe that's why I'm so funny. Or maybe I'm just the only one who finds me funny. Either option seems equally possible to me.

I've decided that, overall? my health really isn't all that bad. Do you know how many questions I had to answer "no" to today? High blood pressure? No. High cholesterol? No. Asthma, breathing issues, chronic bronchitis? No, no, and no. Irregular heartbeat? No. Allergies? No. History of cancer? No. History of stroke or aneurysm? No. (there were more, but I really don't remember them all.) Then, when the next doctor came through, she lead with the question of "how's your overall health?" and I had to answer honestly: "it's okay." She flipped through my chart and asked the next most obvious question, "but you have MS...?" Yep. Yep, I do. But considering all the other shit that I apparently *could* be dealing with? I'm sort of feeling okay about it. It's just MS, after all.

Half a liter of IV fluids later, and it's back to the bathroom for me. Seriously, people: CAMEL. I managed to squeeze out a few sad little drops. I felt like a urinary failure. My bladder was shamed. But it was enough to confirm that my uterus was not harboring any fugitives. My uterus appreciated my bladder's efforts, at least, and the nurse was amused.

I am convinced though, now more than ever: my body basically shrugs off any and all attempts at sedation. ("I don't take drugs; I am drugs." maybe Dali had it right.) Nothing phases me anymore. I find this fact neither comforting nor troublesome; I find it fascinating. Am I feeling at all woozy? Um, no, should I? Did you even administer the drugs yet? Oh.... you did.... hmm. Interesting. I was hoping for a nice little moment or two of floating lithium-like happiness. Instead, I got a morning without caffeine and big ass needles in my spine. This was not on the brochure people. I'll take a shot of whatever the incoherent lady in the stall next to me had, please and thank you.

To round out the morning, the lovely recovery nurses offered me juice and a snack. Much like the protocol of the vampires at the Red Cross blood drives, actually. I think the real purpose of this is practice is to, on a subconscious level, induce fond childhood feelings of snack time in kindergarten. I mean, unless your kindergarten experience was traumatic. In which case, those nurses better watch who they give those crackers to. But the last time I had a snack of graham crackers and apple juice, it was probably followed by a nap on a mat with 20 other kids.

And really? A nap wouldn't be so bad, right about now....

If you believe in this kind of stuff. (which I do.)

So, the other day - September 24th, to be exact - I was all, "yay! it's time for the Libra birthdays!" as I was under the impression that I had so many more Libra Facebook friends than any other zodiac sign.

(because, as we both know, there's the real world and then there's the FB real world.)

((and we both know which one is more important.))

24 hours later (because apparently these are the things that weigh on my mind) I decided to actually check the numbers. Here's what I found:

• Aries (March 21 - April 20): 29 friends
• Taurus (April 21 - May 21): 31 friends 
• Gemini (May 22 - June 21): 30 friends 
• Cancer (June 22 - July 22): 29 friends 
• Leo (July 23 -August 21): 31 friends 
• Virgo (August 22 - September 23): 28 friends 
• Libra (September 24 - October 23): 29 friends 
• Scorpio (October 24 - November 22): 26 friends 
• Sagittarius (November 23 - December 22): 34 friends 
• Capricorn (December 23 - January 20): 35 friends
• Aquarius (January 21 - February 19): 21 friends 
• Pisces (February 20- March 20): 26 friends

 (please note: apparently 40+ of my FB friends exist outside of the zodiac.... whoa.)

 

Wait a minute..... where did all these Capricorns come from?? Capricorns??!

Okay, so, that being said, I went back and looked at the people on that list. Not that all my almost-400 FB friends aren't equally important to me.... but yeah, they're not. So, I went back and counted - out of those people - people that I would consider to be a close friend, someone I have/had a significant connection with, and/or someone that I just really genuinely like.

(not that I don't like the rest of them....)

((wow, I am just not going to dig myself out of this one.... moving. right. along.))

This is what I found: 

• Aries (March 21 - April 20): 5 friends
• Taurus (April 21 - May 21): 7 friends
• Gemini (May 22 - June 21): 4 friends
• Cancer (June 22 - July 22): 7 friends
• Leo (July 23 -August 21): 11 friends
• Virgo (August 22 - September 23): 11 friends
• Libra (September 24 - October 23): 16 friends
• Scorpio (October 24 - November 22): 10 friends
• Sagittarius (November 23 - December 22): 9 friends
• Capricorn (December 23 - January 20): 6 friends
• Aquarius (January 21 - February 19): 4 friends
• Pisces (February 20- March 20): 6 friends

Now that's more like it.

I know I have a lot of important Libras in my life. I equally know that I am seriously drawn to Leos and Virgos - always have been. I never actually gave much thought to the Scorpios although maybe I should have. Interesting. There's definitely this bell curve type distribution centering around my own sign.

(ha, bell curve. Shit just got real.)

I'm a Libra myself and I am a Libra. Almost every time I read one of those "Libras are blah, blah, blah...." I am the blah, blah, blah. Care to know more? (I realize the answer is probably no, but too late now, if you've been reading this far, you're kinda pot-committed.)

Traditional Libra Traits:

• Diplomatic and urbane (please note: I do not know what "urbane" means.... so hopefully it doesn't mean "knowledgeable about obscure words", cause yeah, that would be wrong.)
• Romantic and charming (obviously)
• Easygoing and sociable (totally)
• Idealistic and peaceable (everyone should be) 

But, on the dark side....

• Indecisive and changeable (ummmm, maybe....?)
• Gullible and easily influenced (what, who, me??)
• Flirtatious and self-indulgent (that's a bad thing.....? whatever ;-))

A bit more about Libras:

Librans are among the most civilized of the twelve zodiacal characters and are often good looking. (yeah baby....) They have elegance, charm and good taste, are naturally kind, very gentle, and lovers of beauty, harmony, and the pleasures that these bring. Their characters are on the whole balanced, diplomatic and even tempered. Librans are sensitive to the needs of others and have the gift, sometimes to an almost psychic extent, of understanding the emotional needs of their companions and meeting them with their own innate optimism - they are the kind of people of whom it is said, "They always make you feel better for having been with them." Their cast of mind is artistic rather than intellectual, though they are usually too moderate and well balanced to be avant garde in any artistic endeavor. (which is why I am artistic, but not an "artist") They have good perception and observation and their critical ability, with which they are able to view their own efforts as well as those of others, gives their work integrity. They like the opposite sex to the extent of promiscuity sometimes, and may indulge in romanticism bordering on sentimentality.

The negative Libran character may show frivolity, flirtatiousness, and shallowness. It can be changeable and indecisive, impatient of routine, colorlessly conventional and timid (never!), easygoing to the point of inertia (guilty), seldom angry when circumstances demand a show of annoyance at least; and yet Librans can shock everyone around them with sudden storms of rage. Their love of pleasure may lead them into extravagance; Libran men can degenerate into reckless gamblers, and Libran women extravagant, jealous, and careless about money sometimes squander their wealth and talents in their over enthusiasm for causes which they espouse. (or just wine, apparently.)

Libra governs the lumbar region, lower back and kidneys. Its subjects must beware of weaknesses in the back, and lumbago, and they are susceptible to troubles in the kidneys and bladder, especially gravel and stone. They need to avoid overindulgence in food and especially drink, for the latter can particularly harm the kidneys. (hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!)

I'm not going to list every single sign (you're welcome) but you should totally go check out your sign from the links above. Even if it's not something you believe in, you might be amused to find how your sign description compares with how you view your own personality.

One thing I will note though: My husband is an Aries and my daughter is a Gemini - two of my "least" drawn to signs. Yeah. Our family dynamic should be interesting.

If you believe in this kind of stuff, that is.

Things I learned this week.

I can be counted on in a crisis. Totally level headed. Just don't ask me to hold a raw egg while sitting at a table and *not* expect it to end up broken.

Even when pressed? I have a really hard time identifying three possessions that are important to me. Equally so? it is hard to pick the three "most" important people to me. (there are far too many.) I am absolutely fine the complete imbalance of those two things.

I am, at the same time, totally crazy and totally amazing. (I have this on good authority.)

There is always someone who has it better than you. And worse than you, too. Don't compare war wounds. We all go to battle sometime.

I can't spell. Seriously. Thank god for those red squiggly lines and autocorrect. (they make me look smarter than I deserve.)

Some days, my iPod is out to get me. I am convinced of it.

Truth happens. Most frequently, when I am drinking.

Sometimes, I completely lose my mind. Fortunately, it has always come back. (kind of like an old cat that wanders away for three days in a storm and just when you're certain she's probably gone for good, she shows up on the deck all, "what? was I missing? meh, whatever....")

Jeans make everything more palatable. Including three days of discussing mental health, addiction, and suicide.

On a totally related note: I cannot handle three days of discussing mental health, addiction, and suicide. True, that wasn't the sum total of the conversations, but I get enough of that already. I'll happily write some college recommendation letters now. Please and thank you.

Some people actually had genuinely happy and well-adjusted childhoods. This concept is wholly unimaginable to me. And, frankly, concerns me. It should, in theory, fill me with hope for my own students, but the plain and simple truth is this: I don't know how to relate to well-adjusted people. I'm still not even totally sold on their existence. (well-adjusted people and aliens: we may never know for certain.)

I am 100% sure that I will irreparably damage my child(ren). Despite any hopes/intentions to the contrary.

"I'll never stop loving you. You exist in a place where time stands still, where the conversation never ends, I carry you in my heart always." (seriously, this was said to me.... texted to me, actually.) ((and it just might be the nicest thing ever texted to me.))

I still love this song.

There's never an easy way to explain.

I want to tell them: I understand.

I want to yell it. I want to hug them and whisper it. I want to write it in the sky and on a note that I slip into their bag when they're not looking. I just want them to get it: I understand.

I know the pain. I know the exhaustion. I know what the emptiness is. I recognize the look in their eyes because I've seen it in my own mirror.

Don't do it.

Don't give up.

Don't let the bitterness win!

Don't lose yourself.

Rage.

Rage against the dying of the light.

(someone way more poetic and important than me said that, but, the first time I read it, I knew he understood too, so I don't think he'd mind my obvious borrowing of the sentiment.)

Its so hard sometimes.... to not only know that pain, but to see it reflected in others. It's so exhausting wearing that mask everyday. That "I'm okay" mask that you have to wear so people won't worry and won't ask questions that you don't have good answers to anyway.

"How are you?"

"I'm good." (I'm a liar)

"How are things going?"

"They're okay, thanks." (No, they're not, they're a big festering pile of not-okay-ed-ness, actually. But fuck off, cause I can't explain what's wrong anyway.)

"Well you look fantastic...."

"Thanks!" *insert smile that stops short of touching my eyes* (Now you're the liar, cause I look exhausted and I look like I've gained a lot of weight - because both are true. Oh, and occasionally I am convinced I am dead inside - completely sapped of any useful life-force, but totally, sure.... I. look. great.)

Social interaction has a way of wearing on me at times that is at once as ironically funny as it is painful. It's what I do for a living. Which really, wouldn't be such a bad thing if that were all because you can change a career but it's also kind of what. I. do.

A coworker of mine once compared teenagers to psychic vampires: they are needy at times and when they are needy they suck the life-force from you until you're completely spent. And while I get the analogy, for me, it's not quite accurate.

I *want* them to feed on me.

Wait, no... that doesn't sound right... that kind of makes me sound like an accidental-pedophile. I'm not good with that.

(and why do so many of my thoughts come back to vampires?? oh Joss Whedon...)
I guess what I'm saying is that I'd gladly give up whatever psychic life-force it is that I have if it meant it would help heal their wounds, even if for only a short time. And I do. Over and over again. I can't help it. It's what I do. It's who I am.

Because I'm broken too. And I've been broken for so long that I don't remember what it means to be whole.

Just.... don't give up, okay? Because I'm still here. And I haven't given up. And whatever I have? You can have it, if it will help you.

You can have it all.

10 years later.

Like many others, I will never forget the morning of September 11th, 2001. It’s an oddly communal feeling to know that I am one among millions for which that is the case. That, for a brief horrifying moment, the world we knew stood still - we collectively paused and each experienced our own unique WTF moment, together - and when the world resumed its forward motion, it was truly never the same.

I remember a lot of moments from throughout that day, actually. And the fact that my life couldn’t be more different now than it was 10 years ago doesn’t make it any more or less surreal. It just, was. And that will always be part of the horror to me. It should be surreal. It should be unimaginable. But once it happened, it could never unhappen. And it would never again be unimaginable.

No, I didn’t know anyone in NYC, DC, or on any of the ill-fated planes that morning. I didn’t know anyone personally who was a first responder or worked on the almost never ending clean-up. But I didn’t have to.

I was in the hallway bathroom of my townhouse in Perkiomenville that morning blow drying my hair. It was the bathroom that had become “my” bathroom; my husband and I had been living in separate bedrooms for over a year at that time and he had the master bath to himself. He came out of the master bedroom (also his) and said “a plane just flew into the World Trade Center.” I turned off the hair dryer thinking for sure that I had heard him wrong. I walked into the bedroom, staring at the smoking tower on the tv screen, asking if it was small private aircraft, and just then the second plane flew into the second tower.

We were both briefly silent then I whispered what I would probably say 1000 more times that day and in the days to follow, “oh my god….” The sight of that plane. Knowing it was a passenger airliner and yet scarcely able to comprehend the size and scale of something that size crashing into a building…. and the people…. my mind wasn’t even ready to begin trying to fit that into my understanding of what I was seeing.

Eventually I drug myself away from the tv and drove into work. Which, at that time, was the framing business I shared with my mom. It was such a gorgeous fall day - crystal blue skies and white fluffy clouds. But every glance to the skies made the morning’s events even more absurd. The soundtrack for my 15 minute drive was a rush of information and speculation being delivered by equally shocked and confused radio station hosts. When I arrived at work, my mom was already there and she was simply standing in front of the tv in shock.

Two things I remember from that abbreviated work day: the woman from the Chinese restaurant next door came over to watch the tv reports with us. Her English was almost nonexistent and the shock of the morning wasn’t helping; she kept shaking her head and clucking, occasionally saying “so bad”. At one point, two men entered the store. They were the only people we saw that day and they were salesmen for Verizon or AT&T or some such thing and as they launched into their overly cheery salesman schpeal, I remember looking at them like they were from another planet. My mom then told them about the tragedy of what had occurred, assuming that they were unaware, to which they simply waved it off, implying they didn’t think it was something to be concerned about - likely pilot error. I don’t remember how we told them to leave, but I know they left.

The first tower collapsed and we closed for the day. I watched tv off and on throughout that day and in the days that followed, still trying to digest what had happened. My husband and I hung an American flag outside our front door. I remember, oddly, explaining to my Dalmatian that it was an important thing to do, as I stroked her fur and thought of my long deceased grandfather. Within a month, I had made the decision to move out of what had been our marital home and thus began the long process of our divorce.

In the span of the 10 years that have passed since that Tuesday morning, my divorce was finalized, our business closed, relationships were built and destroyed. I went back to school, fought with the depression that had been threatening my life for so many years, fell further into debt, fell in love, married, and had a beautiful daughter that came into this world without planning. I found out I was sick and fought more than a simple depression - I fought myself. I began a new career, began a new life, began new relationships and ended others. I’ve loved and lost and questioned my sanity and grown older and stronger and weaker, all at the same time.

I was 23 on September 11, 2001. Even if pressed to come up with the most unlikely life I could imagine for myself in 10 years from that moment, I wouldn’t have come up with anything close to where I am now. I don’t know how I feel about that. But I don’t think we’re really supposed to understand everything about life. It happens. It continues. And I think sometimes that’s all we can know for sure.

The students I work with now would have been just slightly older than my daughter on that day; my daughter who wasn’t even a thought in the back of my unhappily married 23 year old mind. To them, the memories of 9-11 may be vague. For my daughter, it will simply be a lesson in a history textbook someday. Maybe someday she will ask where I was the morning of September 11, 2001. I will have a hard time explaining who that woman was to my daughter. Some days I feel like I don’t remember her well at all. But I will always remember that morning.

The changes that have taken place in my personal world since that day 10 years ago had nothing to do with the actual events of that day. Still, the comparison is stark. However, the changes that have taken place in the world since that day have been vastly impacted by the events of that morning. The world my daughter will grow up in - the only world she will ever know - will always be shaped by the events that I stood and bore witness to on a small tv screen, feeling like what I was watching was bigger than life itself.

The world may or may not be more dangerous now than it was 10 years ago, but for me personally, the stakes are now higher. And I understand what those stakes are in a way that ignorance will never again cover. I have a child; she is my connection to a future that I may never see. I have former students serving in the various branches of the military; I never want to hear their names spoken in a past tense. I want, more than anything, for them to be safe in a world that is very clearly not a safe place.

I joke about a lot of things. I bitch and complain and laugh at inappropriate times. I have to; it's how I cope. I see and experience a lot of pain; not just my own, but the pain of others as well. The world is an imperfect and cruel and completely unfair place. And yet I know with certainty, that to be a part of it is a beautiful and worthwhile thing. I just wish it wasn’t such an imperfect and cruel and completely unfair place. I wish it wasn’t so damn fragile.

This isn't the muthfuckin' Matrix, people.

Long story short? You might want to just leave me alone until early to mid October. Unless you like being verbally assaulted and/or potentially stabbed. That being said, you can read on if you'd like, but you've really already got the most important part: shit is going down; you won't want to be around for it.

Welcome to the world of the red pills.

Once every 90 days, I have to take two progestin pills, every day for two weeks, to offset the shit ton of estriol I'm taking as a part of this MS study. Theory is, it will lessen my chances of developing breast and/or uterine cancer from the estriol. Thing is? I'd almost rather take my chances with the cancer. Not to be making light of cancer - cause I'm not - but seriously, the side effects suck.

SUCK.

(oh, no worries, I will elaborate.)

During this time, it is basically even money that I will be ridiculously exhausted, cry, yell for no reason, want to die, cry some more, try to crawl out of my skin, send nasty texts and/or emails to anyone who even remotely made me angry in the last 2 years, bleed profusely, cramp spontaneously, cry again, yell even louder, and eventually slip into a sullen hateful black mood where everyone within arm's reach is in imminent danger.

I actually feel a little kind of very sorry for those who have to deal with me on a daily basis. Unfortunately that empathy is usually expressed via mean venomous words barely articulated through clenched teeth or loud yelling that would make a taxi driver stfu and run for cover.

It gets ugly.

It's actually kind of all the worst emotional effects of MS, all rolled into one whirlwind month.

But wait! One month, you say? "I thought you only took the pills for two weeks!"

THAT'S THE BEST PART!! I take the pills for two weeks and then the side-effects take a solid 2-3 weeks after that to flush the fuck out of my system. Canna geta A-MEN??

(you better not be "amen-ing" me right now, muthafucka.)

((shit. I think it's already started.))

 I don't give a shit about your goddamn rabbit hole, Morpheus.

(Don't do it Neo. Trust me. Those robo-cop guys will be the least of your concerns.) 

"You do not have the right to quit trying. (The universe wobbles when you do.) "

It's been a long time, but there's a reason for it as well. That reason? Simple; I had shit to do. But, shit's done, and I'm back. I'll explain in a moment. First: within the last three days, the congruence of three disparate things made me feel the need to spew forth with some blogging.

To start, a friend posted a link on Facebook to a WSJ article that revisited Steve Jobs' commencement speech at Stanford from 2005. I'd actually never read it before and if you haven't, you should as well. The next day, I had a great conversation with one of my students about how lost he was feeling in figuring out what to pursue after high school. It was one of those conversations that was only so great because he was in a place where he was really open to listening as well as talking. Sometimes with teenagers, they won't give you both. Go figure.

Lastly, and most profoundly for me, I had an awesome "talk" with a friend that took place in the form of a series of FB messages. A talk that was meant to help him, but really resonated with me. He was feeling at a loss for direction and motivation in his life and wanted advice - although he never really asked a question. I began with the idea that had sort of been at the crux of my conversation with my student, which, not so coincidentally, arose from the WSJ article - in thinking of the future, there are two things I think everyone should consider: What am I good at? And, more importantly, what makes me happy? Because here's why: somewhere, somehow, those two things intersect. What you're good at meets up with what makes you happy, and that? Somewhere in there? That's where your future lies. There's a career there, there's a destination, and there's purpose. It's not always easy to find but it exists.

For me, I chose a path through college based on what I thought I was good at. And, with a few minor tweaks along the way, I followed that path right through college and on to a career that I enjoyed. I don't regret that path and I learned a lot about myself - both during that career and in hindsight. However, I can see now that, though I was very good at what I did, I was never truly great. And while I enjoyed it immensely, I never really loved it in a way that was personally rewarding. As a counselor? I am great. Something in me shines and keeps me going, even through bad days and missteps and disappointments. It's personally rewarding. What makes me happy is dynamic personal relationships. Where that intersected with what I'm good at? I found counseling.

And I love what I do - as much as I may bitch about it at times.

This summer, I had to complete 36 credits of post-grad professional development courses. Before you get all impressed, please know - they were 36 credits of busy work and bullshit. But finishing them or not finishing them meant the difference between making more money and being reimbursed the $3000 I spent for the classes, or losing the $3000 and not getting a raise for the next year. Crazy thing was, the money wasn't a motivator for me to get them done - money, while necessary, has never been a great motivator for me. Hell, I wouldn't be working in education if it was that important to me. So, I had to find different motivation.

I decided to shut down my Facebook account (and not blog) until I took care of what needed to get done. I took a lot of shit for this. First, in the form of, "are you so addicted to FB that you can't pull yourself away to do your work??" (answer: um, no.) Then, in the form of, "I feel like I don't know what's going on your life now..." (hmm, fuck you for your mockage then, how about that?) I took away FB because it took away something that was important to me - my connection to the *people* who are important to me. I'm motivated by the relationships and people in my life.

(and just so we're clear? I took those courses and kicked their collective ass.)

And now, I'm back.

(see how that came full circle?)

But seriously, do yourself a favor. Figure out where your talent intersects with your joy. Figure out how far you are from that intersection. And if need be? Find a path to get there. If that intersection shifts? Don't be afraid to change your course. Don't ever feel stuck or bound to one path - forge a whole new one if you must. It's never too late. And go back to read the Steve Jobs article. (It doesn't seem fair that someone so otherwise talented and successful would also get to be so articulate, but cancer isn't fair either, so I'll make allowances.)

I've missed you though. And I promise to try harder with this relationship. Because it's important to me.