I love loud music. I don't even care what it is. It blocks out the thoughts.
The doubts.
The voices.
The hurt.
It blocks out it all.... with it's steady stream of bass and lyrics and distraction. It's beauty in it's simplest form.
Mind altering.
Thought blocking.
Quiet.
In it's pounding rhythm.
But then it stops.
The ringing begins.
The ringing doesn't block out the thought.
The hurt.
The heartache.
The what-ifs and what-the-fucks.
It's free reign. Open season. Every damn thing I didn't want to hear.
Didn't want to think.
Thunders in the ringing silence.
I love loud music. I just can't live there.
Although I would try. If I could.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
FINE. I wrote my damn paper.
I really wasn't feeling writing a 3-4 page paper on the connection and utilization of exercise to mood modification. In fact, I managed to write many many more pages than that in pointless blog posts before I got around to writing my paper. But, I finally managed to do it.
What gave me that push I needed?
I decided to write my paper as if it were a blog.
World of academia? Meet blogging. While I am sure you have more than a passing acquaintanceship, please understand: this seems to be the only style of writing I can manage any more.
Plus? It's slightly less boring.
I can't, however, be held accountable for the boring nature of the topic. Sorry.
(I do what I can.)
Below is what I actually submitted. I'm curious to see how this works out.
Right now, I am sitting at my desk. It’s Thursday on what feels like day 11 of a 10 day work week. One hour left to go of the working day, one more day until the weekend, but five more days until the winter break. I have yoga tonight but it means finding something productive to do after work while waiting for yoga to begin. It also means not getting home until after 8:00. When, if I just left work on time, I could be at home - glass of wine in hand and on my couch in my pjs - by 4:00.
I’m tired, it’s been a long week, and I would like nothing more than to collapse in a heap on my couch. And, to be fair, I may still decide to do so. However, I know if I stuck it out and made myself go to yoga? I’d be feeling better by the time I made it home. Even if it is 4 hours later than I would have liked. I’ll have more energy, less tension, and generally be in a better frame of mind. Not to mention the calories it will save me from not drinking wine for those four additional hours as well. Overall? Huge win for me. Should be a no brainer, right?
It’s just never that easy it seems. Clearly, if it were, the world at large (pun totally intended) would be thinner, less stressed, and healthier all the way around. We would all make the healthier choice and all live better lives for it. But most of us don’t. Because, often times, the healthier choice is not the easier choice. And it’s not that the harder option is just too hard, but more so that we lack the energy to undertake the harder option. Even if the end result is going to be an increased level of energy. It’s a hell of a catch-22, really.
And honestly, the whole idea of using exercise as a mode to achieve a better mood - if we are defining mood by an absence or decrease of the tense-tired state - is fraught with catch-22s. If I am already tired, I am certainly less likely to undertake any physical activity. Even the thought of prolonged physical activity tires me on an already too-tired day. And tension? Nothing says “let’s get physical” like a tension headache. Although I know, in the logical part of my brain that isn’t impacted by the length of my work week or the fatigue my body is feeling, that exercise is exactly the thing that will work to relieve both ailments.
I’ve always used exercise as a tool for weight loss. Period. Unfortunately, I have always had weight to lose and, therefore, have undertaken any number and variety of exercise programs. Walking. Jogging. (which was a very short lived attempt.) Lifting. Aerobics. Step-aerobics. Tae-Bo. Pilates. Truly, the list goes on and on. And, since I have always used exercise as a means of weight loss, I have always felt it necessary to push myself to the point of near exhaustion in order to feel like I was giving it my best effort. This even, at one time, resulted in a daily exercise regimen that was almost two hours in length. Obviously with the demands of real life, that was not a regimen I could maintain; when it fell apart, it fell entirely apart. It was always all or nothing for me.
Trying to reframe my preconceived notions about exercise is difficult. Truly, it has been harder than I would have expected. Although, I suppose, on many levels, anything that challenges our understanding and perceptions is uncomfortable, at the very least. For me, it goes something like this: “Ughhhh, I’m so tired. Tired and stressed - because, really, when am I not? All I want is down time, comfort food, and a beverage or two. But…. *insert new uncomfortable way of thinking here*…. I know that even 30 minutes of yoga or a brisk walk would make me feel better. And be better for me. And I need things that are better for me. My clothes have been fitting a bit too tightly recently anyway - even the clothes that are not meant to be tight. Well, then, if I’m going to commit to doing 30 minutes, I should at least commit to 60 minutes. There’s not much caloric-burning gain in only 30 minutes. Okay, an even hour it will be. I can do this. I will do this. I will feel better for having done it.”
(by the end of the work day)
“Ughhhhh, I really don’t have the energy to do 60 minutes of anything. Where’s the couch?”
When really? 30 minutes would definitely be adequate for the mood improving benefits to be felt. But instead, I get in my head that I have to put forth more than what is necessary; and I therefore end up opting out of doing it all together. It’s clearly a fault in my logic, but it’s also how my brain is wired to process the concept of exercise.
(Too many years - nay, decades - of dieting, clearly.)
What I need to do is reframe my ideas about exercise and its uses. I know the benefit to mood enhancement that I feel - that’s not something that I struggle to understand. And really, I experience that post-exercise glow more so from doing less strenuous forms of activity, so a simple walk or a few moments of yoga is more than adequate - it’s ideal. Moving forward, I would like to incorporate a daily ritual of movement - not necessarily exercise. Exercise can be done in addition - and should be, if we are to be mindful of the too-tight clothing - but I need to separate the concepts of daily activity for appropriate stress reduction and exercise for weight loss. If I can incorporate both in appropriate use and measure - and yes, make the harder but healthier choice - then surely my overall health would improve in more than one way.
For the record? It’s 4:45 already. An hour and 45 minutes past when I could have left work, but only another 45 minutes until I can head to yoga. I’ll just have a smaller glass of wine when I get home at 8:00 and find my couch still waiting for me.
All things in moderation, after all.
What gave me that push I needed?
I decided to write my paper as if it were a blog.
World of academia? Meet blogging. While I am sure you have more than a passing acquaintanceship, please understand: this seems to be the only style of writing I can manage any more.
Plus? It's slightly less boring.
I can't, however, be held accountable for the boring nature of the topic. Sorry.
(I do what I can.)
Below is what I actually submitted. I'm curious to see how this works out.
Right now, I am sitting at my desk. It’s Thursday on what feels like day 11 of a 10 day work week. One hour left to go of the working day, one more day until the weekend, but five more days until the winter break. I have yoga tonight but it means finding something productive to do after work while waiting for yoga to begin. It also means not getting home until after 8:00. When, if I just left work on time, I could be at home - glass of wine in hand and on my couch in my pjs - by 4:00.
I’m tired, it’s been a long week, and I would like nothing more than to collapse in a heap on my couch. And, to be fair, I may still decide to do so. However, I know if I stuck it out and made myself go to yoga? I’d be feeling better by the time I made it home. Even if it is 4 hours later than I would have liked. I’ll have more energy, less tension, and generally be in a better frame of mind. Not to mention the calories it will save me from not drinking wine for those four additional hours as well. Overall? Huge win for me. Should be a no brainer, right?
It’s just never that easy it seems. Clearly, if it were, the world at large (pun totally intended) would be thinner, less stressed, and healthier all the way around. We would all make the healthier choice and all live better lives for it. But most of us don’t. Because, often times, the healthier choice is not the easier choice. And it’s not that the harder option is just too hard, but more so that we lack the energy to undertake the harder option. Even if the end result is going to be an increased level of energy. It’s a hell of a catch-22, really.
And honestly, the whole idea of using exercise as a mode to achieve a better mood - if we are defining mood by an absence or decrease of the tense-tired state - is fraught with catch-22s. If I am already tired, I am certainly less likely to undertake any physical activity. Even the thought of prolonged physical activity tires me on an already too-tired day. And tension? Nothing says “let’s get physical” like a tension headache. Although I know, in the logical part of my brain that isn’t impacted by the length of my work week or the fatigue my body is feeling, that exercise is exactly the thing that will work to relieve both ailments.
I’ve always used exercise as a tool for weight loss. Period. Unfortunately, I have always had weight to lose and, therefore, have undertaken any number and variety of exercise programs. Walking. Jogging. (which was a very short lived attempt.) Lifting. Aerobics. Step-aerobics. Tae-Bo. Pilates. Truly, the list goes on and on. And, since I have always used exercise as a means of weight loss, I have always felt it necessary to push myself to the point of near exhaustion in order to feel like I was giving it my best effort. This even, at one time, resulted in a daily exercise regimen that was almost two hours in length. Obviously with the demands of real life, that was not a regimen I could maintain; when it fell apart, it fell entirely apart. It was always all or nothing for me.
Trying to reframe my preconceived notions about exercise is difficult. Truly, it has been harder than I would have expected. Although, I suppose, on many levels, anything that challenges our understanding and perceptions is uncomfortable, at the very least. For me, it goes something like this: “Ughhhh, I’m so tired. Tired and stressed - because, really, when am I not? All I want is down time, comfort food, and a beverage or two. But…. *insert new uncomfortable way of thinking here*…. I know that even 30 minutes of yoga or a brisk walk would make me feel better. And be better for me. And I need things that are better for me. My clothes have been fitting a bit too tightly recently anyway - even the clothes that are not meant to be tight. Well, then, if I’m going to commit to doing 30 minutes, I should at least commit to 60 minutes. There’s not much caloric-burning gain in only 30 minutes. Okay, an even hour it will be. I can do this. I will do this. I will feel better for having done it.”
(by the end of the work day)
“Ughhhhh, I really don’t have the energy to do 60 minutes of anything. Where’s the couch?”
When really? 30 minutes would definitely be adequate for the mood improving benefits to be felt. But instead, I get in my head that I have to put forth more than what is necessary; and I therefore end up opting out of doing it all together. It’s clearly a fault in my logic, but it’s also how my brain is wired to process the concept of exercise.
(Too many years - nay, decades - of dieting, clearly.)
What I need to do is reframe my ideas about exercise and its uses. I know the benefit to mood enhancement that I feel - that’s not something that I struggle to understand. And really, I experience that post-exercise glow more so from doing less strenuous forms of activity, so a simple walk or a few moments of yoga is more than adequate - it’s ideal. Moving forward, I would like to incorporate a daily ritual of movement - not necessarily exercise. Exercise can be done in addition - and should be, if we are to be mindful of the too-tight clothing - but I need to separate the concepts of daily activity for appropriate stress reduction and exercise for weight loss. If I can incorporate both in appropriate use and measure - and yes, make the harder but healthier choice - then surely my overall health would improve in more than one way.
For the record? It’s 4:45 already. An hour and 45 minutes past when I could have left work, but only another 45 minutes until I can head to yoga. I’ll just have a smaller glass of wine when I get home at 8:00 and find my couch still waiting for me.
All things in moderation, after all.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Where's *my* gay knight in shining gold lamé?
This past week I saw a repeat of the Glee “Madonna” episode.
Wait, let me back up, as I feel this needs clarification: I am not a Gleek. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the show - its fun and I do enjoy it. But, I’m not super into it. I’m not terribly aware of all the current issues with each character and who is with whom or wants to be with someone else. Basically, if it’s on and I come across it, I watch it. I try to figure out when it is in the timeline of the show based on if the blond cheer leader is pregnant, who the teacher guy is with, and/or if the brunette “hot music geek” is currently crushing on, with, or broken up with the male “hot music geek/quarterback”.
Okay, back to the rest of my story….
The Madonna episode?
Awesome.
Amazing.
And really? I am now in love with Kurt. LOVE. It’s serious people. Like, I want him to be my (totally fictional pretend) gay bff. Because I love him. And really? I’ve never had a gay bff and that is a damn tragedy. I? Should have a gbff.
He’s snarky. He’s catty. But he’s also kind. He falls into completely impossible love. (and speaks so eloquently about it, it makes my heart ache.) ((yes, I am aware he’s a fictional character and the writers are the eloquent ones, but just suspend reality a bit with me, won’t you??)) And he would so honestly tell me if my butt looks too big in any given outfit and how much sparkle is too much sparkle. Plus, he sings. I dig that. In my head? I can *totally* sing. And since this gbff relationship will only exist in my head, it’s a perfect match.
(it’s the little look right around 2:53 that sold me, just so you know….)
Don’t get me wrong - I have gay friends. I am a big big fan of the gays. I’ve just never had a gay bff. I fear there is something inherent in me that makes me not suitable hag material and that breaks my gay-loving heart. I have friends that are hags and I am so jealous. Super jealous. I want to steal their gbffs away and go trash talking over some martinis.
I do believe I have figured out the issue though - I like guys. In fact, I prefer them to women - I mean, in the obvious way, but also as friends. I love my guy friends and a lot of my friends are guys. But they are straight and they dig me too - because I am the girl friend that is “just one of the guys”. I’ve got a lot of tomboy in me. I want to play poker. I want to watch football. I talk shit. I drink and eat like a guy. Basically, short of peeing standing up and the fact that I have all those nice soft curvy parts - oh, and the smelling nice thing - I’m kind of a dude.
I am thinking that most gay men don’t dig on tomboys… even those that are also fabulous snarky bitches. Because that? I clearly am.
Okay, so actually? listening to that is *kinda* like listening to myself. Maybe instead of being a tomboy I actually have a gayboy inside me? Which, would then explain all the obvious reasons that I like boys too.
Hmmm…. this is getting confusing.
I’m pretty sure if I had a gbff though? He could totally make sense of this.
(which really? brings this post full circle.)
“I think you’re 14 and you’re an idiot. You took a roofie from a priest. Look at your life. Look at your choices.”
(it’s like he was listening in my office or something.)
((for real.))
Wait, let me back up, as I feel this needs clarification: I am not a Gleek. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the show - its fun and I do enjoy it. But, I’m not super into it. I’m not terribly aware of all the current issues with each character and who is with whom or wants to be with someone else. Basically, if it’s on and I come across it, I watch it. I try to figure out when it is in the timeline of the show based on if the blond cheer leader is pregnant, who the teacher guy is with, and/or if the brunette “hot music geek” is currently crushing on, with, or broken up with the male “hot music geek/quarterback”.
Okay, back to the rest of my story….
The Madonna episode?
Awesome.
Amazing.
And really? I am now in love with Kurt. LOVE. It’s serious people. Like, I want him to be my (totally fictional pretend) gay bff. Because I love him. And really? I’ve never had a gay bff and that is a damn tragedy. I? Should have a gbff.
He’s snarky. He’s catty. But he’s also kind. He falls into completely impossible love. (and speaks so eloquently about it, it makes my heart ache.) ((yes, I am aware he’s a fictional character and the writers are the eloquent ones, but just suspend reality a bit with me, won’t you??)) And he would so honestly tell me if my butt looks too big in any given outfit and how much sparkle is too much sparkle. Plus, he sings. I dig that. In my head? I can *totally* sing. And since this gbff relationship will only exist in my head, it’s a perfect match.
(it’s the little look right around 2:53 that sold me, just so you know….)
Don’t get me wrong - I have gay friends. I am a big big fan of the gays. I’ve just never had a gay bff. I fear there is something inherent in me that makes me not suitable hag material and that breaks my gay-loving heart. I have friends that are hags and I am so jealous. Super jealous. I want to steal their gbffs away and go trash talking over some martinis.
I do believe I have figured out the issue though - I like guys. In fact, I prefer them to women - I mean, in the obvious way, but also as friends. I love my guy friends and a lot of my friends are guys. But they are straight and they dig me too - because I am the girl friend that is “just one of the guys”. I’ve got a lot of tomboy in me. I want to play poker. I want to watch football. I talk shit. I drink and eat like a guy. Basically, short of peeing standing up and the fact that I have all those nice soft curvy parts - oh, and the smelling nice thing - I’m kind of a dude.
I am thinking that most gay men don’t dig on tomboys… even those that are also fabulous snarky bitches. Because that? I clearly am.
Okay, so actually? listening to that is *kinda* like listening to myself. Maybe instead of being a tomboy I actually have a gayboy inside me? Which, would then explain all the obvious reasons that I like boys too.
Hmmm…. this is getting confusing.
I’m pretty sure if I had a gbff though? He could totally make sense of this.
(which really? brings this post full circle.)
“I think you’re 14 and you’re an idiot. You took a roofie from a priest. Look at your life. Look at your choices.”
(it’s like he was listening in my office or something.)
((for real.))
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
I suck at making Christmas lists. (and 9 other things you may or may not know about me.)
1. I suck at making Christmas lists. That’s not to say that there’s not stuff that I wouldn’t like or even want at any given moment but when put on the spot with the heavily loaded “what do you want for Christmas this year?” (I’m sorry, you’re not dressed like a fat man in a red suit and I am not on your lap) I always come up short for answers.
The problem is, I’m just not a fan of “stuff”. Stuff clutters up my house. Stuff is the, well, stuff, that I am tripping over and trying to find a place for it to collect dust for a fair amount of time. I don’t like stuff. I don’t want dvds. I don’t want cds. I don’t want games. I just won’t use them and while the thought is nice, I have enough dust collectors, thank you very much.
I do like books, but I rarely know what I want until I want it. I like jewelry, but I like to buy pieces that I want. I like clothes, but really? Clothes are tough. Half the stuff rarely fits me and usually makes me look large and in charge. (Which, I am, however, I prefer reality-defying clothes. Find me some of them and you can buy as much as you’d like.)
What do I want for Christmas? More time for myself. A vacation. Money to pay down some of my debt. A new tattoo… or two… or three.
(Hard to wrap that kind of stuff, I know.)
So, I guess lacking any other ideas, go with the old standby: liquor and wine.
2. I really am not a fan of phone calls. I prefer email conversations. Hell, even a text message will do if it needs to be a constant back and forth. But a phone call? *ugh* How incredibly arcane. I don’t know why that is or when it got to be that point - I literally used to live with the phone glued to my ear as a teenager - just ask my mom, she’d love to tell you all about it, I have no doubt. But now? Again, *ugh*.
I think, in part, I owe this disdain to my ADD tendencies. I can multi-task through an email or text conversation. Phone conversation? You’re going to expect me to actually devote that entire time to just you. I mean, really? That’s asking for a lot. Including, but not limited to, having to turn down my too-loud music in the car and not sing along at the top of my lungs. Whatever you need to say? Can’t really be that important, right? Drop me a text.
(If I’m making time to talk to you on the phone? You’re welcome. And, you must be pretty awesome.)
3. I have ADD.
(Yes, my last entry just mentioned that - I don’t have short term memory problems.)
((Well, I do, but not *that* short.))
I was never diagnosed with ADD - and it’s certainly not ADHD because there’s not a damn thing about me that’s even remotely high energy - but I have managed to learn to live in my world of organized-chaos and I only survive by “multi-tasking”…. which is what I affectionately call my inability to focus on any one thing longer than a few moments without being distracted by something else.
(I have literally checked my email 3 times and my phone twice in the time I have been typing this - as well as taking a few moments to completely zone out to some Drowning Pool.)
((I am scared to think of what I could accomplish with some Adderall in my system.))
(((Seriously, just checked my phone, FB, and email again… what was I saying?)))
4. Whenever I walk down an empty hallway? I walk in the middle. And I have the insane urge to turn cartwheels and flips the entire length of the hall. I probably can’t do cartwheels any longer and I wasn’t ever able to do flips, yet, in my head? I’m freaking Mary Lou Retton. (or Keri Strug, take your pick.) Either way? cartwheel, flip, flip, double flip, stick the landing. 10.0 10.0 10.0 10.0 and 9.2 (the German judges are a bunch of haters.)
Fortunately (for myself and whatever unfortunate person would find my crumbled form in the middle of the hallway), I have fought this urge.
5. I have a love/hate relationship with food. I love it. I hate that I love it. I am powerless in its grips.
For real, you guys. It’s a sickness.
I love to eat. I fight the urge to eat almost constantly. Because, if I didn’t? I could be a hair under 600 pounds within the year.
For real.
One medical condition that makes my metabolism slow as shit running uphill and another that saps my energy on a daily basis…. you add an obscene influx of food to that combination?
Six. Hundred. Pounds.
(Someday they will remove me from my house on a forklift and none of you will be surprised as you’ve now been forewarned.)
((clearly I won’t be doing any cartwheels at that point.))
6. I like the idea of horoscopes. Not so much the “Today you will be surprised by a voice from the past. Beware of drafts, your health is at risk.” type of stuff, but more so the descriptions of the various signs. I fit many of the typical “Libra” traits and characteristics. A disproportionate number of my friends are Libras and Virgos. I have had some crazy chemistry with Leos. I just believe there is *something* to it. Although, who knows, maybe it’s just me trying to make sense out of a senseless world. Nothing wrong with that.
I will admit though - when I want to understand someone better or I am curious about them in general? I check out their sign. It can be very enlightening. Seriously.
7. Speaking of making sense out of a senseless world, I don’t buy in to organized religion. I don’t have any problem with people who do…. as long as they’re not selling their particular brand of religion my way. I’m not buying it. In fact, I’m not even in the market. Hell, I’m not even window shopping, so stop with the hard sell.
I’m not a Christian. Sorry, if that’s a problem, but it’s not for me. I dig JC. I’m sure he was a really good person with the most excellent intentions and love for his fellow man. However, I don’t follow him. Doesn’t make me a bad person - just as I don’t believe others who do follow him are inherently “good” - but it is part of who I am. I’m sure there will be, could be, likely should be, some sort of lengthy discourse on this - because believe me, I’ve come up against some interesting questions when I’ve had conversations with people about my beliefs, but…. that’s a blog post all it’s own.
8. I do, however, believe in reincarnation. So, yes, I also believe in an afterlife… it’s just not the Judeo-Christian version of it.
But, again, a blog for another time.
9. I love David Boreanez.
And Paul Rudd.
The problem is, I’m just not a fan of “stuff”. Stuff clutters up my house. Stuff is the, well, stuff, that I am tripping over and trying to find a place for it to collect dust for a fair amount of time. I don’t like stuff. I don’t want dvds. I don’t want cds. I don’t want games. I just won’t use them and while the thought is nice, I have enough dust collectors, thank you very much.
I do like books, but I rarely know what I want until I want it. I like jewelry, but I like to buy pieces that I want. I like clothes, but really? Clothes are tough. Half the stuff rarely fits me and usually makes me look large and in charge. (Which, I am, however, I prefer reality-defying clothes. Find me some of them and you can buy as much as you’d like.)
What do I want for Christmas? More time for myself. A vacation. Money to pay down some of my debt. A new tattoo… or two… or three.
(Hard to wrap that kind of stuff, I know.)
So, I guess lacking any other ideas, go with the old standby: liquor and wine.
2. I really am not a fan of phone calls. I prefer email conversations. Hell, even a text message will do if it needs to be a constant back and forth. But a phone call? *ugh* How incredibly arcane. I don’t know why that is or when it got to be that point - I literally used to live with the phone glued to my ear as a teenager - just ask my mom, she’d love to tell you all about it, I have no doubt. But now? Again, *ugh*.
I think, in part, I owe this disdain to my ADD tendencies. I can multi-task through an email or text conversation. Phone conversation? You’re going to expect me to actually devote that entire time to just you. I mean, really? That’s asking for a lot. Including, but not limited to, having to turn down my too-loud music in the car and not sing along at the top of my lungs. Whatever you need to say? Can’t really be that important, right? Drop me a text.
(If I’m making time to talk to you on the phone? You’re welcome. And, you must be pretty awesome.)
3. I have ADD.
(Yes, my last entry just mentioned that - I don’t have short term memory problems.)
((Well, I do, but not *that* short.))
I was never diagnosed with ADD - and it’s certainly not ADHD because there’s not a damn thing about me that’s even remotely high energy - but I have managed to learn to live in my world of organized-chaos and I only survive by “multi-tasking”…. which is what I affectionately call my inability to focus on any one thing longer than a few moments without being distracted by something else.
(I have literally checked my email 3 times and my phone twice in the time I have been typing this - as well as taking a few moments to completely zone out to some Drowning Pool.)
((I am scared to think of what I could accomplish with some Adderall in my system.))
(((Seriously, just checked my phone, FB, and email again… what was I saying?)))
4. Whenever I walk down an empty hallway? I walk in the middle. And I have the insane urge to turn cartwheels and flips the entire length of the hall. I probably can’t do cartwheels any longer and I wasn’t ever able to do flips, yet, in my head? I’m freaking Mary Lou Retton. (or Keri Strug, take your pick.) Either way? cartwheel, flip, flip, double flip, stick the landing. 10.0 10.0 10.0 10.0 and 9.2 (the German judges are a bunch of haters.)
Fortunately (for myself and whatever unfortunate person would find my crumbled form in the middle of the hallway), I have fought this urge.
5. I have a love/hate relationship with food. I love it. I hate that I love it. I am powerless in its grips.
For real, you guys. It’s a sickness.
I love to eat. I fight the urge to eat almost constantly. Because, if I didn’t? I could be a hair under 600 pounds within the year.
For real.
One medical condition that makes my metabolism slow as shit running uphill and another that saps my energy on a daily basis…. you add an obscene influx of food to that combination?
Six. Hundred. Pounds.
(Someday they will remove me from my house on a forklift and none of you will be surprised as you’ve now been forewarned.)
((clearly I won’t be doing any cartwheels at that point.))
6. I like the idea of horoscopes. Not so much the “Today you will be surprised by a voice from the past. Beware of drafts, your health is at risk.” type of stuff, but more so the descriptions of the various signs. I fit many of the typical “Libra” traits and characteristics. A disproportionate number of my friends are Libras and Virgos. I have had some crazy chemistry with Leos. I just believe there is *something* to it. Although, who knows, maybe it’s just me trying to make sense out of a senseless world. Nothing wrong with that.
I will admit though - when I want to understand someone better or I am curious about them in general? I check out their sign. It can be very enlightening. Seriously.
7. Speaking of making sense out of a senseless world, I don’t buy in to organized religion. I don’t have any problem with people who do…. as long as they’re not selling their particular brand of religion my way. I’m not buying it. In fact, I’m not even in the market. Hell, I’m not even window shopping, so stop with the hard sell.
I’m not a Christian. Sorry, if that’s a problem, but it’s not for me. I dig JC. I’m sure he was a really good person with the most excellent intentions and love for his fellow man. However, I don’t follow him. Doesn’t make me a bad person - just as I don’t believe others who do follow him are inherently “good” - but it is part of who I am. I’m sure there will be, could be, likely should be, some sort of lengthy discourse on this - because believe me, I’ve come up against some interesting questions when I’ve had conversations with people about my beliefs, but…. that’s a blog post all it’s own.
8. I do, however, believe in reincarnation. So, yes, I also believe in an afterlife… it’s just not the Judeo-Christian version of it.
But, again, a blog for another time.
9. I love David Boreanez.
And Paul Rudd.
And Ed Robertson.
*swoon*
The absolutely most ironic/funny/perplexing thing to me is that I have - all my life - fallen for the blue-eyed blonds and redheads. Always. My husband? As Irish looking and freckled as they come.
Crazy, right?
*shrug*
10. I love what I do. But I don’t see myself doing it forever. Which, given the massive amount of student loans I racked up in reaching this point, might seem a little ill-advised. But, I just don’t. I don’t actually ever see myself doing any one thing for very long. I am a bit of a nomad - if not in actual domicile, then certainly in spirit. And I think if it were a viable option, I’d actually be a bit of a nomad in every way.
(Oh, or maybe more of a gypsy. Gypsies are all mystical and cast curses and stuff, right? Yeah, then I want to be a gypsy.)
((No mere nomad for this girl!))
I’ll do this for awhile though. Max out my post-grad education as quickly as possible, pay off my loans as I can, then pursue my PhD.
(yeah, you read that right: the foul-mouthed, inappropriate, gypsy-misfit is going to be a PhD, what of it?)
In my wildest dreams? Like, my when-I-hit-the-lottery dreams? I’d finish my PhD and open a therapeutic retreat for people with MS and their families. Make it all about holistic and spiritual health. On the beach, of course, because that’s my therapy right there.
(I know. My wildest, when-I-hit-the-lottery, dreams could use some work. I mean, really, how lame am I??)
Sunday, November 28, 2010
10 years later.
(I wrote this post on July 1st of this year and never published it.... I think it's just time to let it out.... and let it go.)
"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive."
~Josephine Hart
~Josephine Hart
There are always a handful of moments in life that you will never forget... even if you'd rather that you could. One of those such moments happened for me on July 1st, 2000.
Anytime I think of that day, I stumble into the open hole of a wound that, somehow, hasn't healed entirely. Even in 10 years time, it amazes me that there is still a fresh bloom of blood to be found... sometimes just a trickle... other times, a full gush.
How can words, spoken not in hate or anger but simply in ignorance, be so damaging?
I've actually spoken about this day with very few people over the years. It's always been on a need-to-know basis... as in, "you want to know why I'm so scarred? flawed? insecure? easily-hurt? Okay, here..." Of course, it’s just a piece of the story.... my story.... and the thing is, it's not a tragic story nor is this the biggest chapter. I wasn't physically harmed. I wasn't even maliciously accosted. Some may read this and not understand the big deal... but... I'm not writing for those people. I guess I’m not writing this for anyone really.... but maybe someone needs to hear it.
(or read it, as it were.)
((or maybe I just need to write it.))
July 1, 2000 was the day I realized that I wouldn't be able to remain married to my first husband. I knew it with 100% certainty. We had only been married a little over a year earlier. We married young. We loved each other, but something wasn't right - we were both deeply unhappy... and neither of us knew why.
We were in our bedroom and packing to go to New York for the wedding of a friend of his from high school. As I was gathering clothes and such together, I was relating a story about one of my high school friends, to whom I had just spoken the previous night.
The story was centered around his experiences in online dating - a rather novel concept at that time. He had met a girl online and had spoken to her on a daily basis over a few weeks - emails, phone calls, etc. He had gotten to know her well, really liked her, and the feeling was mutual; they decided to meet.
However, when he met her, he said knew immediately that he couldn't date her: she was overweight. Not cut-you-from-your-bedroom-and-remove-you-via-forklift big.... just, overweight. Maybe kinda big. He liked skinny girls, waif-ish even, he explained. And he was really disappointed because he really liked her.
(um, as a sidebar, I just feel it necessary to point out that he was not waif-ish himself.)
((at. all.))
I was baffled by this. I didn't understand why he would throw away a potential relationship, when there was such a good personal connection, simply based on a physical first impression. I was disappointed for him, but also kind of disappointed in him. I wouldn't have thought this friend to be shallow like that... or judgmental.
My husband, not at all understanding what he was about to do, interjected, "Well, I mean, I can understand that. If I saw you just walking down the street, I probably wouldn't even notice you. I wouldn't be attracted to you."
(yes, I remember it verbatim.)
I also remember, quite clearly, that I walked over to my closet - my back to him - trying to process what he had just said to me.
This, from the man that had, four years earlier, sought out my number from a mutual friend after seeing me walk through a grocery store, just once.
(I was smaller then.)
This, from the man who had promised to love me above all others, for better or for worse.
(how was the “worse” a simple matter of weight??)
......
I don't remember much else in the moments immediately following that comment.
I remember crying - tears silently streaming - as I "searched" for something in the closet - until he left the room.
I remember sitting right down in that closet and crying a little more until I could get myself together.
I remember a very very silent car ride to NY.
I remember a very long and not at all enjoyable weekend.
I remember wondering how many of these strangers at this wedding were looking at me…. and if any of them were actually seeing me…. or if I was simply invisible.
(I remember "Hope Floats" being on HBO as we were getting ready to leave the hotel the next morning and having a crying, physical breakdown like nothing I had ever experienced before.)
((yeah, "Hope Floats"...))
I did talk to him about it.... eventually. My trying to explain to him why the comment hurt me was the hardest.... because I didn't really understand why it cut me so deeply. I knew I had gained weight since he and I met. I had health problems and I was trying to lose weight - working my ass off, actually - but it was slow in coming, as it always is. But I wasn't going to, in the meantime, let myself go to hell. I always did my hair, always wore make-up, always dressed nicely.... but it seemed he didn't see me anymore.
I think, looking back on it now - and having 10 years to still wonder why this hurts me to this day - he hit upon an insecurity that I didn't even know I had.... and given the ones that I was aware of, I didn't expect that there would be more hiding like that.
I want people to see me.... to see the real me.... and I sometimes worry that no one does. I think that's part of the reason I put myself out there so bluntly. "Here I am world! Take me or leave me!"
(but really? I want them to take me.)
((don't we all?))
I thought, given that he married me, that he did see me.... and therefore, even in less than perfect times, I saw myself in him.... even if I didn't love me, he loved me.
And who was I if he didn't see me anymore?
And, to be fair, he didn't make the comment to say that he didn't love me.... he meant that he loved me despite how I looked.... which I guess was a good and honest thing to say.... but not what I was needing to hear. And not how I heard it.
"There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with."
~Harry Crews
~Harry Crews
Some days, I’m still waiting for this to scar over.
Other days, I am really am okay if the world just wants to leave me.
Fuck them.
"You used to be so audacious. People would stop to watch you come down the street. You think you've lost that. I can still see it."
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Dream a little dream....
Had the strangest dream last night. Not bad-strange, but nice-strange..... and a bit melancholy.
I'm at the shore, watching a pick up baseball game, sitting off to the side and just past third base, next to a car that is too nice to actually be mine, but is, and squinting in the warm sun. Suddenly a foul ball whizzes by my head.... and I'm not worried, just amused. But then other balls start being lobbed at me by a guy standing up by the dugout and I realize it's an old friend of mine. Laughing, I catch some, dodge others, and taunt him to come get me.
Next thing I know, I'm back in a beach house, going from room to room - aware of hearing him in other rooms, and knowing he's coming to get me. We're playing some childish game that's a combination of hide 'n seek and pulling pranks on one another. While he's in a room, I try to tape the door shut with duct tape (because what can't you do with duct tape??), but he hears the telltale rip of it coming off the roll and comes at the door before I get any more than the top sealed.
I squeal and laugh and take off up a flight of stairs, throwing myself into the first closet I see - climbing over a vacuum and a box to hide in the back, just peeking out of the crack of the slightly open door.
As I am in there, heart pounding with the excitement of potentially being discovered, I hear him laughing, running up the stairs. In that moment of pure joyful intoxication, I suddenly realize: this friend died years ago. In my dream, I flash to what are, apparently, dream-life memories - flowers on a headstone.... flowers laid in the dirt next to third base.... a baseball hat....
I walk out of the closet to an empty and silent room, turn and descend a different set of steps to a kitchen, where I hop up and sit on a granite counter top, waiting.
Pete walks in, laughing and talking with two other men I don't know. I smile, looking at a face that is older than the teenager I knew, and yet, every bit as youthful and exuberant. He smiles back and the three of them stop talking. He's holding a baseball glove and a hat in his hands, his hair longish, his face tan, but with the traces of wrinkles and smile lines around his mouth and eyes. I am comforted and happy, but I don't get off the counter - just smile back.
He tells me something that I don't remember. Perhaps it's small talk? I just keep watching his eyes and I don't talk. Then he tells me that he left me a message - two messages actually - but I won't get them until after thanksgiving, which I think is odd and sad because it's summer and thanksgiving is so far away and I am anxious to know what he wanted me to know.
Then I wake up.
It's the first time Pete has visited me since the year after he died - which was many years ago.... plus the more than 10 years before his death that had passed since I last saw him in person. It was nice to see him again.
Do I actually believe the spirit of my dead friend came to me in my dream? Yes. Is it wildly ego-centric of me to think that he'd take time out of his busy afterlife just to seek out his high school girlfriend to play hide 'n seek and lob some baseballs my way? Clearly. But I still feel it. I don't care if that makes me crazy. It may actually be one of the more minor ways I'm crazy anyway.
He looked good. He looked healthy. And he looked happy.
It was good to see him.
I'm at the shore, watching a pick up baseball game, sitting off to the side and just past third base, next to a car that is too nice to actually be mine, but is, and squinting in the warm sun. Suddenly a foul ball whizzes by my head.... and I'm not worried, just amused. But then other balls start being lobbed at me by a guy standing up by the dugout and I realize it's an old friend of mine. Laughing, I catch some, dodge others, and taunt him to come get me.
Next thing I know, I'm back in a beach house, going from room to room - aware of hearing him in other rooms, and knowing he's coming to get me. We're playing some childish game that's a combination of hide 'n seek and pulling pranks on one another. While he's in a room, I try to tape the door shut with duct tape (because what can't you do with duct tape??), but he hears the telltale rip of it coming off the roll and comes at the door before I get any more than the top sealed.
I squeal and laugh and take off up a flight of stairs, throwing myself into the first closet I see - climbing over a vacuum and a box to hide in the back, just peeking out of the crack of the slightly open door.
As I am in there, heart pounding with the excitement of potentially being discovered, I hear him laughing, running up the stairs. In that moment of pure joyful intoxication, I suddenly realize: this friend died years ago. In my dream, I flash to what are, apparently, dream-life memories - flowers on a headstone.... flowers laid in the dirt next to third base.... a baseball hat....
I walk out of the closet to an empty and silent room, turn and descend a different set of steps to a kitchen, where I hop up and sit on a granite counter top, waiting.
Pete walks in, laughing and talking with two other men I don't know. I smile, looking at a face that is older than the teenager I knew, and yet, every bit as youthful and exuberant. He smiles back and the three of them stop talking. He's holding a baseball glove and a hat in his hands, his hair longish, his face tan, but with the traces of wrinkles and smile lines around his mouth and eyes. I am comforted and happy, but I don't get off the counter - just smile back.
He tells me something that I don't remember. Perhaps it's small talk? I just keep watching his eyes and I don't talk. Then he tells me that he left me a message - two messages actually - but I won't get them until after thanksgiving, which I think is odd and sad because it's summer and thanksgiving is so far away and I am anxious to know what he wanted me to know.
Then I wake up.
It's the first time Pete has visited me since the year after he died - which was many years ago.... plus the more than 10 years before his death that had passed since I last saw him in person. It was nice to see him again.
Do I actually believe the spirit of my dead friend came to me in my dream? Yes. Is it wildly ego-centric of me to think that he'd take time out of his busy afterlife just to seek out his high school girlfriend to play hide 'n seek and lob some baseballs my way? Clearly. But I still feel it. I don't care if that makes me crazy. It may actually be one of the more minor ways I'm crazy anyway.
He looked good. He looked healthy. And he looked happy.
It was good to see him.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Anyone have a zippo? A flint?? Come on - even two sticks I can rub together??!
"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit." ~Albert Schweitzer
I'm all about self-exploration.
(get your mind out of the gutter.... I didn't mean it that way....)
When you spend as much time living in your own head as I do, it becomes a pretty common way to pass the time. Self-assessment. Self-evaluation. Self-exploration.
(but only when I have a few moments to myself...)
((okay, that time I meant it that way))
I've come to understand something about myself which, while not a huge earth shattering revelation, is something that sincerely holds true and explains a lot about me.
I am a hot mess, people.
Wait, no, that wasn't the revelation.
(although, quite true)
I am a care-giver.... a nurturer.... a source of comfort.... for many people. I realize that sort of flies in the face of my snarky don't-mess-with-me-lest-my-claws-to-come-out attitude, but it is, in fact, the truth. It's in my nature to care for people and offer them care. Despite other impressions to the contrary, I am one of the nicest, kindest, people I know.
Really.
No, seriously.
(oh stop rolling your eyes!!)
((fine, I can also be one of the most evil, manipulative, and destructive people I know - so don't cross me))
But with great power comes great responsibility and all, right? So I choose to use that power for good. I genuinely do care for people. And all that caring? is way draining on my own personal reserves. Reserves of strength and light and resiliency. I give it all away.... because I have to. It may sound corny, but it's what I believe I was built to do. Be the support, the strength, the comfort, the light, the what-ever-you-need-let-me-try-to-ease-your-burden-person.
(and it's exhausting)
The great cosmic irony here is that I don't know how to let other people be a source of comfort for me. And that's the great revelation. I suck at being cared for. In fact, I rather don't like it, because I am super resistant to letting people in. Not because there's something wrong with them or there's something wrong with me or I'm damaged goods or something.
(although I suspect that there is and I am)
((just sayin))
But I just don't know how to. On one hand? I am an open book. Sharing and over-sharing every little bit of me that I feel compelled to put on display. Including everything in this blog, the things which have yet to make it past the editing stage, and the things that have yet to be written. Things that need to be said. Things that need to be shared. Even if it's just sharing to the no one and/or everyone who does and/or does not read this. I just need it out there.
Because really? As a counselor, that's what I ask others to do. I ask them to share. I ask them to open their wounds to me so that I can help heal them. I ask for their dirty laundry so I can help get the stains out. I ask them to do any number of things which would make a good counseling analogy - though I lack any more at the moment.
And I take what they give me. I try to offer comfort in return. That's really all there is to what I do. Figure out what people need. Try to help them get it. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Every once in awhile though, I will meet someone who, unbeknownst to me, bypasses all my layers of inner armor and gets right to the heart of where that comfort-giver dwells.... and gives me comfort. They re-light my inner fire and replenish my spirit. I am stronger and better for having them in my life. Trouble is - I really don't know how or why they were able to bypass that armor. And usually they don't either. And sometimes, they don't really want the responsibility of being my fire-bearer. Because they are not the caregiver. Or the nurturer. Or the comforter.
They are just them.
And I am just me.
And something about them sparks off of something about me.... and, for a moment, that inner fire is rekindled.
But then they leave....
(and they always do)
....because they are rubbed raw by my need to feel that spark.
And this ability? To somehow cut through all my crap and feed some sort of primal need that I don't even know how to access?
Brilliant.
And rare.
That's not to say that the love of my friends and family isn't brilliant and beautiful - because it is. And I value it greatly.
But it doesn't comfort me.... it doesn't nurture me.... it doesn't rekindle my fire.
And that's not their fault.
Something is clearly wrong with my ignitor switch.
I'm all about self-exploration.
(get your mind out of the gutter.... I didn't mean it that way....)
When you spend as much time living in your own head as I do, it becomes a pretty common way to pass the time. Self-assessment. Self-evaluation. Self-exploration.
(but only when I have a few moments to myself...)
((okay, that time I meant it that way))
I've come to understand something about myself which, while not a huge earth shattering revelation, is something that sincerely holds true and explains a lot about me.
I am a hot mess, people.
Wait, no, that wasn't the revelation.
(although, quite true)
I am a care-giver.... a nurturer.... a source of comfort.... for many people. I realize that sort of flies in the face of my snarky don't-mess-with-me-lest-my-claws-to-come-out attitude, but it is, in fact, the truth. It's in my nature to care for people and offer them care. Despite other impressions to the contrary, I am one of the nicest, kindest, people I know.
Really.
No, seriously.
(oh stop rolling your eyes!!)
((fine, I can also be one of the most evil, manipulative, and destructive people I know - so don't cross me))
But with great power comes great responsibility and all, right? So I choose to use that power for good. I genuinely do care for people. And all that caring? is way draining on my own personal reserves. Reserves of strength and light and resiliency. I give it all away.... because I have to. It may sound corny, but it's what I believe I was built to do. Be the support, the strength, the comfort, the light, the what-ever-you-need-let-me-try-to-ease-your-burden-person.
(and it's exhausting)
The great cosmic irony here is that I don't know how to let other people be a source of comfort for me. And that's the great revelation. I suck at being cared for. In fact, I rather don't like it, because I am super resistant to letting people in. Not because there's something wrong with them or there's something wrong with me or I'm damaged goods or something.
(although I suspect that there is and I am)
((just sayin))
But I just don't know how to. On one hand? I am an open book. Sharing and over-sharing every little bit of me that I feel compelled to put on display. Including everything in this blog, the things which have yet to make it past the editing stage, and the things that have yet to be written. Things that need to be said. Things that need to be shared. Even if it's just sharing to the no one and/or everyone who does and/or does not read this. I just need it out there.
Because really? As a counselor, that's what I ask others to do. I ask them to share. I ask them to open their wounds to me so that I can help heal them. I ask for their dirty laundry so I can help get the stains out. I ask them to do any number of things which would make a good counseling analogy - though I lack any more at the moment.
And I take what they give me. I try to offer comfort in return. That's really all there is to what I do. Figure out what people need. Try to help them get it. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Every once in awhile though, I will meet someone who, unbeknownst to me, bypasses all my layers of inner armor and gets right to the heart of where that comfort-giver dwells.... and gives me comfort. They re-light my inner fire and replenish my spirit. I am stronger and better for having them in my life. Trouble is - I really don't know how or why they were able to bypass that armor. And usually they don't either. And sometimes, they don't really want the responsibility of being my fire-bearer. Because they are not the caregiver. Or the nurturer. Or the comforter.
They are just them.
And I am just me.
And something about them sparks off of something about me.... and, for a moment, that inner fire is rekindled.
But then they leave....
(and they always do)
....because they are rubbed raw by my need to feel that spark.
And this ability? To somehow cut through all my crap and feed some sort of primal need that I don't even know how to access?
Brilliant.
And rare.
That's not to say that the love of my friends and family isn't brilliant and beautiful - because it is. And I value it greatly.
But it doesn't comfort me.... it doesn't nurture me.... it doesn't rekindle my fire.
And that's not their fault.
Something is clearly wrong with my ignitor switch.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Detox.
I found myself having a conversation the other day with one of my former students about how I have never smoked pot.
(That's right: never.)
I know, given my proclivity for excess and indulgence and *occasional* drunkenness, that this may seem, I don't know, contrary to my very nature. Let me clarify now - I have actually never done a single drug in my life.
(That's right: never.)
This is a conversation I have repeated more times than I can count - with family, friends, and, apparently, former students.
(because I'm responsible like that.)
((or completely irresponsible, whichever way you want to look at it.))
I am considering having it printed on a business card. The very very short version of this conversation?
I have enough addictions, people.
I have no problem with smoking pot, nor with people who do. I have friends and family that do and I don't judge - whatever works and doesn't negatively impact someone's life, doesn't concern me. Are they using it responsibly? Great. Not driving while impaired? Perfect. Self-medicating? Well, clearly I'm on board.
It's just a choice I have made. And I don't feel badly about that.
Here's the thing: I'm afraid I would like drugs. Too much. I have enough things that I like too much. I simply don't have time to maintain any more habits. Period.
However, with MS, I have gone on a number of medications in the last few years for any number of symptoms - brought about by the crazy effects of having my brain eaten away. Pre-MS, I was always very hesitant to take medicine. I just didn't like the idea of it. Now? Sign me up. Where's my prescription card? Because seriously? If I need it, I'll take it. Just please let me feel better.
For the last 10 months or so, I've been taking Xanax on a daily basis. Very low dosage - lowest possible, in fact - and only twice a day, along with my other meds. The Xanax was introduced as a way to keep me from having pointless emotional breakdowns, angry outbursts, and sleepless anxiety-ridden nights. Or, you know, having them less frequently anyway. As a bonus side-effect, it seemed it helped lessen my twitching - which was simply the icing on the medication cake.
But, I am aware of the slippery slope that medications like Xanax represent. It's a double edged sword. On one hand, your body gets used to it and, occasionally, you end up needing it in higher doses to achieve the same effects. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, you feel so "back to normal" that you think you don't need the medication anymore and you simply stop taking it. It's hard to maintain a balance somewhere in the middle.
Right now, I am at the point - for not the first time - where I am wondering if I can go without it. You know, without completely losing my shit. Because I have tried before. And yes, I completely lost my shit. The most recent time, I made it almost a week without taking it.... and spent most of that week twitching and crying over nothing.
(it wasn't pretty.)
Again though, I am wondering....
The hormones I am on do seem to be helping. I haven't had a crying fit in I don't know how long. Most of my days are calm and even occasionally happy. Maybe I don't need the Xanax....?
So, for the last two days, I only took one in the morning and skipped my second dose in the early evening. Today, I thought I would go without it. However, I only made it until about 11:00. Which was, approximately, 20 minutes or so after Chris left to go golfing and I was left with Callie.
Callie, who was playing with her "Lazy Town" radio. While watching "Fresh Beat Band".
Yeah.
You try listening to these two gems. At. The. Same. Time.
It was not a great day. F-you, Fresh Beat Band. Stop mocking me.
On a separate, but not unrelated note? I do believe in the use of medical marijuana.
Just sayin.
(That's right: never.)
I know, given my proclivity for excess and indulgence and *occasional* drunkenness, that this may seem, I don't know, contrary to my very nature. Let me clarify now - I have actually never done a single drug in my life.
(That's right: never.)
This is a conversation I have repeated more times than I can count - with family, friends, and, apparently, former students.
(because I'm responsible like that.)
((or completely irresponsible, whichever way you want to look at it.))
I am considering having it printed on a business card. The very very short version of this conversation?
I have enough addictions, people.
I have no problem with smoking pot, nor with people who do. I have friends and family that do and I don't judge - whatever works and doesn't negatively impact someone's life, doesn't concern me. Are they using it responsibly? Great. Not driving while impaired? Perfect. Self-medicating? Well, clearly I'm on board.
It's just a choice I have made. And I don't feel badly about that.
Here's the thing: I'm afraid I would like drugs. Too much. I have enough things that I like too much. I simply don't have time to maintain any more habits. Period.
However, with MS, I have gone on a number of medications in the last few years for any number of symptoms - brought about by the crazy effects of having my brain eaten away. Pre-MS, I was always very hesitant to take medicine. I just didn't like the idea of it. Now? Sign me up. Where's my prescription card? Because seriously? If I need it, I'll take it. Just please let me feel better.
For the last 10 months or so, I've been taking Xanax on a daily basis. Very low dosage - lowest possible, in fact - and only twice a day, along with my other meds. The Xanax was introduced as a way to keep me from having pointless emotional breakdowns, angry outbursts, and sleepless anxiety-ridden nights. Or, you know, having them less frequently anyway. As a bonus side-effect, it seemed it helped lessen my twitching - which was simply the icing on the medication cake.
But, I am aware of the slippery slope that medications like Xanax represent. It's a double edged sword. On one hand, your body gets used to it and, occasionally, you end up needing it in higher doses to achieve the same effects. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, you feel so "back to normal" that you think you don't need the medication anymore and you simply stop taking it. It's hard to maintain a balance somewhere in the middle.
Right now, I am at the point - for not the first time - where I am wondering if I can go without it. You know, without completely losing my shit. Because I have tried before. And yes, I completely lost my shit. The most recent time, I made it almost a week without taking it.... and spent most of that week twitching and crying over nothing.
(it wasn't pretty.)
Again though, I am wondering....
The hormones I am on do seem to be helping. I haven't had a crying fit in I don't know how long. Most of my days are calm and even occasionally happy. Maybe I don't need the Xanax....?
So, for the last two days, I only took one in the morning and skipped my second dose in the early evening. Today, I thought I would go without it. However, I only made it until about 11:00. Which was, approximately, 20 minutes or so after Chris left to go golfing and I was left with Callie.
Callie, who was playing with her "Lazy Town" radio. While watching "Fresh Beat Band".
Yeah.
You try listening to these two gems. At. The. Same. Time.
It was not a great day. F-you, Fresh Beat Band. Stop mocking me.
On a separate, but not unrelated note? I do believe in the use of medical marijuana.
Just sayin.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Today I am grateful for....
- Fridays
- casual Fridays
- warm comfy sweaters
jeans- jeans that fit comfortably without being all tight and cutting at my waist
- slippers that look enough like shoes to wear on casual Fridays
- caffeine
- cookies
- good tunes on Pandora
- awesome friends
- fun plans with awesome friends
- having something to look forward to
- knowing things will work out
for the besthow they're meant to - good memories
- a quick happy hour beverage
- home
- my pjs
- take out
:-)
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
If a picture is worth a thousand words...
....how many words is a picture of pictures worth?
(because really? sometimes this is all that gets me through the day.)
Answer: more than you know.
(because really? sometimes this is all that gets me through the day.)
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