Open and Honest

In repairing my mental health I made a promise to myself and a friend (and maybe posted it here on my blog? I can't remember) that I would post at least once a week. I had to hold myself accountable. I had to do this, if I ever wanted to make myself feel pleasant again. I had to, if I wanted to get rid of everything I hate about myself.

So can we add to the list of things of things I hate, "not keeping my promises"?

I've always, always, prided myself on being a very honest and open person. But I'm coming to realize that I've been lying. Not just to people, but to myself. Open is not something that I'm good at. It never has been. Sure, I put on a good face. I talk CONSTANTLY. The endless babble that flows from my mouth and fingertips annoys the piss out of some people. No one cares that I just painted my nails. I do that two or three or more times a week. It's not news; it's not special.

Everyone knows about my family drama, and that's "personal" so of course I'm open, of course I'm honest. Except that I'm not.

I don't feel like I'm very honest. I don't feel like I'm very open. I share actions, but I don't share feelings unless they are the obvious sort of feelings. My last post, I really got into my feelings, and it scared me away from the blog for... how long? A few weeks, anyways.

And a lot has happened in these past few weeks:
1) My mother had a custody hearing about getting Lauren back. Originally I wanted to write a whole post about this. I am so torn, so broken up over this. Lauren doesn't know what she wants, and I just want her to be wherever she's most happy. I think things are perfect just the way they are: Lauren with her nice, big, family, and Amanda home with my mom (provided my mother continues to stay sober). Lauren visits my mom on the weekends. But Lauren sometimes feels out of place with Mindi and her family, and also feels obligated to go back to my mother. She misses Amanda when they aren't together. But then, at other times, she's so happy where she is. She's happier there than she ever was living with my mother, and feels obligated to stay with Mindi, because she was taken in and loved just as much as any of the other kids. Right now, nothing has been decided. I don't trust my mother, probably never will, but I trust my sisters enough that if the situation ever got dangerous, they would say something, so I'm okay with them living with my mom. They go back to court in June.

2) I bought an antique sewing machine. Remember how I said (or did I say?) that I had almost entirely stopped writing? Well sewing has been filling the creative void for me. I'm very slow, and end up having to rip things apart constantly. I've been working on this one quilt for ever and have to keep taking out stitches, but I'm enjoying it, and I have completed a few things at least. Anyway, the other day I was out with my future Mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law at an antique shop. I saw this pretty old table, and then realized it was a sewing machine cabinet, and then realized that it still had the old machine. When I found out that it was only $20, I decided I had to have it. The table alone is worth twice that, and if the machine works (it definitively needs to be cleaned and oiled first. Cobwebs everywhere and it squeaked like a seal when I turned the wheel. BUT all the parts moved so that's a good sign) it's worth a small fortune. I'll keep you posted on how that goes. I had to leave it at my MILs house, because Jeffrey made me promise to stop bringing home stray furniture. He's right. I do have a problem. I can't walk away from a pretty piece of furniture unless I know it's in a good home.

3)  I'm in disgustingly bad shape. I knew I was in bad shape. I've been in bad shape for years now. And Jeffrey hasn't been in the best shape either, so we decided to go for a jog. I didn't make it out of the parking lot before I felt like dying. I suffered from a headache for the rest of the evening. It was horrible and embarassing, but mostly, scary. I can't even run an 1/8th of a mile. I can't even jog that far slowly. I decided I wasn't ready for jogging yet. I need to get in shape, but I can't make myself feel so sick again. I'm too busy for that. So I went for a walk last night instead. It wasn't more than 3/4 of a mile. I was panting by the time I got there. WALKING. Not even walking briskly, but just walking like a normal person walks. Even at my previous worst, I could do that. I used to be able to walk endlessly without feeling anything. And now I cant. I'm scared. I don't want to be that sickly. I need to get better.

4) My coworkers have changed! I have worked at Wendy's for over two years now. And it's greasy and gross, and the smell of french fries has permanently permeated my skin. It doesn't wash off. Customers are rude asshats almost just as often as they are kind. It's surprisingly hard work, in a physical sense, and I don't particularly enjoy any of it. It doesn't pay anything and we end up with a new manager, on average, every 3 months. Half of them are jerks. My favorite manager was transferred about a month ago to a new store. We were really upset. She loved our store, and we loved her. Yesterday, I found out that she had been transferred again, BACK TO US! The new manager that had replaced her (whose name I never even learned. I never worked a single shift with her) hated our store so much that she threatened to quit if they didn't transfer her. So now we have V back and it's super awesome. I don't really have friends outside work, and she was the closest thing I had to a best friend in the area. I was heartbroken when she was transferred. All of us were. On night shift, my shift, we are a group of best friends. There are only two people I don't like.  And on the same day that I found out V was coming back, I found out that M (one of the two I don't like. She's a bossy rude bitch, and she likes to push and shove people. I'm clumsy enough on my own. Please don't knock me into the fryer.) had put in her two weeks notice. All in all, awesome.

5) And most importantly, and the reason I started this post, Jeffrey and I had a pretty serious argument/discussion. It started about grammar (just because I don't write much any more doesn't mean I don't still care)  but that was more just the surface stuff. What it came down to was that whole "open and honest" thing that I kept trying to pretend when it wasn't really the case. I don't want to go into particulars here, because it's fairly personal (I'm not opposed to sharing if anyone is curious, but I don't like to air my dirty laundry online so publicly). It was crappy, and I still feel awful about some of the things I was thinking and feeling, but eventually I shared them, and he had no idea that I had been thinking and feeling such miserable things for so long. There are not a lot of things I hate more than arguing with Jeffrey, but, as crappy as it was, I think it was probably a good thing. It cleared the air in a lot of ways.

And already, I'm starting to see that I'm getting better. My first blog post after the break* I mentioned an argument I had with Jeffrey, in which I said nasty and hurtful things. I didn't do that this time. I wasn't even tempted to. I didn't even yell. We just talked angrily. And it was good. It was awful, but it was good. We both have some things to work on, but we are working on those things.

I'm going to be more open and honest on here too. Because I want to be. Because I need to be. Because I want to be someone that I like, again.

______________________________________
* What do I call that break? The post I made on Feb. 12 feels like the first post on a brand new blog, but I've chosen to keep this on my old blog (because back story is nice, right?) It's like a different timeline though. I feel like it needs a name.

While You Weren't Sleeping

These past couple weeks, I haven't been sleeping properly. I've been suffering from anxiety attacks that keep me up at night, and nightmares what wake me up once I'm finally down. I got no sleep for so many days in a row that I couldn't remember my last good night's sleep. It was so brutal that one night, I had to get out of bed, and turn on the lights to fight off the anxiety, and then I was so frustrated and tired that I lay on my living room floor, sobbing.

When I first started not-sleeping I wished for a fast-foreward button. I just wanted to be a few years ahead of where I am now. I'm making progress towards what I want, but it's slow-going. I was miserable with everything. I started to write a blog post about it. About how I felt miserable even though my life is great, even though everything is going in my favor, about how confused I was about feeling so awful. Things for me a great, so why did I feel so down?

By the end of last week, I was so tried, and so miserable that I wanted to kill myself. It's been a while since I felt like that, and admitting it right now makes me really uncomfortable. I think it was just the lack-of-sleep. Right now, I don't want to die. Not at all. At the time, I just wanted the pain to stop, and sometimes I get caught thinking that's the only way to make it. Not usually, not often, but sometimes. Sometimes, when I'm emotionally drained and phsyically unwell, when the anxiety is too much, and the exhaustion is overwhelming, I think like that. I think it would be easier to just roll over and die. Just to make it stop.

And I think that's why I stopped blogging last year. And I think that's why I don't talk to my best friend anymore. Because when I feel like that, I know better than to share. If they believe me, they will be worried, scared. No matter how desperate I get, I wouldn't do it, because I couldn't do that to the people I love. Jeffrey, Amanda, Lauren, all of my friends, would be hurt. I couldn't hurt them like that, no matter how desperate I was. One person's pain is nothing compared to the pain of three, four, five or ten people.

So if my friends realized how serious I was, they would be concerned. And more likely, they would think I was just attention-whoring, and that would be even worse, I think.

I don't think like this very often. I need anyone who reads this to understand that. The big, the bad, the bold "I want to kill myself" is not an everyday occurrence, or even an every month, or every year thing. It just happens once in a while.What I'm really talking about is that miserable feelign that proceeds it. That "fast-foreward button" thinking that I do. That's why I stopped talking. That's why I shut down. That's why.

Sometimes I fall apart. And I'm okay. I will eventually be okay. I'm blogging right now, because holding myself accountable is something that will, I hope, help me be okay, and stay okay.

Even when I fall apart, it's not that bad. While I was drowning in exhaustion, I made a friend. I'm not good at making friends. I have friends in Massachusetts, and I have friendly acquaintances everywhere I look, but I don't really have any local friends, besides Jeffrey and his family. I am friends with my manager at work, but if she gets caught hanging out with me outside work, she'll be fired, so we don't very often. I don't want to. I don't want her to get in trouble, and I get nervous. I worry. I care. But now I finally have a friend who I wouldn't be afraid to call up and say "Let's go on an adventure, today." Of course, he's moving at the end of this month, so that sucks. I already have plenty of friends who I talk to online only. I want an adventure buddy while Jeffrey is at work! I want someone who I can invite to have dinner with Jeffrey and I!

And now I've totally changed topics, but I'm going to leave it, because I think it's also good to remind myself that there is hope. There are good things.

A New Leaf

It's been a year and a half since I posted on this blog, but not for lack of caring, or lack of wanting to. I still want to blog. I'm now going to be blogging again.

Before I stopped posting, I was posting less and less, and less. I can't pinpoint exactly when it started because it wasn't a sudden thing, it wasn't a certain moment. It happened slowly. Bit by bit, I stopped.... stopped everything. I stopped writing, I stopped reading, I stopped cooking, I stopped caring about school, but most importantly, I stopped loving, and I nearly stopped caring.

This blog was one of the first things to go, because no one who read it would hold me accountable. No one would send me a concerned email, and I knew that. Then I stopped writing entire. It was a solitary activity. No one would notice. Slowly, I began to hate myself, and stopped doing things that  made me happy. I knew I didn't deserve to be happy. I knew I didn't deserve to waste my time on frivolous activities that weren't actually productive. I withdrew from my family, from my friends, even though I was having really intense social cravings. I wanted friends more than anything in the world, but I pushed away the ones I had, and I couldn't make new ones - I didn't deserve it, I didn't need it, I'm socially awkward, I get anxious in social situations: I had every excuse in the book playing through my head, constantly.


I still cared for everyone, in my heart, but in my actions, I may as well have been a stranger, or worse. I was even driving a wedge between Jeffrey and I. We started arguing. I was nasty towards him. I'd say mean things, try to get him angry with me, provoke him until finally, he would get angry, and then, when I realized I hurt him, I would shatter. I'd cry, and I'd revert back to the tiny child I had once been. I would crawl into the smallest, darkest corner of the room and isolate myself to get myself under control. He, knowing that small corners are my safe-spaces, would get concerned - Had he hurt me that badly? - and he'd crawl into the closet or under the desk alongside me, and rock me, and let me know he wasn't going anywhere. He'd tell me he loved me, apologize for his part in the argument, apologize for upsetting me.

We argued a while back, a couple weeks ago, I can't remember over what, but I remember trying to think of something to say to make him angry, and I remember realizing, all of a sudden, what I was doing. I hadn't been doing it on purpose, and suddenly I was aware. The whole argument is a blur now, besides that one tiny moment, but I ended up opening up a whole lot that day to Jeffrey. There were a lot of tears and I crawled up under my desk twice, but both times I crawled out on my own, and I made a decision. I know it's February, a little late for New Year's Resolutions, but I'm making one anyways.

I am going to spend this year getting myself back. I'm not going to push people out. I'm not going to be mean to the people I love most, and I'm going to get back to taking care of myself, and my mental health.

When I was in high school, I did my nails every day. I shaped them, I buffed and polished them, and I painted them. Every day, I did my nails. I didn't do it because I like having nice nails (although I do like that too). I did it because I found going through those motions to be very theraputic. But for over a year after I moved out (the second time) I didn't even own a single one of my nail supplies. No buffer, no nail file, no nail polish. I mentioned that to a friend a few days ago, when I was just getting back to painting my nails, and she said "Wow. I don't even know what your hands would look like if they weren't done. I can't picture it."

So this is me, turning over my new leaf. I'm going to get back to being the person I like being, rather than someone I hate. I'm going to be me again.

M is for Mumma

I've been back in touch with my mother for the past..... little while. I dunno how long. Not very, but weirdly, it feels like a long time. I guess because she's my mother, and I've known her my whole life.


It's awkward talking about her. A part of me can't forgive her. After all that time, and all that stuff that I have forgiven her for, I guess I'm just worn out. I'm not really still angry, so much as afraid to build a relationship with her.

But she's my mom. I want to. I love her. I miss her. Secret Life of the American Teenager (yes, I watch that show. No, you aren't allowed to laugh at me. I watch a lot of TV that I don't usually admit to watching) said something on it's last episode about how abused children still want to love their parents. I relate. I love my mother, and I want a relationship with her. But I'm so scared. And I'm still so hurt. Not angry, but offended. I guess I'm taking it personally.

No one else wants to hear about her, or about how I'm trying to fix things. Everyone else I talk to is either like "she's bad news" or else "so what? it's your mom. of course you talk. it's not worth mentioning that you talked to your mother today."

I guess no one gets it. I expected Jeffrey to, because he and his dad had an issue too at one point. But he doesn't. He doesn't forgive my mother, want to hear about her, want anything to do with her. Fine. But I do. He doesn't understand. I expected Chelsea to understant too, but I think she's too busy. I don't even know if I've tried to talk to her about it. She's go-go-go-go-go maybe even more than I am. I guess I don't want to bother her with my lukewarm ness.

I don't know what I want to do. I'm really digging this phone-relationship that we have. We talk once in a while, and that's that. No pressure because that's all there is: phone calls. and they aren't scheduled. She can't let me down. But as much as I really like the lack-of-pressure of this arrangement, as part of me really wants a mom-hug. And phones just don't allow it.

She comes home this weekend. She's out of rehab right now, and in a sober house, which I guess is some sort of halfway-house for sobriety. Then this weekend, she moves home. I'm excited for her. I'm scared. I miss her. I don't forgive her.

I don't even know what I feel right now. I'm glad she's coming home, but I don't trust her to take care of herself at home, and I'd really rather her take care of herself than try and do something she's not ready for. But maybe she is ready. I can't see her. I don't know. I'm so confused. I definitely want her in my life, but I don't know what role I want her in. I don't think I'll ever be able to respect her as a parent again. But I do love her and want her in my life. I just..... don't know.

A-Z Challenge

I've just signed up for the A-Z Challenge, which, for those who are too lazy to click the link (don't worry, I'd be one of those lazies if I wasn't typing this) is a challenge to write a blog post whose subject starts with the letter of the day, every day of April except sundays.

"But today is april second! You missed a day already!"

Yes, not sorta.... The reason my post is late is the subject of my A-post anyways.

And thesubject is "Abdomen"

I've been sick twice this week. The first time, it was a chest cold, and I got over that fast enough. This time, it was a very very strange pain in my, you guessed it, abdomen. It felt vaguely like a sore throat, only in my stomach. That same burn-y feeling, pain. It didn't come with any nausea, but it hurt like hell.

It came on really suddenly, when I was at work. One moment I was standing around, washing trays. It was so sudden and such a sharp pain that I gasped. I doubled over. I thought "It came on suddenly, maybe it'll leave just as suddenly." but after 45-minutes of walking around bent in half I decided I needed to go home. I didn't feel sick. I just hurt, and I felt silly as crap asking my boss to send me home because of it. But walking bent over wasn't working. I was dropping things, and spilling things. I was a mess.

When I called Jeffrey, he thought it was appendicitis, rushed me to the hospital, and did some weird press-on-my-belly test that apparently doctors and triage nurses do. I didn't have appendicitis, so we didn't go into the hospital. We went home.

It was so bad, that I ended up crying after a while. I just couldn't handle it. Jeffrey decided that it might be an ulcer. His mom said it might be some stomach or intestinal virus. I didn't care. I just wanted it to stop..... and then it did. It just went numb. It was the weirdest thing. Totally completely couldn't feel anything. It was like a giant hole in the middle of my abdomen. Gone. It was the weirdest thing ever. You never realize how much you are aware of your stomach until you suddenly aren't.

I went to bed. What else could I do with a numb stomach? I didn't want to eat, in case it was a virus (didn't want what I ate coming out in an unpleasant way) and if it was an ulcer, those hurt more a while after you eat. And the numbness just freaked me out.

I woke up this morning feeling normal. A but hungry, but my stomach just felt like a stomach. Nothing weird has happened to it all day. No pain, no numbness. Just normal. So we're good.

Can you Taste it?

It's so close I can taste it. College. That thing I've been working towards, wanting so badly, since forever.....

I've been accepted. I've been awarded a financial aid package. I've gotten all the forms I need. It's so close. A four year school. A degree that I can use and be proud of.

But semester starts Monday. It's Wednesday, and I still have piles of paperwork to do. I dont have my aid award letter, though it's in the mail. I don't have my vaccination history, which I need, or my advisors name, or my log in. I'm not even registered for classes. I don't know how I'm going to commute from school in the mornings, to work in the evenings, because Jeffrey will still be at work, and I don't have a license or a car.

I'm scared.

I'm thrilled.

But I'm scared. I dont know if I can make this magic work. I'm not sure I know how. So this is hard, and scary, and I don't know what to do. But it's so close, and I've worked so hard, and I'm not giving up yet.

Rumor Has It....

Rumor has it....

• that the reason my mom isn't talking to me has nothing to do with anger. She faked anger because she was ashamed to talk to me. Now that I think about it, I can't remember her saying why she was angry with me. I just assumed that it was because of what's going on.
• that the reason I haven't heard from her in over a month is because she's trying to keep the current situation "on the down low" and apparently that's a direct quote from her
• that my mother is entering a 6 month rehab program, starting as soon as a bed is available.
• that my mother's drinking has gotten significantly worse, since the kids left, and no one is there to monitor it. Rumor has it that it's gotten so bad, she can't tell a real memory from a dream anymore.

And there's one more rumor, the mother of all rumors, and I was told it in confidence. I can't even say what it was. But let me just say, few people have faith in my mother's attempted sobriety.

Unfortunately, I hate to admit, I'm one of those with little faith.

First Day of a New Job

Today was my first day working at my new job. My managers are nice, my co-workers are wonderful. The work itself (fast food. Today they had me on the fryer) isn't bad at all. It smells wonderful where I stand. Like hamburgers, because the grill is right near me.

But a little while into my shift, my vision started to go dark and fuzzy. I felt fine, otherwise, so I figured it was just a little spell. No big deal, happens all the time. I stepped away from the fryer, towards the register, thinking that getting away from the heat might help. One of my co-workers saw that I looked a little weak, and offered to walk me out of the kitchens. I said I was fine, but she grabbed my arm, and started leading me away anyways.

Turns out, the front was a good idea. Before we got out of the kitchen, I apparently passed out completely. From my memory, one minute I was walking, the next I was sitting on a bench at a table, and my manager was sitting beside me, on the phone, apparently, calling an ambulance for me.

I felt fine, before I passed out, other than the fact that my vision was almost totally gone. After wards, I felt sort of like I had the flu. I was tired, my limbs felt heavy, the light was too bright, and my body was just generally "uncomfortable." I wasn't really in pain, but just.... I felt off, bad. Something wasn't right. My coworker (the same one who decided to get me out of the kitchen) got me a glass of water, which I downed in an instant. The emergency personnel showed up, took my pulse, blood pressure, and asked me a whole bunch of questions. I decided not to go to the hospital with them. I don't have health insurance. I couldn't afford it. I wanted to go. Knew better.

I realized, while they were asking me questions, that I couldn't remember drinking anything all day, except for my morning coffee. I decided I was dehydrated. I was sent home from work an hour and 40 minutes early.

Horribly embarrassing. Horribly uncomfortable. Horribly stupid.

So much for making a good first impression.

Now, I'm just hoping that my self-diagnosis is right, and that i'm fine tomorrow, after a billion gallons of water.

Leap of Faith?

It's a long story, but if you don't want to read it, there's a tl;dr version on the bottom. Just scroll.

I started cheerleading when I was 8, for a local rec-football team. I loved it, but it was only a few months a year. Outside of cheer season, I'd constantly be talking about it, practicing old cheers, and trying to talk the neighbor kids into practicing stunting with me (which looking back on, I'm glad they refused, since they had no idea what they were doing and we were all kids with no supervision)

When I was 11, an All-Star team (competitive team, for those who don't know anthing about cheerleading) opened up nearby, and I joined it. It was 3 practices a week, year round. It became my everything (second only to my love of writing) We were good. Not great, but good. We had two teams, a junior and a senior team. I was on the Junior team. Our seniors won first place at their first competition. The first competition any of our teams had. They continued doing just as well at all the regional competitions, but always came in last at Nationals. That was okay, we figured. That's still better than a lot of other teams in the country. Our junior team wasn't as great, but we did well enough. We made it to Nationals, finally, in our third year, and everything fell apart. One girl called us just before our flight and said she changed her mind about coming. Another girl, our best tumbler, broke her wrist in the pool at the hotel. A third girl (and her mother) got food poisoning and couldn't compete because she couldn't stop puking. We had to re-arrange our routine, we all messed up at least once, and we came in last. That's fine. Our performance was really terrible.

None of us knew, at the time, that it would be our last competition. A month or so later, our coach sat us all down at the end of practice. She had lost the lease on our gym. She was having a hard time finding us a new practice space, because we needed it three times a week. She asked what we wanted to do. We wanted to stay together, even if that meant only one practice a week. We'd just practice more at home.

We tried. Our coach couldn't handle it.  Our team dissolved. There were no other All-Star teams in the area. I was starting high school, but my school didn't have a team. I had no other options. Cheerleading was over for me.

It's 6 years later, and I still miss the sport more than anything. I'm in college now, but there's no way I can cheer. For one, my school doesn't have cheerleaders, and more importantly, I'm out of practice, and out of shape. I doubt I can even do a decent cartwheel right now.

But since I'm in college, I just moved. And the town I'm in has an All-Star gym. I'm tempted to send them an email, saying..... I don't even know what. I can't cheer, I'm not certified to coach, I've never choreographed anything half-way decent, and I can't even answer phones for them, because talking on the phone sends me into a crazy anxiety attack in which I'm likely to throw up or pass out. And their team is internationally ranked. Mine was only barely nationally anything, and I was one of the least-skillful girls on the team. But I want, maybe need, to get back into my sport. I'd happily vacuum their spring floors (THEY HAVE 2! TWO COMPETITION SIZED SPRING FLOORS! HOW FREAKING AWESOME IS THAT!? ) for free. But how do I say that without seeming like a desperate wanna-be, or a total creeper?

But on the other hand, it would break my heart if they turned me away. I hurt enough for Cheerleading. I don't want to hurt more.

Irrelevant, but  we've set the date for our wedding. May 31, 2012.

WOAH! APPARENTLY MY BRAIN WORKS IN SLOW-MO

I'm really glad I never let ANY of my family members see this. If I let my sister see this post, she'd slaughter me.

For any of this to make sense, we need to go back in time about 11 years. My youngest sister was born and it turned out she had quite a handful of problems. One of her kidneys wasn't working, the other was underdeveloped. Her bladder had strange sacks in it, which caused issues with her peeing and pooping (I promise you, as much as you hate diaper changing, it's much better than having a baby who almost never uses her diapers) and then her uterus was also wrong. Back then, when she was an infant, the kidney and bladder issues were much more a priority than her uterus. She had tons of minor surgeries, and three majors (two bladder re-constructions, and the removal of her left kidney) The doctors said that as long as her uterus was fixed before she started to go through puberty, that things would be fine. If it wasn't fixed, she would never get her period, and therefore, never be capable of pregnancy and "motherhood" in the genetic sense. Even then, the surgery was no guarantee that she'd ever be able to carry a child to term

She didn't learn this herself until she was 8 years old. The doctor mentioned it at her yearly check up. My mom couldn't afford the surgery. Lauren was devastated. We had a long talk with her about adoption (yes. we had a serious conversation about how my 8 year old sister could adopt a child. It was rather strange) and although she decided that she would probably do that some day, she still felt that it wasn't fair. I didn't think it was fair either. Adoption is a GREAT thing, but it isn't fair that it's her only option if she wants to be a mother. I like options.

 We couldn't afford to give her the surgery She started puberty. We still couldn't afford it. We were running out of time. In true Boatkicker fashion, I was panicking.

But it didn't matter. Two weeks ago MY SISTER GOT HER PERIOD!!!! (see? that's why she'd kill me. She didn't even want to tell my mom, never mind the entire internet. haha)

I didn't realize until today what that really meant. So lets all cross our fingers that someday, if she wants to, she will be able to get pregnant. (and lets also hope that day is in a very long time, since she's only 11 right now. haha)

Big Things.

There's something big that I've been leaving out. I think I may have mentioned it a time or two before, but it's really BIG now.

My Dad lost his house.

The house itself is no big loss. Several years ago, before we moved in, he was renting it out. His tenant moved out in the middle of January with no notification to my dad, and with no oil in the tank. The pipes froze, brust, and defrosted. My dad didn't find out anything about it until March, when he finally went down to demand his rent. Of course the tenant stopped paying rent when she moved out.

Most of the house was ruined. The plumbing all needed to be re-done. The wood floors were water damaged. The walls were growing mold and mildew. The former-tenant had left most of her things in the house too, all of which were ruined. And the few things that weren't wet/moldy were flea infested. She had left food in the fridge when she left. Trash in a trash can. Pretty much the only things she took were her clothes and her dishes.  The house was absolutely DISGUSTING. So my dad rented a dumpster, threw out all her things, and tore out the kitchen and bathroom, the two most damaged rooms.

Meanwhile, he was slowly losing his other house, the one we lived in at the time. We had to move into the ruined house, long before it was finished. We moved in before he had put the house back together. It only took him about 2 days to get the new plumbing running in the bathroom, but it was months before he finished the kitchen.

About a year after we moved in, my uncle got married, and we went to California for a week. Apparently, while we were in the Santa Barbara sun, our home was hit by a big storm It ripped half the roof off. And our house was once again filled with water.

Thankfully, this time it only ruined walls and floors, and not the plumbing.

The insurance company never gave my dad the money they owed him.

My father works in construction, and this happened when the economy had hit it's worst point. No one was dropping loads of cash to do a nice project. The jobs my dad got were always bare-minimum work. Things that the customers absolutely HAD to have done (ie replacing a broken window in the middle of december). Small jobs that gave him 50 or 100 bucks at a time.
He couldn't afford to fix the house.
He couldn't afford to pay the mortgage.

Fast forward to now. The roof was never put back on. The house is in bad shape. We have a little more in the way of walls than we did when we moved in, but the house is no where near done. For the amount of money that would need to be spent to fix it, you might as well tear it down and start all over.

But that was still a place for my dad to live. Now he doesn't have anywhere to stay. I have known for months that he was losing his house. It wasn't until recently when he told me the date he had to be out by. Previously, he had told me "sometime in september. Maybe early august" Turns out, that the real date was June 9th. He got a few days extension, until today, and he has a place to stay tonight. Tomorrow he's going to VT to build my uncle a deck, which is fine. My uncle will put him up for about two weeks while they finish that.

After that, who knows. My dad has hardly even looked at getting an apartment. I'm worried for him. He's 55 years old. Needs one minor and one major surgery. Has no money saved up. Has no retirement plan, and now has no where to live. I want to help him but I don't know how.

I'm stuck somewhere between needing to talk about this, and not wanting to think about it. Thus, the large back story to a very tiny bit of info. Sorry about that.

Drunk.

She's drunk again/still and can hardly walk right now. I'm so freaking angry. All I want to do is punch her, but I know that wouldn't solve anything. How can she be doing this to us all again? How can she do this to HERSELF again? She's still going to her AA meetings, and I don't know how she can lie to that many people. People who are here to help her. I tried to help her, I want to. I just don't know what to do.

Last night she forgot Manda at the mall. Way to go Mom.

The bottle I found last night? I put it on the counter, so that she would know I saw it. The bottle is gone, she hasn't said a thing, and I'm too scared to bring it up while she's still drunk. She gets mean, and I don't want to fight with her. So I'm stuck sitting in silence, fuming, and crying a little.

Fuck.

Getting in Shape, part 2

Back in March I made a post about getting in shape. I figure it's about time to update you on my progress.

I did not do the couch-to-5K plan. In fact, I hardly did anything except buy myself some shorts. Then about three weeks ago, Jeffrey and I started jogging. Because I was with him, I did nto stick to the actual plan. I figured that I would just do what I could and let him do whatever he felt like.

It's had it's ups and downs. The first time, I was horribly embarrassed. I was winded before we even got out of the parking lot, and I had to start walking not long after we got on the sidewalk. There's a flag on the side of the road outside a shop that we jog/walk to, and it's about a quarter of a mile away. That first time, I walked most of the distance there and back, and was horribly embarrassed by my out-of-shapeness

My bad knees did slow me down. I was good the first few times, hardly any pain, and then one day it came back. First it wasn't too intense, just a little pain while jogging. I pushed through it. Then one day, while I wasn't jogging, it came back full force in the right knee. Every step I took was killer. Even though I didn't say anything, Jeffrey took me and bought me a knee brace, that same day, and it's lovely.

Yesterday I jogged almost the whole way there and about half way back. I'm not quite at my goal (all the way there and at least half way back) but I'm getting close. I went from barely able to go up the stairs, to almost able to jog 1/4th of a mile without stopping. I'm excited. I'm proud. And, oh my god, I'm SO SORE!

This is the first day that I'm actually hurting. It's not my legs that hurt, but rather my core. I never realized how much my abs were involved in running, but they are, and they hurt. I feel like I've just done 200 crunches. It hurts to transition from sitting to standing, and in the other direction. It hurts to walk. I'm sort of waddling because it hurts less. It's a bit ridiculous. Thankfully, though it hurts, the pain isn't actually bothering me beyond that. I recognize this particular sort of pain, and in the end, it's a good thing. It's that building-up-muscle sort of pain. Nothing major, just soreness.

Mostly, I'm proud of what I'm doing, and I have secret hopes that this might relate somehow to my bucket list. Not going into more detail than that, in case things don't work out the way I hope.

Breast Cancer Awareness

I hate the facebook statues that say things along the lines of "If you have watched a loved one struggle with breast cancer, repost this as your status to help spread awareness."

Now before you all run away thinking I'm an insensitive idiotic jerk, please read the rest of what I say.

The problem lies in the definition of awareness, and something key that the status is lacking. For some diseases awareness simply means knowing that the disease exists. This is NOT the case with breast cancer. Awareness for breast cancer needs to be more than that. We all know that it exists, so how about we start actually making people aware of actual information about the disease? Knowing something exists doesn't really do you any good if you don't know anything about whatever "it" is that is existing. You might as well say "I have a left shoe, let's spread awareness."

Let's make people aware of the fact that it can kill, because a surprising number of people think its not a "bad cancer."

Let's make people aware of how common it is, or how it can be detected, or what various treatment methods are and how effect they are supposed to be.

Let's make people aware of different organizations that help with Breast Cancer Research, looking for more effective treatment options.

Let's do a little more than just announcing it exists. This disease isn't something so rare that most people have never heard of it. It's something everyone knows about. Time to take the next step.

Now, I'm off to look up statistics so that I can repost that status and make it a little more effective.

Too Many Kittens!!!

I love kittens. They’re sweet, soft, small, and it’s so funny to watch them learn and play. But there comes a time when they are just too much. My mother has this belief that a female cat should not be fixed until after she had given birth to a litter. In the past three years we have had four female cats who were unfixed, three at my mothers house and one at my fathers. That means three little litters of kittens, Shyla had 6 kittens, Storm had 2, and Charlotte had 4. My father does not share the first-litter belief, but a friend of him tricked him into not getting his cat Sophie fixed immediately either because she (the friend) wanted a kitten. Sophie had five kittens.

You can’t get a cat fixed when it’s nursing, so at my mothers we were trying to keep the cats in after they had their litters. At some point Shyla snuck out and got pregnant before her kittens were old enough to stop nursing. That’s another litter with 4 kittens.

Charlotte’s kittens were born about a year later than Storm or Shyla. After her first litter my mother called the vet to check the price of getting her fixed. The vet told her $50. She set that aside and made an appointment, but spent most of the rest of the money she had saved on getting a new car, and my sister’s birthday. The day of the appointment came, and the vet told my mom that it would cost four times the price originally planned. My mother didn’t have $200, so instead she became SUPER CAREFUL of keeping all the doors and windows closed to keep Charlotte in the house.

That worked, until recently. My sister accidentally let Charlotte out through a window. Now we’re expecting kittens. Again.

I can understand my mother keeping the door and windows shut for a short-term fix, but she has had the money now to get Charlotte fixed for quite some time. She just didn’t. I love kittens, but this really is getting ridiculous.

My mother expects them to be born right around the same time I move home. I will love the kittens, play with them, and cuddle their fuzziness. But I also will personally take Charlotte to get fixed if my mother doesn’t do it as soon as the babies stop nursing.

Why I hate having an anxiety disorder.

About two years ago I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Of course, because I was a minor at the time, and because excess anxiety makes me sometimes come off as a basket-case, no one told me anything about it. Just "You've got this disorder, but we don't think your case is severe enough to need treatment." Everything I know about it, besides the name, has been from Google.

Cool thanks. Now I've got fancy words that may or may not be the reason I can't make a phone call without feeling like I'm having a heart attack. Now I have words to explain that when you ask me a question and I'm not expecting it, my mind goes blank even if I know the answer. Even if it's something obvious like my name. If you put me on the spot enough, I do not know ANYTHING! Now I have a diagnosis that says "This is why you wont turn in any school assignments that you haven't thoroughly edited." I now have a piece of paperwork that means that my absurdly irrational fears are noted.

Let me tell you, a diagnosis doesn't help. In fact, it might even make things worse. Today I started panicking. I'm trying to transfer colleges. I need to ask for recommendations. I need to call my current college, and my high school and get my transcripts. Remember me mentioning irrational fears? I have a whole list of them. One of the hardest ones to live with is the fear of making phone calls to strangers or near-strangers. So I had to make three phone calls (recommendation, transcript, transcript). My heart was racing.

Then I have to write this essay to transfer. That's fine, except that I had already done one and a half drafts. In the first one, I sound depressed. Not just depressed, but almost suicidal. I'm not. I'm quite content actually. That essay got scrapped. I started a second one. Great, now I sounded like I'm bragging. Overcompensate much? I was panicing more. Cue the nausea.

I thought maybe I would calm myself down my eating an ice cream cone. I checked my bank account. $1005. I thought I had about $100 more than that. I had been keeping track of my account in my head, and forgot to subtract the money that my ipod had cost. Crap. Panic.

I suddenly remembered that I still had homework to do for two classes, and I fell apart. If I didn't do that homework I wouldn't get an A. If I didn't get an A no colleges would want me. If no colleges want me, then I'll never get my degree and I'll never become a teacher and I'll be a failure at life. It didn't matter to me that the work wasn't (isn't) due until Monday and Tuesday. That was it. I get restless when I'm in that state. I had to move. Had to walk. So I did. I slammed my laptop shut, shoved it in my backpack and RAN out of the mall. Bad idea. It hurt.

Ouch, I thought, because of my hurt hip. Then my diagnosis came floating back to me. "Anxiety Disorder" floated through my brain. Great, I thought, I'm a crazy. I can't even control my own actions. I don't even have the presence of mind to not run after I hurt myself. How can I ever expect to be a normal human being if I keep collapsing due to stupid things? Everyone has to do these sorts of things, and if I can't keep it together I must be crazy. I must be useless. And besides, what kind of person doesn't take responsibility for their actions? Its my fault I'm falling apart. Not this disorders. Only very weak people blame things beyond their control. I must be weak if I think that its the disorders fault. I must be worthless.

You see where that's going. I walked around the outside of the mall doing this. (As a side note, I realized today that this mall is HUGE. It took me 15 minutes to make the loop, and I wasn't exactly walking slow. I was as close to running as I could get without hurting my hip.)

By the time I got back to the doors I had ran from earlier I was better. I was still very angry with myself, but I wasn't panicky. I was just plain old angry. I will take angry any day over fear. Anger is easier to get rid of. I am a lot better at forgiving than I am at trying to NOT PANIC OVER STUPID THINGS! The moment I say those words to myself, or anything like them, that's about when I lose it. Funnily enough, when a serious situation comes up, I'm pretty good about not panicking. I can handle fear, or at least I can mask it. My heart rate might go up when I'm scared. I might get nauseous. Hell, I might even puke if I'm that terrified. But when it's a rational fear, I know there should an equally rational solution. It's when I'm 100% aware that my fear is unfounded that I lose it. When your fear doesn't make sense, how can you fix it. And the "not-knowing-what-to-do" factor is what gets me. It's the straw that breaks my back.

I still absolutely hate my diagnosis. Maybe it's better to know what specifically is wrong with me, but maybe not. Maybe I'd rather pretend that all people turn to jello at the thought of making a phone call. Maybe I want to get rid of my diagnosis and say "I'm in control!"

But unfortunately, I can't get rid of it, any more than you can get rid of cancer by denying it. I've been having these awful anxiety attacks since I was a little girl. I have tried denying them, and that did me no good. So now they have a name. Great. Thanks for that entirely USELESS bit of information.

I think that when I get back to Mass (read: when I get back to a place where I have health insurance) I'm going to start going to some sort of therapist. I've gone back and forth with this for a while. My last therapist told me that my mother was right to kick me out for not having a job. She told me that I was greedy, and stubborn and had a very inaccurate view of my family. (This bothered me particularly much since she at the time she said it, she hadn't spoken to anyone but my father, and she'd only spoken to him for about 15 minutes, outside of scheduling appointments.)

But I do know that different types of therapy work for different people, so I'm going to go with that and try again.

Hips and Hopping

Okay that was a pretty lame pun, but it's pretty accurate to describe me the past few days. I somehow managed to screw up my right hip Saturday while I was getting into bed. At first it was just a little sore, enough to keep me up, but not to really bother me. Sunday morning it was still a little sore, sunday evening it was even sore-er.


By Monday, I could hardly walk. Stairs made me cry. Transitioning from standing to sitting was hard, and getting back up again was even worse. You know what I realized? It's the same sort of pain as my knees get, when I let them get bad. Unfortunately, no doctor has ever been able to tell me what's wrong with my knees. Just that they are swollen and they hurt, as if I didn't notice all that stuff on my own. I don't think my hip was swollen, but I have a feeling that whatever it is, has a similar cause. Now if only I could figure out what.

Eh. It's Wednesday now, and I feel a lot better. Its back to where I was on Sunday morning. A little sore, but I can walk. I still have trouble on the stairs (I am hopping up and down them, it hurts less) and standing up from sitting is still SUPER painful. But I'm functional. I'm not crying.

But the last time I had a GOOD nights sleep was Friday and I'm a little loopy. I'm not totally nuts from lack of sleep, but at least 5 times tonight I've caught myself saying or doing really stupid things. Earlier I couldn't even think of the word "bad" in conversation. I think I replaced it with "un-good." I guess I'm going in and out. A little normal, a little totally wacky, then normal again.

If I've said anything strange to you tonight, forgive me. If I haven't, then that's awesome.

However my lack of total-functionality has given me a new word. I'm totally going to get "unfavorite" into the dictionary. I like it a lot.

Teeth

IT'S A CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE STORY! PLEASE CHOOSE A, B, or C

A) I am curious as to why you haven't updated your blog in a while..... Please skip to the paragraph that is in RED

B) I am curious as to what's going on in your mouth, and I don't find saliva or toothaches disgusting..... Please skip to the paragraph that is in BLUE.

C) I don't care why you haven't blogged and mouths are disgusting..... Please skip today's blog.

So, you want to know why I haven't written in a while? Well, it's that damn second blog. I got in the fight with the layout (it kept putting things in spanish!) and then it kept being formatted badly. And it's still not finished because I'm poorly photo-shopped. Of course, once I got it (moderately) under control, I felt like I needed to post there. It wasn't fair to post here when my brand new blog didn't have a post. I finally got over that today, when I wrote out an entire post for it and instead of publishing, it somehow deleted. I'm SUPER annoyed. I'll have a new post there by tonight.

Alright. My mouth is a pain in my ass. I'm about 90% sure my wisdom teeth are coming in. It HURTS. Did I ever mention that I have extra teeth in my mouth? Did I ever mention that I got my mothers unusually small jaw. My dentist still has to use kid-size stuff. Have I ever told you that I inherited the larger-than-average teeth of my fathers side of the family. There NO room in the back of my mouth for any more goddamn teeth..... Oh yeah, and my health insurance doesn't cover dental. And it doesn't matter because my insurance only is valid in MA, and I'm in Virgina right now. I currently have a very unhappy mouth. 

But it gets worse, actually. This is that saliva filled part. Because a few days ago I got something stuck in my teeth. I brushed them, the thing was still there. I tried to get it out with floss, but it didn't work. I tried to use our nifty electric water-pik that we bought, and that didn't get it out either. Eventually I gave up and left that spec of thing there. I figured there wasn't anything I could do about it, and it would come out on its own. That's not how things worked. The next morning I woke up with my mouth really sore. Apparently my gums didn't like having that thing there. It was still lodged quite firmly between my teeth, but now my gum was all red and swollen. I had to come up with a way to get that piece of thing out. The only thing I could think of was basically cutting it out with a needle. Now that I think about it, there were probably better options. I could have tried flossing again, or more waterpiking. My gum is no longer swollen, red, or painful. Instead, I have that awful itching that cuts get when they heal, and I want to RIP MY GUMS APART. I hate mouth cuts.

Chaos Solidified

Why is it that EVERY time my mother has potentially important news she waits until just before she has to hang up to mention it? I called her at about 8:40. She had to leave at 9, to pick my sister up by 9:15. She waited until 9:57 to drop some vague hint at bad news.

Okay maybe I'm over reacting. Like I said, she was vague.

That's a pet peeve of mine. Vagueness. Say what you mean or say nothing.

So the conversation went like this. (M=mom, E=Erin/me)

M: I spent last night in the hospital.
E: Why what happened?
M: Sometimes when I eat the food goes down just fine. Not a problem. Other times it makes me gag. Sometimes I throw up. Even drinks make me gag. But it's fixable.
E: Oh good.
M: They're going to wait a few weeks and if it fixes itself, but if it doesn't I'm going to need throat surgery.
E: Oh.....
M: So if I call you frantic sometime, now you know what's going on. I'm going to need a lot of support if it's something scary.
E: Call me anytime. I'll try to help however I can, but you didn't explain much.
M: I know. I have to go pick up your sister. I'll call you tomorrow. Bye!

Just when things had started to settle down somewhat, this happens. It's a never ending cycle. My family is made of chaos. At least this is..... normal. Not normal-normal, but medical issues are at least mostly beyond our control. Every family has to deal with medical issues.

But why didn't she tell me what was wrong? Her words "if it's something scary" make it seems like she doesn't know what's wrong, but if she doesn't know, how can she know that the cure will be surgery?

Am I stressing needlessly? Probably. But I will spend my night googling reasons for an overactive gag reflex.