I ask my husband that because I am campaigning hardcore to drive the bus to hell.
Because my husband is shaking.
Because he has young onset Parksinsonism.
We have been through a ton of specialists, many thousands of dollars in testing and now we know why he can hardly walk and why his left arm has a constant tremor. He had a DaTscan done last week where they use a radiopharmaceutical tracer to see dopamine activity in your basal ganglia. He hardly has any activity, so there we go. A diagnosis just like that. Finally. And its awful.
He is 42 years old. And he has Parkinson's Disease.
And surprisingly, he has even lived what Republican senators cannot even argue is a good life.. He's a lifelong vegetarian. Never smoked. Literally took one sip of beer on his 21st birthday, though he may have had a few teaspoons of Lutheran communion wine over the years. Exercises. Works hard at his job and has been steadily employed since he was 15. Makes charitable donations and even became a foster parent.
Still got a fucking degenerative brain disease.
A day will come when the muscles in his face will no longer allow him to smile at me, and however hard anything has been in our life so far, that day will be the hardest.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
Sunday, January 3, 2016
The Year in Review
I feel like finishing 2015 should earn me some sort of prize. It was hard, damn hard. And I kept on rising to meet all of my responsibilities as hard as I could. Some other shit happened, but all I really take away from 2015 is that we got through it.
The sadness is still there. But there is also some hope. We have gotten the ball rolling on Special Needs Adoption through the foster system. I hope that this is the year we become parents.
And I want to do more yoga and shit, too.
The sadness is still there. But there is also some hope. We have gotten the ball rolling on Special Needs Adoption through the foster system. I hope that this is the year we become parents.
And I want to do more yoga and shit, too.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Hey girl, you should totally get that yarn ball tattoo...
So I did. Finally.
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| taking a picture of my wrist was awkward |
My tattoo artist was a former marine who also knits, he had a girlfriend who crocheted, so he learned to knit. He said it was very relaxing, I don't think you get much more stressed out than being a freakin' marine, so it just speaks to the power of knitting.
"Breathe" isn't very original as a tattoo, but it really resonates with me. One of the biggest take aways from my OCD and panic disorder therapy has been the breathing. It's not really a secret, just breathing to help stop the vasovagal freakout that makes me dizzy, clammy, stomach crampy, and shaky.
Breathing is also part of my yoga practice, which is still very beginner, but the breath is so important.
And then there is the advice they give you on planes in case of disaster: put your own oxygen mask on first. And a large part of me getting on the path to wellness was the equivalent of putting on my mask. Putting myself first. Taking care of me while other things were a disaster. Taking care of me because I am worth it. Because I am not a failure. Because it is important.
The sparrow is for remembrance.
And I had the whole thing done to face me. These are reminders for me.
Saturday, May 23, 2015
No worries at all?
I have been working on my yoga practice to help manage anxiety and all sorts of things. And as part of that I have been working on meditation as well. I have used some guided meditations and recently bought a package from Circle and Bloom that specifically focuses on PCOS and fertility and cycles.
I was listening to today's segment and after some typical relaxation routines, she says to focus on when I was "ten years old and had no worries at all. "
And that kind of stopped me cold and all day long it's been running through my head. Because my life was being turned upside down and shaken when I was ten years old. My mom packed us up and moved us out, they were going to get a divorce, my dad just...unraveled, there were horrible, terrible fights where I was basically sobbing hysterically and begging them to stop yelling. They ignored me until my mother would tell my dad to look at me and see if this is what he wanted. To do this to his daughter. Again. Neither one was willing to stop fighting until I could be the weapon to use against the other: "Look what you're doing to Annie!"
And then he was dead and I blamed myself for it, we moved back to our house and I felt like I had to take care of everyone. Someone had to take care of us.
I can't actually think of any age where I had no worries at all. My mother once tod me a story about how I was such a good baby. On Saturday mornings she did the big housecleaning for the week, and to keep me busy, he'd give me the old TV guide in my crib. And I would rip every single page into strips while she worked. My OCD therapist was quite intrigued at that.
One of my earliest memories is hiding with my mother and infant sister in the way back of this storage closet because we were hiding from my father. He was drunk and spoiling for a fight and we had to hide until he passed out. I would have been two.
When I was five, he said goodbye to us so he could go get help. He did inpatient alcohol detox at Hazelden. I think he was gone for a few weeks. I don't know if he completed rehab or not, but he was sober when he came home and AA was his religion for a long time.
He wasn't drinking, but he was still always up for a fight. Late at night they would argue and one night a large vase was thrown by one of them. Another night it was the phone, a heavy late 70's rotary dial phone. One night they came to check on me while I was asleep and got into a shoving match when they both tried to peek in the door at the same time. I pretended to be asleep.
When my mom would go out for her sorority meeting, he would seethe and get worked up that she wasn't there and would imagine all the ways that she was betraying him until he took it out on us. More than once he would come into my room and wake me up to make me clean it. If it was already kind of clean? He would just walk along the shelf with his arm out and knock everything to the floor.
I was in first grade being kept up on school nights just so he could poke at her, to try and make her stay home.
There was a lull for a couple years, we put on a good face. Then in third grade, things began to veer off the rails just a little bit. I can't remember if there was a triggering event, or if my brain was just already wired for worst case scenarios, but something happened in third grade, I was suddenly too scared to go to school. I could not handle it. I didn't like my teacher at all, but I think it was something at home. I would fight going every morning, looking back I recognize that I was having full on panic attacks. And then resulted to gagging myself until I vomited every morning to get to stay home. And I would take super hot baths and stay in the tub as long as I possibly could, I was probably the cleanest third grader in the world, I don't know if I felt safe in the water or if it was part of my contamination phobia/OCD. It went on for a few weeks. Until they brought me to school and my father had to carry me to my classroom and practically put me in my desk in front of everyone.
And then I had to talk to a nice lady named Karen every few weeks at school. The social worker.
And I would have been nine.
Sometime that summer I found his handgun. And I put it back because I was scared of being caught. But I was also scared that he might kill us with it. And then the next winter we moved out and he was dead by spring. Thirty-one years ago this weekend, actually.
I was listening to today's segment and after some typical relaxation routines, she says to focus on when I was "ten years old and had no worries at all. "
And that kind of stopped me cold and all day long it's been running through my head. Because my life was being turned upside down and shaken when I was ten years old. My mom packed us up and moved us out, they were going to get a divorce, my dad just...unraveled, there were horrible, terrible fights where I was basically sobbing hysterically and begging them to stop yelling. They ignored me until my mother would tell my dad to look at me and see if this is what he wanted. To do this to his daughter. Again. Neither one was willing to stop fighting until I could be the weapon to use against the other: "Look what you're doing to Annie!"
And then he was dead and I blamed myself for it, we moved back to our house and I felt like I had to take care of everyone. Someone had to take care of us.
I can't actually think of any age where I had no worries at all. My mother once tod me a story about how I was such a good baby. On Saturday mornings she did the big housecleaning for the week, and to keep me busy, he'd give me the old TV guide in my crib. And I would rip every single page into strips while she worked. My OCD therapist was quite intrigued at that.
One of my earliest memories is hiding with my mother and infant sister in the way back of this storage closet because we were hiding from my father. He was drunk and spoiling for a fight and we had to hide until he passed out. I would have been two.
When I was five, he said goodbye to us so he could go get help. He did inpatient alcohol detox at Hazelden. I think he was gone for a few weeks. I don't know if he completed rehab or not, but he was sober when he came home and AA was his religion for a long time.
He wasn't drinking, but he was still always up for a fight. Late at night they would argue and one night a large vase was thrown by one of them. Another night it was the phone, a heavy late 70's rotary dial phone. One night they came to check on me while I was asleep and got into a shoving match when they both tried to peek in the door at the same time. I pretended to be asleep.
When my mom would go out for her sorority meeting, he would seethe and get worked up that she wasn't there and would imagine all the ways that she was betraying him until he took it out on us. More than once he would come into my room and wake me up to make me clean it. If it was already kind of clean? He would just walk along the shelf with his arm out and knock everything to the floor.
I was in first grade being kept up on school nights just so he could poke at her, to try and make her stay home.
There was a lull for a couple years, we put on a good face. Then in third grade, things began to veer off the rails just a little bit. I can't remember if there was a triggering event, or if my brain was just already wired for worst case scenarios, but something happened in third grade, I was suddenly too scared to go to school. I could not handle it. I didn't like my teacher at all, but I think it was something at home. I would fight going every morning, looking back I recognize that I was having full on panic attacks. And then resulted to gagging myself until I vomited every morning to get to stay home. And I would take super hot baths and stay in the tub as long as I possibly could, I was probably the cleanest third grader in the world, I don't know if I felt safe in the water or if it was part of my contamination phobia/OCD. It went on for a few weeks. Until they brought me to school and my father had to carry me to my classroom and practically put me in my desk in front of everyone.
And then I had to talk to a nice lady named Karen every few weeks at school. The social worker.
And I would have been nine.
Sometime that summer I found his handgun. And I put it back because I was scared of being caught. But I was also scared that he might kill us with it. And then the next winter we moved out and he was dead by spring. Thirty-one years ago this weekend, actually.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
An all new craft cave
So, the painting and sprucing took a while, but I am pretty happy with how it all came out. I still need to find a cover for the existing ceiling light, or get new light if it's not a standard size. The identical one in our bedroom exploded a couple summers ago, raining broken glass all over the entire room. So we took this one down in case it was a flaw in the glass. And then we didn't use this room for anything but storage so we never got around to getting a new cover. So it's a bare bulb for now, which is not cute at all.
It will never be this clean again. The curtains fabric was how I picked the pain colors and the blue table is on it's third or fourth coat of paint. it has been white, red, cream, and now dark turquoise. The shelves are all closet cubes from target and I move them around like big ass Tetris pieces to fit whatever space I use or when I get bored. The floor is chalk paint with two coats of satin polyurethane.
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| My sign was getting all creased by staying rolled up, I figured might as well hang it up. |
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| I have so much fabric! My personal stash is in the closet. This is all AP stuff. |
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| My yarns, let me show you them. And my beading supplies. |
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| Looking into the room.The floor came out so well, I loooooove it. And I have one trash can for trash, and one for fabric scraps to be used somehow. Eventually. |
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| Because lights are fun. |
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| I had a small math fail and the curtains aren't as full as they should be. But I love them anyway. They are fully lined. And now the neighbor's living room won't be on full view when I am working. |
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| ZIPPERS. Most of them. And my dishtowels that need to be ironed. Why the fuck did I buy dishtowels that need to be ironed? Seriously. My ironing board cover is gross, I know. It's just water, Mary Ellen's Best Press spray, and scorch marks. Mostly scorching. |
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| It's a giant button that's a tin. How could I not have it? |
It will never be this clean again. The curtains fabric was how I picked the pain colors and the blue table is on it's third or fourth coat of paint. it has been white, red, cream, and now dark turquoise. The shelves are all closet cubes from target and I move them around like big ass Tetris pieces to fit whatever space I use or when I get bored. The floor is chalk paint with two coats of satin polyurethane.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Time for more painting.
I am moving my sewing/work room downstairs to what I hoped would be a nursery. We will start painting it this weekend. We aren't giving up. But we are being realistic. I need to do something aside from just housewifing to help with the constant stream of my brain telling me how much I fail. It's too hot up there to sew much in the summer. Mr. Freak Flag has been pushing for this and I have resisted because it felt like I was giving up. But it's not. I can easily repaint if we have a baby.
I may sign up for a few shows to sell, a maker market and a green market. There are some handmade boutiques around town, too. I could consign. I don't know. It's something. I feel better when I am designing and sewing. I need to have something already going so if/when we call it quits in a year I won't have a complete come-apart.
This last cycle was fucking hell with the fertility drugs and I failed again. It wasn't timing, it's me. I'm going to wait a cycle or two to reap the benefits of the kickstarted cascade of hormones and then back with the meds. I get two more cycles this way and then we have to discuss more or considering IUI. It's super expensive and it would be our very last hope.
IVF will never be an option unless we won the fucking lottery and used donor eggs and a surrogate.
I may sign up for a few shows to sell, a maker market and a green market. There are some handmade boutiques around town, too. I could consign. I don't know. It's something. I feel better when I am designing and sewing. I need to have something already going so if/when we call it quits in a year I won't have a complete come-apart.
This last cycle was fucking hell with the fertility drugs and I failed again. It wasn't timing, it's me. I'm going to wait a cycle or two to reap the benefits of the kickstarted cascade of hormones and then back with the meds. I get two more cycles this way and then we have to discuss more or considering IUI. It's super expensive and it would be our very last hope.
IVF will never be an option unless we won the fucking lottery and used donor eggs and a surrogate.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Throwback Thursday
I took this picture while The Man parked the car after dropping me by the door of my therapist's office. As of yesterday, it has been two years since I started some pretty intense therapy. He had to drive me to that first appointment. He had to shake my therapist's hand because I didn't touch people. Ever. Not even my husband by that time. He had to sit in the room with me for the first few sessions. I loved those shoes because they had little umbrellas on them, like panic disorder was an umbrella keeping me safe from everything in the world that scared me.
He had to drive me for the first few months until I renewed my license. He had to learn to watch me fuck up and not try to fix it. It was hard. We started seeing a therapist together to help us create new patterns, or as she put it, for me to stop inflicting my OCD on The Man. Which is accurate. I needed to stop treating him like a child and he had to stop taking care of me to such an extent that it was enabling me.
Some things came up that weren't things my behavioral therapist could tackle, they were traumatic and trauma has to be handled more carefully. For vomiting I had to watch that horrific food poisoning scene in Bridesmaids hundreds of times. Watch it until I felt no panic at all, over and over. By the end I could watch them all vomit and shit themselves and eat dinner at the same time.
You can't do that for sexual assault, so it meant a third therapist who does PTSD and trauma work. It meant poking at things and having flashbacks. It meant learning how to pull myself back into the moment when I would begin to dissociate. It meant being vulnerable. It meant feeling pain, a lot of pain. So much pain that I had built my whole life around not feeling it. I won't lie, it fucking sucked. And I am so angry sometimes, so very angry.
Last January, I was discharged from my behavioral therapist and left to staying responsible for my OCD and panic on my own. This month with my other therapist we have started to discuss wrapping up, maybe having her be on call instead of scheduling monthly sessions. Or scheduling them and I can call and say I think I am OK for the moment. Or say that I am not OK for the moment.
We will still be touching base with the marriage therapist on a semi-regular basis as we move forward with trying to build a family. We need the support and feedback, this is so much harder than anything else we have tried to do.
So that's where we are two years later. I don't have the shoes anymore, I don't walk around with an invisible umbrella anymore, either. It means getting messy when life happens. Sometimes my feelings get hurt. Sometimes they get hurt a lot. And I can say so. And I may even cry. And it's OK.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Not proud of myself.
I am feeling vulnerable and sad. Which means that instead of telling my husband, I just yell at him. Because if I let him know how sad I am, then he will be sad. And I don't want to deal with anyone else's shit right now.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Wash, rinse, repeat.
So it's OPK time here at chez Old Fart. So this evening I held it as
long as I could to try and get a good sample to test the dipsticks. I
managed to pee all over my hand and then drop the cup into the toilet.
The cups are little tiny solo cups like shot glass sized, I think. And
plastic, not paper.
I somehow managed to grab a second cup and catch a sample.
And then I flushed and remembered there was still a plastic cup in the bowl.You can't unflush the damn thing so.....I reached into the swirling water and snatched the cup out. The horror of that was nothing compared to the thousands of dollars in plumbing bills I envisioned when that little bastard got caught in the sewer lateral and the whole house started to back up.
I've mentioned the OCD a couple dozen times. I'm a handwasher. Not extreme, but I enjoy a good scour. I have only allowed myself to wash twice for this incident.
I would very much like to wash more.
I would like to reassure myself that I did a thorough wash with hot water twice and that is clean enough.
But instead I have to think "maybe they are clean, maybe not." Because them's the CBT rules.
I somehow managed to grab a second cup and catch a sample.
And then I flushed and remembered there was still a plastic cup in the bowl.You can't unflush the damn thing so.....I reached into the swirling water and snatched the cup out. The horror of that was nothing compared to the thousands of dollars in plumbing bills I envisioned when that little bastard got caught in the sewer lateral and the whole house started to back up.
I've mentioned the OCD a couple dozen times. I'm a handwasher. Not extreme, but I enjoy a good scour. I have only allowed myself to wash twice for this incident.
I would very much like to wash more.
I would like to reassure myself that I did a thorough wash with hot water twice and that is clean enough.
But instead I have to think "maybe they are clean, maybe not." Because them's the CBT rules.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Hide and Seek: Post Office Style.
So...four weeks ago I ordered a few simple summer tops online, after careful shopping and using of coupon codes because my clothing budget is so tight that it squeaks. Three weeks ago it said it was delivered. I looked all around my front door: in the flower bed, behind the stoop, under the chairs, under the table, in the flower boxes. Nope. I looked at the back door. Still nothin'.
I emailed the company and asked if they had access to any more detailed tracking info to give me a lead on where to look. Or maybe it went back to the PO and a slip wasn't left for some reason. Anything. They said to ask my neighbors. So, I spoke to neighbors. It was really not anywhere to be found. I called the post office that serves us and asked if it was just hidden really good. They checked around. No one had any idea. I spoke to our new carrier who said Monday was his day off so a float delivered it and had no recall of a parcel.
So I contacted the company again and said I did all that stuff and it's really just gone. The parcel was insured, they gave me my $80 back and some generous coupon codes. Friday, I went shopping in a real store and scrounged the clearance racks and got some new tops after my refund was processed.
The Man and I went to sit outside today and I was spinning yarn and he made a latte run. He got back and sat down on the patio furniture and it crinkled. Well, that is odd....He took the pillows off the chair to see what it was and hello MIA parcel. It's been outdoors for 3 weeks under the chair cushions, through some seriously hellacious thunder storms and lots of sun and birds and squirrels and chipmunks and it's still in perfect condition.
Well. OK then.
I emailed the company and asked if they had access to any more detailed tracking info to give me a lead on where to look. Or maybe it went back to the PO and a slip wasn't left for some reason. Anything. They said to ask my neighbors. So, I spoke to neighbors. It was really not anywhere to be found. I called the post office that serves us and asked if it was just hidden really good. They checked around. No one had any idea. I spoke to our new carrier who said Monday was his day off so a float delivered it and had no recall of a parcel.
So I contacted the company again and said I did all that stuff and it's really just gone. The parcel was insured, they gave me my $80 back and some generous coupon codes. Friday, I went shopping in a real store and scrounged the clearance racks and got some new tops after my refund was processed.
The Man and I went to sit outside today and I was spinning yarn and he made a latte run. He got back and sat down on the patio furniture and it crinkled. Well, that is odd....He took the pillows off the chair to see what it was and hello MIA parcel. It's been outdoors for 3 weeks under the chair cushions, through some seriously hellacious thunder storms and lots of sun and birds and squirrels and chipmunks and it's still in perfect condition.
Well. OK then.
Monday, June 23, 2014
This shit never happens on Martha Stewart.
So, it's summer and now I have the urge to make things and can them. And then the OCD compulsion to not allow anyone to eat them. But I'm trying.
Last night I hulled a shitload of strawberries and mixed up some vanilla strawberry jam and stuck it in the fridge to macerate overnight. And then I pulled out some rhubarb I had picked and chopped and froze a few weeks ago. I tossed it into the crockpot with vanilla beans, really strong chai tea, and a lot of fresh ginger and let it cook down all night long.
This morning I woke up with big plans. I boiled the strawberry vanilla goop and then jarred it up and canned it. It didn't set, I thought it probably would not. So it's strawberry sauce instead. Then I blitzed the stewed rhubarb with the stick blender and put it on to thicken up. When it was ready I got the jars all ready to go and filled with super sour, but oh, so good rhubarb butter. Went to process the last couple jars and noticed the water level n the canner was low.
So I picked up the other large pot full of very hot water (boiling ten minutes ago) and went to add it to the bigger pot.
This was a mistake. The second I picked it up I knew some shit was gonna go down. And yet....I carried on. Like a DUMBASS. Yeah, I spilled it. On my wrist. On my leg. On my belly. And then I thought I should put the damn pot down.
I got my burns under cool water and then used vinegar to help take the sting out. Then I finished the stupid rhubarb butter. Then I called my doc's office and hauled ass over there to see one of her colleagues who had an opening. I have second degree burns on my belly and leg and a nasty scald on my wrist. I have the magical silver burn cream from the doctor and a lot of bandages. And I am not allowed in a pool for a week, possibly longer if she doesn't like how things look next Monday.
I think things will look just fine. :D Mainly because I want to be back in the pool, man.
Last night I hulled a shitload of strawberries and mixed up some vanilla strawberry jam and stuck it in the fridge to macerate overnight. And then I pulled out some rhubarb I had picked and chopped and froze a few weeks ago. I tossed it into the crockpot with vanilla beans, really strong chai tea, and a lot of fresh ginger and let it cook down all night long.
This morning I woke up with big plans. I boiled the strawberry vanilla goop and then jarred it up and canned it. It didn't set, I thought it probably would not. So it's strawberry sauce instead. Then I blitzed the stewed rhubarb with the stick blender and put it on to thicken up. When it was ready I got the jars all ready to go and filled with super sour, but oh, so good rhubarb butter. Went to process the last couple jars and noticed the water level n the canner was low.
So I picked up the other large pot full of very hot water (boiling ten minutes ago) and went to add it to the bigger pot.
This was a mistake. The second I picked it up I knew some shit was gonna go down. And yet....I carried on. Like a DUMBASS. Yeah, I spilled it. On my wrist. On my leg. On my belly. And then I thought I should put the damn pot down.
I got my burns under cool water and then used vinegar to help take the sting out. Then I finished the stupid rhubarb butter. Then I called my doc's office and hauled ass over there to see one of her colleagues who had an opening. I have second degree burns on my belly and leg and a nasty scald on my wrist. I have the magical silver burn cream from the doctor and a lot of bandages. And I am not allowed in a pool for a week, possibly longer if she doesn't like how things look next Monday.
I think things will look just fine. :D Mainly because I want to be back in the pool, man.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Father's Day
I am not very good at Father's Day. I used to be. Or I used to think I was. Because I just didn't let myself be sad about it. Because that would been showing vulnerability, which was a bad idea. So it was just another day. And somehow showing any sadness for my father was taken as a direct criticism by my mother. She so often pointed out that he chose to leave, he chose to die. And she stayed with us. And when she said that it really didn't feel like it was her choice to stay, but she got stuck with us because she didn't get out of it first. And she used to tell us it wasn't fair. She never got a break. She was never going to get a break from being a mother because our father died and left her with us and being a single mother was so much harder when the kids don't get to go to their father's house every other weekend. Those things are undoubtedly true, she was on 100% of the time with no partner to pick up any slack. But it just made me feel like a burden.
And then sometimes she would tell me how lucky I was that he was dead. Because if he had lived we never would have had the opportunities we had because we never would have left Ligonier, Indiana.
And for a while, I agreed with her. I thought I was really lucky that my father died. Like he did us a favor. And that is pretty fucked up. But it made her happy to hear it.
So for the past 30 years I have ignored it, gutted it out, acted like it just wasn't happening when at all possible, and today I just can't do it. Maybe it's because last month it was 30 years. A fact I realized randomly while driving to an appointment. I only know it's sometimes in the end of May, because I don't think we ever knew the day he died. We only knew the day he was found. Today, I think I miss him.
I had a father for 25% of my life. And he was a drunk for about 50% of that. I think of that 12.5% and wished I'd paid more attention to things. I wish I had made some better memories. Sat still and listened more often. Learned how to make paper airplanes. Liked fishing more so I could have hung out more.
I know so little about him and I forget more every year. I haven't been able to remember his laugh or his voice for years. Sometimes I kind of think I can, but I know it's just me trying to hang on to something. I only have one picture of him taken when I was 2 or 3, that's all. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think I have his blue eyes. But then I can't remember anymore. I know I flick dirt or crumbs off my fingers the same way he did. I. know he could build things and fix things, and he loved airplanes. I think he loved flying more than anything else in the world. I think flying a plane was probably the only time he felt happy. And I was too scared to go with him when I had the chance. I stayed home and waited for him to fly over our house a few times and "wave" at us with the wings.
That's all I have now, and I know I will have even less in the coming years as the memories get worn away.
And then sometimes she would tell me how lucky I was that he was dead. Because if he had lived we never would have had the opportunities we had because we never would have left Ligonier, Indiana.
And for a while, I agreed with her. I thought I was really lucky that my father died. Like he did us a favor. And that is pretty fucked up. But it made her happy to hear it.
So for the past 30 years I have ignored it, gutted it out, acted like it just wasn't happening when at all possible, and today I just can't do it. Maybe it's because last month it was 30 years. A fact I realized randomly while driving to an appointment. I only know it's sometimes in the end of May, because I don't think we ever knew the day he died. We only knew the day he was found. Today, I think I miss him.
I had a father for 25% of my life. And he was a drunk for about 50% of that. I think of that 12.5% and wished I'd paid more attention to things. I wish I had made some better memories. Sat still and listened more often. Learned how to make paper airplanes. Liked fishing more so I could have hung out more.
I know so little about him and I forget more every year. I haven't been able to remember his laugh or his voice for years. Sometimes I kind of think I can, but I know it's just me trying to hang on to something. I only have one picture of him taken when I was 2 or 3, that's all. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think I have his blue eyes. But then I can't remember anymore. I know I flick dirt or crumbs off my fingers the same way he did. I. know he could build things and fix things, and he loved airplanes. I think he loved flying more than anything else in the world. I think flying a plane was probably the only time he felt happy. And I was too scared to go with him when I had the chance. I stayed home and waited for him to fly over our house a few times and "wave" at us with the wings.
That's all I have now, and I know I will have even less in the coming years as the memories get worn away.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Talk dirty to me..
It's finally spring and finally time to play in the dirt a little bit.
I planted up my window boxes and planters on Friday, made a plan and bought some more petunias on Sunday and stuck them in the dirt this morning after pulling a huge yard waste bag full of weeds. I still have several beds that desperately need weeding but I don't think there will really be much more to plant this year, unless I score a sweet deal on some perennials. I may need to hack up the lamb's ear I have growing in the front, it has taken over and doesn't look like it can be stopped.
I have forty-eleven craploads of rhubarb in the back, too. I need to rhubarb all the things. And my husband needs to trim the hedges that are totally out of control.
I planted up my window boxes and planters on Friday, made a plan and bought some more petunias on Sunday and stuck them in the dirt this morning after pulling a huge yard waste bag full of weeds. I still have several beds that desperately need weeding but I don't think there will really be much more to plant this year, unless I score a sweet deal on some perennials. I may need to hack up the lamb's ear I have growing in the front, it has taken over and doesn't look like it can be stopped.
I have forty-eleven craploads of rhubarb in the back, too. I need to rhubarb all the things. And my husband needs to trim the hedges that are totally out of control.
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| need to bring the rest of the bricks up to use as the border, it's coming along! |
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| cannot wait till these fill out in a few weeks |
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| that green crap in the front planter? It just showed up, it's cute. I left it. |
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| my lavenders lived through the brutal cold! |
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
I have a second blog that I ignore slightly less than this one.
It's all TMI, all the time over there though.
I mainly started it to just kind of keep track of my thoughts as I continue on this journey and I am narcissistic enough to think someone else might want to behold my navel gazing.
Or read about bodily misadventures of a TMI nature.
I mentioned the TMI, right? Because it is there.
You have been warned.
Confessions of a Mama Wannabe
Yep. My hat is tossed in the ring. Which, now that I think about it, reeeeeeeally sounds like a euphemism.
It's all TMI, all the time over there though.
I mainly started it to just kind of keep track of my thoughts as I continue on this journey and I am narcissistic enough to think someone else might want to behold my navel gazing.
Or read about bodily misadventures of a TMI nature.
I mentioned the TMI, right? Because it is there.
You have been warned.
Confessions of a Mama Wannabe
Yep. My hat is tossed in the ring. Which, now that I think about it, reeeeeeeally sounds like a euphemism.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
This day
This day is like a minefield for me. And I feel selfish even saying that. My mother is still alive and I choose to keep my distance. No, it's more than choice. I have to keep my distance. I have to. Because I have worked far too hard at putting myself back together again to let her come in and pull out my still healing stitches. And she would.
She sent me a letter a while ago. A handwritten note. I handed it to my therapist who read it with arched brow. And then went to photocopy it for my file and instructed me to go home and put it away and just not think about it anymore. Which is hilarious since a large part of my work now is to stay present in the moment and to feel my feelings when they happen. Because I learned to not be present on her watch. I learned that when someone was hurting me that the best thing was to just not feel it. I learned that I wasn't safe and that there was nothing I could do about it. There was no parent who was going to protect me. So I got very good at not feeling it. I got good at acting normal. I would crack a joke to hide my pain. I didn't dare show a vulnerability to be turned against me later. I learned that she could really give me something to cry about if she wanted, and sometimes she wanted.
I had a nearly full on panic attack in session a few weeks ago and my therapist had no idea until I confessed the next week. We sat, 5 feet apart while I fell apart inside with my heart trying to race, the room spinning, my stomach churning, my mind racing. And I couldn't pipe up and say that I was not OK. To someone who is there to help me. Who isn't going to hurt me. And who is a clinician who deals with trauma and knows how to spot these things a mile away.
And that's why I have cut ties. I can see no version of my life at this time that includes being well and having a relationship with her. I can have one of those things. I picked me.
This year there is a new layer to the day. An emptiness that I haven't quite felt before. The kind that catches in my throat and makes it hurt to swallow a little bit. Because I am not a mother. And before I found out that was even remotely possible I was OK with it and I accepted it was part of the hand I was dealt. Sure getting wished a happy mother's day just because you look old enough to have kids has sucked pretty much every year for a decade. But by not being a mother I was also not going to risk becoming her, I was in control. It was my choice and now, it's not.
This year I am no longer childfree. For the first time in my life I am childless and so aware of it that sometimes it hurts. It hurts to breathe. My eyes sting with tears. My belly aches. I press on with the work I do in therapy, because forward has become the only acceptable direction for me to go. If the time comes, I cannot allow myself to be her. I don't want any child of mine to feel unsafe. To feel frightened of me. To feel so alone that it hurts. To be afraid to cry in front of me. To feel like I did.
She sent me a letter a while ago. A handwritten note. I handed it to my therapist who read it with arched brow. And then went to photocopy it for my file and instructed me to go home and put it away and just not think about it anymore. Which is hilarious since a large part of my work now is to stay present in the moment and to feel my feelings when they happen. Because I learned to not be present on her watch. I learned that when someone was hurting me that the best thing was to just not feel it. I learned that I wasn't safe and that there was nothing I could do about it. There was no parent who was going to protect me. So I got very good at not feeling it. I got good at acting normal. I would crack a joke to hide my pain. I didn't dare show a vulnerability to be turned against me later. I learned that she could really give me something to cry about if she wanted, and sometimes she wanted.
I had a nearly full on panic attack in session a few weeks ago and my therapist had no idea until I confessed the next week. We sat, 5 feet apart while I fell apart inside with my heart trying to race, the room spinning, my stomach churning, my mind racing. And I couldn't pipe up and say that I was not OK. To someone who is there to help me. Who isn't going to hurt me. And who is a clinician who deals with trauma and knows how to spot these things a mile away.
And that's why I have cut ties. I can see no version of my life at this time that includes being well and having a relationship with her. I can have one of those things. I picked me.
This year there is a new layer to the day. An emptiness that I haven't quite felt before. The kind that catches in my throat and makes it hurt to swallow a little bit. Because I am not a mother. And before I found out that was even remotely possible I was OK with it and I accepted it was part of the hand I was dealt. Sure getting wished a happy mother's day just because you look old enough to have kids has sucked pretty much every year for a decade. But by not being a mother I was also not going to risk becoming her, I was in control. It was my choice and now, it's not.
This year I am no longer childfree. For the first time in my life I am childless and so aware of it that sometimes it hurts. It hurts to breathe. My eyes sting with tears. My belly aches. I press on with the work I do in therapy, because forward has become the only acceptable direction for me to go. If the time comes, I cannot allow myself to be her. I don't want any child of mine to feel unsafe. To feel frightened of me. To feel so alone that it hurts. To be afraid to cry in front of me. To feel like I did.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Is this thing still even on?
I just walk away from my blog for 6 months at a stretch and then always come back with approximately the same not very witty title. I am nothing if not consistently inconsistent.
So, last I typed and you read I was working on cognitive behavioral therapy to get my OCD and panic attacks under control. In September, Team Annie gained a new player. Another therapist, this time a lady, to help me sort out some trauma and PTSD issues. Which is what I thought would happen all along from my initial phone conversation with D about setting me up for CBT. Because I knew there was a well of pain I had constructed my entire life around avoiding. And right on schedule, once I began to have so much less fear about the minutiae of daily life, some of these bigger and more painful experiences started to slip up to the front of the queue. And they are ugly. And they are shameful. And there were flashbacks. And nightmares. And awfulness. And instead of hiding, I said I needed more help. So for a few months, I was seeing two therapists weekly and The Man and I were seeing a third every few weeks.
At the end of January, I graduated from CBT so now I am just down to the trauma work and the marriage work. Both of which are going pretty well. The marriage work was to begin to make some new patterns now that I don't require as much care taking. Because being me was hard on my marriage. And as much as he wanted to protect me and keep me from being hurt, it wasn't healthy for him to have to take care of everything all the time, not healthy for either one of us. The trauma work is hard. There were times last summer when I was touching a bathroom door handle at Target, or watching the puke scene from Bridesmaids for the 500th time and I thought that was hard work. There were times when we began to move toward my discharge where just the thought of it would make me cry, because I was so scared. I wasn't sure how I was going to be able to live my life without having to tick off banned behaviors. How I would conduct my errands when they weren't assignments? How would I stay accountable when I was the only one I had to be accountable to? Because I haven't done so hot when I am the one left in charge of me and I felt very sure that I wasn't going to be able to keep my shit together.
Those were hard things, but now they seem like a cake walk compared to the work I have to do. And there isn't much homework for this. Except that when something painful comes up, I can't pack it away in a box and put it away at the back of my brain. I have to live with it. I have to let it suck. I have to help my brain find context for the events so that it can be properly refiled so that I stop reacting to anything similar with full on panic. And I have to use grounding techniques sometimes to keep from flashing back or dissociating. At any given moment I can be somewhere and trying to appear calm and inside I am looking at the walls, the floor, listening to the music, whatever things I can see, hear, smell, or touch to help me stay grounded in 2014. And it works more often than it used to.
And as I repair damage, I sometimes feel at loose ends. I got so good at being broken that I forgot how to be anything else. Not that I felt like a victim, in fact I never felt like a victim. Which is part of my problem, because there were times when a victim is exactly what I was, but I was so unused to being allowed to feel my feelings that I stuffed it down and convinced myself it was my fault. Because I deserved what I got, because I should have known he was a bad person before it got to that point.. I refused to admit that this sort of abuse was something that happened to me. I wasn't sitting around feeling that the world had done me wrong, I was just broken. And now I am patching up the damage a little bit at a time.And I have begun to try and get on with the business of having a life. I meet with friends. I stay responsible for social contact. I run errands. I do stuff. And every day it gets a little bit easier.
My life has turned around nearly 100% from where I was last year at this time. I have plans. I have some good things happening. I am participating in my marriage as more or less an equal partner. We look forward to what the future may hold for us. I am beginning to sometimes feel normal. That I don't have to be other. That I am not only a pile of broken and sad and yuck, no matter what was drilled into me from a very young age. I can be sad and I can feel hurt and I won't have to cut off the world or cut or scratch myself to control the pain. I am a person who is learning to have a life, to allow myself to have hope and dreams again. And I am so late to the party for so many things and just trying to make up for lost time.
So, last I typed and you read I was working on cognitive behavioral therapy to get my OCD and panic attacks under control. In September, Team Annie gained a new player. Another therapist, this time a lady, to help me sort out some trauma and PTSD issues. Which is what I thought would happen all along from my initial phone conversation with D about setting me up for CBT. Because I knew there was a well of pain I had constructed my entire life around avoiding. And right on schedule, once I began to have so much less fear about the minutiae of daily life, some of these bigger and more painful experiences started to slip up to the front of the queue. And they are ugly. And they are shameful. And there were flashbacks. And nightmares. And awfulness. And instead of hiding, I said I needed more help. So for a few months, I was seeing two therapists weekly and The Man and I were seeing a third every few weeks.
At the end of January, I graduated from CBT so now I am just down to the trauma work and the marriage work. Both of which are going pretty well. The marriage work was to begin to make some new patterns now that I don't require as much care taking. Because being me was hard on my marriage. And as much as he wanted to protect me and keep me from being hurt, it wasn't healthy for him to have to take care of everything all the time, not healthy for either one of us. The trauma work is hard. There were times last summer when I was touching a bathroom door handle at Target, or watching the puke scene from Bridesmaids for the 500th time and I thought that was hard work. There were times when we began to move toward my discharge where just the thought of it would make me cry, because I was so scared. I wasn't sure how I was going to be able to live my life without having to tick off banned behaviors. How I would conduct my errands when they weren't assignments? How would I stay accountable when I was the only one I had to be accountable to? Because I haven't done so hot when I am the one left in charge of me and I felt very sure that I wasn't going to be able to keep my shit together.
Those were hard things, but now they seem like a cake walk compared to the work I have to do. And there isn't much homework for this. Except that when something painful comes up, I can't pack it away in a box and put it away at the back of my brain. I have to live with it. I have to let it suck. I have to help my brain find context for the events so that it can be properly refiled so that I stop reacting to anything similar with full on panic. And I have to use grounding techniques sometimes to keep from flashing back or dissociating. At any given moment I can be somewhere and trying to appear calm and inside I am looking at the walls, the floor, listening to the music, whatever things I can see, hear, smell, or touch to help me stay grounded in 2014. And it works more often than it used to.
And as I repair damage, I sometimes feel at loose ends. I got so good at being broken that I forgot how to be anything else. Not that I felt like a victim, in fact I never felt like a victim. Which is part of my problem, because there were times when a victim is exactly what I was, but I was so unused to being allowed to feel my feelings that I stuffed it down and convinced myself it was my fault. Because I deserved what I got, because I should have known he was a bad person before it got to that point.. I refused to admit that this sort of abuse was something that happened to me. I wasn't sitting around feeling that the world had done me wrong, I was just broken. And now I am patching up the damage a little bit at a time.And I have begun to try and get on with the business of having a life. I meet with friends. I stay responsible for social contact. I run errands. I do stuff. And every day it gets a little bit easier.
My life has turned around nearly 100% from where I was last year at this time. I have plans. I have some good things happening. I am participating in my marriage as more or less an equal partner. We look forward to what the future may hold for us. I am beginning to sometimes feel normal. That I don't have to be other. That I am not only a pile of broken and sad and yuck, no matter what was drilled into me from a very young age. I can be sad and I can feel hurt and I won't have to cut off the world or cut or scratch myself to control the pain. I am a person who is learning to have a life, to allow myself to have hope and dreams again. And I am so late to the party for so many things and just trying to make up for lost time.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
This is photoblog!
You have to read that title in your best County Fair Demolition Derby Announcer voice. You do have one, don't you? Doesn't everyone?
I am too lazy to do a real blog post, but need to exercise these writing muscles just a wee little bit. NaNoWriMo will be here again before I know it and I have no idea if I am going to go for it again this year or not, but I need to get into a much better writing practice.
So let's dive right in, shall we? With a photo.
Looks a piece of bread with jam on it, right? It is. But this is why it's a big deal for me tonight: I drove alone to the grocery store wearing no makeup at all on my face to buy that bread. While I was in the store shopping I went from one entire side of it to the other, stopping to go up one middle aisle for oatmeal. I stopped by the alcove for the bathroom to put my palm flat on the wall for one second and then checked out and came home and put my home canned jam on this bread and am now sitting here eating it with wall germs on my left hand. Because I can't wash my hand yet. And when I do finally wash my hands? I have to make a tally mark on in my notebook of banned behaviors to keep track of how often i wash my hands. Because on Thursday? It was 18 times that I remembered to mark it. And that didn't even seem like a lot to me at all.
Why do I have to do these random weird things? Because before July 2, 2013 my driver's license had been expired for 5 years. Because I didn't go anywhere by myself because I was too frightened. And then I stopped going anywhere at all pretty much for around 2 years. And I don't ever want to get back to being that sick again. So I touch walls. I make random small talk with strangers. I eat pretzels from a bag that my husband put there for me because he isn't a good hand washer and I don't like to eat food he has touched unless I have inflicted my OCD on him. I don't get to ask him to wash up before he touches the pretzels, and he can't do it right after he showers. I mentioned before that these are my troubles, and this is how I am tackling them. One weird task at a time.
Also? I'm not allowed to knit in public for the time being. Coping mechanism, ritual, barrier...blah blah blah words. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. When I sit in a waiting room all I want to do is knit, the calming motion of the needles, yanking yarn up every row or so with my right hand. Instead I sit there and let the awkwardness just roll over me. I look at the magazines and mentally alphabetize them. I imagine them being in a tidy pile on the table. Or at least not left wide open on the table, Jesus Tapdancing Christ, people, REALLY? Close the magazine for fuck's sake!
If it's really bad, I can knit. But I am suppose to dole out the knitting in public like Klonopin: sparingly on an as needed basis. And I am tenacious and don't like to give in, so I just knuckle down and don't whip out the knitting. Sometimes I take it in with me in case I need it, sometimes I leave it in the car. Or even leave it at home.
But there has been knitting. I actually feel a renewed interest in knitting at home, possibly fueled by excellent shows on Netflix. I finished my Shalom. I love it. If I get my shit together tonight I may also finish my September Swing cardi and then can see how fast I can knit up Juliet.
Oh and while I am here, my liver seems to have passed muster as of earlier this month. I still have to be careful, but my numbers were within normal range for the first time this year. It's promising.
I am too lazy to do a real blog post, but need to exercise these writing muscles just a wee little bit. NaNoWriMo will be here again before I know it and I have no idea if I am going to go for it again this year or not, but I need to get into a much better writing practice.
So let's dive right in, shall we? With a photo.
Why do I have to do these random weird things? Because before July 2, 2013 my driver's license had been expired for 5 years. Because I didn't go anywhere by myself because I was too frightened. And then I stopped going anywhere at all pretty much for around 2 years. And I don't ever want to get back to being that sick again. So I touch walls. I make random small talk with strangers. I eat pretzels from a bag that my husband put there for me because he isn't a good hand washer and I don't like to eat food he has touched unless I have inflicted my OCD on him. I don't get to ask him to wash up before he touches the pretzels, and he can't do it right after he showers. I mentioned before that these are my troubles, and this is how I am tackling them. One weird task at a time.
Also? I'm not allowed to knit in public for the time being. Coping mechanism, ritual, barrier...blah blah blah words. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. When I sit in a waiting room all I want to do is knit, the calming motion of the needles, yanking yarn up every row or so with my right hand. Instead I sit there and let the awkwardness just roll over me. I look at the magazines and mentally alphabetize them. I imagine them being in a tidy pile on the table. Or at least not left wide open on the table, Jesus Tapdancing Christ, people, REALLY? Close the magazine for fuck's sake!
If it's really bad, I can knit. But I am suppose to dole out the knitting in public like Klonopin: sparingly on an as needed basis. And I am tenacious and don't like to give in, so I just knuckle down and don't whip out the knitting. Sometimes I take it in with me in case I need it, sometimes I leave it in the car. Or even leave it at home.
But there has been knitting. I actually feel a renewed interest in knitting at home, possibly fueled by excellent shows on Netflix. I finished my Shalom. I love it. If I get my shit together tonight I may also finish my September Swing cardi and then can see how fast I can knit up Juliet.
Oh and while I am here, my liver seems to have passed muster as of earlier this month. I still have to be careful, but my numbers were within normal range for the first time this year. It's promising.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Well, this is a thing that happened.
Thirteen years ago I was diagnosed with a genetic disorder called Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia. There are different forms of it, if you have ever heard of it before it's probably been the classic form where girls are born with ambiguous genitalia and the sex of the baby cannot always be determined by looking. It's more than that, though. The classic form can be fatal because it can cause salt-wasting. The non classic form, which I was told that I had, has symptoms like irregular menses, hair loss, weight gain and other delights. The symptoms are very much like Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome but PCOS is based in insulin resistance while NCCAH is based on a body that doesn't make enough of the hormone cortisol and in trying to stimulate the adrenal glands to make enough, too many other hormones are produced and things get out of whack.
So I was told I was essentially infertile on my own, and my husband and I would need genetic counseling if we did decide to have children with fertility assistance. CAH can be fatal in infants and children if there is salt-wasting or an adrenal crisis occurs. I was twenty six years old and had been married for three years. I grieved. I always wanted a baby, maybe two. My husband was less certain, I knew he was a fence sitter. But this seemed to close that door for me. But my husband, I think, was in some way relieved, he could now freely state that he was positive that he did not want children. Ever.
For several reasons it was a rough patch for us at that time. There were growing pains for us. Some typical of young marriages, some maybe less so. And then we found this out and it seemed to help us find some common ground again and we worked out some issues and moved on confident that not having children was the right course for us, the only course, really, since I was defective.
Fast forward to December 31st, 2012. As I am being triaged in the emergency room I have to make sure they know I have CAH, because I will probably need steroid support to keep me from having an adrenal crisis after vomiting more than I ever thought was possible for one human to vomit. It is noted in my charts, the next few days were a blur for me between dehydration and massive amounts of dilaudid for pain control. Things got more clear after a PICC line was started and I began to get hydrated for real 48 hours after I was admitted. CAH was not brought up again and I kept forgetting to ask. I assumed at some point, I was given steroids.
Seeing my new GP once I was sprung she noticed that I had not been given steroids, she asked some questions and we focused on the issues at hand. It kept kind of popping up in the back of my mind. So after a couple months, I asked my psychiatrist and therapist if it was possible that my adrenal issues could be affecting my anxiety levels. Their answers were a resounding YES. So I asked my GP if we could test that. We did, and holy wow did I open a can of worms. My results were not what we expected. So she referred me to a new endocrinologist.. Which made sense anyway, since I am now diabetic and have a thyroid that has decided to crap out on me as well. So I go. More blood was drawn. Saliva was collected. Again,the results were not adding up. He decided on one more test, an ACTH stimulation test, which would be conclusive once and for all.
It was conclusive, and the conclusion was that I do not have this genetic disorder. I never did. The labs all indicate that I have healthy and functional adrenal glands. My CT scans from pancreatitis were reviewed again to look at my adrenals glands, no lumps or bumps on them. Healthy. Which is good, do not get me wrong, one less thing that can kill me? Yeah, I am more than happy to take that. Bring that shit ON.
But also, I was probably never infertile. I was never at risk for passing along a fatal disorder. I had choices that I never thought were going to be available to me. But I'm not 26 anymore. And my health has taken a serious hit this year. And my husband is more convinced than ever that he doesn't want to share his life with children. Just when I am realizing it's something I might have wanted after all. But if that door is still open at all, it's closing fast. And there is only one person I would want to have children with, and he is positive he doesn't want them.
How did that happen? There was a shitload of blood work to get that diagnosis, it's a fairly straightforward process. It's not really something that could be accidentally interpreted. And even if it was, I had follow up labs. I had followups after she began treating me with steroids. For a year. I was on corticosteroids for a year. For nothing. Steroids that can impair your insulin response. And that reproductive endocrinology clinic has since closed down and my records were lost in one of the floods in my house, and my new doctor could not get ahold of my original labs to see why I ever would have been misdiagnosed.
So that's where I am now. I have known this for nearly a week and the shock of it all still takes my breath away and makes me cry. What I am most angry about, I think, is that with proper treatment I might not have ended up diabetic at age 38. That we could have treated my insulin resistance and I could have implemented lifestyle changes 13 years ago that would still be benefiting me today. And I also feel like I have some more grief about choices I never had the chance to make. I am sad and I am angry. I am so angry.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Explore Monogamy
Remember in the 80s when George Michael's video for I Want Your Sex had him write that on his beard girlfriend? Or, remember in the 80s when that song was still shockingly risque and was banned from the radio in a lot of places? That seems so quaint now.
Anyway, this post is about monogamy. Sort of. But not that kind. I mean knitting monogamy. Picking just one project and plowing through until it's done. I go in starts and fits with this practice. On the one hand, I can see that when I am faithful to one project then I actually end up with finished knits instead of 85 in progress. And since it's going to stay winter here all damn year this year, I might well be wearing these handknits in July. On the other hand, I get enticed by new yarns or patterns and cannot help myself before I am casting on just one more cowl. Or sock. Or cardi. Or...you get the picture.
Last weekend I looked at my Color Affection and decided it was Time To Finish that bastard. I was sick of the sight of it, so I knuckled down and knit hours and hours on it while watching tv or listening to an audio book. And to my great surprise, I got it done.
And now that it's done I went to rummage in my other UFO's and started to think maybe I should really give knitting monogamy a serious try. Maybe I should try and stick to one project and one sock for riding in the the car and sitting in waiting rooms. Which I realize isn't totally monogamous but it's not always practical to haul my my main project around with me.
So today is a rainy, cold and generally crappy day and I am on my last dose of antibiotics that seem to give me heartburn. I decided there is really no better day to grab one of those UFO's and see how much I can churn out while snuggled up with some hot tea and a good book on my ipod. So today I will be forging ahead on my Helleborus Scarf and seeing how far I can go before getting bored with it and picking up a cardi. I have around 8 inches of it worked up so far using these yarns. I'm really looking forward to having it done and being able to inject some color into my life while Milwaukee is muddy and grey.
Anyway, this post is about monogamy. Sort of. But not that kind. I mean knitting monogamy. Picking just one project and plowing through until it's done. I go in starts and fits with this practice. On the one hand, I can see that when I am faithful to one project then I actually end up with finished knits instead of 85 in progress. And since it's going to stay winter here all damn year this year, I might well be wearing these handknits in July. On the other hand, I get enticed by new yarns or patterns and cannot help myself before I am casting on just one more cowl. Or sock. Or cardi. Or...you get the picture.
Last weekend I looked at my Color Affection and decided it was Time To Finish that bastard. I was sick of the sight of it, so I knuckled down and knit hours and hours on it while watching tv or listening to an audio book. And to my great surprise, I got it done.
 |
| Madtosh sock in Kelp, Twig, and Mansfiel'd Garden Party |
So today is a rainy, cold and generally crappy day and I am on my last dose of antibiotics that seem to give me heartburn. I decided there is really no better day to grab one of those UFO's and see how much I can churn out while snuggled up with some hot tea and a good book on my ipod. So today I will be forging ahead on my Helleborus Scarf and seeing how far I can go before getting bored with it and picking up a cardi. I have around 8 inches of it worked up so far using these yarns. I'm really looking forward to having it done and being able to inject some color into my life while Milwaukee is muddy and grey.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Well, that was awkward.
So I had to do bloodwork today. I thought it was fasting. So of course, it was not. And I fasted for naught. Which is no big deal, but I also did not eat enough yesterday at ALL by accident. I got busy doing stuff and never felt hungry. The end result was I only got in just over 450 calories for the day. Which is not at all ideal and something I try to avoid. And I was concerned about fasting because I sometimes get a low from a calorie deficit with Metformin. But I also knew my anxiety would raise my blood glucose so I was probably going to be just fine for a few hours into the day even with no food at all.
Since The Man has to cart my ass there, I wanted to get there early to get it done with as little disruption to his day as possible, they open at 7 so the plan was to get there soon after. I woke up at 4:30, and didn't really fall deeply asleep again. So I got up as planned at 5 and got ready for the day. Trying to use my mindful breathing as the panicky feelings about going to the doctor's office would bubble up. Trying to not bite The Man's head off everything he spoke to me. Trying to think calming thoughts and focus on it being over soon. I'm not scared of needles or blood at all, it's just being there that I don't like. Because I know they have to touch me. And I know it's the doctor's office. And so...panic.
But I was powering through. We got there. The lab wasn't open yet, but I had knitting. So it was good. I sat down and got the knitting. The lab opened. They called me in. I babbled about my shitty, shitty veins and apologized. They looked over my chart and saw I only needed thyroid and liver panel today, so I totally could have eaten some breakfast. DUDE. Dammit. Whatevs. Once again, I don't know what magic this place has but they got the first vein in one stick again like a motherfucking boss. WOOT.
Then they handed me a cup and pointed me to the bathroom for a urine sample. Now, for the people who have spent more than 15 minutes in my presence you already know this, I can pee. I usually always have to pee. I pee all the goddamn time. When I gotta pee, it's all my mind can focus on and can't unfocus it until I just go. I have a walnut sized bladder, I swear. I had consumed extra extra water yesterday to try and plump up my veins for the draw. I drank a full glass this morning with my morning meds. I walked into that bathroom and everything just went to hell.
First of all, the towelette they gave me to use first had coconut acid as the second ingredient. FUCK. I am allergic to that. But rules is rules. I used it, hoping that somehow I would not be dosing the hoo-ha with too much coconut. And then....nothing. Really nothing. I couldn't go. I thought calm thoughts. I did diaphragmatic breathing. I thought of waterfalls, rivers, drips, and still nothing. I ran warm water over my hands in the sink. In the end I managed about a teaspoon. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Well, shit...what do I do now? I can't go back into the lab, I can't just leave. I shamefully walked to the checkout area and tried to hide my container from view and just said "I can't pee." She said I could drink water and wait. I said "No, I mean I can't pee here. I just...I can't." She sent me back to the lab where I had to explain myself and my performance anxiety, and my lack of usable sample. So they gave me a to-go bag and instructions for when to bring it back in to them. So awkward, but not nearly as much as the time I had to collect...umm...other samples. While living in a dorm and sharing a bathroom with many, many women. And then when I took it to the hospital to drop off the lab tech knew me from classes. So it was "Oh hi, how are you, you're in my such and such class, aren't you? yadda yadda yadda...." And then there is me "Ummm, so here is my poop, ok thanks bye." There should really be an unspoken rule about lab workers, they should just pretend they don't know you. No matter how well they might actually know you, you should get to pretend that you're anonymous at that moment of handing over the paper bag with your name on it.
So now I am home, pretty much chilled out for the next several hours thanks clonazepam being my co-pilot, already showered again to try and negate any residual coconut acid poisoning and of course, now I have to pee like every 45 minutes from all the damn water I have consumed.
Since The Man has to cart my ass there, I wanted to get there early to get it done with as little disruption to his day as possible, they open at 7 so the plan was to get there soon after. I woke up at 4:30, and didn't really fall deeply asleep again. So I got up as planned at 5 and got ready for the day. Trying to use my mindful breathing as the panicky feelings about going to the doctor's office would bubble up. Trying to not bite The Man's head off everything he spoke to me. Trying to think calming thoughts and focus on it being over soon. I'm not scared of needles or blood at all, it's just being there that I don't like. Because I know they have to touch me. And I know it's the doctor's office. And so...panic.
But I was powering through. We got there. The lab wasn't open yet, but I had knitting. So it was good. I sat down and got the knitting. The lab opened. They called me in. I babbled about my shitty, shitty veins and apologized. They looked over my chart and saw I only needed thyroid and liver panel today, so I totally could have eaten some breakfast. DUDE. Dammit. Whatevs. Once again, I don't know what magic this place has but they got the first vein in one stick again like a motherfucking boss. WOOT.
Then they handed me a cup and pointed me to the bathroom for a urine sample. Now, for the people who have spent more than 15 minutes in my presence you already know this, I can pee. I usually always have to pee. I pee all the goddamn time. When I gotta pee, it's all my mind can focus on and can't unfocus it until I just go. I have a walnut sized bladder, I swear. I had consumed extra extra water yesterday to try and plump up my veins for the draw. I drank a full glass this morning with my morning meds. I walked into that bathroom and everything just went to hell.
First of all, the towelette they gave me to use first had coconut acid as the second ingredient. FUCK. I am allergic to that. But rules is rules. I used it, hoping that somehow I would not be dosing the hoo-ha with too much coconut. And then....nothing. Really nothing. I couldn't go. I thought calm thoughts. I did diaphragmatic breathing. I thought of waterfalls, rivers, drips, and still nothing. I ran warm water over my hands in the sink. In the end I managed about a teaspoon. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Well, shit...what do I do now? I can't go back into the lab, I can't just leave. I shamefully walked to the checkout area and tried to hide my container from view and just said "I can't pee." She said I could drink water and wait. I said "No, I mean I can't pee here. I just...I can't." She sent me back to the lab where I had to explain myself and my performance anxiety, and my lack of usable sample. So they gave me a to-go bag and instructions for when to bring it back in to them. So awkward, but not nearly as much as the time I had to collect...umm...other samples. While living in a dorm and sharing a bathroom with many, many women. And then when I took it to the hospital to drop off the lab tech knew me from classes. So it was "Oh hi, how are you, you're in my such and such class, aren't you? yadda yadda yadda...." And then there is me "Ummm, so here is my poop, ok thanks bye." There should really be an unspoken rule about lab workers, they should just pretend they don't know you. No matter how well they might actually know you, you should get to pretend that you're anonymous at that moment of handing over the paper bag with your name on it.
So now I am home, pretty much chilled out for the next several hours thanks clonazepam being my co-pilot, already showered again to try and negate any residual coconut acid poisoning and of course, now I have to pee like every 45 minutes from all the damn water I have consumed.
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