So long since I've blogged: A story in two parts

The problem with blogging about your life is knowing where to draw the line. It seems there should be a line, but where to draw it? Do you draw it when you believe that others might be angered? Do you draw it to protect the privacy of others even when you expose the details of your own life?

Do you sugarcoat when you should not, because you're afraid?

There's the question. And, of course, the follow up question: what do you fear?

So.

But before I say anything else, the perfect evening in Syracuse, New York (for Anne):

part one (or, gloriousness, experienced):

Once upon a time, back when I was still married (and, it turns out, clueless), my husband and I spent a lot of time in Syracuse. We had friends there, we liked going there, and there was a festival we liked to go to in the summer, so we would often travel there.

In the summer of 2005, we drove to Syracuse. I remember it clearly (driving out, singing "What it Takes" along with the radio and dancing in the car) and stayed at the Mark. One warm, glorious summer evening, we went into Armory Square and got drinks at the Blue Tusk. We sat outside, where I could see the Soundgarden (a fabulous music store) and talked. It was one of those nights where you discuss everything and nothing. It was warm and beautiful -- the sun was setting over the buildings to my back, so the street was illuminated with twilight; it was also illuminated with luminaria, as unbeknownst to me, there was some sort of Armory Square fabulousness going on. All of the stores put luminaria out, and about two blocks away from us, there was a concert involving local opera singers.

So there we were: my then husband. Me. Streets full of flickering luminaria. And then, wafting through the evening -- Verdi. A glass of Pinot Grigio (okay, maybe more than one glass). Conversation. Harmony. The lowering purple night.

I remember thinking, this may be the most perfect moment I have ever experienced.

If you had told me then that, a year later, I would be in the same seat but desperately trying to save my marriage, I would not only have called you a liar, I would have punched you as hard as I could. But that is, perhaps, a story for another day.

part two (or, why I haven't blogged in weeks):

It's hard to be diagnosed with depression and then to tell people what's wrong with you, because they often want to tell you that it's an overused diagnosis, that we as a society are overmedicated, that shit happens and you need to get over it.

So you don't say anything, and you let them wonder. Or you DO say something and then face judgement and speculation.

For the record: I was diagnosed in 2004 (I think) but I already knew that something was not right and had NEVER been right, but I was afraid to say anything because I knew that people would have things to say that I didn't necessarily want to hear. The only reason I said anything to my doctor was this: I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't get help; the fear of that was greater than the fear of what would happen if I had to tell people I had a problem.

I think it should be noted that there is a difference between depressing ("Dustin Pedroia will be on the DL for HOW long? Man that's depressing") and depressed ("I think I would like to stay here in this dark room for many many days, seriously considering how much better off everyone would be if I were not here"). If you do not deal with depression, I don't think you understand it, and it's easy to write it off or to make it a joke (a family member: "I'm glad you're crazy and not me."), but it's not funny, and it shouldn't be written off.

The doctor prescribed medication. I took it with gratitude. It helped, though it was weird. (When you know you're on meds, it makes your experiences suspect. Does this REALLY make me happy? Are things REALLY okay? Can I trust my perceptions? Could I not trust them before? DAMN, but it's a good thing this is an antianxiety drug!!!)

Then I was getting divorced -- which was hard and sucky, plus my health insurance was suddenly canceled (which, to be fair, I don't think my ex did on purpose) -- it's NOT a good idea to go off meds like, say, Lexapro, cold turkey. FYI, it can jack up your heart rhythym, and you could die. I obviously did not die, but I didn't feel well. Also, driving off a bridge on the way home from work sometimes seemed like an okay idea. (Again, I didn't. But it was only because I had a group of very concerned friends keeping very close tabs.)

I never got back on a program. Mostly I do okay. Sometimes, not so much. Lately, things have been hard for a number of reasons that I don't want to get into right now. But I have fought through them, and I will keep fighting, and I refuse to give up. (Which is what happens when you have depression AND are STUBBORN and pigheaded.)

But.

I have been inspired by Casey at Moosh in Indy (http://mooshinindy.com/) to be honest and to share what I've got going on in the hopes that maybe -- just possibly -- it will help someone else. I didn't blog because I didn't know what to say and because I was afraid. Fear? Useless. Helps no one. Honesty? Might give people hope.

I will no longer let fear keep me silent.

And? I hope to have many more perfect evenings.

Fourth of July

I'm a military minded girl. Many members of my family served in the military: both grandfathers and my step-grandfather; my cousin; my ex-husband and ex-father in law; several of my ex-boyfriends; many of my friends are now or have been military types.

For some reason, I think of them -- all of the soldiers I have known, and those I have not, the ones who are still with us and the ones who have gone on -- more on the Fourth of July than on Memorial Day. I don't know why, except that maybe -- maybe it's because Memorial Day is so funereal and somber, and the Fourth of July is celebratory. I like the idea of celebrating what we have here, what people have fought for, and the ongoing fight to keep it.

So to our military, and their families: thank you for what you do every day. God Bless.

Happy Fourth of July!

Friday I'm In Love (July 2, 2010)

Things I'm loving today:

5. My Wally Monster that I made at Build-A-Bear in Boston. He makes me laugh, especially when I remember this conversation:

Lady at store: "And who is this for?"

Me: "My... nephew. Yeah. My nephew. He's ... eight."

Lady at store: Oh! Does he love the Red Sox?

Me: He sure does!

Lady: If he takes this to a game, Wally might sign it for him! I bet he'd love that!

Elderly British People behind me in line, all excited: We don't understand your American baseball. But we hope your nephew's team wins and that he likes his new toy!

As it turns out, I'm not too proud to invent a nephew so I can justify being in a toy store, buying something. That's awesome.

4. The ability to make my mom laugh. My mom has the GREATEST laugh. I could listen to it all day long.

3. Talking with the Flink on the phone.

2. Lazy Daisy Sangria. I have made full on, traditional sangria. It's delicious. So is this: One bottle of red wine + one sliced up orange + one can of pineapple chunks (with juice) + splash of cranberry juice + can of lemonylimey soda.

You're welcome.

1. The memory of a single, perfect evening in Syracuse, New York circa summer of 2005 and the realization that sometimes, one beautiful moment can make it so the rest of the not so lovely moments were completely worth it -- and that you can take that perfect evening and use it as a platform for forgiveness.

Friday, I'm In Love

I would like to start a new tradition: Fridays will be a list of 5 things I LOVE. (Reminding yourself of fabulousness as you look forward to a weekend never hurts!)

5. Michael Jackson's Thriller. I was in second or third grade when that record came out. As such, I own it on vinyl. It's still awesome. Whatever else was true about Michael Jackson, that record is reflective of genius. (There's a video retrospective on right now as it's the anniversary of his death, but I'm turning it off to listen to Thriller in all of it's original scratchy vinyl glory)

4. The video for Smooth Criminal. It's sooooo cooooool. (How cool? You ask? This cool: www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-WVpQ0ZG8Q )

(Thus endeth the Michael Jackson portion of the list)

3. Seeing the sunrise on my early morning walks. Being outside at 6:00 AM is kind of a shock to my (not so much awake) system, but it's a wonderful way to start the day. This morning the sunrise over the tobacco fields (yes, you read that correctly) was BEAUTIFUL.

4. Crazy nailpolish colours. Too fun.

5. This little face, watching me adoringly as I work:

The Space Between

I am getting serious about the packing. Here's how I know: I had the afternoon off. Did I go to the spa? Did I drink boat drinks on the deck? (By the way - according to the thermometer on the deck, it is currently 110 degrees out there. Welcome to summer in North Carolina.) Did I get a pint of Ben and Jerry's and curl up on the sofa to see what shenanigans are currently going on in Port Charles?

No.

I cleaned.

To be more specific, I cleaned the one area of my living space that I NEVER clean. I try to pretend it doesn't exist. I don't go there, I don't look there, and I certainly don't PUT things there, because I know that if I do, they're gone forever, never to be seen or heard from again. Yes, that's right ... I cleaned (represses a shudder) ... BENEATH MY BED.

I have SERIOUS issues with the space beneath the bed.

First: Was anyone else completely traumatized by the movie "Poltergeist"? The clown doll? Under the bed? I was ALREADY afraid of clowns, hello, and now I had to worry that there was one under my bed. Lurking in the darkness. Waiting for an unsuspecting me to hang my head over the edge and peer underneath so that it could unleash some sort of vile butchery upon my person.

Second: The older you get, the bigger the bed, am I right? Storing stuff under the twin bed of my childhood was questionable (see "first") but at least then I could REACH it. As I get older and the bed gets bigger, I've noticed that there's some sort of gravitational pull to the CENTER of the space underneath the bed, and that anything you might possibly need (the matching shoe, the book you accidentally kicked under there in your morning pre coffee fog, the emergency flashlight for when the power goes out) gets sucked RIGHT to that spot. Which, of course, you can't reach unless you're Yao Ming. (And even then, it might be iffy).

Third: Asthma. Allergies. Dust Bunnies. Enough said.

For years, I didn't HAVE a "space beneath the bed" because -- tricky crafty me -- I didn't have a bed. I sat a box spring and mattress directly on the floor and was all "Look at me, I'm so artsy and bohemian!" At some point in my twenties, though, I suddenly became a fan of things like: furniture. Chairs. Dishes. The trappings of adult life. Instead of living like a freewheeling hippie chick who could throw her matress in a truck at any moment and relocate, I wanted to have, you know, a home.

It happens.

So I got a real bed. It was second hand and kind of rickety. Then I fell in love and bought a house and got a better bed -- a really cool bed. And then I moved again and bought a monstrosity of a bed, a ridiculous bed, all made of wood and iron and awesome. I LOVE it.

But seriously, the space underneath it is like a cavern with a very very low hanging ceiling. I can't get under there. That does not stop my STUFF from getting under there, though; I have known for a while that there might be a, erm, situation under there, and at some point I would have to deal with it. Just put on my big girl pants and go to town.

Today was apparently the day. It went pretty well, to be honest. I put a flashlight or two at the edges so I could see under there, armed myself with a yardstick (for the "poke it over to the other side of the bed" method of trying to move things to where I could reach them) and a coat hanger (for the "hook it and drag it toward me" method of moving things where I could reach them) and a glass of wine (in case either of the other methods failed and I had to resort to the "try to get under the bed and reach it with my actual hands" method).

I learned a few things though. First, that I am really not a messy person. Everything was either in neat rows (and out of reach, so how they were so neatly lined up is a bit of a mystery) or in shoe boxes, or nicely stacked. It was a pleasant surprise, which was quickly followed by a less pleasant surprise.

Which was this: I have a flip flop problem.

To be fair, I don't think I BOUGHT all of those flip flops. I simply COULDN'T have. There's no way. I mean, yes, I wear flip flops pretty much 24/7 and I work from home so shoes are totally optional AND I live in North Carolina where you can kind of get away with the flippies all year round (and for those days you can't, I have SHEARLING flip flops which may be indicative of the severity of my problem), but ... we're talking many many pairs of flip flops.

There is only one logical conclusion: They're BREEDING under there. That's got to be it. So I'm conducting an experiment: I left two pairs under the bed, all by themselves. I'll check under there again in a few weeks.... and if there are more than two pairs of flip flops, it has to do with the Curse of the Space Under The Bed, and it's not MY shopping issue. Right?

Right.

Little Wing

It's Father's Day.

My father and I have a difficult relationship. We're not close. There are situations where an excellent memory is a blessing, but it is often true that it can also be a curse.

For Father's Day, though, a story: Once, when I was a girl (and that very phrase makes me marvel -- when did I get so old as to be able to begin in such a way?) I was walking in the narrow hall that lead from our kitchen to the bedrooms when I heard a shrill, distressed peeping. I went into the bedroom my parents shared and there, in the window, was a small bird. It clung to the window screen. Behind it, two larger birds answered its cries, swooping at intervals from the pine trees in our side yard.

I could tell something was wrong. I ran for my parents. "There's a baby bird caught in your window screen!"

My parents and my sister came to see. The baby bird seemed unable -- or unwilling -- to release its hold on the mesh, as though it had been trying to fly, had failed somehow in the lesson, and was now too afraid to let go, despite the frantic calls of the other birds that I imagined were the parents.

"Stay in the house," my dad said.

He went to the basement and got a heavy pair of work gloves, then went outside and took the tiny, trembling body into his hand and, as gently as possible, worked the fledgling's talons free from the screen. All the while, the larger birds both scolded him at the top of their birdy lungs -- and, in an effort to protect their young -- hurled themselves at his head. He didn't swat at them or let go of the baby bird. He simply kept at his task until it was free; when it finally was, he opened his hand and off it flew. My sister and I clapped with joy.

We spent the whole summer RUNNING out of the house, because whenever we went outside, the birds attacked us. There was no room for gratitude in their feathery brains; they didn't see my dad as the human who rescued their baby, but as the giant who had traumatized their entire family beyond belief.

I never minded dashing from the house to the car, though, or the fact that suddenly going to the end of the driveway to get the mail was an event of Olympic and possibly fatal dimensions (I suspect that my mother, who fears birds and who had to hang the wash in the backyard to dry, had entirely different feelings about the fact that the birds wanted to maim us all), because I had seen a side of my father that I had never seen. He could be kind. He could be gentle.

I could whisper it to myself: My father saves birds.

She Works Hard For the Money

I should start by saying this: I love my job.


I do love it. It suits me. I work from home, so I have no commute (and since I've totalled TWO cars in accidents during the commutes for previous jobs -- I LOVE the lack of a commute!). I don't have to dress up. I don't have to wear shoes! I can sing show tunes at my desk and no one cares! I can drink RIDICULOUS amounts of coffee and the resulting hyperactivity doesn't annoy anyone!


I LOVE my job.


Some days, though .... some days ...


To be fair, don't all jobs have "those days"? Sure they do. I can usually keep it in perspective. For example, was I hit by a bus while on the way to work today, causing the airbag to deploy and therefore dislocate the thumb on my dominant hand in two places and leaving me in a cast for several months? (Look, I'm a crash test dummy!) No, I was not.


Was I punched in the head while trying to break up a fight in the lobby, knocked to the floor, and kicked several times? (I LIVE for adventure!) No, I was not.


Perspective. It's important.


Oh, but sometimes? The perspective is hard to maintain. I find myself on the slippery slope of stress related anxiety despite the fact that I am gleefully barefoot, listening to Bob Marley, and absentmindedly scritching Bean the cat as she purrs with contentment. I KNOW I have it good. I do! But it's work and work has stress and I get bogged down in the details -- did this sub complete the job properly? Is that contact calling us back? Are WE calling that contact back? Are the clients happy? Are the subs happy? Are my coworkers happy? How about my boss? Is HE happy? Are things going well? are they now? how about now? Now?


I know that things can go from good (driving to work, singing along with Dave Matthews on a pretty September morning) to VERY VERY BAD (broadsided by an intoxicated driver who runs a red light at 45 mph) in less than 2.7 seconds. I'm good at my work because I keep an eye out for the drunk driver zipping along the back roads, waiting for traffic lights to run, and often I can redirect traffic to avoid them. Once in a while, though, they weave past me and plow right into something that has been carefully and lovingly constructed.


Yesterday was a "slipped past the roadblock" day. Let's just say that. Let's also say this: no one punched me in the head. I didn't get hit by a bus. Some perspective, please.


Let's hope today is better.