Jim Croce, Rockwell, and Talking Heads

Last time I posted, I told you I'd tell you all about the cats.  Well, I've already posted a few times about Booker and Wendy, so I'll only touch on them, but I will give you an update on the newest fur kid, Archimedes a.k.a. Archie.

Booker the Wonder Kitty (a.k.a. Booker, Boo, and Fat Man, among countless other stupid nicknames) is still 20lbs (though, truthfully, I haven't weighed him lately) and still a sweet boy with approximately two brain cells.  He's extremely vocal and extremely needy and he drools when he's happy.  Boo is now about ten years old and (in my opinion) starting to show his age.  We adopted him from our local shelter in 2016 and they claimed he was two when we got him.  2 + 8 = 10.  (But, I can't "math" so, I might be wrong.)

Wendy Lou (a.k.a. Wendy, Wendel, and Wendelkowsky, among countless other stupid nicknames) is about 8lbs, and she is approximately 17 years old.  She's my princess, my Velcro kitty, my baby girl.  She's wicked smaht (that's for you, Bostonians, though I have no idea why it sounded like that in my head) and sneaky, but she's a sweet, sweet baby.  She's been with us since 2017.  She was adopted (not by us) in 2010 and the shelter folks thought she was probably four.  You do the math.  She might actually be 18 now, I don't know.  (Refer to "math" statement in above paragraph.)

Now - enter Archie.  Hubby found him outside of our house last August.  He was skinny and scared and probably about 12 months old.  He would back himself into a corner and hiss and spit and meow like crazy whenever we saw him, but we both felt it was an "all bark and no bite" situation.  (Watching a little black cat hiss and spit, arch his back and get all puffy made me think we'd picked up a true Halloween kitty!)  Hubby's goal was to get him socialized enough so that we could take him to the vet.  Well, he softened up, became extremely friendly, was (still is) extremely food motivated (I've never seen anything like it), and eventually he went to the vet, got checked over (no diseases, no parasites, perfectly healthy - which was weird for a stray) and was neutered.  Then, right before it got super cold, he came in the house and has been there ever since.

He spent the first several months with us in a very large cage (it took up practically half of our bedroom floor space) because he had trouble socializing with the other fur kids.  Of course, he didn't stay in the cage all the time (we're not monsters) but if he was out in the main house, the other kids were in the bedroom.  It was a juggling act.  It was not only for his own safety, and to get him acclimated to his new situation, but also for the safety of the resident fur kids.

Archie and Boo eventually started doing just fine together, so when Archie was exploring other realms, we left Boo out there to explore with him.  Sometimes there were fisticuffs, but mostly it was annoying little brother to disdainful older brother.

On the flip side, Wendy and Archie still HATE, LOATHE, and DESPISE each other.  She's a scaredy cat by nature so anything new (or loud, or smells weird, or moves too quickly, or possibly looks at her the wrong way) makes her duck and run.  In her mind, this little brother was evil.  And, of course, since she always made (makes) her displeasure known, Archie sees, "Enemy!  Must kill!"  And then the fur flies and the screaming happens.  Oh - the screaming.  Wendy screams even if Archie isn't touching her.  She hates him.  He hates her.  And it was totally stressing her out.  She wasn't eating well, she started to lose weight, her fur was looking straggly - and I'd had it.  She's my baby and, though she's a pain in the ass sometimes, she's old and deserves to feel safe.

So - now Archie and Boo live "outside" our bedroom, and Wendy lives "inside."  She's so much less stressed out.  She's eating well, her fur is back to being it's long, beautiful self, and she's an absolute riot sometimes.  She chases her tail in circles on the bed and gets the zoomies.  Sometimes she seems to wants out of the bedroom but whenever I open the door, Archie is there and he sticks his long arm in the door and starts swiping at her.  Whenever she interacts with Archie (because he's sneaky and FAST and occasionally gets by me when I enter the room) there's still screaming because he still tries to murder-ize her.  I just don't want her getting hurt and Archie is still young and dumb and doesn't know his own strength.  I want to let her out of the room, but I don't trust Archie not to go after her.  He's cornered her under our bed where I can't reach them and started trouble more than once.  I'm not sure she really knows how to fight back other than screaming her fool head off.

I've had people say, "Don't you think you should rehome Archie?" or "Don't you think you should find another place for Wendy?"  NO!  Because they are all family and I absolutely cannot do that to them.  I know it's a struggle and that it isn't an ideal situation for anyone but they're all safe, warm, fed, watered, and loved.  The humans are really the ones who are inconvenienced.  

I don't have much longer to love on my baby girl.  She might live several more years, but she's definitely having trouble with her hips now and, despite the tail chasing and zoomies, she's slowing way, way down.  I coddle her.  I just want her remaining years - however long that may be - to be good ones.  

So, judge me if you will - but I might just judge you back.  Are your fur kids not also your family?  Are you not willing to sacrifice for them the way you might sacrifice for your human kids?  (Ok - maybe not exactly the same, but you get the picture.)  And yes, I realize there are definitely situations where rehoming is the only option, but I do not feel that is the case here.  

So - to recap:

Boo - big and dumb as a man can come.

Wendy - always feel like somebody's watching me.

Archie - psycho killer.

TTFN

JMS

Here I go again...

Admit it, you just added to the title of this post and sang, "...on my own!"  (If you didn't, refer to: Whitesnake, '87.  You might need an 80's music education.)  

It's been nearly one hundred years since I've written anything.  And I do mean anything.  I'm not really sure what happened.

I wish I could say that nothing new has happened, but as my last post was written in June of 2021, and it's now the end of August 2024, I'd be lying to you.  The problem is, so much has happened I wouldn't really even know where to start.  I'm sitting here typing and trying to think of some highlights, so give me few seconds.

1...

2...

3...

Ok - that's enough seconds.

Girl child has had a few pieces of her artwork displayed at the Knoxville Museum of Art.  One of them even won best in the area for 11th grade in fine art!  To say she's amazing would be an understatement.  She still can't keep her room clean to save her life, but - though it pains me to admit it - she is my child.  She's just like I was at her age.  <sigh>

Boy child is now working as a welder.  He's connected with a boilermaker's union and is keeping steady work that he's good at and - I believe - he truly enjoys.  He just bought himself a truck a few weeks ago.  Let's just say that, due to his diligence, commitment, and hard work, he was able to walk away without a payment.

If you've followed any of my previous posts, we now have three, yes three, cats.  My ADD Brain says, "OH!  Now is a great time to tell your dear readers all about your cats and introduce Archie!"  My Rational Brain (and she doesn't show up very often these days) says, "Nope.  You started writing again.  Continue writing, dammit.  You can introduce the cats in another post."  So, as much as I want to tell you all about the fur kids, I'll take the advice of my rational brain.

Hubby is still a massage therapist.  I don't know what else to say there.  Wow - how sad is that?

I'm still working full time.  My health is...weird?  My MS diagnosis back in 2021 threw me off track.  I can't say I'm getting back on track, but I've assimilated and acclimated to the new situation.  I'm tired all the time so have little energy to do much after I've gotten off of work, I still have muscle weakness in my right leg and vague numbness in my right arm and occasionally on my cheekbone, but I'll take that any day over the complete numbness of yesteryear.  But - health issues aside - I'm OK.  I think.

Actually, it occurs to me that I don't think I ever really told you what happened that led to my MS diagnosis.  I even checked my last post to make sure, but nope - no story.

April 2021: 

I woke up at "stupid o'clock" one morning to discover my right leg didn't want to support my weight.  I had gotten up to use the bathroom and it was probably 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning, so my first and immediate, sleep muddled thought was, "Oh, my leg's asleep.  That's OK, I can make it to the bathroom and it'll be fine."  When I woke up the next morning, my leg was still dead.  For all intents and purposes, anyway.  But, what did I do?  I took a shower, got dressed, and drove my dumb ass to work!

I was so focused on my leg, and paying attention to how to walk so I didn't kill myself, it took a while to realize that not only was my leg completely and totally numb (literally zero feeling), so was the entire right side of my body.  It was like someone took a sharpie and drew a line down the middle of my body and said, "Right side?  No more sensations for you!"

My boss at the time was a registered nurse.  He wasn't practicing, but he kept up his license so he was, legitimately, a healthcare professional.  He came into my office at some point that morning, gave me a quizzical look, and said, "OK - what's wrong with you?  You seem...off."  So I told him what was going on with me. (Tangent: one thing you need to know here is that the place where I work has a medical clinic on site.)  He said, "Medical! Right now!"

I told him I was fine, that it was probably just a pinched nerve or something and that it would eventually go away.  He said (and I'm paraphrasing), "You go on your own, or I will haul you there myself."  (This was said out of concern, not malice.)

So, I took myself to medical.  After many tests, they decided to send me to the hospital for a CT scan.  The CT scan indicated Multiple Sclerosis (MS), but my doctor wanted to confirm it and sent me for an MRI.  The MRI confirmed it and my doc then referred me to an excellent neurologist who took me on immediately.  In fact, the neuro's office called me to say that the doc I was to see was on vacation, but she wanted to see me immediately and could I come tomorrow?  She was going to come in, on her day off, to see me personally.  When I saw her, she confirmed - definitely - the MS diagnosis.  We looked at the MRI images and she pointed out the large, bright white, "lesion" on my brain that was clearly causing my issues.  She also pointed out several dark spots that she said indicate I've had for a while and it just went undiagnosed.  Thinking back, I can come up with at least one instance that - if I had investigated further - might have gotten me a diagnosis much sooner.

When I say my right side was numb, I mean that literally.  During all the testing, I got stuck with so many needles it wasn't even funny - and I didn't feel a single one.  They would say, "Which arm do you want me to use?"  Really?  Just stick it anywhere on the right side of my body.  It doesn't matter.  I won't feel it.  They could literally have stuck the needle in my temple and it wouldn't have mattered.

I dealt with the numbness, the initial heavy doses of steroids, the weakness and all the things that happened as my body started to return to what would eventually pass for normal.  There were times when my right knee felt like it was the size of a watermelon.  It wasn't.  Times when the upper part of my leg felt like someone had dipped it into a vat of acid.  It was not, in fact, bubbling with blisters or on fire.  I was not cold, nor was I roasting to death.  All of these things were directly related to my nerves and broken brain.

As I said earlier, I still deal with weakness and numbness, but the biggest issue I deal with these days is my balance.  Which wasn't great in the first place.  Now I walk down a perfectly straight corridor, with perfectly a perfectly flat surface, and weave around like a drunkard.  Stairs are fun.  Thank goodness someone invented railings.  And I find myself wishing there were handicapped rails in every single restroom on the planet.

So that's basically it.  For now.  

Maybe I'll talk about my cats next time.  That's a far more fun topic.

TTFN

JMS

MS and Anger

Today is Thursday.  Yesterday it was two weeks since my Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis on May 19th. Physically, I feel a bit better today than I did yesterday and still better than the day before that, but emotionally yesterday was really, really tough.

Last night I finally cried.  It wasn’t as intense as I expected it to be, but it sure sucked.  I’ve basically been deeply angry (still am) for two weeks, ever since my diagnosis.  Just absolutely fucking furious!  (I will not apologize for my language as I write these entries.  If you’re sensitive, get over it.)  I’m managing to keep it together for the most part, but I started feeling chinks in my well-composed armor a few days ago and understood that the floodgates were about to open, so I was simultaneously prepared and caught off-guard.  Maybe the emotional release of last night isn’t over.  Maybe that was just the start of a larger, more intense one, but at least I was able to let some of it out.

I’ve never been suicidal.  Ever.  I’ve been self-destructive, yes, but never suicidal.  And believe me, if I had ever been, I would not be here right now.  But last night the thought hit me like a truck: I hate my life!  It was so intense, and – from where I thought I was within my own head space – so completely out of nowhere that I suddenly started thinking about what it might be like to just not be here anymore.  Except, in the very same thought – these two thoughts were basically on top of one another – I remembered all the billions of reasons why I would never ever do that.  It isn’t me, and it isn’t fear…it’s my people.  There are too many people that I care too deeply about to ever put them through the pain they’d go through if I were to be selfish enough to take my own life.  For example, I remember what it was to be a young teenager without a mother and would never intentionally put my kids through that pain.  THAT in itself is reason enough, but there are so many more.  So, those thoughts rolling over and around one another in the same millisecond inside my flawed brain were what threw the gates open and allowed the waterworks to start.

Then hubby brought Booker (our 20lb weirdo of a black cat) to me because he’s squishy and sweet and made me feel a bit better.  Then hubby and I sat together, and I relayed some of my thoughts to him.  Not the suicide part.  Not just then.  Because I was mortified that the thought had even crossed my mind, so I eliminated that part from our conversation.  But the anger came through.

Today, now, I still feel very, very fragile emotionally.  And now I have to go to work and try to concentrate but I can’t, and I have so much to do.  I’m waiting for the neurologist to get back to me about whether or not I need another round of steroid infusions and that’s taking longer than I’d like, so I’m frustrated.  I’ll be calling them this afternoon if I don’t hear from them this morning. For now, I’m going to do the next thing. Whatever that next thing is.  Start to finish.  All day long.  And then it will be time for me to go home and do the next thing there.  Step by step, little by little, I will get though this, but right now, there is too much.

TTFN
JMS

Update

October 18, 2018 to June 24, 2020.  That's how long it's been since I last posted to this blog.  Not sure why except maybe there just seems to be too much to say.  Or, not enough.

Quick update - Kiddo is now 16 and driving.  Little Bit is now 13 and thinks she knows all.  We're all in strange times due to this Covid-19 virus and the quarantines.  Hubby hasn't been able to work at all, which is a huge stressor, but I'm grateful to be able to work at home.  I'm working from home most days but am allowed to go into the office one day a week and more if absolutely necessary.  I've been tested for Covid-19 twice, both times with a negative result.  I actually do have a story about that, but maybe for another time.

Booker the Wonder Kitty and Wendy Lou the Tiny Furry Dictator are both still around, of course.  They're a source of constant amusement, weirdness, and joy.  Fuzz Therapy is highly recommended.

I'm still a puppeteer.  If you haven't checked out the videos, find us on Facebook at Hands in Service at Kern or on YouTube at H.I.S. Puppeteers.  Make sure to like and share the videos, and subscribe to the channel!  We're hoping for 100 subscribers!  I guess that's kind of funny when you consider there are YouTube channels out there with thousands...MILLIONS...of subscribers, but we're not in it for the money.  Just the fun.

Anyway - that's it.  That's nearly 2 years worth of updates.  I haven't drawn anything in forever.  I haven't really written anything in forever.  Who knows if I ever will again, but for now I'm not feeling the call to do either - this post not withstanding.  So stay safe.  Stay strong.  Stay healthy.

TTFN
JMS

Anxiety

There is a bubble inside me

It lives just below my chest cavity in a place called the pit of my stomach

I always know it’s there, but I don’t always know what it wants

It wants a piece of me

It wants to devour me whole

Sometimes it rises up and wraps its carefully manicured claws around my ribs and rattles my bones in an attempt to escape its cage

It clings just behind my sternum and hums menacingly next to my heart and in between my lungs

Heart racing

Rapid breathing

I can hear the blood, FEEL the blood, throbbing in my neck! Singing in my ears!

Can’t you hear it, too?

I mean, if I can hear it – it’s deafening – how can you not?

But you look so even!

So calm!

You’ve got it all together.

No! I’ve got ants crawling up and down my body just underneath my skin and thoughts ricocheting off the inside of my skull like projectiles meant to harm and subdue with force but not to kill. Never to kill.

They’re killing me slowly.

And wouldn’t you know that all of this is directly tied to my tear ducts?

Why are you crying?

Why am I crying?

You seriously want to ask that question?

Because I’m not sure you seriously want an answer.

No! Because nothing I can tell you will make you understand when I don’t even understand myself!

I’m fighting phantoms. Real but unseen. Unreal but felt.

Felt so intensely sometimes I can’t walk.

Or breathe.

(They call it asthma. What a joke.)

And when this bubble rises up, it can divide into a thousand tiny shards of glass, splitting me open from the inside.

Can’t you see me bleeding?

I’m screaming!

Writhing in pain and anguish.

But I’m a lake. Smooth and unruffled by breezes.

I’m a smiling, productive, loving, caring, church-going, wife and mother fighting every day of my life for just one single moment of true calm.

I don't even know what that means.

Is that what you see?

My thorough togetherness?

It’s a lie.

No! I’m living in a literal nightmare within my own body. Within my own house. And the chaos is going to sweep me away.

Pray for me. Light a candle for me. Dance skyclad under the dark of the moon for me. Remember that when I tell you I’m fine I’m not. But DO NOT tell me to calm down and that everything will be OK because you don’t know. You cannot know.

I never know.

I’m fragile.

I’m strong.

Seriously?

That seemingly fragile bubble is made of titanium spiked with shards of glass held together by the glue of the waters of time and the blood of my own brittleness.

Take me seriously.

Feel sorry for me.

Or don’t.

I don’t care.

But don’t expect me to be someone I’m not.

By the way, the name of my bubble is Anxiety.

(by me, written October 12, 2018)

Long Weekends: Blessing or Curse?

It's amazing how much a long weekend can disrupt an otherwise mostly-well-oiled routine. I mean, it's just one measly extra day, right?

For example: This weekend was a long weekend. We got an extra day because of the Labor Day holiday, so both kids were off school, and both hubby and I were off work. On this day, we were also invited to spend time with some dear friends of ours who recently got a small watercraft. Yes, I shall even call it a boat, as it is one. With some planning, we met said friends at the local boat ramp and, after a few false starts, managed to be on the water by about 11:00 a.m.

We enjoyed a lovely four solid hours buzzing around on the lake, towing the kiddos behind on a floaty-thing and reveling in their smiles and shrieks of laughter, and generally enjoying the day. Eventually, the aboard-boat snacks couldn't hold back the hunger, so we returned to the boat ramp, replaced the small craft upon its trailer, and headed to a restaurant where we proceeded to eat. A lot.

Fast forward to the next morning.

Kids slow to rise and get moving, so the proverbial Cattle Prods were removed from their safe spot and used liberally. (You do understand, we don't own cattle prods, right?) We left the house about 10 minutes later than usual only to find out that Boy-child had left his lunch box at school on Friday. When I asked him where his lunch was, he said, "In my backpack." I don't even want to know what he did, or did not, pack for lunch. I asked him where his trumpet was (he has band every day!), to which he responded, "Uh....I really don't know." REALLY!? Come on, kid! We called hubby, who said he'd bring it to the school later.

Girl-child, too, forgot her instrument (a viola) and called hubby to beg him to bring it to her.

Both kiddos forgot to brush their teeth, so we made them both go back inside and do that before they left the house. Which, I realize, added to our lateness, but tooth care is important!

Both kids were lethargic and quiet.

Both kids made mention of needing at least six more hours of sleep.

Both kids are going to have to deal with it and get through their respective days.

Welcome to adulthood, boys and girls.

For my part, I went to bed early-ish, got up as usual, got through my routine as usual, didn't forget anything, and, aside from being a bit later in arriving to work than I might prefer, I was still on time. This, friends and neighbors, comes from years and years of experience.

And...telling myself to "Do it anyway."

Even when I don't wanna.

TTFN
JMS

PS: I wish the kids would buy into my mantra!

I am not worthy

I don't even know where to start.  Usually, a good rule of thumb would be to start at the beginning, but in this case, I'm not sure where the beginning, well...begins.

I guess it begins with a visit from my dad. He lives in Massachusetts with my younger (though significantly taller) brother and his family. This is his third visit in the last 2 years and we absolutely LOVE having him. Boy-child and Girl-child think Grandpa is THE BOMB and Uncle J., quite literally, hung the moon. For my part, I am encouraging all of this. I LOVE that my kiddos love their grandfather and uncle, and I love that my father and brother love my kiddos. If spoiling happens when they're around, well...who am I to argue? They get enough structure from hubby and me.

But that's really not why I'm writing this post.

You see, when I knew dad was coming to visit, I remembered what a horrendous mess my house was the last time he came, and how he quietly and sweetly chastised me for my awful housewifery. He never criticized or yelled, but I felt terrible about bad things were. So...I resolved NOT to let my busy life get in the way of making the place habitable and hospitable for his visit this time around.

I especially focused on the kitchen. Not only because the kitchen is usually the hub of any home, but because, in my opinion, it needed the most TLC. Once I started, I had a tough time stopping. I usually HATE cleaning and look upon it as the drudgery it is. But this time, I found some peace in it.

I began by taking everything off the tops of the cabinets. Everything had been up there for uncountable years and was covered in a thick, disgusting mix of dust and air-borne kitchen muck. I washed everything, cleaned off the tops of the cabinets, and put everything back. 

Then everything came out of each cabinet. I culled what was not needed or had expired, donated stuff to charity, washed everything, cleaned each shelf, and put everything back.

Then the counters. Everything off, counters scrubbed to within an inch of their lives, everything wiped down or washed off, and put back.

You see where I'm going. Literally every surface was cleaned. Every item was washed. Everything was rearranged and organized.

Hubby did the fridge (Bless him. I could not do it. I was to scared. I'm pretty sure something was alive in there.). Hubby scrubbed the floor. (I came home to the scent of Lavender Pine Sol. My fav!)

When the kitchen was done, I felt almost...free. Like this awful weight had been lifted and I wanted to make more good things happen in my house. So, I bought a bunch of air-tight glass containers and began "decanting" things into them. Dry beans and coffee, brown and white rice, flour, sugar, salt... I added hand-written labels. 

The rest of the house got a good cleaning, too, but the kitchen...well, that was my prize. Since then, I've been making sure the sink is gleaming at me every night. I've been setting the dishwasher to run overnight. And just knowing this small task is done makes me feel so much calmer in my soul. 

But, it is quite possible this has turned into a bit of an obsession. Good or bad, I don't know.

Let me explain.

I began finding these videos on YouTube: Extreme Cleaning, Clean with Me, Ultimate Deep Clean... They're fascinating. I'm not entirely sure why I would find watching some random woman cleaning her home (which, quite frankly, is already far cleaner when she starts than mine is when I'm done), but I do. 

Here's why I believe I am not (and never will be) worthy.

These women...these people who post videos of themselves cleaning their homes...are amazing. I chuckle a little bit (but not in any serious way) that they dress in casual clothing, or even yoga pants and a tank top, for these videos, but they've done their make-up (full face on), hair up in a pony tail or messy bun, and manage to look more vogue they I could ever be even after a full day prepping for a formal event. (Ha! That'll never happen!) They've got beautiful, bright, open homes, and, even at their messiest, are cleaner than mine.

I think...no one would ever want to watch ME do an Ultimate Deep Clean of my little 1000 sq. ft. Oak Ridge, Tennessee home.  Not that I want to video myself cleaning.

And, though I am kind of obsessed with these videos, they are also kind of disheartening. I will never have a home like one of those. I will never have pretty granite counter-tops, a crystal chandelier over my dining room table, or anything close to resembling a stainless steel, tri-cool refrigerator.

I wonder how I can get so much enjoyment from cleaning my home, and be so fascinated by these videos, and yet still feel so awful, and so much like a failure? It's weird to feel so torn in two like this. Happy about how it feels when I walk into my very small, but clean kitchen vs. how I feel when I begin wishing for things I know I cannot have.

I really WANT to be happy with what I've got. And mostly, I am. But there are days when I wish I could afford to remodel not only my bathroom (because it is in desperate need) but my kitchen, too. And, while I'm at it, I might as well go for gold and wish to have the kitchen look right out onto the living area in a pretty, open-concept floor plan.

Ah...if money were no option and the only thing holding me back was my imagination.

TTFN

JMS

One-sided conversation with my brain

So, speaking of anxiety and things I can't control...

Last night, I was sitting in the living room late at night with Boy-child. Neither one of us could sleep and so we sat and just talked. We discussed his new fish, and what he did on his mission trip, and then came around to high school, which he begins this fall.

It was really only about 30 minutes, but it was a nice thing. Hanging out. Just the two of us quietly chatting.

And then we went to our own beds and I lay down to try to sleep.

BRAIN: Hey! Guess what? Your son is starting high school! Do remember high school? Do you remember how much it sucked for you? What if it sucks for him, too? What are you going to do then, huh? Do you remember that you were only a little older than he is now when your mom died? Do you? Huh? Huh? It was the last day of your freshman year, so you were fifteen. Way to start your summer break. Geez. I mean, seriously, your body is probably already riddled with cancer and you're dying right now and you're going to leave your kids and hubby alone just like your mom did. What would their life be like? Cycle back to the beginning and start over. Let's beat this dead horse to a bloody pulp, shall we? I mean, you don't really need sleep, right? It's not like you have to get up in the morning. Oh, wait, yes you do! Ha! Hey, let's sing "She's a maniac!" She's a maniac! Maniac on the floor! And she's dancing like she's never danced before. Tra La La.

Yeah - this is my brain. And it's no wonder I'm tired all the time. Leave it to my brain to give me something else to stress about that I have no control over. One thing is for sure, I'm going to get every cancer screening I can think of. Hateful disease. Stupid anxiety.

TTFN
JMS

Me vs. My Traitorous Mind

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please watch this video BEFORE reading the post below.

Watching this video, I realized yet again, that I am not the only one who has this problem. BUT, for every person who has anxiety issues, there are just as many people who don’t, cannot, or refuse to, understand the anxious person. I’m no doctor, but neither can I explain WHY I feel or think the things I do.

Granted, a lot of the things I think or feel might not be true, at least as far as the non-anxious person is concerned, but the things ARE true to me.

I DO feel fat and ugly and useless and good for nothing and…(I won’t go on)…even while at the same time I know those things aren’t really true.  Yes, I may be overweight and average-looking (who really cares, right?) but I am not useless and good for nothing. And see…even as I type that my brain is working against me: But what about all those days you come home from work and do nothing except crawl into bed, huh? What about those times? What about when you just want to be left alone and don’t want to talk to anyone, even your family, when all they want is your time and attention?

Well, I can’t explain it. I’m tired. Really, actually, truthfully tired. And it’s not just a physical exhaustion, it’s a mental one – which is even harder to explain. I’ve spent all day “people-ing” and I just don’t have it in me to “people” any more. And every time I hear my name I cringe inside. And stuffing my ears with an audiobook doesn’t help, because I get interrupted anyway. I cannot ever tune out 100% as I want to.

And yes, dammit, it’s freaking selfish. I know it’s selfish. But it’s also self-preservation. And – if I’m being honest – I’m preserving others, too. The 11^th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Harm Self or Others. That’s an institutionalizing offense!

So, when I express aloud that I feel a certain way, and it’s irrational and confusing to you, by the love of all that is holy, please, let it go. (No, I won’t sing.) Just assume it’s my anxiety talking and go with it. Trying to question me, or make me see things a different way, only makes me more anxious and then I yell. Or cry. Or some snotty, tearful combination of both. Suffice it to say, it gets ugly.

Every day I tell myself how awful I look because I FEEL AWFUL!

Every day I wake up and want to immediately put my head right back down on the pillow and IGNORE MY RESPONSIBILITIES in lieu of sleep. Sleep is good. But then I have insomnia, too. So, I have trouble sleeping - both getting there and staying there. And my legs are restless which is SO ANNOYING.

Every day I have to force a smile when I speak to most people. I have to qualify that: MOST people. Not ALL people. There are some people who do not make me anxious, but they’re very few. And people as a general whole, en masse? Nope. Sorry. I’ll stay in bed, thanks.

Every day I tell myself how others feel negatively toward me, no matter what they might say aloud to the contrary. I’m convinced I’m not worth anyone’s real love, attention, or respect.

BUT I STILL TRY. I still try to DO IT ANYWAY. I’ve said this before. I try to get up anyway. Go to work anyway. Talk to people anyway. Smile and be friendly anyway.

And today isn’t any different.

I cannot say doing it all anyway is strength or courage. It isn’t. It’s a survival mechanism.

And you don't want to hear all this crap anyway.

TTFN

JMS

A Little Insight into the Brain of Yours Truly

Today, I have a headache. And I think about how miserable I feel and wish for something stronger than Tylenol. But then all the rational and less selfish thoughts hit me and I think: Other people I know and love have worse and more frequent headaches than I do so I need to quit complaining and then I think about how I'm grateful I'm allergic to most pain medicines so I don't need to worry about addictions and am careful with the one medicine I can take, though it doesn't do much, and then I think, having a headache like this forces me to hydrate, hydrate, hydrate, which makes me think about the church camp in Indiana at which I, and the H.I.S. Puppeteers ministry team, just spent the better part of a week where we pushed the hydrate, hydrate, hydrate mantra because it was so blasted hot and remember how great of an experience that was. And yes, that was all one thought. Go me!

I'll be alright, though. I know this is temporary. I do have to say that when I was in Indiana with the puppeteers, I felt physically more well than I have in a very long time. My allergies hardly bothered me at all, my head didn't hurt, and my asthma was practically non-existent. It sort of made me half-consider moving there just for the health benefits. But then my brain took over and I went though the whole thought process again: What would I do for work and what about hubby? Would he be able to start his business up again there and be successful? And I'd really hate to drag the kids out of a community and a school-system they are familiar with. And what about Sandy-mom? I couldn't leave her here! She'd be all alone and that wouldn't be right. And where would we live? And then again, where would I work? And so what if my allergies are kind of terrible in Tennessee? That's why there's a wonderful thing called allergy medicine, right? Right?

Why does the cycle of my brain continually turn thoughts over and over and over?

I don't know. It's constant, though. Every minute of every single day and sometimes lots of minutes at night when I should be sleeping. Just this running commentary/inner monologue of stuff... Some people call it worry, and that could be the truth. I just don't know. Maybe it's anxiety? I do seem to worry a lot more than other people, but I just haven't been able to master the whole "I don't care" or "Let it go" thing other folks seem to have mastered. Well...not that they don't care, but seem to be far less concerned about EVERYTHING than I am.

I worry about how people perceive me, and then I start with: But who really cares how someone perceives you? I mean,  you're you, right? You're not them. You only need to worry about what you are doing and that you don't intentionally hurt anyone, right? I mean, you're basically a pretty good person so what are you worrying about? Perception is useless, isn't it? Though I guess perception and impressions are nearly one and the same.

And truthfully, it's probably the ADD I've had my whole life. I have learned to live with it and work around it and find things to do that benefit from my active and virtually directionless brain. So all these thoughts - all this stuff that's constantly racing around, pinging off the insides of my skull, screaming for my attention all the time - is just....me. Part of who I am. Whether you love me or hate me is irrelevant. Whether I drive you crazy or not is irrelevant. I cannot help who I am and you cannot fix me. It's taken me a long time to get to this conclusion. And yet...

Yes, I'm sure there is someone out there who CAN fix me with medications. And I'm not opposed to therapy, but have been unlucky in my search for a therapist who meets my needs. And then I also am not pleased with the cost of therapy for mental illness - because the ADD coupled with the anxiety and depression IS a mental illness but it IS NOT something to bash me for or be afraid of - so I just...don't. I don't go to therapy, though I probably should. I don't take medicines for it, though again, it might not hurt.

I was taking an antidepressant for a while, and I'm not really sure why I stopped except that I just never refilled the prescription. I was taking an anti-anxiety medicine for a while, and I know exactly why I stopped that. Oh - THAT'S a story for another post, though. It's a doozy. I had to get beyond it before I could even consider writing about it.

Yeah - you see this? Re-read this post! I'm all over the place today.

FOCUS, JEN! FOCUS! Be Peanut!

TTFN

JMS