It is the season of goodwill, celebration, and family. It is the time, for Christian children to learn the story of a King born, and of a fat man in a red, flannel suit that scurries down chimneys and leaves gifts beyond their wildest dreams. The two seem worlds apart, but history shows that without the love for the Christ child, there would be no St. Nicholas.
I remember making lists, as a child, going through the J.C.Penny catalog and circling toys, and turning down pages so that there would be no doubt as to my desires. Writing the list for Santa was specific, with page numbers and all. And Santa always got it right. And how! I wasn't aware until adulthood that not everyone gets 20 presents from Santa every year. I would relay my treasures to classmates after Christmas break and get curious looks. No wonder they treated me like the plague.
As an adult, when I became a stepmother, I took on the top secret mission of mailing letters to Santa. As my stepdaughter watched, I wrote his name on the envelope, attached the stamp and put it by the door to mail the next day. When she left for school, the letter was removed from the mailbox, stamp retrieved, and letter kept in my wallet. After all, I was part of the Jolly Fat Guy club. I'm not sure if my son wrote letters. How odd that I can't remember that.....
When the days of Christmas arrived, I, along with my children later, practically burst with anticipation. Well, in my case, I anticipated actually receiving the gift, since I'd already found the stash, and knew every gift I was getting. Those days of gift exchanges and huge meals were as much a part of Christmas for us as the actual Birth. Grandparents and Aunts spoiled, parents, too. At the end, everyone was exhausted, but satisfied.
So much happens over the years. Celebrations that once included numbers near 20 are now pared down as loved ones have passed or become ill. Gathering places are lost due to divorce. These changes have been the hardest of all the changes my life has presented me with. One Christmas, it's hoopla at Grandma's, then a quiet gathering at Mom's, and now a trip to the nursing home to see Mom.
Gift-wise, I make sure I am able to get Nick his birthday and Christmas gift, which fall nine days apart. They are not always on time, but they are given. He always knows what he's getting because he has his father's persuasive nature, and always gets it out of me somehow. Well, that, and I have to compare notes with his Dad, and just as the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day, so do Nick's ears when I'm talking to his Dad.
Yes, much has changed. But even when the loneliness of my "new" Christmas tries to grip me, I remember why there were ever toy sections in the catalog, sneaky Santa letter doings, or eating more food in one sitting since...well...Thanksgiving. The Birth of our Saviour, Jesus Christ. The one God sent to a poor couple to teach us, lead us, and die for our sins. What a glorious gift!
However, in the Santa sense of the season, I did something recently I haven't done in perhaps 35 years. I put pen to paper and made my Christmas list. The first things that came to mind were food, bills, gas, and I thought, NO! What, Ann, do you want? Desire to have that you would not spend your money on? Quite a concept for someone who has been living down to her last 12 cents each pay period, and still comes up short on something. What did I want? Well the first item was gas cards, and I know that's a need not a want, but watching the gas needle has become a source of panic for me, so it's sort of a want, right? Next, and this will surprise no one that knows me, Facebook Credits, so that playing my frustrating, addicting games bring a bit less frustration. Quit playing? Well, that's crazy talk! Movies. Lots of new releases that I've heard so much about, but can't afford to see in the theatre. Music. Whether CD's or iTunes, it matters not. A "Straight Talk" phone. More practical, more features. An 18" box cut gold chain for my Black Hills Gold Cross--I miss it around my neck. And then I really did it. I wrote "IPad". Nonsense, I say! I probably would not even know how to use it, but it looks amazing, and isn't that what dreaming is? Wishes for amazing things.
Of course there will be no presents under my tree Christmas morning, but now that I've identified specific "wants", maybe I can squeeze them in between utilities, rent, food, school lunch money, Basketball games for Nick's pleasure, gas....Okay, it's going to take awhile, and the IPad....really?? The point is, I validated myself by doing that. I deserve to get wants as much as anyone.
This Christmas Day I will drive to Galena to visit with Mom. I will be home by 3 o'clock. Nick will be with his Dad--thank goodness--celebrating with his new family, and some old, and making memories he will carry with him all of his life. He plans of becoming a Marine in 3 1/2 years. I pray those memories give him joy during his times away from home.
Merry Christmas everyone. We celebrate the birth of our King in six days. Are you ready?
Monday, December 19, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
I find myself with too much on my plate. For a gal with a small plate, and usually little on it, I am feeling a bit overwhelmed.
It seems that people are becoming ill or passing at breakneck speed. My own Mother, included. A friend that is a bit of a kindred soul that I met through Facebook, has just lost her mother. This saddens me deeply. I suppose my mother's declining health figures into that sorrow, but I am hurting for her nevertheless.
This morning, while watching a Sunday Morning show, tribute was paid to a long time writer, that passed earlier in the week. It was also announced that two personalities from my childhood have cancer...one is now is Hospice care. When did it become so, so common to hear the word cancer? What has happened?
A post on Facebook (what else?) asked for prayers for a very prominent Freeport couple involved in a car accident yesterday. Not only is the woman, a local political force to be reckoned with, but she is Aunt to my classmates, Sister to my Mom's old boss. Sometimes I think God must get overwhelmed with all the prayers being lifted up. But, lifted up, they are.
Every other Sunday my son returns home from a weekend with his Dad. These are not easy days. Once he actually get into the apartment, it seems to hit him that he is back in the land of "I'm doing the best I can." And this can result in anger. I try to tell myself he's not angry with me, just the situation, but when he is sullen or punching something that is broken, that I can not afford to replace right now, I feel an overwhelming cloud of guilt. I truly am doing the best I can, living on Disability and Child Support/Alimony. We live in a small, but attractive apartment, decorated nicely, tidy, but not always spic and span, and reeking of love. Yes, that's me reeking. I know that deep inside of him he is not reeking, perhaps, but at least a little smelly with love. But, he is a growing, hungry, hungry boy, and keeping snacky things here at all times is impossible. He told me a tale of having four bowls of cereal at his Dad's and that is so "out there" for me, it's ridiculous. All I can really do is hope that after his disappointment passes, he will recognize that "doing the best I can" isn't awful.
On a different note, I am proud to say that I am a contributor to "Fibro Affirmations", a site to lend support to those of us fighting this frustrating disease. So far, the pieces I have sent have been well received, and the page owner is happy with me. (Now if I could just get a paying gig) As usual, I try to lend a bit of humor to our unpredictable disease.
Last, but surely not least...after nearly being knocked over by the idea, I have started my own page on Facebook. It is called "Bucket of Invisibles" and it is geared toward those fighting multiple and/or invisible diseases. There are so many! We all look untouched by illness, therefore we are ignored, made fun of, and called liars. I felt this page was needed to give these people a place to visit that offers smiles, inspiration, and interaction with others fighting the same battle. It has been one week and one day, and I have 62 "likes", and thousands and thousands of views. I am, if I may be so bold, proud. I feel I have a purpose. I am able to give some relief, if even for a moment.
All of these things racing through my mind, are tugging at my heart and mind. And believe me, having a cluttered mind is a Fibro fighter's demise! So I thank you for letting me share a piece of my clutter, therefore lightening my mess!
Deep breaths....this is life.
It seems that people are becoming ill or passing at breakneck speed. My own Mother, included. A friend that is a bit of a kindred soul that I met through Facebook, has just lost her mother. This saddens me deeply. I suppose my mother's declining health figures into that sorrow, but I am hurting for her nevertheless.
This morning, while watching a Sunday Morning show, tribute was paid to a long time writer, that passed earlier in the week. It was also announced that two personalities from my childhood have cancer...one is now is Hospice care. When did it become so, so common to hear the word cancer? What has happened?
A post on Facebook (what else?) asked for prayers for a very prominent Freeport couple involved in a car accident yesterday. Not only is the woman, a local political force to be reckoned with, but she is Aunt to my classmates, Sister to my Mom's old boss. Sometimes I think God must get overwhelmed with all the prayers being lifted up. But, lifted up, they are.
Every other Sunday my son returns home from a weekend with his Dad. These are not easy days. Once he actually get into the apartment, it seems to hit him that he is back in the land of "I'm doing the best I can." And this can result in anger. I try to tell myself he's not angry with me, just the situation, but when he is sullen or punching something that is broken, that I can not afford to replace right now, I feel an overwhelming cloud of guilt. I truly am doing the best I can, living on Disability and Child Support/Alimony. We live in a small, but attractive apartment, decorated nicely, tidy, but not always spic and span, and reeking of love. Yes, that's me reeking. I know that deep inside of him he is not reeking, perhaps, but at least a little smelly with love. But, he is a growing, hungry, hungry boy, and keeping snacky things here at all times is impossible. He told me a tale of having four bowls of cereal at his Dad's and that is so "out there" for me, it's ridiculous. All I can really do is hope that after his disappointment passes, he will recognize that "doing the best I can" isn't awful.
On a different note, I am proud to say that I am a contributor to "Fibro Affirmations", a site to lend support to those of us fighting this frustrating disease. So far, the pieces I have sent have been well received, and the page owner is happy with me. (Now if I could just get a paying gig) As usual, I try to lend a bit of humor to our unpredictable disease.
Last, but surely not least...after nearly being knocked over by the idea, I have started my own page on Facebook. It is called "Bucket of Invisibles" and it is geared toward those fighting multiple and/or invisible diseases. There are so many! We all look untouched by illness, therefore we are ignored, made fun of, and called liars. I felt this page was needed to give these people a place to visit that offers smiles, inspiration, and interaction with others fighting the same battle. It has been one week and one day, and I have 62 "likes", and thousands and thousands of views. I am, if I may be so bold, proud. I feel I have a purpose. I am able to give some relief, if even for a moment.
All of these things racing through my mind, are tugging at my heart and mind. And believe me, having a cluttered mind is a Fibro fighter's demise! So I thank you for letting me share a piece of my clutter, therefore lightening my mess!
Deep breaths....this is life.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Fifty Years Gone By
It is the afternoon of the eve of #51. Naturally, my mind is scanning through the past fifty years. And I am, at once, amused, dismayed, and proud. I have survived much, achieved much, and lost some.
Some experiences I must laugh at. Such as the time I entered a grocery store, escaping from a torrential downpour, to find--after several minutes of shopping--that a young child was staring in horror at my feet. Clinging to his mother, he exclaimed, "Mama what is it?" "It" was my stylish canvas shoes on "agitate", foaming with every step due to lack of proper rinsing after a good cleaning. Or the time I excitedly attempted to jump up on the stage area of my favorite dance club, only to fall flat on my face because my jeans were so tight, they did not allow for bending at the hip. I even have to smile about the blood pressure machine flashing "Please fix me" while having violent child labor due to being over-dosed on labor inducing meds. I laugh because, really, could these happen to anyone but me? Love-able, sometimes ditsy, me? Possibly, but not likely.
I am a survivor. Of this I am proud.
As enter my fifty first year, I can say I've survived, child abuse--emotional, physical and sexual-(I've been told). Rape, bullying, two nervous breakdowns, divorce, poverty at my own hand, and near poverty due to divorce. I've been forced to sell the house, once built with me in mind, and have moved my son and myself into a much smaller apartment. Everyday I live with invisible diseases not understood, or believed by much of anyone, but which have affected every corner of my life. Yet, I get out of bed every day and give it all another shot.
I've survived too much booze, too many men, being bruised by some of those men, and used by most. And somehow, I've come out of that still liking men, and believing that romance exists.
Like everyone, I've lost people I loved; one of the hardest being my first "real" boyfriend.
I've watched my father live out his promise to drink himself to death. I've seen my mother go from movie/gambling/shop-aholic to speechless, helpless stroke victim.
Yes, I've survived much. More than some, much, much less than others. For all the pain, I've gained wisdom, compassion, empathy, and tolerance. These things have helped me become the woman I am today, which I think is a pretty cool gal.
My greatest accomplishment is a young man, nearly 15 now. He is strong, strong-willed, smart, smart-mouthed, athletic, funny, loyal, and kind. He is also short-tempered, and sometimes very, very, angry. He, too, has survived much. If it is possible to love another human being too much, then I am guilty of over-loving my son. He is, and always will be...my best guy.
Tomorrow I will turn 51 year old without ado. It will be Saturday. I will be trying to figure out how to keep the electricity on, and listing the myriad of grocery items to buy when the long anticipated money "rolls" in.
However, I will know in my heart that being given birthday number 51 is my reward for making it through birthdays 1 - 50.
Some experiences I must laugh at. Such as the time I entered a grocery store, escaping from a torrential downpour, to find--after several minutes of shopping--that a young child was staring in horror at my feet. Clinging to his mother, he exclaimed, "Mama what is it?" "It" was my stylish canvas shoes on "agitate", foaming with every step due to lack of proper rinsing after a good cleaning. Or the time I excitedly attempted to jump up on the stage area of my favorite dance club, only to fall flat on my face because my jeans were so tight, they did not allow for bending at the hip. I even have to smile about the blood pressure machine flashing "Please fix me" while having violent child labor due to being over-dosed on labor inducing meds. I laugh because, really, could these happen to anyone but me? Love-able, sometimes ditsy, me? Possibly, but not likely.
I am a survivor. Of this I am proud.
As enter my fifty first year, I can say I've survived, child abuse--emotional, physical and sexual-(I've been told). Rape, bullying, two nervous breakdowns, divorce, poverty at my own hand, and near poverty due to divorce. I've been forced to sell the house, once built with me in mind, and have moved my son and myself into a much smaller apartment. Everyday I live with invisible diseases not understood, or believed by much of anyone, but which have affected every corner of my life. Yet, I get out of bed every day and give it all another shot.
I've survived too much booze, too many men, being bruised by some of those men, and used by most. And somehow, I've come out of that still liking men, and believing that romance exists.
Like everyone, I've lost people I loved; one of the hardest being my first "real" boyfriend.
I've watched my father live out his promise to drink himself to death. I've seen my mother go from movie/gambling/shop-aholic to speechless, helpless stroke victim.
Yes, I've survived much. More than some, much, much less than others. For all the pain, I've gained wisdom, compassion, empathy, and tolerance. These things have helped me become the woman I am today, which I think is a pretty cool gal.
My greatest accomplishment is a young man, nearly 15 now. He is strong, strong-willed, smart, smart-mouthed, athletic, funny, loyal, and kind. He is also short-tempered, and sometimes very, very, angry. He, too, has survived much. If it is possible to love another human being too much, then I am guilty of over-loving my son. He is, and always will be...my best guy.
Tomorrow I will turn 51 year old without ado. It will be Saturday. I will be trying to figure out how to keep the electricity on, and listing the myriad of grocery items to buy when the long anticipated money "rolls" in.
However, I will know in my heart that being given birthday number 51 is my reward for making it through birthdays 1 - 50.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
LIVING AROUND IT OR "JUST DO IT"
After rereading comments to this blog, it seems I have dropped the ball. I have written about things going on in my life, and topics that have spurred my interest. I have paid tribute to loved ones, and our country. However, as noted by one comentor, I have not written about how I "live around it."
I spent some time thinking about that. I coined that phrase because I believe that the illnesses aren't going to budge, so I must live in and around what they throw at me. I have bitterly accepted my physical limitations. Once teased for having broad shoulders and being able to lift 100 pounds, I now have...broad shoulders. Once able to run a mean sprint, I can no longer run. Not that I want to...never did care for it.
I refuse to believe, however, that I have limitations mentally. There are medications and counselling available to keep my mind sharp, witty, and smart. Just don't ask me what I walked into a room for... Being able to afford the necessary meds is a struggle at times, but thanks to social network and the kind supportive words of friends and family, I can limp through.
But, how do I "live around it"? Other than getting out of bed at the pace I am able, showering when my pain level permits it (without danger of falling), and taking whatever pain medication is necessary (when available), I don't have any steps or wise words to aid others. I just survive. I would say "live", because I am, in fact, alive, but doing what I do on a daily basis hardly qualifies as "living". That is probably as much due to finances as it is to health. Perhaps if I had any extra money, I'd venture out once in awhile. But everything must be calculated...right down to the gas in the truck. So, I get up, survey the land, do what I can, then I sit down and connect with others. Until sitting hurts. Then I get up and shuffle a chore or two. Until that hurts, at which point I lie down and hope for some rest.
Rest? REST?? What did I do all day to need rest? Survive. Usually on three hours sleep, through level 7 (and above) pain, with dizziness and brain fog. Now that's multitasking!
So, I would tell you to live as best fits you. Try to block out the "shoulds", and embrace the moments that make you smile. And always, always be open to help to others with their pain. Knowing the you've helped someone else to "live" really is living!
I spent some time thinking about that. I coined that phrase because I believe that the illnesses aren't going to budge, so I must live in and around what they throw at me. I have bitterly accepted my physical limitations. Once teased for having broad shoulders and being able to lift 100 pounds, I now have...broad shoulders. Once able to run a mean sprint, I can no longer run. Not that I want to...never did care for it.
I refuse to believe, however, that I have limitations mentally. There are medications and counselling available to keep my mind sharp, witty, and smart. Just don't ask me what I walked into a room for... Being able to afford the necessary meds is a struggle at times, but thanks to social network and the kind supportive words of friends and family, I can limp through.
But, how do I "live around it"? Other than getting out of bed at the pace I am able, showering when my pain level permits it (without danger of falling), and taking whatever pain medication is necessary (when available), I don't have any steps or wise words to aid others. I just survive. I would say "live", because I am, in fact, alive, but doing what I do on a daily basis hardly qualifies as "living". That is probably as much due to finances as it is to health. Perhaps if I had any extra money, I'd venture out once in awhile. But everything must be calculated...right down to the gas in the truck. So, I get up, survey the land, do what I can, then I sit down and connect with others. Until sitting hurts. Then I get up and shuffle a chore or two. Until that hurts, at which point I lie down and hope for some rest.
Rest? REST?? What did I do all day to need rest? Survive. Usually on three hours sleep, through level 7 (and above) pain, with dizziness and brain fog. Now that's multitasking!
So, I would tell you to live as best fits you. Try to block out the "shoulds", and embrace the moments that make you smile. And always, always be open to help to others with their pain. Knowing the you've helped someone else to "live" really is living!
Monday, July 18, 2011
A Worry Rethunk
I spend a modest amount of time worrying that people I meet will not accept me because I am currently not employed due to disability. Because my disabilities are invisible, that I could be disabled brings a look of disbelief to most people's faces. In fact, recently, when asked if disabled for an assistance form, the woman taking the application stopped in her tracks when I said 'yes'. And for the first time, perhaps since being diagnosed, her voice softened, and she put her pen down and was genuinely interested in my story. I felt blessed!
The fact is, that I did work. Unpaid, for nine, and paid for nineteen. Yes, not as much as some, and more than many. Work conditions during the unpaid were emotionally and physically taxing. Work conditions during the first 11 of the paid were emotionally and physically damaging. Had I been treated like a human being, rather than a lowly slave at either of those jobs, I am certain I would not be disabled today.
During my preteen through late teens I worked around the homestead doing whatever chore my parents needed done. Didn't every kid growing up in the 70's? Of course. But my father was an obsessive workaholic, and expected that everyone else was, too. His lists of outdoor chores seemed endless, and on many a summer day, left me with bloodied hands and nasty sunburns...on top of nasty sunburns. And after he meticulously reviewed the work, came screaming in my face proclaiming that I was dumb and lazy because I'd hoed into some onions. And as my teenage schoolmates drove by laughing a waving-on their way to swim-I hoed, and weeded, and harvested that damn garden. Every day, all day. Well, that is, when I wasn't cleaning out the garage/basement, or picking apples, or weeding, or picking blooms off of hundreds of petunias. Or planting them. Or helping him haul 100lb stones to landscape. Or mowing a 6ft hill.
During my late teens and twenties, I worked at the leading insurance company in the area. If you had office experience when exiting school, you worked there or at the factory offices. Unfortunately, this company prided themselves on herding, and treating their employees like cattle. Little support, tons of work, and few kudos. This job would define my future physical state in a matter of a few months. My emotional state had already been defined, but this job sealed it. Emotionally, however, it would also land me in help's lap.
I had only worked there for a year, when I began to feel ill. I had an awful cold, scorching sore throat, and was very tired. I was warned that missing work would get me fired, so I muddled through, feeling worse and worse. During a conversation with my Mom, she noticed a tint. Shocked, she had me stare into her eyes and tilt my head back so she could examine both. Yellow. Eyeballs and neck a sickening yellow. Had no one at work noticed this? I went to the Dr. the next day, and as he lay me back to feel my tummy, he could see my swollen liver. He told me to go home and wait for some tests, but by the time I got home, he was on the phone demanding my Mom to get me to the hospital. I'd had mono for months. Because it was left untreated, my liver became swollen. Hepatits. I spent two weeks in the hospital, and was ordered away from work for two months. In a shake-my-head sidenote, my co-workers were under the impression that I had the mumps. A panic ran through the department as everyone tried to remember if they'd had them. Upon finding out that I had something much more serious, they were relieved. At least they weren't going to get sick. As soon as they found out it was Hepatitis-it turned out to be non-infectious-the pressure to get me back to work began. After just two week home, I got phone calls from co-workers-on behalf of my supervisor-to "get back in here". After several harassing calls, Mom called work to talk to my super. The super had the gall to snipe at my mother about my coming back to work immediately. I was still getting dizzy getting up and around! Two more weeks passed, and because of the phone calls, the doctor was called to see if I could return to work. The okay was given as long as I did sit down work. On day three of my return I was put back on my feet...a six hour trek every day. I blacked out many times, but was blown off when I reported it. You see, mumps everyone understood. Hepatitis they did not. Therefore, it did not exist.
My mother was told that I would never be the same. I'd never have the stamina I'd once had. I might not be able to fight colds and such as efficiently. And I was never the same. Ever again. There was no name for that result at that time. Today they call it Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.
So, yes, I have worked. Since those jobs I've been a nanny, a warehouse stocker, a carpet salesperson, a water department employee, and several more insurance gigs. Had I not given birth to the light of my life, triggering Fibromyalgia, I might still be working. But, for whatever reason, God has seen fit for me to be at home.
So, perhaps I need to rethink my worry, and wear my disabilities like a badge. After all, I fought long and hard to get them.
The fact is, that I did work. Unpaid, for nine, and paid for nineteen. Yes, not as much as some, and more than many. Work conditions during the unpaid were emotionally and physically taxing. Work conditions during the first 11 of the paid were emotionally and physically damaging. Had I been treated like a human being, rather than a lowly slave at either of those jobs, I am certain I would not be disabled today.
During my preteen through late teens I worked around the homestead doing whatever chore my parents needed done. Didn't every kid growing up in the 70's? Of course. But my father was an obsessive workaholic, and expected that everyone else was, too. His lists of outdoor chores seemed endless, and on many a summer day, left me with bloodied hands and nasty sunburns...on top of nasty sunburns. And after he meticulously reviewed the work, came screaming in my face proclaiming that I was dumb and lazy because I'd hoed into some onions. And as my teenage schoolmates drove by laughing a waving-on their way to swim-I hoed, and weeded, and harvested that damn garden. Every day, all day. Well, that is, when I wasn't cleaning out the garage/basement, or picking apples, or weeding, or picking blooms off of hundreds of petunias. Or planting them. Or helping him haul 100lb stones to landscape. Or mowing a 6ft hill.
During my late teens and twenties, I worked at the leading insurance company in the area. If you had office experience when exiting school, you worked there or at the factory offices. Unfortunately, this company prided themselves on herding, and treating their employees like cattle. Little support, tons of work, and few kudos. This job would define my future physical state in a matter of a few months. My emotional state had already been defined, but this job sealed it. Emotionally, however, it would also land me in help's lap.
I had only worked there for a year, when I began to feel ill. I had an awful cold, scorching sore throat, and was very tired. I was warned that missing work would get me fired, so I muddled through, feeling worse and worse. During a conversation with my Mom, she noticed a tint. Shocked, she had me stare into her eyes and tilt my head back so she could examine both. Yellow. Eyeballs and neck a sickening yellow. Had no one at work noticed this? I went to the Dr. the next day, and as he lay me back to feel my tummy, he could see my swollen liver. He told me to go home and wait for some tests, but by the time I got home, he was on the phone demanding my Mom to get me to the hospital. I'd had mono for months. Because it was left untreated, my liver became swollen. Hepatits. I spent two weeks in the hospital, and was ordered away from work for two months. In a shake-my-head sidenote, my co-workers were under the impression that I had the mumps. A panic ran through the department as everyone tried to remember if they'd had them. Upon finding out that I had something much more serious, they were relieved. At least they weren't going to get sick. As soon as they found out it was Hepatitis-it turned out to be non-infectious-the pressure to get me back to work began. After just two week home, I got phone calls from co-workers-on behalf of my supervisor-to "get back in here". After several harassing calls, Mom called work to talk to my super. The super had the gall to snipe at my mother about my coming back to work immediately. I was still getting dizzy getting up and around! Two more weeks passed, and because of the phone calls, the doctor was called to see if I could return to work. The okay was given as long as I did sit down work. On day three of my return I was put back on my feet...a six hour trek every day. I blacked out many times, but was blown off when I reported it. You see, mumps everyone understood. Hepatitis they did not. Therefore, it did not exist.
My mother was told that I would never be the same. I'd never have the stamina I'd once had. I might not be able to fight colds and such as efficiently. And I was never the same. Ever again. There was no name for that result at that time. Today they call it Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.
So, yes, I have worked. Since those jobs I've been a nanny, a warehouse stocker, a carpet salesperson, a water department employee, and several more insurance gigs. Had I not given birth to the light of my life, triggering Fibromyalgia, I might still be working. But, for whatever reason, God has seen fit for me to be at home.
So, perhaps I need to rethink my worry, and wear my disabilities like a badge. After all, I fought long and hard to get them.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Justice Failed
Beyond a reasonable doubt. A part of our justice crafted to protect the innocent. But, our justice system is not always fair. Innocent people are convicted. The guilty, with help of crafty defense lawyers, go free. Two high profile cases of that come to mind. OJ Simpson. Michael Jackson. All it takes is one person to think that maybe, just maybe the accused did not commit the crime. Today, we add another name to that list. Casey Anthony. She was found not guilty today of murdering her young daughter, Caylee Marie. I was, upon learning this, stunned. I then became angry. As I watched the disbelief spread across the nation, via Facebook, I thought, 'If all these people are outraged, then how did 12 people not find guilt?' But, I was not there.
I did not watch the trial. The entire situation made me angry, sick, and as a mother, outraged. The press showed mostly the same photos of the defendant playing happily with her child. Or, if you preferred, partying in the 30 days before she reported her daughter missing. Or tapes of the defendant's mother scolding her daughter on the phone. I thought I was "keeping up" with the trial by watching the updates unfold. After the verdict today, it was clear that I had not been paying close enough attention.
If I had taken the time to really think about it, I would have quickly remembered that the Burden of Proof was on the prosecution, and that they had no solid evidence. The ball was set firmly in the defenses court and they played it perfectly.
I have decided that being a defense attorney must require a lot of showers. That much sleaze has to leave one with a stench. It must also require a vivid imagination. One such that a lawyer can take few truths and build them into reasonable doubts. And cause a jury of seven women, and five men to question what seemed obvious to casual followers. That this woman murdered her beautiful, God-given daughter. Not only that, but she didn't report her baby missing for a month. And during that month, went out with friends, danced, enjoyed life--the very thing she robbed her daughter of. Was this an "oops!" moment for her? "Damn if I don't write things down I just forget."?
Oh, she's not off scot-free...No. She is guilty of lying to authorities, or providing false information. And reports state that as she was printed for those convictions, she was grinning widely. Really? Her daughter is still dead. Grinning widely would not be on my list of things to do for years if I lost my son. I just keep thinking that she must be thinking "Nanner, nanner, nanner, you couldn't catch me!" And that makes my stomach turn.
Perhaps the most disturbing part of this verdict is the law of Double Jeopardy. If any solid evidence presents itself, or she drunkenly tells a friend the truth, she can not be tried again for First Degree Murder. OJ Simpson just confessed his crime and people simply said "I knew it" and shook their heads. There will never be real justice for two-year old Caylee Marie.
In most instances, I think our Justice system works. But, when it doesn't, it really doesn't. Innocent Until Proven Guilty is the rule. But, we must, must remember that just because a jury voted Not Guilty, does not mean they believe she is innocent. It simply means that they could not be convinced Beyond A Reasonable Doubt that she was guilty. But she knows. And so does God. And her final sentence will be one to be reckoned with.
I did not watch the trial. The entire situation made me angry, sick, and as a mother, outraged. The press showed mostly the same photos of the defendant playing happily with her child. Or, if you preferred, partying in the 30 days before she reported her daughter missing. Or tapes of the defendant's mother scolding her daughter on the phone. I thought I was "keeping up" with the trial by watching the updates unfold. After the verdict today, it was clear that I had not been paying close enough attention.
If I had taken the time to really think about it, I would have quickly remembered that the Burden of Proof was on the prosecution, and that they had no solid evidence. The ball was set firmly in the defenses court and they played it perfectly.
I have decided that being a defense attorney must require a lot of showers. That much sleaze has to leave one with a stench. It must also require a vivid imagination. One such that a lawyer can take few truths and build them into reasonable doubts. And cause a jury of seven women, and five men to question what seemed obvious to casual followers. That this woman murdered her beautiful, God-given daughter. Not only that, but she didn't report her baby missing for a month. And during that month, went out with friends, danced, enjoyed life--the very thing she robbed her daughter of. Was this an "oops!" moment for her? "Damn if I don't write things down I just forget."?
Oh, she's not off scot-free...No. She is guilty of lying to authorities, or providing false information. And reports state that as she was printed for those convictions, she was grinning widely. Really? Her daughter is still dead. Grinning widely would not be on my list of things to do for years if I lost my son. I just keep thinking that she must be thinking "Nanner, nanner, nanner, you couldn't catch me!" And that makes my stomach turn.
Perhaps the most disturbing part of this verdict is the law of Double Jeopardy. If any solid evidence presents itself, or she drunkenly tells a friend the truth, she can not be tried again for First Degree Murder. OJ Simpson just confessed his crime and people simply said "I knew it" and shook their heads. There will never be real justice for two-year old Caylee Marie.
In most instances, I think our Justice system works. But, when it doesn't, it really doesn't. Innocent Until Proven Guilty is the rule. But, we must, must remember that just because a jury voted Not Guilty, does not mean they believe she is innocent. It simply means that they could not be convinced Beyond A Reasonable Doubt that she was guilty. But she knows. And so does God. And her final sentence will be one to be reckoned with.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Two Hundred Thirty Five years and still going, and going, and going......
Happy Birthday USA! Two hundred thirty five years old? Just a pup on this Earth...A mere toddler, by comparison, complete with tantrums and the "mine, mine, mine" mentality. You are still learning, developing, and tripping on your own feet. So, is it any wonder you are in a state of political chaos much of the time? No, but one can only grow from trip-ups and fall downs...I trust you will.
Today, I celebrate the "founding fathers" that bravely demanded independence from a country they could no longer support. I also celebrate their ancestors, who 164 years earlier risked their lives to sail a ship across an ocean to start anew. And to the keepers of the land before them, I say thank you. Truly, the spirit of the America I now know, began long before the signatures on that famous scroll.
That spirit wanes at times. We the people are guilty of becoming complacent-taking for granted the freedom that has been tested time and time again. But, surely as the seasons change, we come together as One Nation when the going is tough...or heart wrenching. Together, we become a formidable force. We celebrate our country's victories together. We grieve our losses as One.
We are a country born of, and growing due to, immigrants that have heard the rumors and want to have a piece of that apple pie. Today hundreds of those immigrants will be sworn in as Americans, after years of struggle, prejudice, and studying the history of this country. Most of them know more about the history of America than those born to this country. That is because being a citizen of this country is, to them, a privilege. One worth memorizing "how many amendments have been made to the Constitution?' (It's 27). Are there bad apples? Of course. But, as the saying goes..."One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch (girl)...wait that was a song...but the point remains.
Today families will gather for cookouts and parties. Friends will gather for cookouts and parties. At the end of the day, all eyes will be on spacious skies as fireworks gallantly gleam...and BOOM! And this year...this year we can celebrate our country's stubbornness. A stubbornness that brought down the leader to an evil, American-hating, murdering group. A stubbornness that will continue to protect this country from further harm and "haters." We can be proud of that toddler mentality.
So, today, forget "bi-partisan lines", mudslinger politics and anti...anything. Be one. Be proud that so many young people are willing to protect your country. Be mindful of "those that gave all." Stop for a moment and remember how blessed you are to be allowed to disagree with what government does, without being jailed, maimed or...killed. Listen to Lee Greenwood for the hundredth time, and take in those words, "where at least I know I'm free." Because you are. WE are.
God, continue to bless America. Because we love Her...warts and all.
Today, I celebrate the "founding fathers" that bravely demanded independence from a country they could no longer support. I also celebrate their ancestors, who 164 years earlier risked their lives to sail a ship across an ocean to start anew. And to the keepers of the land before them, I say thank you. Truly, the spirit of the America I now know, began long before the signatures on that famous scroll.
That spirit wanes at times. We the people are guilty of becoming complacent-taking for granted the freedom that has been tested time and time again. But, surely as the seasons change, we come together as One Nation when the going is tough...or heart wrenching. Together, we become a formidable force. We celebrate our country's victories together. We grieve our losses as One.
We are a country born of, and growing due to, immigrants that have heard the rumors and want to have a piece of that apple pie. Today hundreds of those immigrants will be sworn in as Americans, after years of struggle, prejudice, and studying the history of this country. Most of them know more about the history of America than those born to this country. That is because being a citizen of this country is, to them, a privilege. One worth memorizing "how many amendments have been made to the Constitution?' (It's 27). Are there bad apples? Of course. But, as the saying goes..."One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch (girl)...wait that was a song...but the point remains.
Today families will gather for cookouts and parties. Friends will gather for cookouts and parties. At the end of the day, all eyes will be on spacious skies as fireworks gallantly gleam...and BOOM! And this year...this year we can celebrate our country's stubbornness. A stubbornness that brought down the leader to an evil, American-hating, murdering group. A stubbornness that will continue to protect this country from further harm and "haters." We can be proud of that toddler mentality.
So, today, forget "bi-partisan lines", mudslinger politics and anti...anything. Be one. Be proud that so many young people are willing to protect your country. Be mindful of "those that gave all." Stop for a moment and remember how blessed you are to be allowed to disagree with what government does, without being jailed, maimed or...killed. Listen to Lee Greenwood for the hundredth time, and take in those words, "where at least I know I'm free." Because you are. WE are.
God, continue to bless America. Because we love Her...warts and all.
Monday, May 9, 2011
One Time...At School...
On May 6, 2011 Orangeville Jr/Sr High School, the school my son attends, enacted an emergency drill to simulate a gunman situation. Although this is a wise idea, given the reality of today's world, it was handled in a heinous manner.
This is the account from a student that experienced the simulation:
A huge guy barged into the office waving a gun and demanding [one particular student], He popped off one shot, a blank. At that point, one of the staff [who knew about the upcoming drill] went yelling into the halls that there was a man with a gun, everybody run. The "gunman" barged into a gymnasium full of kids waving the gun and asking for the same student. Students began screaming, crying and running anywhere they could. One high schooler, for sure, was injured while trying to escape. Kids were running out of the school; running all over. Teachers in classrooms were taking the action they could (I am not clear if they had been made privy to the "drill"). One teacher yelling for all the kids to get in the corner, where he began surrounding them with sport equipment, another handing out pens and pencils for kids to use as weapons.
The child named by the "gunman" ran out of the school, halfway across town and hid. He was called by a teacher and told that two students had been shot. A bit later he was called again and told the cops had arrived and all was well. He was told to return to school. He did not. The kids were ordered back into the school and back to class. As if nothing happened.
Now, I did receive a phone call from the school on Friday stating that a drill would take place. Parents were told to stay away from the school, and not to come get their children if they were texted or called to do so. That was at 9:37am. I do not know exactly when the drill took place, but I am sure that calling parents on the day of the drill was not timely. And, I will tell you now, that if my son called me after that, I would most definitely go pick him up! It has been reported that some members of staff were visibly shaken, as well, lending me to believe that not all staff was aware of the plan.
This was an "epic fail" on the part of OSD. The idea to prepare a school for the all-too-real possibility of an intruder is smart. The way OSD handled it was outrageous. I am a supporter of the school district, attending and cheering events, even though it is my "adopted" team/school. I applaud many of the education programs. I can not support the manner in which this "drill" was handled.
In my opinion,1. Parents should have been notified at least three days in advance of the drill. Perhaps not being told exactly when it was going to happen, to ensure the element of surprise, but told. 2. Parents should have been warned of the intensity of the drill. My son said there was a vague reference to students of "something happening sometime" but nothing definitive. 3. All of the staff should have been warned. 4. The "drill" should have been a learning experience. Afterward, the children should have been routed to the gymnasium and a discussion of what did, and what should have happened, should have taken place, with people there to offer comfort. After that students could return to the classroom, but with structured free time, to let them calm down. 5. One child should not have been singled out as hunted. Reports are that this child's family will take legal action, but in a town of 800, rumors do fly. I certainly would toy with the idea, if it were my son traumatized in such a way. It is also reported that he may not return to school this year. Again, I'm not sure of the accuracy of that.
As of yesterday, Sunday, some of the kids were still shaken.
I agree that a drill is a proactive way to protect students from a Columbine situation, but it must be handled delicately and professionally.
Orangeville Jr/Sr High School has some explaining to do.
This is the account from a student that experienced the simulation:
A huge guy barged into the office waving a gun and demanding [one particular student], He popped off one shot, a blank. At that point, one of the staff [who knew about the upcoming drill] went yelling into the halls that there was a man with a gun, everybody run. The "gunman" barged into a gymnasium full of kids waving the gun and asking for the same student. Students began screaming, crying and running anywhere they could. One high schooler, for sure, was injured while trying to escape. Kids were running out of the school; running all over. Teachers in classrooms were taking the action they could (I am not clear if they had been made privy to the "drill"). One teacher yelling for all the kids to get in the corner, where he began surrounding them with sport equipment, another handing out pens and pencils for kids to use as weapons.
The child named by the "gunman" ran out of the school, halfway across town and hid. He was called by a teacher and told that two students had been shot. A bit later he was called again and told the cops had arrived and all was well. He was told to return to school. He did not. The kids were ordered back into the school and back to class. As if nothing happened.
Now, I did receive a phone call from the school on Friday stating that a drill would take place. Parents were told to stay away from the school, and not to come get their children if they were texted or called to do so. That was at 9:37am. I do not know exactly when the drill took place, but I am sure that calling parents on the day of the drill was not timely. And, I will tell you now, that if my son called me after that, I would most definitely go pick him up! It has been reported that some members of staff were visibly shaken, as well, lending me to believe that not all staff was aware of the plan.
This was an "epic fail" on the part of OSD. The idea to prepare a school for the all-too-real possibility of an intruder is smart. The way OSD handled it was outrageous. I am a supporter of the school district, attending and cheering events, even though it is my "adopted" team/school. I applaud many of the education programs. I can not support the manner in which this "drill" was handled.
In my opinion,1. Parents should have been notified at least three days in advance of the drill. Perhaps not being told exactly when it was going to happen, to ensure the element of surprise, but told. 2. Parents should have been warned of the intensity of the drill. My son said there was a vague reference to students of "something happening sometime" but nothing definitive. 3. All of the staff should have been warned. 4. The "drill" should have been a learning experience. Afterward, the children should have been routed to the gymnasium and a discussion of what did, and what should have happened, should have taken place, with people there to offer comfort. After that students could return to the classroom, but with structured free time, to let them calm down. 5. One child should not have been singled out as hunted. Reports are that this child's family will take legal action, but in a town of 800, rumors do fly. I certainly would toy with the idea, if it were my son traumatized in such a way. It is also reported that he may not return to school this year. Again, I'm not sure of the accuracy of that.
As of yesterday, Sunday, some of the kids were still shaken.
I agree that a drill is a proactive way to protect students from a Columbine situation, but it must be handled delicately and professionally.
Orangeville Jr/Sr High School has some explaining to do.
Monday, April 18, 2011
NEW VENTURES
A situation I was in this past weekend, left me perplexed, sad, and frustrated.
I made a bold plan to "go out." A real night out, after 8:00pm until possibly 11:00! After six months of staying in, away from folks, I was mildly excited. When it came time to begin the "going out" routine, I filled the tub with bubbles, grabbed a beer and stepped into the relaxing waters. For some time I just soaked, eyes closed, and contemplated how fun the night would be. A DJ would be playing the tunes, and I love DJ as opposed to bands. If I soaked long enough, perhaps I would dance! I then took care of the beautifying needed (never nicked that area before), and did my whale dance to get out of the tub.
Standing in front of the mirror solidified my suspicions that I'd gained at least ten pounds back and I damned Blue Bunny Birthday Cake Ice Cream. How to do my hair, how much make up to wear, perfume, or not? Oh, and jewelry. God, are my ears still pierced? Clothes had been chosen earlier in the day, so I had that going for me. All was done in 45 minutes. That does make me chuckle because in my hopelessly insecure days it took two hours.
I said a prayer for protection before I opened the door, then headed to the truck. It was dark. I was going out after dark! After the goosebumps passed, I was on my way. My destination was a short drive, no more than five minutes, but it was out of town. What an adventure. Upon entering the property, I searched, without luck for a close parking place, then without warning threw caution to the wind and chose one at least ten cars from the door. Over gravel. With a balance problem. And mud. How awesome was I?
I'd made my first trip to this cozy clubhouse two weeks prior, around 5 o'clock. The owners were a sweet young couple, very friendly. The bartender was fun, as well, and I felt quite welcome. Of course, I was the only patron at the time so I think they were obligated to include me in all conversations. At any rate, I liked the place. Alot. After hearing that one of the owners would be having a birthday in two weeks, I decided to plan to be there. And I was. Upon entering, I immediately looked for a seat, found one, and wished the birthday girl a "Happy Birthday". I then noticed an old friend at the end of the bar, and gave a short wave. It was mildly busy. The music was great. I bobbled to the music like a back window dog and sipped my favorite beer. One hour went by, and no one approached me to talk, although I knew several people. After the second hour I realized that one friend--someone I loved very much--was deliberately avoiding me. The crowd didn't increase from mildly busy and it occurred to me that I didn't belong. Even among people I knew. I would have expected a man to ignore me, even though he knew me...they usually do. But this was someone I'd considered a girlfriend, regardless of our age difference. My heart hurt. She'd been influenced by another presence there, and it broke my heart. For some reason, I sat up very straight and sipped my beer until it was gone. I left my seat, straightened my pants and walked out the door.
I was ready to go home and cry when I decided I'd stop in at the old stomping ground. I entered into a wave of "hi" and "how ya doin?". I talked to four or five people, had one beer, and left. It wasn't me. I was still the same likable gal. It was "them." Up on the hill, looking down on the little town that gives them unwaivering business, particularly "in-season" And it was how easily a young person can be influenced-- to the point of looking right through you after once licking your storm door.
All in all, I came home very sad. Reassured, yes, that I wasn't an oddball--well relatively speaking--but sad that a night out had turned into a regret. Only one thing is worse than being alone and feeling lonely...being in a room full of people and feeling that way.
I made a bold plan to "go out." A real night out, after 8:00pm until possibly 11:00! After six months of staying in, away from folks, I was mildly excited. When it came time to begin the "going out" routine, I filled the tub with bubbles, grabbed a beer and stepped into the relaxing waters. For some time I just soaked, eyes closed, and contemplated how fun the night would be. A DJ would be playing the tunes, and I love DJ as opposed to bands. If I soaked long enough, perhaps I would dance! I then took care of the beautifying needed (never nicked that area before), and did my whale dance to get out of the tub.
Standing in front of the mirror solidified my suspicions that I'd gained at least ten pounds back and I damned Blue Bunny Birthday Cake Ice Cream. How to do my hair, how much make up to wear, perfume, or not? Oh, and jewelry. God, are my ears still pierced? Clothes had been chosen earlier in the day, so I had that going for me. All was done in 45 minutes. That does make me chuckle because in my hopelessly insecure days it took two hours.
I said a prayer for protection before I opened the door, then headed to the truck. It was dark. I was going out after dark! After the goosebumps passed, I was on my way. My destination was a short drive, no more than five minutes, but it was out of town. What an adventure. Upon entering the property, I searched, without luck for a close parking place, then without warning threw caution to the wind and chose one at least ten cars from the door. Over gravel. With a balance problem. And mud. How awesome was I?
I'd made my first trip to this cozy clubhouse two weeks prior, around 5 o'clock. The owners were a sweet young couple, very friendly. The bartender was fun, as well, and I felt quite welcome. Of course, I was the only patron at the time so I think they were obligated to include me in all conversations. At any rate, I liked the place. Alot. After hearing that one of the owners would be having a birthday in two weeks, I decided to plan to be there. And I was. Upon entering, I immediately looked for a seat, found one, and wished the birthday girl a "Happy Birthday". I then noticed an old friend at the end of the bar, and gave a short wave. It was mildly busy. The music was great. I bobbled to the music like a back window dog and sipped my favorite beer. One hour went by, and no one approached me to talk, although I knew several people. After the second hour I realized that one friend--someone I loved very much--was deliberately avoiding me. The crowd didn't increase from mildly busy and it occurred to me that I didn't belong. Even among people I knew. I would have expected a man to ignore me, even though he knew me...they usually do. But this was someone I'd considered a girlfriend, regardless of our age difference. My heart hurt. She'd been influenced by another presence there, and it broke my heart. For some reason, I sat up very straight and sipped my beer until it was gone. I left my seat, straightened my pants and walked out the door.
I was ready to go home and cry when I decided I'd stop in at the old stomping ground. I entered into a wave of "hi" and "how ya doin?". I talked to four or five people, had one beer, and left. It wasn't me. I was still the same likable gal. It was "them." Up on the hill, looking down on the little town that gives them unwaivering business, particularly "in-season" And it was how easily a young person can be influenced-- to the point of looking right through you after once licking your storm door.
All in all, I came home very sad. Reassured, yes, that I wasn't an oddball--well relatively speaking--but sad that a night out had turned into a regret. Only one thing is worse than being alone and feeling lonely...being in a room full of people and feeling that way.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
What I've Learned From Facebook (or Making My Addiction Work For Me)
It has been about three years since I discovered the world of social networking. Oh, I'd IM'd and emailed, but was not aware that I could go to a place to share with the world that I was me and although Me may not be exciting, I existed. In that time I've learned lessons in courtesy, compassion, and community.
For instance, you do not have to know someone physically or personally to feel their anguish or joy. And something as simple as clicking the work "Like" or adding a simple wish can uplift a person halfway around the world. When you do know the "friend" from school or long lost job, you will find that you are now quite similar, as life's journeys take us all in a similar direction. The high school "clique" no longer exists. You become fellow parents, business persons, divorcees, widowers. The co-workers have gone through their own trials and now understand your struggles as their own.
Diseases become more familiar to more people. I have, as I've mentioned before, Fibromyalgia (among other health delights) and the word that put a quizzical look on the face of locals, is suddenly common and acceptable. We are not alone. Nor are sufferers of countless other ailments. The "new" term "invisible disease" is common on Facebook. It encompasses countless diseases that don't show, outwardly, to most people. We, the sufferers support each other. Our pain. Our frustrations with ignorance, insensitivity, and simple unwillingness to learn.
As a disabled sufferer, I find myself with alot of time on my hands each day. I do whatever house chore my pain and fatigue allows for the day, do some stretches....then what. Well, what do ya know...? Facebook has games. Thousands of games. The first game I got really caught up in was FarmTown. It seems a lifetime ago. As I became more involved (yes, we'll call it involved), I learned some simple things:
If you help your neighbor, they will gladly help you.
Gladly accept any help you are offered, whether you need it or not. Taking time out of one's day to gift is generous.
If you don't get what you expected , do not have a temper tantrum and demand to get what you want or be "unfriended". Generally speaking, anyone that acts like that hasn't many friends in the first place. (See First Grade Handbook.)
If you spend much of your time giving "neighbors" what they need, you will receive exactly what you need without asking.
"Thank you" goes a loooong way.,
I have created real friendships with people I have never, nor probably will ever meet. They have not seen anything but a face shot. Well, that and some God-awful vacation pics from 1970, They like me. Goofy, Moody, Smart, Compassionate, ME.
So, Social Networking has much to offer, you see. Of course Mark Zuckerburg knew that years ago...where was I when he was drunkenly "Facemashing"? Oh that's right.,..I had a real life!
For instance, you do not have to know someone physically or personally to feel their anguish or joy. And something as simple as clicking the work "Like" or adding a simple wish can uplift a person halfway around the world. When you do know the "friend" from school or long lost job, you will find that you are now quite similar, as life's journeys take us all in a similar direction. The high school "clique" no longer exists. You become fellow parents, business persons, divorcees, widowers. The co-workers have gone through their own trials and now understand your struggles as their own.
Diseases become more familiar to more people. I have, as I've mentioned before, Fibromyalgia (among other health delights) and the word that put a quizzical look on the face of locals, is suddenly common and acceptable. We are not alone. Nor are sufferers of countless other ailments. The "new" term "invisible disease" is common on Facebook. It encompasses countless diseases that don't show, outwardly, to most people. We, the sufferers support each other. Our pain. Our frustrations with ignorance, insensitivity, and simple unwillingness to learn.
As a disabled sufferer, I find myself with alot of time on my hands each day. I do whatever house chore my pain and fatigue allows for the day, do some stretches....then what. Well, what do ya know...? Facebook has games. Thousands of games. The first game I got really caught up in was FarmTown. It seems a lifetime ago. As I became more involved (yes, we'll call it involved), I learned some simple things:
If you help your neighbor, they will gladly help you.
Gladly accept any help you are offered, whether you need it or not. Taking time out of one's day to gift is generous.
If you don't get what you expected , do not have a temper tantrum and demand to get what you want or be "unfriended". Generally speaking, anyone that acts like that hasn't many friends in the first place. (See First Grade Handbook.)
If you spend much of your time giving "neighbors" what they need, you will receive exactly what you need without asking.
"Thank you" goes a loooong way.,
I have created real friendships with people I have never, nor probably will ever meet. They have not seen anything but a face shot. Well, that and some God-awful vacation pics from 1970, They like me. Goofy, Moody, Smart, Compassionate, ME.
So, Social Networking has much to offer, you see. Of course Mark Zuckerburg knew that years ago...where was I when he was drunkenly "Facemashing"? Oh that's right.,..I had a real life!
Thursday, March 31, 2011
WHERE DID THIS COME FROM?
Since I last wrote, I find myself still struggling with a major depressive episode. Depression is not new to me, but what set this round off, with the severity it has, confounds me.
I have wondered before where the rent or utilities or groceries are coming from. Unfortunate, but just a part of life now. I have looked at my dirty kitchen floor and not been able to mop it, but it's mostly due to physical pain. I've not showered for a day, but it's because I'm not going anywhere, so who'll know? But, something is different now. Instead of becoming crafty with the money I do have and making it work, my mind is shut down and overwhelmed. The very thought of getting out the bucket and mop exhausts me. And I know showering will wear me out, so why push it? This level of depression has not blackened my doorstep for decades. Thankfully, my son has been so busy with his friends, he's not been home to experience more than a few tears.
As I was playing one of my games on Facebook, and dreading the next "click", a thought occurred to me. And perhaps a darn good one. I have not mourned.
Since 1998 (I think) I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, thus slowly losing my ability to do many physical things I once took for granted. In 2001 I broke my foot-had two surgeries on it, and laid my Dad to a well deserved rest. In 2006 & 2007 I had each hip replaced, further limiting my mobility. In 2008 came divorce, death of three dear people and a beloved pet. Near it's end, my Mother had a major stroke, initially rendering her unable to speak or use her right side. She can now speak, but is confined to a Nursing Home for personal care reasons. In 2009, mandatory sale of house to avoid foreclosure nearly did me in physically and emotionally. Moving day was the most pain--aside from hip surgery and childbirth--that I've experienced. To this day I can not drive through the "old neighborhood". 2010 rang in with hope as Mom's speech came back, and my finances seemed to be coming around. Spring, however had other ideas, and I was forced to fix or repair $2000 worth of household goods in about 2 1/2 months. I nearly lost the apartment. The goodness of people made it possible to stay and slowly recover financially. And then near the year's wind down, my Grandma--the rock of our family--passed away.
I have cried many tears during these years. But, I don't think I've mourned. Mourned the active young woman that lived for the weekend to dance and party. Mourned the loss of a parent, though not close to him, a gap in my life, nevertheless. Mourned the loss of a union, instead blaming myself for being ill. I've never really mourned from my deepest soul the losses of my ex-Mother-In-Law, ex-Brother-in-Law, and my kids' beloved Papa. I held my dying dachshund while my kids petted her a final farewell, but choked on my tears to be strong for them. I can not mourn the loss of the house built especially for us because it brings feelings of failure, loss and disappointment. And Mom. I haven't mourned the loss of Carol Cole, active moviegoer, shopaholic, and just plain nice lady. Doing that means I must accept the mother that now greets me in a wheelchair, slumped and gnarled. If I admit that I miss hearing her say "Is that you?" when I answer her calls, just to be kooky, I have to admit it can't happen anymore. I've not mourned Grandma's passing other than to remember her in poetry, pictures, and stories.
I have acknowledged all of these things. Over and over. But I have not gone to my depths to release each thing; each person. That frightens me. I was told at a young age that everyone was worse off so I had no right to be sad. As a result I became the family clown. I've come to believe, as an adult, that although there are so many with worse problems...these are MINE. I own them. My heart and soul ache from them.
The mind is a complex thing. I wonder if, perhaps, it's forcing me to mourn now. And as usual, I am fighting it. The question is, do I let it run it's course and cleanse me, or do I put the jokes out on the table and see who laughs.
I have wondered before where the rent or utilities or groceries are coming from. Unfortunate, but just a part of life now. I have looked at my dirty kitchen floor and not been able to mop it, but it's mostly due to physical pain. I've not showered for a day, but it's because I'm not going anywhere, so who'll know? But, something is different now. Instead of becoming crafty with the money I do have and making it work, my mind is shut down and overwhelmed. The very thought of getting out the bucket and mop exhausts me. And I know showering will wear me out, so why push it? This level of depression has not blackened my doorstep for decades. Thankfully, my son has been so busy with his friends, he's not been home to experience more than a few tears.
As I was playing one of my games on Facebook, and dreading the next "click", a thought occurred to me. And perhaps a darn good one. I have not mourned.
Since 1998 (I think) I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, thus slowly losing my ability to do many physical things I once took for granted. In 2001 I broke my foot-had two surgeries on it, and laid my Dad to a well deserved rest. In 2006 & 2007 I had each hip replaced, further limiting my mobility. In 2008 came divorce, death of three dear people and a beloved pet. Near it's end, my Mother had a major stroke, initially rendering her unable to speak or use her right side. She can now speak, but is confined to a Nursing Home for personal care reasons. In 2009, mandatory sale of house to avoid foreclosure nearly did me in physically and emotionally. Moving day was the most pain--aside from hip surgery and childbirth--that I've experienced. To this day I can not drive through the "old neighborhood". 2010 rang in with hope as Mom's speech came back, and my finances seemed to be coming around. Spring, however had other ideas, and I was forced to fix or repair $2000 worth of household goods in about 2 1/2 months. I nearly lost the apartment. The goodness of people made it possible to stay and slowly recover financially. And then near the year's wind down, my Grandma--the rock of our family--passed away.
I have cried many tears during these years. But, I don't think I've mourned. Mourned the active young woman that lived for the weekend to dance and party. Mourned the loss of a parent, though not close to him, a gap in my life, nevertheless. Mourned the loss of a union, instead blaming myself for being ill. I've never really mourned from my deepest soul the losses of my ex-Mother-In-Law, ex-Brother-in-Law, and my kids' beloved Papa. I held my dying dachshund while my kids petted her a final farewell, but choked on my tears to be strong for them. I can not mourn the loss of the house built especially for us because it brings feelings of failure, loss and disappointment. And Mom. I haven't mourned the loss of Carol Cole, active moviegoer, shopaholic, and just plain nice lady. Doing that means I must accept the mother that now greets me in a wheelchair, slumped and gnarled. If I admit that I miss hearing her say "Is that you?" when I answer her calls, just to be kooky, I have to admit it can't happen anymore. I've not mourned Grandma's passing other than to remember her in poetry, pictures, and stories.
I have acknowledged all of these things. Over and over. But I have not gone to my depths to release each thing; each person. That frightens me. I was told at a young age that everyone was worse off so I had no right to be sad. As a result I became the family clown. I've come to believe, as an adult, that although there are so many with worse problems...these are MINE. I own them. My heart and soul ache from them.
The mind is a complex thing. I wonder if, perhaps, it's forcing me to mourn now. And as usual, I am fighting it. The question is, do I let it run it's course and cleanse me, or do I put the jokes out on the table and see who laughs.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Place I Am
I am in a bad place. It has been decades since I felt that not being here would better than being. I am there again, and it frightens me. Not because I have any plans to extinguish myself, because I don't...thought about it, yes, plans to carry out, no. I will not put my son through that.
But, I am tired of fighting. For the rent, the utilities, and food. On paper my budget is flawless. All of the formerly mentioned are covered. School lunches are covered. My one and only loan is covered. With $14 left to spare at month's end. It all looks so nice, typed in even rows. But it only takes one out of the ordinary expense to throw it all off and turn my financial world upside down.
As I've mentioned before, I don't go to movies, or out to eat, or out to socialize. I've scaled the grocery list back. No more soda, rarely beer, no chips, no fruit or vegetables, no meat. I do not go shopping for the sake of going shopping. But there are things that must be purchased such as Basketball shoes, Football cleats, Workout shorts, ankle braces, knee braces, Activon.
I get questioned about why my money doesn't pay for everything, when I am provided ample. It angers me to the core. Take into consideration, football games, basketball games, volleyball games (all ages)....school dances, class trips, school clothes, doctor visits, computer repair, the occasional pre-owned game, allowance...not sure if I even covered it all. The "ample" keeps a roof over my son's head, and some food in his astronomical stomach. And, as mentioned, if anything disrupts the delicate balance of the budget...even those things are not guaranteed at times.
So I feel like a failure. Today's struggle--how to keep the electricity on and still be able to pay rent and get a gallon of milk--has weakened my faith system. Why, if I believe God provides, am I faced with lights out on Thursday? Why, when I pray from my deepest heart for friends and family who are hurting, are my own prayers of hurt and loneliness not answered? Jesus, while suffering on the cross, cried "Why have you forsaken me?" I feel that now. Have I run out of blessings? Yes, I realize there are many blessings in my life, but in the place I am right now I am unable to grasp their goodness.
To further intensify my anguish is the fact that I am doing it all ALONE. Not even a companion to talk to, or curl up in their arms. Sensory deprivation is a punishment used to torture information out of someone. I've done nothing wrong' there is nothing to torture out of me--I've no government secrets. Yet, because of financial reasons I am in my own sort of solitary confinement. What I ache for the most is touch. I've been single before, but I have never lacked for interaction, certainly not touch.
At this moment, I am angry. The situation that put me here, angers me. The past three years anger me.
The place I am in is dark. My son will not see how dark. I will not let him see but a few tears. I will fight and scratch my way out of this place alone.
Please pray for me. It appears God has had it with my prayers.
But, I am tired of fighting. For the rent, the utilities, and food. On paper my budget is flawless. All of the formerly mentioned are covered. School lunches are covered. My one and only loan is covered. With $14 left to spare at month's end. It all looks so nice, typed in even rows. But it only takes one out of the ordinary expense to throw it all off and turn my financial world upside down.
As I've mentioned before, I don't go to movies, or out to eat, or out to socialize. I've scaled the grocery list back. No more soda, rarely beer, no chips, no fruit or vegetables, no meat. I do not go shopping for the sake of going shopping. But there are things that must be purchased such as Basketball shoes, Football cleats, Workout shorts, ankle braces, knee braces, Activon.
I get questioned about why my money doesn't pay for everything, when I am provided ample. It angers me to the core. Take into consideration, football games, basketball games, volleyball games (all ages)....school dances, class trips, school clothes, doctor visits, computer repair, the occasional pre-owned game, allowance...not sure if I even covered it all. The "ample" keeps a roof over my son's head, and some food in his astronomical stomach. And, as mentioned, if anything disrupts the delicate balance of the budget...even those things are not guaranteed at times.
So I feel like a failure. Today's struggle--how to keep the electricity on and still be able to pay rent and get a gallon of milk--has weakened my faith system. Why, if I believe God provides, am I faced with lights out on Thursday? Why, when I pray from my deepest heart for friends and family who are hurting, are my own prayers of hurt and loneliness not answered? Jesus, while suffering on the cross, cried "Why have you forsaken me?" I feel that now. Have I run out of blessings? Yes, I realize there are many blessings in my life, but in the place I am right now I am unable to grasp their goodness.
To further intensify my anguish is the fact that I am doing it all ALONE. Not even a companion to talk to, or curl up in their arms. Sensory deprivation is a punishment used to torture information out of someone. I've done nothing wrong' there is nothing to torture out of me--I've no government secrets. Yet, because of financial reasons I am in my own sort of solitary confinement. What I ache for the most is touch. I've been single before, but I have never lacked for interaction, certainly not touch.
At this moment, I am angry. The situation that put me here, angers me. The past three years anger me.
The place I am in is dark. My son will not see how dark. I will not let him see but a few tears. I will fight and scratch my way out of this place alone.
Please pray for me. It appears God has had it with my prayers.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
It Really Is All In My Head
I don't talk much about Chronic Clinical Depression. I tend to focus on Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome because they are lesser known, and horribly misunderstood. In fact, my hope is that my mention of those diseases will contribute, just a little, to the fight to get them recognized and understood.
However, I also suffer from Chronic Clinical Depression. I knew something wasn't right as far back as age 10 or 11. I can not get happy. What others call happy, for me, is mild mania. I was just born with my wires zinging when they should zapping. I suffered through many years of sadness, thoughts of suicide...and being told that I had no right to feel either. Of course, humor became my coping mechanism. So, who'd a thunk I was so miserable underneath all that good stand-up?
At the age of 25, after two breakdowns, and my mother finally being scared shitless one time too many, my doctor was called--he called me at work to tell me to get my sad-ass self to see him. They even worked me into the branch office on that very day. I was clinically depressed, I was told, and sorely lacking in B-Vitamins. I can't recall the anti-depressant I was put on, but I remember the B vitamins kicking in, and feeling like I was walking on air! I take them religiously to this day.
I have been on dozens of different anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, anti-psychotic meds in the 25 years since. I can only recall a few, and I suppose it's because they are the ones that did not work for me. I also started seeing a counselor. That poor first guy. I remember he had brown/red curly hair and wore clogs.
My visits with him were, at first, accusations that he didn't really want to sit there and listen to me, he just wanted my money. So, there were several silent sessions. I think what broke the ice was a recurring dream I'd been having about being a cheerleader and trying to climb some stairs at a beach place or something. Once I'd voiced my dream and he explained the symbolism, the dream never...ever returned. I became a fan. I read self-help books, more and more able to identify myself in them. And then he moved on. I was furious. There were the abandonment issues all over again.
I saw many counselors over the years. Each had their own style. Some pissed me off at every session. Strangely, the one that pissed me off the most was the one that helped me reach my "rock bottom". Once there, the healing could begin. And I did heal some. With the introduction of Prozac, in 1990 or so, I felt...like me. Or like I always thought I should be, but for some reason couldn't quite reach. I was funny again, and bright. I felt good about myself, and the hard journey I'd travelled to get to to that place. And Prozac worked wonders...for about six years. And that state started creeping in again. "The Nothing", as it was called in "The Neverending Story". But, by now, I was a wife and a mother to a six yr old, and a newborn.
When it started to crash down again, I was referred to a psycho pharmacologist. This was a man licensed to use me as a guinea pig, to find the right combination of medications to get me "even". I am still seeing this man. I am very fortunate that what little insurance I have covers part of his fee. We have tried many drugs in many combinations to combat the sadness, the weariness, the "nothing", the lack of sleep, and the Fibromyalgia/CFIDS, Not an easy task for either of us. He has proclaimed me to be one of his most frustrating patients, something that makes me proud. I mean if you're going to go through all the pain and suffering, you may as well be the best at it! As of this day, our combination is working.....
.....Or is it? For months I have felt flat-line. Nothing gives me pleasure, or interests me, or motivates me. I feel the same in nearly every situation. I am very tired. Yes, tired...on top of the usual fatigue. Don't get me wrong. I feel grateful each and every day, for each and every day. I praise God for the roof over my head and any food in the house. I cherish every conversation I have with my son. But, it's all in this, I don't know...null...place. I think it's guinea pig time again.
The struggles of someone fighting depression are often seen as laziness, not giving a damn, not working hard enough, not caring about their kids, their spouse. People, tired of the "drama" demand you pick yourself up and brush yourself off and move on. Boot straps are a popular suggestion. Think happy thoughts. Smile at people. Volunteer your time. Some of these are helpful suggestions. But, if you are in that abyss that is depression, none of it matters a whit.
For years and years no one spoke of the person who was "just not right". Through the years the topic has been addressed in movies, sitcoms, TV dramas, and soap operas. And yet, a stigma remains. I truly hope that at some point I can get the DVD, "No Kidding, Me Too!". It is a project of Joey Pants (Pantelioni), who has suffered for many years. In it, stars like Harrison Ford and Mike Wallace relay their own struggles. Mr. Pants hopes to further raise awareness on this widespread disease.
Depression is all around us. It comes in many forms, many ages, has many origins, and many solutions. Right now I am back on the hamster wheel looking for something to bring me above null. I know it's out there, cause I've seen others display it. In the meantime, I'll cry over minor things, become overwhelmed easily, and feel completely alone, all the time knowing that my psycopharmy and I can kick it again.
So, bear with me world. Better yet...give me a hug!
However, I also suffer from Chronic Clinical Depression. I knew something wasn't right as far back as age 10 or 11. I can not get happy. What others call happy, for me, is mild mania. I was just born with my wires zinging when they should zapping. I suffered through many years of sadness, thoughts of suicide...and being told that I had no right to feel either. Of course, humor became my coping mechanism. So, who'd a thunk I was so miserable underneath all that good stand-up?
At the age of 25, after two breakdowns, and my mother finally being scared shitless one time too many, my doctor was called--he called me at work to tell me to get my sad-ass self to see him. They even worked me into the branch office on that very day. I was clinically depressed, I was told, and sorely lacking in B-Vitamins. I can't recall the anti-depressant I was put on, but I remember the B vitamins kicking in, and feeling like I was walking on air! I take them religiously to this day.
I have been on dozens of different anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, anti-psychotic meds in the 25 years since. I can only recall a few, and I suppose it's because they are the ones that did not work for me. I also started seeing a counselor. That poor first guy. I remember he had brown/red curly hair and wore clogs.
My visits with him were, at first, accusations that he didn't really want to sit there and listen to me, he just wanted my money. So, there were several silent sessions. I think what broke the ice was a recurring dream I'd been having about being a cheerleader and trying to climb some stairs at a beach place or something. Once I'd voiced my dream and he explained the symbolism, the dream never...ever returned. I became a fan. I read self-help books, more and more able to identify myself in them. And then he moved on. I was furious. There were the abandonment issues all over again.
I saw many counselors over the years. Each had their own style. Some pissed me off at every session. Strangely, the one that pissed me off the most was the one that helped me reach my "rock bottom". Once there, the healing could begin. And I did heal some. With the introduction of Prozac, in 1990 or so, I felt...like me. Or like I always thought I should be, but for some reason couldn't quite reach. I was funny again, and bright. I felt good about myself, and the hard journey I'd travelled to get to to that place. And Prozac worked wonders...for about six years. And that state started creeping in again. "The Nothing", as it was called in "The Neverending Story". But, by now, I was a wife and a mother to a six yr old, and a newborn.
When it started to crash down again, I was referred to a psycho pharmacologist. This was a man licensed to use me as a guinea pig, to find the right combination of medications to get me "even". I am still seeing this man. I am very fortunate that what little insurance I have covers part of his fee. We have tried many drugs in many combinations to combat the sadness, the weariness, the "nothing", the lack of sleep, and the Fibromyalgia/CFIDS, Not an easy task for either of us. He has proclaimed me to be one of his most frustrating patients, something that makes me proud. I mean if you're going to go through all the pain and suffering, you may as well be the best at it! As of this day, our combination is working.....
.....Or is it? For months I have felt flat-line. Nothing gives me pleasure, or interests me, or motivates me. I feel the same in nearly every situation. I am very tired. Yes, tired...on top of the usual fatigue. Don't get me wrong. I feel grateful each and every day, for each and every day. I praise God for the roof over my head and any food in the house. I cherish every conversation I have with my son. But, it's all in this, I don't know...null...place. I think it's guinea pig time again.
The struggles of someone fighting depression are often seen as laziness, not giving a damn, not working hard enough, not caring about their kids, their spouse. People, tired of the "drama" demand you pick yourself up and brush yourself off and move on. Boot straps are a popular suggestion. Think happy thoughts. Smile at people. Volunteer your time. Some of these are helpful suggestions. But, if you are in that abyss that is depression, none of it matters a whit.
For years and years no one spoke of the person who was "just not right". Through the years the topic has been addressed in movies, sitcoms, TV dramas, and soap operas. And yet, a stigma remains. I truly hope that at some point I can get the DVD, "No Kidding, Me Too!". It is a project of Joey Pants (Pantelioni), who has suffered for many years. In it, stars like Harrison Ford and Mike Wallace relay their own struggles. Mr. Pants hopes to further raise awareness on this widespread disease.
Depression is all around us. It comes in many forms, many ages, has many origins, and many solutions. Right now I am back on the hamster wheel looking for something to bring me above null. I know it's out there, cause I've seen others display it. In the meantime, I'll cry over minor things, become overwhelmed easily, and feel completely alone, all the time knowing that my psycopharmy and I can kick it again.
So, bear with me world. Better yet...give me a hug!
The Young Woman I Never Knew
Last night, in our tiny town, a beautiful young woman died. As of this time, I do not know the cause. She just...passed. She was a year younger than my ex-stepdaughter, which makes her around 19. I did not know her as I did many of the other girls around that age. I did not know her favorite color, or music group, or even if she played many sports.
What I do know is: Her father works with my ex, and is a funny, smart man. Her mother is hilarious, and seems game for any kind of fun. I know she was beautiful. I know she was mischievous. I know she rode her four wheeler too fast. I know she helped others as a CNA. I know that I always confused her with another girl that shared the ride to UWP with my ex-stepdaughter. I know she enjoyed life with many friends doing what friends in a town of 800 do. I know she didn't take a bad picture. All in all, I don't know much.
And yet, my heart aches tremendously for those that did know her. As a parent, I ache for hers--not even able to comprehend such a loss. As a friend, I ache for her friends, now having to deal with the hole in the group. I hope they can fill that hole with great memories and hysterical mishaps. As a member of the community, I ache for all the people she touched even for a minute, with a 'hi' or a smile.
The world, the community, the gang, the family, is one person shy of complete today.
What I do know is: Her father works with my ex, and is a funny, smart man. Her mother is hilarious, and seems game for any kind of fun. I know she was beautiful. I know she was mischievous. I know she rode her four wheeler too fast. I know she helped others as a CNA. I know that I always confused her with another girl that shared the ride to UWP with my ex-stepdaughter. I know she enjoyed life with many friends doing what friends in a town of 800 do. I know she didn't take a bad picture. All in all, I don't know much.
And yet, my heart aches tremendously for those that did know her. As a parent, I ache for hers--not even able to comprehend such a loss. As a friend, I ache for her friends, now having to deal with the hole in the group. I hope they can fill that hole with great memories and hysterical mishaps. As a member of the community, I ache for all the people she touched even for a minute, with a 'hi' or a smile.
The world, the community, the gang, the family, is one person shy of complete today.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
When Best Isn't Good Enough
I must have been raised differently. Or maybe I don't remember, but I don't think that's it.
One dollar is one dollar. In the shape of a bill, four quarter, or two quarter and five dimes--it all equals a dollar. So, when my son came to me for a dollar to go the the BB game, why did he give it back and say he just wouldn't go to the game? And why do I feel like I'll never be good enough for him...or anyone?
My income comes mostly from disability, the horrid category I am put into due to the many illnesses I have. Let it be noted that to get disability "status" you go through a vigorous questioning, get turned down a few times (just to weed out the fakers), and even may have to see the State psychologist. This income pays the majority of my bills. A bit of child support and alimony pays for the small stuff. But, there is never quite enough to pay for the extra things. Sporting events, sport gear, school lunches, xBox points, iTunes, school dances, etc, etc...
I have mentioned before that to save money I don't go out to bars, or to dinner, or to the movies...or anywhere but the grocery store, the doctor, and to see my Mom. And one thing has become painfully clear to me. Human touch is an absolute necessity in life. I am at the point where I ache for a hug. And I don't care how much it hurts. I like it when the nurse takes my pulse because she is touching my skin. I like when the cashier counts my money back because she brushes my hand. My son is not a hugger. Any time that he has, I have let it absorb into every pore on my body because I know it will be a long time until the next one. It's ironic, though. I have hugs to dole out like candy at a parade. I am steeping with love...to give. I give it out through my many friends on facebook, and I enjoy making people laugh, and hopefully feel a bit better for my words to them. But, of course, this is virtual.
After I became single again, I was pretty content with being alone. No one to answer to, but me and the needs of my son. My time. No justification as to where I went or what I did or didn't do. No accusals of faking my illnesses. I still feel these freedoms, but after three years of being alone, I need something. A special someone. Someone that I can count on to put there arms around me, and just hold on. I'm still not looking for marriage. I don't hold alot of faith in that piece of paper. But, I admit it, I need someone. I am strong, and I am a trooper, but even troopers have deputies......
One dollar is one dollar. In the shape of a bill, four quarter, or two quarter and five dimes--it all equals a dollar. So, when my son came to me for a dollar to go the the BB game, why did he give it back and say he just wouldn't go to the game? And why do I feel like I'll never be good enough for him...or anyone?
My income comes mostly from disability, the horrid category I am put into due to the many illnesses I have. Let it be noted that to get disability "status" you go through a vigorous questioning, get turned down a few times (just to weed out the fakers), and even may have to see the State psychologist. This income pays the majority of my bills. A bit of child support and alimony pays for the small stuff. But, there is never quite enough to pay for the extra things. Sporting events, sport gear, school lunches, xBox points, iTunes, school dances, etc, etc...
I have mentioned before that to save money I don't go out to bars, or to dinner, or to the movies...or anywhere but the grocery store, the doctor, and to see my Mom. And one thing has become painfully clear to me. Human touch is an absolute necessity in life. I am at the point where I ache for a hug. And I don't care how much it hurts. I like it when the nurse takes my pulse because she is touching my skin. I like when the cashier counts my money back because she brushes my hand. My son is not a hugger. Any time that he has, I have let it absorb into every pore on my body because I know it will be a long time until the next one. It's ironic, though. I have hugs to dole out like candy at a parade. I am steeping with love...to give. I give it out through my many friends on facebook, and I enjoy making people laugh, and hopefully feel a bit better for my words to them. But, of course, this is virtual.
After I became single again, I was pretty content with being alone. No one to answer to, but me and the needs of my son. My time. No justification as to where I went or what I did or didn't do. No accusals of faking my illnesses. I still feel these freedoms, but after three years of being alone, I need something. A special someone. Someone that I can count on to put there arms around me, and just hold on. I'm still not looking for marriage. I don't hold alot of faith in that piece of paper. But, I admit it, I need someone. I am strong, and I am a trooper, but even troopers have deputies......
Monday, February 14, 2011
Just another Monday in Paradise
Valentines Day has never been my favorite holiday. Having grown up plain, and built like a linebacker, I was not one to get Valentines from the opposite sex. I was loud, and knew nothing about that art called flirting. Hard to get? Try hard to escape! Really, it just was not a day I "celebrated" love, or anything else.
I've only had one special someone during any Valentines Day, and even those fifteen Valentines Days were only scattered with what one could call romance. There were some nice weekend getaways, and in the beginning, very nice jewelry. But, I was not a jewelry gal. Not the only-wear-when-going-"out" kind, anyway. This may have been a disappointment to my someone. What, then, is a man to give? I love bouquets of flowers, but he wouldn't send those because they wouldn't last. He was willing to send roses, which are beautiful, and smell wonderful, but they are not my favorite. Eventually, we forwent gifts altogether. And not long after, just mumbled the traditional greeting to each other.
My Dad always left a big Valentine heart of candy at our places at the table. He worked 16 hours a day, and managed to remember to sign a card for each of us. Even though he once was so tired he signed his name, rather than "Dad", it was a treasured treat. He will be gone ten years in four days. Hopefully, he's met Russel and Stover and Whitman to thank them for quick, easy...tasty gift ideas.
I've been divorced for three years now. My Valentine these days is my son. Of course, he would just d i e if he read that, but it's true. I told him from the time he was very, very young he was my Best Guy, and I still tell him that. And he still is. "Forever and ever, my baby he'll be."
Today, I was to have a date. Informal, casual meeting of two souls looking for someone to "hang" with. In perfect Valentine fashion, I was stood up. It should not surprise me. It should make me cry, right? It doesn't. Am I angry? Damn straight. Bitter? Yep. But, it is, after all, just Monday. In two days I have a bone scan to determine the cause of my hip pain. In three days I will pause to remember my Dad. A man that worked too hard...for us. Played too little...our loss. And loved very deeply...with no idea how to show it. But, he was my Valentine when I was young. At least I could count on that.
I've only had one special someone during any Valentines Day, and even those fifteen Valentines Days were only scattered with what one could call romance. There were some nice weekend getaways, and in the beginning, very nice jewelry. But, I was not a jewelry gal. Not the only-wear-when-going-"out" kind, anyway. This may have been a disappointment to my someone. What, then, is a man to give? I love bouquets of flowers, but he wouldn't send those because they wouldn't last. He was willing to send roses, which are beautiful, and smell wonderful, but they are not my favorite. Eventually, we forwent gifts altogether. And not long after, just mumbled the traditional greeting to each other.
My Dad always left a big Valentine heart of candy at our places at the table. He worked 16 hours a day, and managed to remember to sign a card for each of us. Even though he once was so tired he signed his name, rather than "Dad", it was a treasured treat. He will be gone ten years in four days. Hopefully, he's met Russel and Stover and Whitman to thank them for quick, easy...tasty gift ideas.
I've been divorced for three years now. My Valentine these days is my son. Of course, he would just d i e if he read that, but it's true. I told him from the time he was very, very young he was my Best Guy, and I still tell him that. And he still is. "Forever and ever, my baby he'll be."
Today, I was to have a date. Informal, casual meeting of two souls looking for someone to "hang" with. In perfect Valentine fashion, I was stood up. It should not surprise me. It should make me cry, right? It doesn't. Am I angry? Damn straight. Bitter? Yep. But, it is, after all, just Monday. In two days I have a bone scan to determine the cause of my hip pain. In three days I will pause to remember my Dad. A man that worked too hard...for us. Played too little...our loss. And loved very deeply...with no idea how to show it. But, he was my Valentine when I was young. At least I could count on that.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
From Tired To Dysfunctional
I knew it would happen. The human body can only take so much before it takes things into it's own...hands. After four months without proper nighttime meds, my body is starting to shut down. For those of you that have not experienced chronic sleep deprivation, think of the effects of this ailment like a laptop running low on battery power. The screens dims, then vanishes, to conserve the battery. Today the screen is vanishing quickly. It's been dim for quite awhile. Go ahead, laugh. I did. Until today. Today my ability to walk straight is compromised. I am dizzy. I have blurred vision, shaking, confusion, itching, inability to concentrate, nystagmus (?), and of course the obsessive thoughts of when I get to sleep. Consider this. I was behind the wheel of a car. Life doesn't stop because you can't afford to get your sleep meds.
As I was driving the twenty minutes to pick up my meds, so many things were coursing through my mind. I was hoping I could keep my focus on the road. I was grateful that I would finally be able to get the meds necessary to ensure more than a few hours of broken sleep. I was grateful that my boy was returning home from his nature camp. I was thankful to be alive. Even as awful as I felt/feel...the alternative is unthinkable. I was also angry. Angry that in a country so wealthy it "can" help other nations overcome their trials, average people have to chose between food, mortgages, utilities and medical care. I am so angry! This month I chose to fill my prescription for sleep. Chose? That should not be a choice that anyone has to make! It should be a certainty. As John Q. Archibald shouted to police, "Sick. Help. Sick. Help." They should go together. Simple. It shouldn't be a partisan issue. It should be a human issue.
Once upon a time, getting a job at even a moderately sized company ensured not only a steady income, but reasonably priced Group Insurance. Today, neither is guaranteed. In the case of health care, some employers have had to raise the cost of the employee share of insurance to the point that employees have had to drop their insurance. A friend of mine had to do this, and he feels as though he has gotten a sizable raise. Being a reasonably healthy man, he was able to do this with only the nagging fear, that at age 51, his body warranty will run out. This is inexcusable. We have decades of greed to thank for it. Greed by lawyers, pharmaceutical companies, advertisers, insurance companies and a generation or so of "the world owes me". What is a person to do, after all, if Neosporin doesn't heal that hangnail instantly? Sue, of course! And up go the medical costs.
I hate acting girly. Forget that I am a girl. Feeling like this, so broken down, uncovers my tears. You name it, it makes me cry. On a normal daily basis, I am able to talk myself strong. I am proud of that. I can read, recite and recall positive thoughts and I can move forward. No matter how bad the pain is on that day. Chronic sleep deprivation threatens to toss it all out the window. Tears come too easily. On this day I pick Nick up from Loredo Taft, a nature camp. After spending nearly eight hours a day outside, he will be exhausted and cranky. I need to counter that. And I will. I will. I will collapse tonight and sleep, but during the rest of the day I will be comforting and understanding for Nick. Why did today have to be the day my screen started going blank?
Okay. Half hour to pick-up. Deep breaths. Focus. Only eight hours until bedtime......
As I was driving the twenty minutes to pick up my meds, so many things were coursing through my mind. I was hoping I could keep my focus on the road. I was grateful that I would finally be able to get the meds necessary to ensure more than a few hours of broken sleep. I was grateful that my boy was returning home from his nature camp. I was thankful to be alive. Even as awful as I felt/feel...the alternative is unthinkable. I was also angry. Angry that in a country so wealthy it "can" help other nations overcome their trials, average people have to chose between food, mortgages, utilities and medical care. I am so angry! This month I chose to fill my prescription for sleep. Chose? That should not be a choice that anyone has to make! It should be a certainty. As John Q. Archibald shouted to police, "Sick. Help. Sick. Help." They should go together. Simple. It shouldn't be a partisan issue. It should be a human issue.
Once upon a time, getting a job at even a moderately sized company ensured not only a steady income, but reasonably priced Group Insurance. Today, neither is guaranteed. In the case of health care, some employers have had to raise the cost of the employee share of insurance to the point that employees have had to drop their insurance. A friend of mine had to do this, and he feels as though he has gotten a sizable raise. Being a reasonably healthy man, he was able to do this with only the nagging fear, that at age 51, his body warranty will run out. This is inexcusable. We have decades of greed to thank for it. Greed by lawyers, pharmaceutical companies, advertisers, insurance companies and a generation or so of "the world owes me". What is a person to do, after all, if Neosporin doesn't heal that hangnail instantly? Sue, of course! And up go the medical costs.
I hate acting girly. Forget that I am a girl. Feeling like this, so broken down, uncovers my tears. You name it, it makes me cry. On a normal daily basis, I am able to talk myself strong. I am proud of that. I can read, recite and recall positive thoughts and I can move forward. No matter how bad the pain is on that day. Chronic sleep deprivation threatens to toss it all out the window. Tears come too easily. On this day I pick Nick up from Loredo Taft, a nature camp. After spending nearly eight hours a day outside, he will be exhausted and cranky. I need to counter that. And I will. I will. I will collapse tonight and sleep, but during the rest of the day I will be comforting and understanding for Nick. Why did today have to be the day my screen started going blank?
Okay. Half hour to pick-up. Deep breaths. Focus. Only eight hours until bedtime......
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
What I Have and Why I Write
I have had many ailments throughout my life. Everything from the common childhood diseases of my day--Red Measles and Mumps--to Hepatitis (not C). It never occurred to me until I began working my first job that other people did not get ill frequently. It's always just been a part of my life.
I currently entertain a myriad of illnesses. Nearly all are "invisible". Nearly all have a stigma attached to them. Chronic Depression has lived with me for as long as I can remember. My first memory of not wanting to walk among the living is from around age 10 or 11. Of course, in 1971, depression was not openly recognized, and certainly not something children suffered from! Thankfully, through intensive therapy, and the introduction of medication, I was able to grab a hold of my life. It was a weak hold at first, but with practice has gotten much stronger.
I am also Bi-Polar. This disease exists on a sliding scale, having varied degrees of severity, or variants. I am fortunate to be on the lower end of the scale. The governing symptom, for me, is depression, but racing thoughts invade my head--particularly at night--keeping me awake all night. Yes, all night, without medication.
My depression runs in the family. My father, mother, and sister have all suffered, as have scores of cousins. The home environment suffered, as a result, lending spark to the illnesses. The biggest law in a dysfunctional home is the look of normalcy. Therefore, no one ever knew. No one could help. I am so proud that I took the steps and did the very hard work of therapy, and have been willing to be a bit of a guinea pig with regard to my medications. But, the stigma remains.
My biggest battles theses days are with Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. It was theorized by a prominent Infectious Diseases doctor that my Chronic Fatigue was launched as a result of the Hepatitis I contracted (as a result of Mono gone wild). The theory was that as a result of such a serious (life-threatening) disease, my immune system went into overdrive to kick it. However, the signals got mixed somewhere in the fight and it forgot to stop fighting. So, everyday, needed or not, my immune system fights. Eventually, they fight my own...system! This is an exhausting process for the body. Think about how worn out you feel after you've just beaten a nasty flu. You are glad to not be at the mercy of your bathroom, but, at the same time you are just whipped. That is CFIDS everyday. Fibromyalgia is like mutant CFIDS. All the fatigue, and compromised memory, IBS, dizziness, blood sugar drops, sore throat, swollen lymph nodes, numbness and tingling, headaches, sleeplessness...an endless list of symptoms...and pain. So much pain. We have a general list of things that could help, but what works for one, does not necessarily work for the next in line. And the line is long.
You probably know someone or of someone that has Fibromyalgia. You've probably looked at them and wondered, "How bad could it be? They look great!". I hope you've never said it out loud. One of the battles we fight--aside from the above listed--is others' disbelief that our disease is real. We've been called lazy, liars, fakers and wimps, to name a few terms. Fibromyalgia has one of the highest suicide rates. And this is as much for lack of compassion as it is for physical pain.When your family talks about you negatively behind your back because they don't believe you, why go on? Shouldn't the people that are supposed to love you unconditionally be the ones that stand tallest behind you? Somewhere along the line we've been programmed to not believe what we can not see. I hope this frame of mind is discarded soon.
And, that is Why I Write. I post how I feel on particularly bad days. I don't do it to gain pity or whine. I do it to make these diseases real. Someone you know may be suffering from something you can't see. The "invisible" diseases include more than just Mental Illness, CFIDS and Fibromyalgia. Included are Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME), Epstein Barr Syndrome, and Lupus. The are many others...many.
It occurs to me, as I write the final paragraph, that perhaps these diseases should not be invisible to those who live with the sufferer. Look more closely. There will be a wince as we get up, or a foot shuffling as we walk because we are too tired to lift them. There will be rubbing of shoulders and irritability from fatigue. See it. Do not deny it because "we all get tired", or you think we should "buck up". These diseases are as real as a broken arm, heart disease, and cancer. Recognize the reality of the diseases and support the ones you love. We will love you for it, and it may even help the pain!
I currently entertain a myriad of illnesses. Nearly all are "invisible". Nearly all have a stigma attached to them. Chronic Depression has lived with me for as long as I can remember. My first memory of not wanting to walk among the living is from around age 10 or 11. Of course, in 1971, depression was not openly recognized, and certainly not something children suffered from! Thankfully, through intensive therapy, and the introduction of medication, I was able to grab a hold of my life. It was a weak hold at first, but with practice has gotten much stronger.
I am also Bi-Polar. This disease exists on a sliding scale, having varied degrees of severity, or variants. I am fortunate to be on the lower end of the scale. The governing symptom, for me, is depression, but racing thoughts invade my head--particularly at night--keeping me awake all night. Yes, all night, without medication.
My depression runs in the family. My father, mother, and sister have all suffered, as have scores of cousins. The home environment suffered, as a result, lending spark to the illnesses. The biggest law in a dysfunctional home is the look of normalcy. Therefore, no one ever knew. No one could help. I am so proud that I took the steps and did the very hard work of therapy, and have been willing to be a bit of a guinea pig with regard to my medications. But, the stigma remains.
My biggest battles theses days are with Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. It was theorized by a prominent Infectious Diseases doctor that my Chronic Fatigue was launched as a result of the Hepatitis I contracted (as a result of Mono gone wild). The theory was that as a result of such a serious (life-threatening) disease, my immune system went into overdrive to kick it. However, the signals got mixed somewhere in the fight and it forgot to stop fighting. So, everyday, needed or not, my immune system fights. Eventually, they fight my own...system! This is an exhausting process for the body. Think about how worn out you feel after you've just beaten a nasty flu. You are glad to not be at the mercy of your bathroom, but, at the same time you are just whipped. That is CFIDS everyday. Fibromyalgia is like mutant CFIDS. All the fatigue, and compromised memory, IBS, dizziness, blood sugar drops, sore throat, swollen lymph nodes, numbness and tingling, headaches, sleeplessness...an endless list of symptoms...and pain. So much pain. We have a general list of things that could help, but what works for one, does not necessarily work for the next in line. And the line is long.
You probably know someone or of someone that has Fibromyalgia. You've probably looked at them and wondered, "How bad could it be? They look great!". I hope you've never said it out loud. One of the battles we fight--aside from the above listed--is others' disbelief that our disease is real. We've been called lazy, liars, fakers and wimps, to name a few terms. Fibromyalgia has one of the highest suicide rates. And this is as much for lack of compassion as it is for physical pain.When your family talks about you negatively behind your back because they don't believe you, why go on? Shouldn't the people that are supposed to love you unconditionally be the ones that stand tallest behind you? Somewhere along the line we've been programmed to not believe what we can not see. I hope this frame of mind is discarded soon.
And, that is Why I Write. I post how I feel on particularly bad days. I don't do it to gain pity or whine. I do it to make these diseases real. Someone you know may be suffering from something you can't see. The "invisible" diseases include more than just Mental Illness, CFIDS and Fibromyalgia. Included are Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME), Epstein Barr Syndrome, and Lupus. The are many others...many.
It occurs to me, as I write the final paragraph, that perhaps these diseases should not be invisible to those who live with the sufferer. Look more closely. There will be a wince as we get up, or a foot shuffling as we walk because we are too tired to lift them. There will be rubbing of shoulders and irritability from fatigue. See it. Do not deny it because "we all get tired", or you think we should "buck up". These diseases are as real as a broken arm, heart disease, and cancer. Recognize the reality of the diseases and support the ones you love. We will love you for it, and it may even help the pain!
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