Breast Intentions

I had a bad appointment with my OBGYN.

I've been feeling super shitty. Napping all the time and still feeling exhausted.  Pain in my ovaries and in my breasts.  Up to 208 pounds even while eating only veggies and fruit.

Appointment with my OBGYN for my yearly resulted in scheduled blood work, ultrasound of my baby-making parts and a mammogram.

A MAMMOGRAM?  I am 37 years old.

I scheduled my appointments and panic. The paperwork says that it is a diagnostic mammogram. As in, my doctor felt something weird or I'm having symptoms that lead her to believe that there is something wrong with my boobs. The office that I usually go to had an appt on August 16th. I called another office and had it moved to July 31st.  I don't think I can wait that long to have my boobs squished like Christopher Lloyd's character in Who Framed Roger Rabbit?

I'm sorry I made jokes about wanting to not have boobs when I was younger and trying to be active with D cups.

I'm sorry I nicknamed them Big Mac and Whopper Jr. (Whopper Jr is significantly smaller.)

I have a lot of lovely supportive people in my life who tell me not to worry and give me examples of how this happened to them and how they are ok.  That is lovely and I love them.

I do, however, wish there was someone who wouldn't try to convince me to not worry.  Who would just listen and say, "I know you're scared. It's a scary thing. Your feelings are completely justified."
Then buy me an ice cream cone.  A lowfat ice cream cone. And give me a hug. A light one so as to not hurt the knockers.

I looked online for a forum or something where I could express my fears and trepidation but ended up in the downward spiral of the googler.  Other terrified people being terrified of calls from their doctors after their mammogram. People further on in the process who are getting biopsies and markers and other things that scare me.  So, I came back to this blog.

I can wait two weeks. I can wait two weeks. I can wait two weeks.

Death is stupid.

My co-worker Bryant passed away.

He was young, had just left our workplace for a new career and just fell over 3 days into the new job. They didn't know what happened, so his mother asked for an autopsy. I still don't know what happened to him,

This is not the first time someone I know has passed away. I have lost people in the past. But this was an open casket viewing, and my less than mature mind was not prepared for it at all.

My co-workers and I all decided to drive down together.  We left work early so we could clean up and were supposed to meet back at the club at 5:30 for a 6pm viewing. My boss showed up and announced that we were all going to have a drink before leaving. The head golf pro (Tim), the membership director (Audry), and the head waiter (Debbie) went upstairs and made drinks. We got to the funeral home at about 6:30. We walked in and there was a large crochet blanket hanging in the lobby, with a photo of Bryant, with a rainbow and some doves along with his birthdate and the date of death in the bottom corner.

Water started leaking out of my eyes.

The door to the viewing room was open. The casket was in the front of the room, and I froze.  I looked over at my boss, who mouthed, "It's ok." and gestured me to follow him into the room.

Bryant's mom and dad were to the left of the casket. I looked down at my friend and I lost it. They had dressed him in a chef's coat and hat, the very coat and hat that he had worn when he graduated from culinary school.  We shook hands with his parents, letting him know how much he was loved at work. His mom kept repeating, "At least he died doing what he loved."

Niagara Falls.

One of Bryant's aunts asked us to take a seat. We did. BM turned and asked us if anyone wanted to say a few words. None of us did. We left.

Back at the clubhouse, BM took us all back upstairs and poured more drinks. We reminisced about our friend. We shot the shit. We smoked cigars on the back patio. We bonded, then all went home.

The next day, I had ordered a ton of food from McCrays BBQ in West Palm Beach for the repast after the funeral. BM, Tim and I drove two cars down, as we were providing all the beverages as well and BM's truck was filled with coolers. McCrays is a food truck.  Bryant always wanted to have his own truck, doing modern spins on soul food. So...that's what we got for him.  I loaded all of the food into my mom's Jeep.   Then we drove South, to the mission where the repast was being held.  We completely missed the funeral, but we provided his family with enough food to last this whole week.

I'm lucky that I have made it to the age of 35 without much loss.  I did sit down this week with my parents to let them know that under no circumstances would I ever want an open casket at my funeral. Dad was his logical self and said that they wouldn't have to deal with that as they'd be going first. I told him that nothing is guaranteed.

It's not. One thing that came out of the loss of my friend is the fact that I need to do better with this life I have.  I can't nap it all away. There needs to be change. I'm looking for that change. Who knows what that change will be? Not me. Not now.  But it's coming soon.

Not ok.

I am not ok.

I'm am getting more ok as the days pass, but it's been a weird couple of weeks.

It started when I went home on a Monday to meet with the a/c company who was going to start servicing my a/c. It was a weird visit.  I kept cleaning things while they walked in an out of the house. Then head a/c guy was all, "Your handler is 20 years old and you'll probably need to replace it over the summer.  Only about 3,000-5,000 dineros."

F&*k.

As I drove back to work, my mind was on how I was gonna do this.  As a very content perpetually single lady, the only discontent I have is money. It's hard living on a single paycheck.  It just is.

So.  I'm at a red light about to cross the train tracks to get to my job. There's a brand new Volvo SUV in the left turn lane next to me that has his reverse lights on. Weird.

He reverses, right into my drivers side door. It crumples. Bent in half, not latching. The cops come. He is not cited for being a f*&king moron. And I go to work sobbing because some selfish dickface decided that turning left was not what he wanted to do and I was inconveniently in his way.

The next week was weird.  I went to work.  I went home.  I walked Kevin.  I stared at the wall. I couldn't eat enough food. One night, I had black beans and chicken. Then some pita chips and hummus. Then a bowl of pasta with butter. I took a bite of the stick of butter. I stared at the wall.

I couldn't sleep. I could eat, though. Insomnia took me into the kitchen where I inhaled half a jar of pickles.  I had a burger a day last week for lunch. I didn't care.  I was numb.

Yesterday, I ate a healthy breakfast of oatmeal with flax seeds and two turkey sausage links. I packed my lunch and ate an almond butter and jelly sandwich, carrots and watermelon. On the way home I ordered delivery and slammed a chicken burrito in my face faster than you can say eating disorder.

I feel empty.

Yesterday, I had to pick my dad up from the airport. I had to get on 95. I had to try to deal with airport idiots.  Some lady tried to merge into my car. And I blacked out. I got dizzy and my vision swam. Thankfully, my dad was at the curb and hopped in quickly. I realized I was holding my breath as he started chatting with me about his trip. I got him to the house and headed back to work. I wanted food.  As soon as possible. Even thinking about driving to the airport right now is making my chest feel tight.

My car is supposed to be ready on Tuesday. I am looking forward to getting it back, as driving a rental is stressful for me. I hope getting my car back will make me feel less off.  We shall see.

Mah-wage...

My little sister got married.  It was awesome. She and Nick are wonderful and perfect together.

I had a double chin in all the photos taken by my family.

I also got bronchitis. I overextended myself, didn't get any sleep, and hung outside in the cold with no jacket on.

My mom said something to me and I, of course, got defensive.

"I wish you would take care of yourself better. Maybe you wouldn't get sick as much."

I took that as her calling me fat. Then I realized that I don't take care of myself. At all. I eat blocks of cheese for dinner. (I'm allergic to cow's milk.)  Sometimes I order a large pizza and just eat it for a week.  This is not taking care of myself.

So, after a week of hacking up my lungs and hating everyone and everything, I took all my garbage food and made it garbage. I went to the local health food store, and I got all my favorite things in allergen free versions. I plugged in my fitbit, which has been dead since September of last year. I started taking multivitamins and turning off the TV at 9:30 so I can get sleep. I've made myself breakfast every morning, which includes whole gran oatmeal with quinoa and flax, blueberries, and almond milk. I've packed my lunch and started waking up early to walk Kevin around the block (1,250 steps!)

I lost two pounds.  But it's not really about that. It's about being healthy and happy and making a positive change. I have seen a major difference in how I feel and how I behave. And I'm hoping that makes a difference in my life.

It's been a while...

I haven't been good about blogging.  It's not that I haven't had things to write about, because I have had things to write about.

It's not because I don't want to write.  I love writing.

It's because I don't want anyone to worry.

I haven't been ok lately.  I'm not sure what it is, but I haven't felt at all like myself.  There's a dark cloud over me and it's been pretty hard to get out from under.

Last night, I went to my friend Tiffany's wedding. At about 11 am, I started panicking. It was in Miami.  I'd have to drive an hour and 22 minutes. I checked the invite time 5 times. Made plans to walk Kevin at 1 and then get ready.  I tried 5 outfits on. I couldn't decide. I didn't want to go.  I dreaded going.  My stomach was in knots. "Something can come up. She'll understand."

I love Tiffany. LOVE HER.  Her fiance, now husband, is wonderful.  They are great, fun people and I love the fact that I was around when they first started hanging out.  I love them. I love her family. But I couldn't get my brain to stop worrying about the whole thing.

I went. I sat through the beautiful ceremony and looked into the eyes of two people who are incredibly perfect for each other.  I cried during their vows. I watched them kiss.  I watched them dance. I made small talk with everyone at my table. I ate dinner.  It was delicious.

Then the panic sank in again. I was going to have to make more small talk.  I was going to have to dance, when my body felt like it had been beaten on.  My arm hurt...I'd left the sling at home. My bra straps were showing. My heart started racing.  I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Looked at myself in the mirror.  Tried to give myself a pep talk. And couldn't.

I texted a friend that something had come up at a work party and I had to go. I left mid-best man speech.  I clutched my clutch and waited for the valet to get my car. I raced home and into a flannel shirt and pajama pants. I read. I watched a shitty movie and I berated myself.

Today, I did laundry. After the first load, I was exhausted. I slept until 9:30am and by 11am I wanted to take a nap.  I held off. Did more chores. Sat back on the couch. Fell asleep at 2:30 and woke up at 5. Walked Kevin.  It was a chore. Came home and sat some more.

I have been laying in bed for an hour, unable to sleep.  I realized just now that this is absolutely no way to live. I signed up for some e-counseling and will be going to see my GP about upping my meds. I invited all of my local close friends over to my house this Saturday.  There were 8 people to invite and 3 of them are family members. This is not what I want my life to be.  I can't keep being lonely and sad and angry at myself.  I can't keep saying to myself that everyone else probably has other things to do so I should just wait until they reach out to me. I'm going to try to be better. To feel better.

If it makes you happy!

I have a fantastic life.

I have a fantastic family. A fantastic dog. A fabulous house. Great friends. A job that only makes me want to stab people with spoons occasionally.  Enough money to pay bills and enjoy myself every now and then.

In general, I'm happy. I am aware of the blessings in my life.

My brain chemistry is not always on the same page.

The other day I cried at work. A lot.  I couldn't stop.  I had an altercation with a co-worker and I wasn't feeling 100%, and I cried. And cried.   Chef brought me blueberry bread.  My co-worker brought me Kleenex. I blew my nose into the Kleenex.

I posted about it on Facebook.  I am an oversharer.

My grandma saw.  Called my mom.  Was worried.

Mom told Dad. Dad commented, "I just don't know what it will take for her to be happy."

I am happy. I AM. I REALLY, REALLY AM.

But sometimes, my brain tells me I'm not. Sometimes, I have to cry.  I can't control it.  It controls me. And then, I'm fine.

House Buying is Funsies Episode 1

Maybe this one will work?!?!?

House Buying is Funsies Episode 1!

Mom persuaded me to Vlog the renovation of my new home. Here is the day of the closing.

My brother pretended to spray me with the faucet hose.  I splashed him. He then actually sprayed me. Belching. Family. You know. Pottinger fun.

Good news!

A couple of months ago, my mom sent me a link to a writing job. A couple hundred bucks for a short story to go in a pretty popular compilation book. I blew it off.

The night of the deadline, I decided to write something. It was worth a try.

I got in!

I'm being published!

In Chicken Soup For the Soul: Think Positive. Yup.

I get a bunch of free copies, some moolah, and they have a PR firm that will be reaching out to me to plug my story.

WHAT?!?!?

I got the news last night via email as we were picking out new appliances at Brandsmart. GOOD NEWS AND STAINLESS STEEL APPLIANCES!!!

Lemme know if you want a copy.  I'll sign it.

A change will do you good.

I hurt a lot.  All over, in fact.  Dr. Barbie told me it is because I'm overweight.

Dr. Barbie is an asshole.

My legs have been hurting since November of 2014.  They have gotten worse over the last year, to the point where I wanted to chop the left one off during that awesome youth group retreat I went on for my birthday. That was my left leg.  Now my right is in on the action, and trying to move my body to shed the pounds ends with me in a fetal position at bedtime, popping Motrin and praying for sleep to come.

All that complaining aside,  I decided to experiment with the pain the other day.  I woke up feeling like I was walking on broken glass.

I got in the shower, and said to myself, "SELF! You are not going to focus on this pain anymore. You are going to focus on how the warm water feels on your skin.  You are going to focus on the feel of shampoo bubbles in your hands and the lather in your hair.  You're going to focus on the scent of your body wash.  You're going to listen to Kevin sneaking in to lay against the bathtub while you shower and listen to him sigh once he settles against the tiles.  You're going to focus on the feel of the towel drying your body that can move even though it hurts. You're going to focus on the clothes you can afford to buy and dress yourself with even if you're not your perfect size. You're going to focus on the food that nourishes your body and you are going to be happy that you are alive cause it would suck to be the opposite."

It was a good pep talk I had with myself. I am telling myself the same thing now as my thighs throb from power walking around my workplace. In heels.  Like an idiot. But I'm lucky to have a job, period.

This positive thinking stuff is exhausting. BUT I AM TRYING, GUYS.  I'm really, really trying.

Bloggity, blog, blog

This blog is coming to you from my new laptop computer.

It's shiny.  It's blue.  And all the keys are working. I don't have to hit the right shift key to get things to capitalize. I just type, using my left pinky to CAPS ALL THE THINGS.  That's right.  That was not CAPS LOCK. That was straight shifting, bitches.

I'm trying to get back into PMS mode.  I miss it.  The girls are my kids. I miss them and creating fart jokes for them to say.  I downloaded a template for a well known comic book publisher, and am going to be re-typing PMS Adventures, the graphic novel, into the style they want and submitting it. What's the worst that can happen?  They say no and I'm back to finding a local artist I can work with who I feel comfortable giving notes to. 

I think this may all have to wait a week or two. I have a baby shower to host this coming weekend for one of my best friends. Kevin has a grooming appointment tomorrow.  And I have another doctors appointment on Monday to find out why I am so god damn tired all the time.

Thanks, shiny new computer.  I missed blogging on the weekends.

Fear and loathing.

I quit improv a couple of months ago.  I couldn't be happier.

I think about improv now and I have physical reactions. A friend posted a link to an improv retreat, and the headshots of all the instructors made my esophagus fill with stomach acid. Reading the descriptors for the classes made my eyes cross and my heartrate sped up. I think I have PISD.

Post Improv Stress Disorder.

It can only be helped by long naps, reading crappy sci fi fantasy novels, and taking your time walking your poor dog who was alone during all those hours of driving to and from rehearsals.  It can also be helped by using real objects in your home, as your muscles may be trained to mime a salt shaker in a restaurant with imaginary menus and cutlery.  Cook real food and actually chew things.

If  a flashback is really bad, I recommend balling up a long sleeved flannel shirt and throwing it and your Converse into the back of your closet.

Make sure and do something fun on what would have been your show nights. This past month, I had pizza with my parents instead of leaving work early to haul ass down to the theater, scarfing down Burger King on the way so there would be something in my stomach before I bled imagination all over the floor of a dingy black box theater while some asshole dragged his foot through my life blood by negating my every offer.

I don't miss improv.

I'm thankful that I quit when I did. The surgery went well, other than a slight infection after the fact that I am going to check out with my doctor. Had I been working and doing improv?  I probably wouldn't have been able to do it, let alone afford it.

Cuts like a knife.

I love that Bryan Adams song.

Also, I'm going under the knife.

This Wednesday, I'm supposed to go to Margate and get a polyp removed from my uterus.  It's a big old polyp. It's making my uterus cranky. A cranky uterus means a cranky Lauren.

I had my pre-op appointment yesterday, and my doc broke some more lovely news for me.  Instead of one 20 minute procedure, he's adding another hour long procedure. A lapropscopic procedure to deal with some adhesions on my uterus that could be causing issues as well. He's gonna cut my belly button, put a camera in me and check everything out.

I was surprised.  I'm scared.

I don't know why I'm scared.  Part of me thinks that I'll find some crazy news out about my lady bits that will make me hate them. Like that I won't be able to have the babies I'm not sure I even want.  I don't know. Going under scares me.

But relief from these stupid symptoms will be great.  No more debilitating cramps.  No more fun mid cycle bleeding.  No more overwhelming PMS.  No more PMS decisions.  No more exhaustion and randomly falling asleep.  No more passing out.

If all that goes away, it will certainly be worth it. BUT I AM FREAKING OUT.

I love oversharing.  My mom got on my case about it the other day, but I feel like the world needs to know that it's ok to be your own advocate. I have felt that something was wrong for the last two years, and it took visiting 4 different doctors, 15 different tests including Xrays, MRI's, Ultrasounds. blood work, poop tests, urine tests, and 2 ER visits to finally get to this place where I will be hopefully solving the issues I've been having. And the only reason I am at this point is because I didn't give up on myself.  And you shouldn't either.

Don't go to the light, Carol Anne!

I kinda died on Saturday. It was nice.

I am an idiot.

I've been battling 2 infections over the last month, and decided that the PERFECT time to donate blood would be whilst fighting these infections and whilst on my lady time.

I walked all morning with Mom and Kevin, and had about an hour to get ready and get to the blood center. I shoved a Belvita biscuit into my piehole, showered and drove to the facility.  My iron level was 13.2. Good enough to donate!  My blood pressure was a little lower than normal...but still ok. 113 over 78.  My temp was 97.8, but over the past few months has been lower than normal.  Still ok.

The lady stabbed me.  It hurt. My arm started tingling halfway through the donation. I didn't say anything, as the phlebotomists were obsessed with Bobbi Christina being found unconscious in a bathtub, The donation was done. She told me to put pressure on my arm and to raise it over my head. I told her I felt wobbly.  She walked away to get me an apple juice from the fridge. Then nothing.

I dreamt that Kevin and I were walking down the trail near my house. The trees arched over the path, with sunlight shining down through the gaps in the leaves. Kevin had lots of energy, and I felt at peace. So cozy.

"Lauren!  Lauren! Wake up, Lauren!"

I opened my eyes to two women standing over me, fluorescent light hurting my eyes.  I wanted to go back to sleep. Why were my shoes gone?  Why was my chest cold? I looked down and saw ice packs on my legs and on my chest.  According to my timeline of events, I was out cold for 20 minutes.

"What did you eat today?"

"I had...I had...one of those...biscuit. Ungh. Belvita things." I slurred.

"Here's some juice."

"I'm going to throw up."

"Here's a bag."

I dry heaved for 20 minutes, until one of the ladies popped me in a wheelchair and let me let lose in the bathroom.

One of the ladies was on the phone. She was canceling the paramedics. DAMN. No hot paramedics. BOO.

They rolled me back to the bed. The lady had to fill out a report and took my blood pressure. 104/38. I was concerned about that, but she didn't acknowledge it or comment. I started feeling slightly better. They rushed me out the door.  I called Mom to let her know I might die again at some point.  She said she'd call and check on me.  I should not have been driving.

I got to Jog Rd. and had to pull over. I had to throw up but couldn't.

I got home and threw up all over myself.

I napped.

Got up and threw up again. There was nothing left.

Napped.

Ate a turkey sandwich. Felt better.

Drove to Walgreens.  Bought apple juice, soda and iced tea. Drove through Burger King.

Napped.

I was scared to really sleep, so stayed up til 1am watching TV before I decided to go to bed.  I only locked one of the deadbolts in case someone had to get in to save me.

I called my boss on Sunday and asked if I had to work the Super Bowl party since I died.  He said I had to.

I am wiped today. I started a 7 day round of pills for the latest fun time infection. They make me wonky.  I have a procedure next week that is supposed to clarify all this garbage, but I may have to reschedule as they want me to take 3 days of antibiotics before the procedure, and that will conflict with the other treatment.

Decisions are stupid.  Can I go back to walking that path with Kevin?  It was soooo nice.

Single Bliss...

Last night, I ate cold pizza for dinner.  I put salt on it as if cold pizza requires more salt. Kevin got some pieces of crust.  I put on an old sweater of my mom's and some sweatpants.

I took an hour nap on the couch. I have another infection and it's kicking my ass.

I woke up, watched cheesy Hallmark movies, and then decided to read.

I bought a copy of Maya Angelou's Letters to My Daughter a couple of weeks ago and just started reading it. It's great.

I turned off the TV, turned out all the lights in the living room, got ready for bed and snuggled in my full size bed with book in hand.  Kevin plopped down on the floor next to the head of the bed. He started snoring immediately.  He's had an infection, too. A poopy, squirty kinda infection.  The Pottinger household is a mess.

I laid down in the middle of the bed. Head propped on all four pillows. Tucked my legs under my two comforters, adjusting my body to the feather mattress under me for maximum comfort. I read a couple of paragraphs, and looked at the clock.  I typically go to bed at 11, but tonight I felt a need to turn in at 10:30. Light off, I told Kevin I loved him and rolled over, pillow between my legs. My phone went off.  It was my friend Anthony, wanting to know if I was up to talk. I called him. We chatted til 11:20. I hung up and snuggled in, falling asleep immediately.

I woke up this morning at 7:15.  I peed with the door open after feeding Kevin. I grabbed his leash, walked out the door, and walked him for a half hour in my sweatpants and Mom's old sweater. I got ready for work. I gave him some treats, and headed out the door for my day.

I didn't have to think about anyone else and their needs.  I didn't have to sneak out of the room to chat with my friend.   I didn't have to share my pizza or be judged for adding salt/Hallmark movie/sweatpants and Mom's sweater.  I don't have to share Kevin.  I don't have someone asking me to turn out the light so they can sleep.

Being single has it's lonely times, sure.  But the non-lonely times are pretty awesome.

Wedding weirdness.

You never really know how you've effected someone until the day they introduce you to their new spouse and say, "She's the one who inspired me to travel."

John Sheetz go married this weekend to a wonderful woman named Bekkah. They were married in a Lodge in Wakulla Springs, FL. It was perfect for them. The ceremony was beautiful. They offered communion.  I took it.  I interpreted it as a show of support for the new couple in their life together. The bread was tasty.

I've known John since we were 12 years old. We were on newspaper staff together.  We were really great friends in high school.  He was my adventure friend, and we'd end up going for long bike rides or to art galleries together.  One of my fondest memories was the two of us, riding our bikes from my house to a park on Haverhill and up Military Trail back to my house.   Senior year, we wandered around Palm Beach Island with our friends who had all been nominated for Pathfinder Awards.  I was off to tour the world with Up With People. They were all making plans for college.

During my tour, I got emails from John.  He was in Europe. He had decided to travel, too. We emailed back and forth over the year. Me from Prague.  Him while working on a boat in the Mediterranean. Me from Finland. Him from Stratford Upon Avon. I got postcards from him at home, telling me that I should go here or there. I was always jealous of his adventures even while I was having my own.

I had never met Bekkah, but thought I knew her pretty well through facebook posts. Halfway through the reception, I cornered John and pointedly told him that neither I not our friend Katie who was there had ever even met Bekkah. He introduced Katie and her husband. Then me. She said, "I've heard so much about you." He said, "She's the one who inspired me to travel."

Who knew?  Certainly not me.  It's rare to get an opportunity to hear how you've effected your friends. It was nice to hear.  I think it's something I need to say more.

The thrill is gone.

I think I'm burnt out on improv.

Our torrid love affair was going strong.  Something changed recently, and I can't put my finger on it.

There's so much good stuff going on in my improv world, but I'm disinterested.  I dread going to rehearsal. I dread shows.  I love improv, but I hate it right now.

I see posts for shows. They're so exciting!  They use exclamation points!  And fun words!  And fun pictures! YAY!  SHINY!  IMPROV! IT'S ALL MADE UP, GUYS!

They make me want to stab my eyes out.

If I never do another countdown/shaking hands/hokey pokey warmup, I may be fine.

If I never have to kill myself to get to a rehearsal after an 8 hour shit show day at work followed by carrying my 42 pound dog down three flights of stairs so I can pick up his shit before shoving shit food in my piehole while driving, I might be good.

I am now part of two troupes and I don't want to do any of it. I love the people. I love the art form. But I'm just toast right now. Darkly burnt toast that you can't even save by scraping off the surface and putting on lots of jam.  You know.  The fruit stuff, not some hastily put together show with 15 troupes who get 5 minutes of improvisation a piece.

Maybe I'm too old for this shit. Maybe I'll be better when getting home at 5:30pm isn't pitch black and makes me want to curl into a ball and watch NCIS marathons until I go to bed at 11 to try and get a good start to another grindy day at work.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Ch-ch-changes...

One of my oldest friends from middle school is getting married this weekend.

My grandmother is moving out of her house this weekend.

I got my bloodwork back from yet another doctor and my glucose levels were high. Diet time. Exercise time. Change time.

I hate change.  I hate getting old.

The good thing is I asked my mom to get me something from Grandma's house.

It's a light switch plate.

On it is the figure of a cartoon tennis player.

The light switch is his penis.

It was in my grandpa's shed.  A shed full of memories of Grandpa and I painting crafts. Me painting in there by myself after he died. The smell of plant food, gasoline, and craft paint.  I can't walk through the garden center at Home Depot without flashing back to him teaching me how to do detail work on the faces of the Santa and Mrs. Claus he bought for me to paint by myself.  I wasn't very good, but he made me feel like I was the best craft painter to ever paint crafts.

I'm gonna miss that house.  I'm gonna miss that shed.  I'm gonna have a great time at the wedding this weekend with my pup, and my friends from middle and high school.  I'm gonna hike and enjoy life and forget the fact that the home that has 30 years of memories in it will soon not belong to my family. The wall that has pencil marks for height for my aunts, uncles, cousins, brother and sister will be painted a fresh coat of white.

I had a dream the other night that I bought the house and raised my kids in it.  Kevin frolicked in the backyard. Then I looked at the MLS and realized I could never, ever afford to have that dream come true.

It sucks, but I know my Grandma is going to be happy in her new home. I'm happy for her new adventure.  And I really, really want that light switch cover.

Perspective.

I've been sleeping a lot lately. LIKE a lot. All day Sunday. Monday night. Tuesday night. I slept through the alarm I set to get going for rehearsal.  Woke up right when rehearsal was about to start. 45 minutes away. It was too overwhelming to figure out.  I had a long discussion with my mom about how depressed I feel. FOR NO REASON.

Today, my friend Aniela starts chemo. I just chatted with a member of the club who is battling lung cancer. A friend of mine just had to put her dog down. 132 children were killed in Pakistan.

I know I have it good.  I realize this.  My body does not.  My brain chemistry does not.

Depression is a lie.  But it's a damn convincing lie.

I have had a few "snap out of it" comments from people. A "go run on the treadmill to get your endorphin's up" from mom. My friend that I blew off last night told me he understands.

THIS HAPPENS. EVEN ON BRAIN DRUGS, IT HAPPENS.

Every year, the season starts and I want to hibernate.  Work gets crazy.  A lot of energy gets expended in events, negative members, balancing co-workers and membership drives. I leave the couch to walk Kevin.  Get a popsicle. Go back to the couch.  It's tough. I get that it's not just tough on me. I'm not crying all the time (just once on Monday night, but it was for a really good reason).

I'm not wanting to hurt myself.

I'm just tired.

This?

http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/anne-theriault-/living-with-depression_b_3726949.html

I have yet to read an article about depression that more accurately depicted the way I feel right now.

Wil Wheaton said that once he got on meds, the noise in his brain finally dulled to a ringing in the ears. That happened to me when I started the brain drugs. I went off the brain drugs for a few days, and now my brain just needs to catch back up. I need to deal with the health stuff going on in my life. (Surprise!  I'm anemic and have a temporarily broken uterus! Yay!) Realize that my friends love me. My family loves me.  I should love me.

To cope with this current bout, I'm going to be silly.  Post silly shit. Find videos that make me giggle and images that make me guffaw.  I'm gonna be a manic pixie girl. And get my femullet trimmed. That might be step one.

Da blues.

I've got a case of the holiday blues.

The only solution is...a poem.

I got dumped by an elf on Christmas
It was a very bad year
He had the curly shoes, the bells and the hat
And even two very pointy ears

It was one of those crawls

Where everybody drinks
Dressed like Santa, we all did shots
I thought I had been very good all year
But he had other thoughts.

We partied all night
I was naughty but nice
Dancing and acting a fool.
"It's not working out"
He said with a sneer
Shortly after I'd bought his 15th beer

My eyes teared up
Green mascara ran down my face
As I stood in my hooker Santa gear
"Merry Christmas to all"
He yelled as he drove out of sight.
"And I hope you had a very shitty night!"

Never trust a man who drinks cough syrup
He'll always end up breaking your heart
But that damn elf did me a favor that day
And left me to make a brand new start

I got dumped by an elf on Christmas
It was a very bad year
He had the curly shoes, the bells and the hat
And even two very pointy ears.

EFF CHRISTMAS!

THIS GUY IS NOT MY BUDDY!