I feel like I should start off by apologizing. To my husband, my kids, my friends, my neighbors. For the screaming, the intolerance, the ignoring, the lack of eye contact, the desire to disappear (just under a rock. Don't get nervous). I'm going through what I typically would refer to as a funk. Over the years different things triggered the funk. Work, childbirth, the weather, finances, my weight, parenting, a stranger's rudeness. But a few years ago I nipped the funk in the bud with medication.
A year or so ago I was put on Cymbalta for pain management due to fibromyalgia. I was, along with probably everyone around me, delighted to see that it not only did ease the pain, but it also "lightened" my mood quite a bit. Less ups & downs, fewer screaming episodes etc. Funny what an anti-depressant can do for you. Yes, my hands were no longer ham-hocks, I could get up from the floor without feeling like my body would crack and I could fall asleep with the pain in my kicking legs keeping me awake. That was the entire point of the anti-depressant; pain management. And it helped. A lot. What seemed like a side-effect was that my edge was gone. The funks were gone (or at least limited) and this was good for pretty much everyone around me. I was "evened out."
And then I did what I think many people on "mood altering" drugs do; I felt better so I stopped taking them. My body felt better. My personality was much more calm and easy-going. And to make the decision simple, my insurance stopped paying for the Cymbalta so I was going to need to contact my doctor to get on another brand of anti-depressant to manage pain (and personality). So off I went. At first, it was a rough week physically but then I was excited to see that the pain hadn't really come back and I was still plugging along really well with plenty of energy and good nature. Then a month went by.
You know when you take a nap in the middle of the day, but sleep a little too long and you can't really fully wake back up. So groggy that you might as well go back to bed. That's a good way to understand what I feel like most of the time right now. But mix in anger, frustration and physical pain.
Please don't get distressed by this. I tend to refer to myself as a sad clown. I'm pretty good out in the world (still nailing the jokes, smiling at the check-out ladies, volunteering for too much and making plans for the summer). My mild mental irritation (if you will) is directed more toward those who have to be around me every day. Luckies. Really, I just don't want to be around anyone and for those unfortunate to live in my house, the price is paid by enduring my anger, frustration, disinterest, blame and general blahs. Hence, starting this post with apologies to all these guys.
The point! I actually have one. The point for writing all of this down is to a.) express how completely disappointing and depressing it is to confirm for myself that I need to be on medication. That it adjusts my personality to a place that makes me so much happier and removes the eggshells for everyone around me. And b.) this is "part 1" of my little story as I thought I would follow up on my well-being once I get back on an anti-depressant that clearly manages quite a bit for me. It's all okay. It's going to be even more okay in a few weeks when the physical pain is under control and my severe edge is smoothed out a bit. And now that I have accepted the fact that I need a little "support" in pill form to keep the rockiness at bay, I can continue to make summer plans and anticipate that they might actually be fun. For everyone. I will keep you posted.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Monday, March 4, 2013
Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor....
...your huddled parents yearning for a babysitter.
Okay...so we're not sailing in from another country with a dream of what the unknown new world could promise. I often times feel lately that I am on a ship that isn't going to hit port for a long, long time. I'm dirty most of the time. I'm scraping together leftover food to make a meal. I'm surrounded by poop. I haven't slept properly in days (and I look like it). My clothes are old (or maternity-wear from three years ago). And we're a little anxious about the future unknown.
I sat at my 11 years old daughter's volleyball game yesterday and realized that in 9 years I could very well be sitting in the exact same bleacher seat watching my future 11 year old son playing volleyball. I know it's not the PC (Parentally Correct) thing to say, but that thought did not send a bittersweet pang to my heart. It sent a lightening bolt of anxiety to my gut. I'm going to be wading through all of this parenting goo for HOW long?? I know....I chose this. And most of the times I actually feel like I'm pretty good at it. But I would be fibbing all over if I didn't admit that somedays I just want to drive. And drive. And drive. Maybe check into a hotel and order some room service. Watch a movie. I know I'm not alone in this. But lots of "happy mommies" don't like to bring it up.
It's hard, that's all. And, well, parenthood is really quite a commitment unless you're okay with pushing your little birds out of the nest with your foot and hoping they take flight on their own. And I'm tired. AND I miss my creativity that somehow seems to have gone missing with all of the puzzle pieces, Buzz Lightyear's arm, the Cars 2 DVD and pretty much every sock that might actually make a pair. I've heard other parents often say "I can't even remember what life was like before so & so was born." Really? Were you in a coma? Because I can remember what being awake and energetic felt like. I seem to recall having friends and being invited to parties. I can recall what NOT stepping on a miniature stegasaurus in the dark felt like.
A year or so ago, we were at a party (without the kids) and were chatting with a couple we'd just met. Somehow it came up that they, like most of our friends, were not child-rearing people. I don't care about or judge that decision (and clearly sometimes I can be envious of it), but the husband got in my face as we were saying good-byes, shook my hand and blurted "childless by choice!" Excellent. I think about that weird moment from time to time. I said nothing then. But I do work through several retorts in my head every once in a while. Most of them starting with "well gooooood for yoooou...." and end with me crying and saying "you have no idea how hard this is!"
Again...I chose this parenting gig. And because it was a choice, I feel like I can't get all complainery about it. (OR I will write a short blog post about it.) Being your own person is hard enough. Then you go and add a bunch of other people with different personalities and capacities to the mix of responsibility, and I don't know how we all don't have more twitches. It's a little like the X Men with the mutants and the mortals. Instead of having knives come out of my knuckles, I have three kids come out of my minivan. We're still all a bunch of weirdos. Some of us are just attempting to raise little weirdos of our very own.
Time to go hop on the boat again. Hopefully the sway of the waters (read: drive to daycare) will ease me into the evening routine and I'll be reminded why I chose to raise these little castaways. My queasiness over this parenting deal is temporary. I actually do rather enjoy the ride and there is, more than not, a bittersweetness to looking out at the horizon.
I sat at my 11 years old daughter's volleyball game yesterday and realized that in 9 years I could very well be sitting in the exact same bleacher seat watching my future 11 year old son playing volleyball. I know it's not the PC (Parentally Correct) thing to say, but that thought did not send a bittersweet pang to my heart. It sent a lightening bolt of anxiety to my gut. I'm going to be wading through all of this parenting goo for HOW long?? I know....I chose this. And most of the times I actually feel like I'm pretty good at it. But I would be fibbing all over if I didn't admit that somedays I just want to drive. And drive. And drive. Maybe check into a hotel and order some room service. Watch a movie. I know I'm not alone in this. But lots of "happy mommies" don't like to bring it up.
It's hard, that's all. And, well, parenthood is really quite a commitment unless you're okay with pushing your little birds out of the nest with your foot and hoping they take flight on their own. And I'm tired. AND I miss my creativity that somehow seems to have gone missing with all of the puzzle pieces, Buzz Lightyear's arm, the Cars 2 DVD and pretty much every sock that might actually make a pair. I've heard other parents often say "I can't even remember what life was like before so & so was born." Really? Were you in a coma? Because I can remember what being awake and energetic felt like. I seem to recall having friends and being invited to parties. I can recall what NOT stepping on a miniature stegasaurus in the dark felt like.
A year or so ago, we were at a party (without the kids) and were chatting with a couple we'd just met. Somehow it came up that they, like most of our friends, were not child-rearing people. I don't care about or judge that decision (and clearly sometimes I can be envious of it), but the husband got in my face as we were saying good-byes, shook my hand and blurted "childless by choice!" Excellent. I think about that weird moment from time to time. I said nothing then. But I do work through several retorts in my head every once in a while. Most of them starting with "well gooooood for yoooou...." and end with me crying and saying "you have no idea how hard this is!"
Again...I chose this parenting gig. And because it was a choice, I feel like I can't get all complainery about it. (OR I will write a short blog post about it.) Being your own person is hard enough. Then you go and add a bunch of other people with different personalities and capacities to the mix of responsibility, and I don't know how we all don't have more twitches. It's a little like the X Men with the mutants and the mortals. Instead of having knives come out of my knuckles, I have three kids come out of my minivan. We're still all a bunch of weirdos. Some of us are just attempting to raise little weirdos of our very own.
Time to go hop on the boat again. Hopefully the sway of the waters (read: drive to daycare) will ease me into the evening routine and I'll be reminded why I chose to raise these little castaways. My queasiness over this parenting deal is temporary. I actually do rather enjoy the ride and there is, more than not, a bittersweetness to looking out at the horizon.
Friday, March 1, 2013
In the next moment...
I found myself nose to nose with the mirror again (or is that just "nose to mirror?"). I was inspecting the eyebrows that I have decided to stop plucking. Not horrible. Nothing a little toothbrush with hairspray can't tame. In the next moment, I was holding the small package of fake eye-lashes I recently purchased, cursing the fact that they didn't come with the glue and digging through my tween daughter's play make-up drawer to find leftover lash glue from Halloween. I guess I was lucky the glue was dried up since I can only imagine the long fake lashes tangling with my newly, unruly brows.
More recently, I was at the bathroom mirror again (I don't even own a "skinny" mirror so I don't really know why I spend so much time in front of it). This time it was to stare at my natural hair color that I have decided to allow to shine through. It's about 3-4 inches into its natural shine. And I use the word "shine" as if the definition is "dull and mouse-like highlighted by white wires." I don't know why it fascinates me to watch the unveiling of my aging. But it grabs my attention every time my face is three inches from that ol' looking glass. In the next moment, I was digging through a box of wigs from a "rock star" themed birthday party, trying to find something fun and a little weird to wear out (in public).
I comment too often on the fact that my hands are puffed up from fribromyalgia or dry and cracked from living in an area where, even though there is constant moisture in the air, we run the heat 8-9 months out of the year. Yet I just painted my nails black, fully aware that I was embracing my middle-age digits and proudly flashing my cool on 1/3 inch of non-manicured nails.
I've become quite...what's the word that means "slightly less than obsessed?" That's what I mean. I've become quite <insert word> with the dichotomy I have going on these days. The fascination with my aging and need to reveal my natural physical self, and then the desire to go over the moon to disguise myself. Bushy eyebrows above fake eyelashes. Gray wiry hair pulled back with a sequin & feather chartreuse clip. Months worth of unshaven legs under fishnet stockings.
It goes deeper than the superficiality of it all (it has to, right?). I think that as I get older and, dare I say, mature...I'm realizing that my limits are my own creation. I think I'm testing myself to see if I'll follow the commonly accepted guidelines to aging. Dress your age, settle down, grow old gracefully, become complacent, etc etc. The fact of the matter is that my growing older has made me anything but content. (And I realize that I'm not exactly elderly at 42, but I'm rounding a corner that does make one assess things a bit.) There are a few things I once always assumed I'd do or have that I understand will never happen in my life. I will not have a singing career. I will not be in the Peace Corps. I will not be a foot model. (The foot model concept is the least possible option than the first two. I don't have good feet. But I once did.) But I seem to be getting some bigger (at least different) aspirations and am allowing myself to evolve. I am starting to like the idea of being the middle aged woman with some clever skills, cool experiences and a lot of moxie. Some days I'm a working mother trying to portray a sense of normalcy to these people I'm raising, and other days I may focus on that magnum opus I've been concocting. Some days I may be mousey-haired and other days I may be sporting glittery false eye-lashes. There's really no limit in what the next moment may bring.
NOTE: I wrote the above entry several weeks ago. I'm not sure why I didn't post it. But I wanted to add that today my "hair chalk" arrived in the mail. So I stood in the bathroom following the directions by wetting the front of my hair, then wetting the blue chalk, coloring in the strands I wanted colored, and securing the color with a "heating device." And there...in my typical place in front of the bathroom mirror I stood and saw that I literally was a blue hair. Might go with pink next time.
More recently, I was at the bathroom mirror again (I don't even own a "skinny" mirror so I don't really know why I spend so much time in front of it). This time it was to stare at my natural hair color that I have decided to allow to shine through. It's about 3-4 inches into its natural shine. And I use the word "shine" as if the definition is "dull and mouse-like highlighted by white wires." I don't know why it fascinates me to watch the unveiling of my aging. But it grabs my attention every time my face is three inches from that ol' looking glass. In the next moment, I was digging through a box of wigs from a "rock star" themed birthday party, trying to find something fun and a little weird to wear out (in public).
I comment too often on the fact that my hands are puffed up from fribromyalgia or dry and cracked from living in an area where, even though there is constant moisture in the air, we run the heat 8-9 months out of the year. Yet I just painted my nails black, fully aware that I was embracing my middle-age digits and proudly flashing my cool on 1/3 inch of non-manicured nails.
I've become quite...what's the word that means "slightly less than obsessed?" That's what I mean. I've become quite <insert word> with the dichotomy I have going on these days. The fascination with my aging and need to reveal my natural physical self, and then the desire to go over the moon to disguise myself. Bushy eyebrows above fake eyelashes. Gray wiry hair pulled back with a sequin & feather chartreuse clip. Months worth of unshaven legs under fishnet stockings.
It goes deeper than the superficiality of it all (it has to, right?). I think that as I get older and, dare I say, mature...I'm realizing that my limits are my own creation. I think I'm testing myself to see if I'll follow the commonly accepted guidelines to aging. Dress your age, settle down, grow old gracefully, become complacent, etc etc. The fact of the matter is that my growing older has made me anything but content. (And I realize that I'm not exactly elderly at 42, but I'm rounding a corner that does make one assess things a bit.) There are a few things I once always assumed I'd do or have that I understand will never happen in my life. I will not have a singing career. I will not be in the Peace Corps. I will not be a foot model. (The foot model concept is the least possible option than the first two. I don't have good feet. But I once did.) But I seem to be getting some bigger (at least different) aspirations and am allowing myself to evolve. I am starting to like the idea of being the middle aged woman with some clever skills, cool experiences and a lot of moxie. Some days I'm a working mother trying to portray a sense of normalcy to these people I'm raising, and other days I may focus on that magnum opus I've been concocting. Some days I may be mousey-haired and other days I may be sporting glittery false eye-lashes. There's really no limit in what the next moment may bring.
NOTE: I wrote the above entry several weeks ago. I'm not sure why I didn't post it. But I wanted to add that today my "hair chalk" arrived in the mail. So I stood in the bathroom following the directions by wetting the front of my hair, then wetting the blue chalk, coloring in the strands I wanted colored, and securing the color with a "heating device." And there...in my typical place in front of the bathroom mirror I stood and saw that I literally was a blue hair. Might go with pink next time.
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