Tuesday, July 26, 2016

No More Cake Pops

I didn't get up this morning planning to eat four Starbucks cake pops. Truth be told, they are kind of disgusting. Which added to my disgusting feeling of disgust with myself.

I was going to eat clean today. Maybe even vegetarian. Drink lots of water. Walk a lot. Be a good human. Not a disgusting one.

Nope. Didn't happen. Might happen tomorrow. Not having a job or a schedule isn't good for my health. I do better when I have deadlines, schedules and plans. Left to my own devices I am a walking disaster.

You may have noticed (and by 'you' I mean me because I don't think anyone reads this blod any longer) that I've begun to be brutally honest in my blogging. Not that I wasn't honest in my past ten to fifteen years of blogging, I was. But this time it's different. I'm not hiding the blemishes, the stains on the carpeting from spilled milk that was left too long, cheerios down seat cushions or my many weaknesses. So, so very many weaknesses.

I just got back from taking my grandson to his therapy group. It's designed especially for kiddos with autism. He's made amazing progress and his vocbulary has increased. He's gotten much better at making eye contact. I delight in his face when he sees me after class, his grin as he races out the door to me in the hall and throws himself into my arms. His tiny arms wrap around my neck, he nuzzles his head on my shoulder and hangs on for dear life. My back is not too happy about the added weight in my arms but I am loathe to put him down. I love this little man so very much. With each new word, with each new milestone and with each precious grin my heart melts even more. I am blessed to have this lil guy in my life.

This is what I loved about having little ones. They loved me with such enthusiasm, such innocence. They hadn't yet learned from the world that anyone not conforming to specific body type was unworthy of love or acceptance. When I was going to have my third child I wanted my husband to bring a picture of him with our children to the hospital so I could put it on my bedside table. I wanted the nursing staff to see that I was indeed a real person, that real people loved, that I had a handsome and kind husband and two beautiful height-weight proportionate children. I was worthy of being treated as a human being. I wanted this because for most of the public I was not worthy of being treated kindly as a fellow human being. I thought if they could see that others loved me, that they might look past my crippling hideousity (Is that a word?) and be kind.

I've gotten better at accepting myself---the inner me. I know who I am. Aging brings gifts like self-acceptance, understanding, a better perspective on things and hot flashes. What it hasn't entirely done for me is allow me to ignore the stares, the side-eyes, the words that people feel free to impart to me about my size. It's as though some people feel it's their duty to shame me because that will certainly make me do what is healthy. PSA--it doesn't work. It only serves to futher drive down my self-worth, self-esteem and desire for something crunchy.

I'm grateful for a loving husband that appears to be blind to my many faults. He is the kindest, most compassionate person I've ever met. He loves me for me. And that's saying something. I truly believe he loves like our Savior loves--without conditions or judgement. I try to be more like him. My heart is not as pure as his---but I'm learning. I'm trying. We are having our 29th wedding anniversary next week---33 years together. I must have done something right to have been worthy to have him as my better half.

No more cake pops. I promise.

Monday, July 25, 2016

Laundry. Depression. Laundry.

I brought a load of whites up from the basement just now. This might not seem like much to you but trust me, it's significant. I don't do laundry. Not for years. Oh, I'll fold laundry when it's laid before me, sure. And I've put the odd load on when it's vitally necessary, but generally this is my husband's forte. I cook, bake, clean the kitchen, do the bills and most of the grocery shopping. Dear sainted husband separates the whites from the colors, adds the detergent and makes sure the lint trap is cleaned. He keeps us clothed. Just me and him, because the three kids still at home do their own laundry. At least we taught them that much.

I'm depressed. No surprise there, at least not for me. I've battled this monster for years. Have I kept it well hidden from the rest of my world? Perhaps. Or perhaps not as well as I believe I have. I suppose I'm what you could call a functioning depressive? I know there are functioning alcoholics, functioning heroin addicts, functioning Republicans and Democrats. The problem is that you can only function so long with a mental illness, an addiction or the belief that yours is the only candidate to save the world.

I first went on antidepressants after my friend died from colon cancer. We were both young mothers. Our daughters were born days apart, we both gave birth to sons. While I recovered from my c-section, she never did. I began to have panic attacks, I'd run inside my house or frantically pace the dark street in front of my house in the night trying to suck oxygen into my dying self. Each night I was absolutely certain I was dying. Insomnia and small babies do not mix well. My physician at the time put me on Valium. Several times a day. One morning in church I was unable to remember the name of the man speaking from the pulpit. I knew that I knew him. I'd know him since I was a young girl. What was his name? I went home and dumped the remaining bottle of pills down the toilet.

After trying different antidepressants I found one that seemed to help. I stayed on it for a few years then tapered off and stopped. I was still depressed. I went back on antidepressants the first time my daughter tried to kill herself. I've been on them for three more suicide attempts, a few job losses, two moves, deaths of two more friends, a heroin addicted child and so much more. I do not have it worse than others. I do not have it better. It's just life. I threw myself a weekend pity party's after I lost my job last month. It was the only reason I got out of bed most days and poof it was gone. it hurt because I erroneously believed that these people were my friends. I loved my job. I was very, very good at it. Helping homeless students gave me purpose, broke my heart and caused me to count my blessings. They are making my position full time and adding more budgetary duties to it making it a few levels higher in the union. This means I can apply for it, which I am, but that doesn't mean I'll get it. I think perhaps my seven years of telling them this position needed more hours did not please the powers-that -be. But I digress.

Depression. I gots it. Today I am more down than usual. I've taken two hydrocodone due to a failing tooth. It's not helping with my I-don't-feel-like-adulting-today.

Where was I. Oh yeah, laundry. I'm about to fold it.

Thursday, July 21, 2016

Summer 2016

Hello Summer 2016. To be fair, we're already halfway through so I'm a bit late with my greeting.

I'm not going to say that 2016 has been a horrible year, but if it were a meal I ordered I'd get a whopping case of e-coli from it.

I know, I know....count your blessings Pam. Count your blessings. I do have many--one of which is my delightful grandson Enzo. I've been lucky enough to be able to watch him this summer after he was kicked out of his daycare/preschool due to behavior issues. Enzo was diagnosed with autism this year and so things have been a little difficult. He's in therapy a few times a week and has already made amazing progress. So very grateful for that. So very.

I lost my job at the end of the school year. Yeah, that was unpleasant. I wasn't fired, and my evaluations have been stellar for the past seven years. I loved my job and was devastated to have lost it. It was three hours a day in the school district as the Homeless Education Liaison. I took care of the homeless kiddos. I gave it my all and kept pestering them for more hours because i had nearly 400 students. They finally agreed that someone needed to be there full time for this, added several other jobs to that job and it went up a few levels and so I'm applying for my old job. Weird, I know. I hope to get it. I honestly do.

If I don't....I'm not quite sure where to go from there. I've got my writing, one book nearly revised and writing two more at the same time. Focus is not my forte. I keep skipping around. I've got my seaglass jewelry that I could go back to. I still have quite a bit of inventory because I love making it but the selling part is not my cup of tea. I wonder if I could get my stay-at-home daughter to be my Etsy shop manager? It's worth a shot. It's not like.... uh, nevermind.

I'd talk about the elections here in the states, but my mama taught me not to use bad language and I've managed quite well up until this point in my life without gutter language. And trust me, this presidential election elicits an odd desire in me to spew words I normally eschew. Trump and Hilary. How did we come to this? I was also taught that if I couldn't say anything nice, to not say anything at all. I fear I've not always lived up to that lofty goal, but I try. And in an effort to keep trying, that's it for my commentary on the 2016 presidential election. :(

Late at night, when I can't sleep I slip earbuds in and listen to the police scanner for Seattle. It doesn't help me sleep but I've discovered how very much goes on below the surface of this world that most of us never realize. We do not see what our police have to deal with on a daily basis. I've listened in on active CPR for heroin overdoses. Some make it, others do not. Shots fired, domestive violence calls, robbery, drugs, abuse, missing people, hysterical people. I have heard a great deal of calls for people fighting under the influence of drugs or booze. It all comes down to personal choices. Nearly all these calls are for people that have made some very poor choices in their lives and now the police have to come clean up the mess, save the victims, catch the bad guys and some times they are forced to take a life in order to protect their lives and the lives of others.

The attacks on our law enforcement is a direct result of the hateful rhetoric in the news, by organizations that march in the streets calling for the death of police officers. It has to stop. This is not the way to further your cause. News outlets, elected officials and the BLM all have blood on their hands for Dallas and Baton Rouge. Stop screaming. Start talking. Hate has never solved anything---ever.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming until I remember my blog in several months time and post once again.

Be kind to one another.