It's the Most Irrational Time of the Year

I've been hit with a big dose of irrationality and crankiness today. It started this afternoon when my husband informed me that he hadn't bought my Christmas present yet. Considering that last year and this year he has managed to miss Mother's Day, my birthday and last Christmas... it settled in my heart the wrong way. I know that everyone is reading this now and thinking to themselves, "Really, you selfish cuntbag? Since when did that become what the holidays were about? Material things are nothing in the grand scheme of things." And you would be right. But even so, sometimes a girl (especially one with my condition) needs those stupid materials to feel like she is cared about. Throughout the year, I sacrifice a lot so that my husband and kids can have what they need (and want, most of the time.) I look longingly at the book section and gorgeous clearance dresses as I walk through to grab diapers and laundry detergent and hold off because I know that my birthday is coming, or Mother's Day is or Christmas and my family will go all out for me. So when that day comes and everyone else is opening up their gifts, the light on their faces shining brilliantly and I am sitting on the couch empty-handed, like a schmuck, it makes me feel like I am not even a part of my family. I'm just a bystander that is there to make everyone else happy. My wants and needs be damned.

I don't blame my children for this, they are seven, two and one and are not responsible for the happiness of their mother. Quite the opposite as a matter of fact. But when I had my first son, I went through a stage of mourning, knowing that as a single mother I wouldn't have that male figure in his life to urge him to make me a Mother's Day card or draw me a picture or pick me a flower... you know, teach him how to be a gentlemen and how to melt a woman's heart. Now that my husband is here and has taken over that role, I kind of expected him to direct our children to do these things. I expect it because I do that for him, so that he knows that we care for him and on his special days... we've gone out of our way to do something to make him feel like he is more special than we do the other 364 days of the year. (Or 362 if you count Father's Day and his birthday.) So occasionally, I want to be on the receiving end of this ordeal.

But that isn't all... the other major disappointment and frustration is that I hear in between the lines of what everyone says to me. Something trivial and meaningless to someone else is heard as a massive insult to me. Prime example is about tonight: I forgot one ingredient to make the Christmas Eve cookies. Brown sugar. It's nothing important but as everyone on the planet knows, stores are all closed on Christmas Eve so everyone can spend time with their families. I did find a few that were open until like 10 p.m. or even one that is open all night but they are further away from our house. Twenty minutes or so. I really wanted to make this special cookie for my husband... his grandmother has the recipe for the best damn oatmeal cookie this side of heaven. But again, stupid brown sugar. So I found a few stores that were open, meaning we could make a plethora of the divine treats. But my husband said, "I just want this to be easy. I want it to be about our family today and tomorrow and nothing else." Which sounds admirable to the normal human being. To me, it suggests that I DON'T want it to be about our family... that I am being a selfish, raging bitch. And the thing is, he is probably right. And all that makes me want to do, is put a gun in my mouth and pull the fucking trigger. I won't because ironically, I am terrified of guns and death. Instead, I will sit here, trying to mend my heart and fix my mind. That isn't how this works though. Borderline Personality Disorder isn't about rationality and everyone else's feelings... it's about what I want. And I fucking hate it to the umpth degree.

Just once, I want to be able to sidle through a fucking holiday without the stress and the emotional terrorism getting to me. I just want to enjoy wrapping my kid's presents and watching Almost Famous with my husband and making cookies and fudge with the ingredients we DO have. But that isn't how it works in Rachel's mind. Instead, I'm going to sit here, typing out my insanity until I feel like maybe I can survive another hour or two without committing suicide or self-mutilating. I'll try to convince the underdeveloped part of my emotional brain that brown sugar isn't the end all, be all of my existence. And I will try to convince myself that maybe I am worth more than gum on the bottom of someone's shoe. It probably won't work because the childlike emotional part of my brain is much more loud and convincing than the adult, rational part... but maybe, just maybe, by tomorrow morning when my children are opening their presents and my husband is opening his and I am sitting there eating cookies because that is all that I have going for me at the moment... I will feel a little bit better.

On This Day in My History

On this day, in our family's history, my son Korben won second place in the science fair as a first grader. I was concerned that he wouldn't even place because the board looked pretty rough. However, as it turns out... they were appreciative of the fact that my son did most of the work. I helped with some things here and there and even left a "Note from my Mother" on there but he did almost all of the research and did all of the drawings and etches needed to make the point.

Second place... Wow. My baby is a natural.

Trigger Happy: I Shot the Sheriff (And if the Deputy Moves I'll Shoot Him Too!)

So, today I discovered yet another fun-filled trigger for one of my rages. Sometimes, the triggers are trivial and unexpected that I almost don't catch that that is even what it is. And most of the time, it takes some real detective work for them because at the time of your episode, you feel completely justified in your reaction. From your head down to your toes. Chew on that, Meghan Trainor. So, to help along a few of my fellow BPD-ers (new verbiage and all!) I figured I'd give a few examples of random triggers that were almost overlooked.

1) My husband asking, "What do you need such-and-such for?" when I give him a grocery list.

This actually happened today and it was completely unexpected. The reaction was swift and brutal. He asked the question and I immediately screeched out, "NEVER FUCKING MIND!" and stormed off in the opposite direction. He, of course, followed me, asking what he did and when I was finally able to stave off the fury swirling around in my brain I figured out the answer.

Unfortunately, most of my childhood was spent trying to justify actions, thoughts, emotions and of course, purchases/needs/wants. "What/why do you need it for/feel that way?" was a constant precursor to the word, "No." Granted the no for materialistic things was a lot less invalidating then the constant, "You don't have a right to feel that way," it stuck with me as just another reason why I was a burden. Hearing it from my husband, a man that I trust completely and who is the biggest support in my life, makes it all the more painful and triggering. I don't think I would have the same reaction to a friend asking. With him though, I feel that he is questioning the validity of my wants and needs, which in turn makes me question my own emotions. Vicious cycle.

2) My husband not answering the phone in an "upbeat enough" way.

After some consideration, this one isn't really that surprising to me. I wouldn't have thought about it beforehand if my husband hadn't been such the BPD caregiver trooper that he is (still has a ways to go, like I do though) and brought up my reactions when I call him.

This one is an easy one to ponder on. I still struggle with trying to convince my father that I am interesting enough to listen to on the phone. I've actually tried time and again to call him to tell him about my struggles with BPD (and now bipolar disorder) and I am often ignored. I can't count how many times I've been in the middle of a sentence, stopped and asked, "Dad?" to see if he was listening and received no response for a good ten seconds. Then suddenly, like he's popped out of a trance, he goes, "Huh?" That is possibly the most invalidating thing that I have experienced from my own father. I want to believe that he cares for me but when I look at the difference between when I talk to him and our mother, it's night and day. My mother, while sometimes sharing different opinions than I am, actually cares to listen and will give me advice when I need it or will pick up on when I just need to vent. She is quite literally the best friend in the world... even though our past has been less than stellar.

Keep an eye out for your triggers, fellow BPD-ers. You would be surprised how helpful it is to tack down what some of your issues revolve around so that you can work them out either in therapy or with your partner or even in your own journal to write down how you are feeling and why. This disorder is a doozy and you have to be proactive about your involvement with your own treatment.

Rachel in the Sky with Diamonds... Out of One of Those Ring Vending Machines

I always end up starting these things out with, "One thing I can't stand about blah-blah-blah is..." and then I go on a tangent of about ten different things. This time I am going to try my best to stay focused on one issue and explain it to the best of my abilities.

I have been raped and was also molested during my childhood and every once in a great while, a flashback of emotions will hit me like a ton of bricks. It is so hard to put it into words but the best way I can think of to describe it is that it feels like I have done something to be ashamed of. That I am tainted and guilty and it makes my stomach twist into a knot. I suddenly have the urge to be covered from head to toe, definitely no shorts but pants on and the only thing that has been known to make me feel better with one of these episodes is when my husband holds onto me. It helps prevent that feeling that your body can get when it wants to explode off in ten million directions. 

I wish I knew what caused this sensation and I wonder if at any point during my treatment if I will be able to prevent the situations that trigger them so that I don't have to feel this way, ever again. It is a truly helpless feeling. Devoid of any hope. And it is not in any way helpful to my enlightenment of the disorder I was born with. 

If anyone that reads this blog (the four of you, ha!) have any idea of what this could be, I would be very grateful to get some reading material on it. Something to at least help the future occurrences, as I know that it will happen and I will hate it and I will again wish that someone or something could be there to help me figure out what in the hell is wrong with me.

Untitled (Because I Don't Want To)

I can tell that the depression is starting to win out again.

Why are people allowed to treat their coworkers with disrespect? Do we just not talk about it? Are we expected to ignore the other employee's talking down attitude? There is a difference, to me at least, between "being professional" and "letting someone walk all over you because no one wants to rock the boat." I don't want to rock the boat either. But I would much rather rock the boat than call my husband, crying hysterically, and needing a sedative for the two hours that I cried solid while driving for work.

I really do wonder... if these people knew how difficult it was for me to face each day. If they knew that I had a mental disorder that makes me highly sensitive to mistreatment. I wonder... if they would still speak to me the same way. I know I've said it before but it seems very short-sighted to ignore that there are other people in the world that have a slew of issues on their plate.

People are assholes. That is all.

Maybe the Problem is You

My entire life has been one giant uphill in the snow sack race. I'm not trying to be dramatic and I am not interested in playing the "Who Has Had It Worse?" game. I do know that I have had the short end of the stick for a long time.

Topography

My, my, I am all over the emotional map today. And I seem to have misplaced my compass. Bazinga...

When Talent Turns Ugly

I've been working at my newest job for coming up on three months now. A few weeks ago, one of the managers came up to me and said that they were entertaining another job offer and that they had put my name down as a potential replacement since I had the skills necessary for the job and was a VERY quick learner. When this person ended up taking the job offer, I immediately went in to the general manager's office and told him that not only was I interested but I was also very serious about it and would be more than happy to turn this job into a career. He said that he would love to have me train for the position and I was supported by all of upper management and most of the guys in the back, since they know that I have talents other than just being a delivery technician.

From there, it all pretty much goes downhill.

Apparently, in today's age, if you are unqualified for a position but throw big enough of a stink, you can smush someone else's chances for the job, despite their qualifications. That is exactly what happened. Some of the guys that had been there longer (not necessarily a ridiculously long time but longer) than I have been, decided it was unfair that I was being given the opportunity. Which is crazy because all I did was put myself into the running. Instead of going about it the normal way, by all of us putting our names into the hat for the promotion, they flipped the fuck out. So now, they've made it pretty clear that they aren't qualified for the position just based on their maturity level but they've also made the general manager's spot so uncomfortable that he has to either piss off a group of prepubescent acting "grown men" or one employee who has only been there a couple of months. I have to say, if I were in his position, I would have made the same choice.

Obviously, I've been devastated by this decision. I no longer am getting the promotion and on top of that, neither are the idiots that staged this coup. The general manager has decided to hire someone from the outside, who exceeds all of our qualifications with a bachelor's degree in management. It wasn't necessary for the job, since the one before him didn't hold a degree of any kind... but it was the lesser of two evils and I can't help but fully support him in this position.

So, this brings me to my thought process. Since when did we all become incapable of understanding that the world isn't always fair? If they had always been interested in working up in the office (we usually work in the warehouse) then why hadn't they given anyone notice before this moment? If any of them had told me that they were interested in the position and held any kind of qualification (Excel/spreadsheet knowledge, Business communications, etc.)  that surpassed mine then I would have been understanding about the reasons behind him choosing them over me. But instead, they didn't put their names in the running like a normal, mature adult would. They didn't sell themselves to the manager. They went to him and complained about why I shouldn't have the job. All of these people and I had gotten along perfectly fine until this went down as well, so I have no idea what the reasoning is behind it beyond pure jealousy that I had a talent that they didn't have.

I don't know, maybe we could all use a little more class. I am positive that not only would I have been good for that position, I would have been great and on top of that, I would have cost significantly less money than someone with a degree. I'm not trying to sell myself short here, it's just the truth of the matter. I don't have a college degree. I have some education, even business education, but I am not officially qualified. So, now, they are spending even more money and wasting even more time to train someone else, despite my being trained for the job and being less money because some "grown men" can't handle being passed over for a small, intelligent and hard-working woman. Ridiculous, guys.

And this... is why we can't have nice things.

If You Knew...

If you knew that the person you were talking to, was a mere step away from pulling the trigger that ended their life... would you talk to them differently?

Would you still roll your eyes at them? Talk down to them? Treat them with more disrespect or would you make a concerted effort to speak to them with kindness, even if the words that you have to say are constructive criticism?

Would you ask the person whose smile doesn't quite reach their eyes if they are alright? Would you tell them that they were doing a great job or that you enjoyed their presence? Or would you brush past them quickly as you went to make your cup of coffee, ignoring them in the middle of their sentence?

Would you be quick to dismiss them when they tell you that they are having a rough day because you aren't supposed to "fraternize?" Or would you throw caution to the wind and ask them to tell you what was rough about their day and if there was anything you could do to help?

Sometimes, I see the better world that I wish it would be. I see it in the disrespectful words that I could change so easily or the haughty tone that I could transform into one of encouragement. I feel that pat on the shoulder, something so small that signifies a unity between persons. And it is a very sad world indeed that that isn't the one that we live in.

Today, it is socially acceptable to treat coworkers like they are nothing more than the gum between the cracks of your shoe. You are told over and over again to "work it out amongst yourselves." But this doesn't leave room for the people that are already working it out amongst themselves on a daily basis in the form of severe depression. There are some things that even all the Prozac and Lithium in the world can't contest. When you feel that the entire world is against you, that you can't even enjoy the career that you've chosen for yourself, or that every single step of the way is barred by unnecessary boundaries... it makes it even easier for us to give up.

Now, I'm not saying that if someone with depression were to commit suicide that it is somehow your fault. It's not. It is a decision that can only be made by them and ONLY them. But I will tell you this... there are days when I am struggling immensely in my own head and my heart is aching, that a concerted effort on someone else's part to speak to me with respect and dignity and god forbid, kindness... would make it less likely for me to fall into that blissful darkness. It would make me less likely to actually get around to pulling that trigger. It would give me the strength to fight one more day.

Just some food for thought.

This is Why They Make Fried Chicken Tenders

I have had a god-awful day. Today, I got the news that I didn't get a promotion that I had basically been promised. My best friend had bought me a "desk present" over the weekend and now it will sit on my home desk. I'm not going to lie and say that I'm not disappointed or sad or even angry because I absolutely am. But the thing is, I am also an adult and I have to suck it up and move on. This company has become a part of me, a family even and I am not going to let one stumbling block get in the way of that.

Today, I discovered that my coworkers are amazing people. Although some of them are self-serving pricks (what job doesn't have those people? Most have them in spades, even.) most of them are very caring, giving individuals. When the news came down from upper management that maybe they had jumped the gun and I wasn't going to be sitting in my nice big office by myself after all, they rallied around me while I walked around the building crying like a little girl. They are amazing people. And they are becoming amazing chosen family.

I don't have my best friends around me. One of them lives in New Jersey and the other lives in Ohio and I only get to see them once in a blue moon. I mostly rely on text communication to say "hi" to either of them. So having a real, live, breathing human being hanging out next to me, draping their arm over my shoulders as I heaved big snotty tears down my shirt... was surreal.

Now I am going to spend the rest of my evening moping, sulking, crying and snotting while eating copious amounts of fried chicken and mashed potatoes; and perchance enjoying the guilty pleasure of America's Next Top Model. If this doesn't make me feel better about myself, I don't know what will.

Happy Birthday Baby Girl... and I'm Sorry...

I wish I wasn't depressed and frustrated on your first birthday.

I wish that my dad hadn't forgotten when your party was which sent me into a spiral of self-loathing plus homicidal tendencies. I wish I didn't feel like curling up into a ball and forgetting that my life exists as it is. But I am. And even though all of that is occurring and I am tired and frightened and wondering if I will ever be the mother you deserve, I want you to know that every second of every minute of every hour of every day, I will fight to be normal. I will fight to not be the disorder that exists within me. I will fight to be everything you could ever want and more.

So, happy birthday, baby girl. I love you. I will always love you. And I will always strive to be more for you but most importantly, for myself.

September 13, 2013 at 11:22 a.m. 7 lbs. 12 oz. 20 inches long. Skyler AnnMarie Caspers.

Grab The Red Bull By Its Horns!

My moods are seriously fluctuating tonight. Today has been relatively difficult, but comparatively... no, I'd say today was closer to the spectacular side of the spectrum as opposed to the "a plague on both your houses" side. So, why is this happening? 

This, my friends, is why you never, ever, ever, under any circumstances go off of your meds. We had an epic fail this week by forgetting to pick up my antidepressants for 24 hours. 

Political Correctness or Lack Thereof: Part 2 (Oklahoma Edition)

I wonder how many have heard of the incredibly disgusting display of "college pride" yet. No? Really? Because it is all over the damn place. I'm not going to bother with putting down anymore links because I am not a deejay for the emotionally stunted but I will go on ahead and add my two cents.

1.) It isn't just about you.

If you read the comments section on any news page that is reporting on this giant mess, you will see a large group of people who I'd like to refer to as the, "I-Have-a-Black/Gay/Handicapped-Friend-So-It's-Totally-Okay-For-Me-To-Say-That" group. I think in a situation where people can get offended, we should follow the lead of the ones who are offended. It is very short-sighted to assume that because you are not affected by an objectionable statement, that no one else will be. In fact, I would think anyone who knows something is discourteous to an entire group of people and doesn't care is not "politically incorrect." No, we call those people assholes. Don't believe me? Let me give an example.

Ladies, let's say that you are walking along the street and a guy from your work comes up and says that he would like to play your breasts like they are a pair of bongos. You point out that the statement is offensive and quite frankly, a little disgusting and he responds with, "Don't be so sensitive! I have female friends and THEY weren't offended by it." I guarantee that you would be giving him the side-eye from then until the end of time and if the scenario took place at work, you'd put a call in to Human Resources.

So why are people allowed a pass in this situation?

2.) Because "it happened forever ago!"

Forever and 175 years ago, are not the same thing. 

History lesson for the unlearned: The Trail of Tears was a forced massacre of the Native American people. Five tribes (at least) were forcibly removed from the Southeast thanks to President Andrew Jackson and marched to present day Oklahoma. Thousands upon thousands of people died; men, women and children. 

When the Third Reich started to slaughter the Jewish people in gas chambers and concentration camps, the American people got involved. Granted our military involvement increased mainly after Pearl Harbor but regardless, Hitler's genocide was not tolerated by most civilized people on the globe. Why is our own personal annihilation of the Five Civilized Tribes not also seen with the same disdain? 

Oh, right. We're Americans. The mistakes that we make are white-washed over (pun slightly intended) because, "The Native Americans/African Americans should have known that we would come after them/their land and therefore, not our fault!" I'd like to clarify that while our entire country isn't guilty of this kind of professional victim-blaming, there is a large division of the population who actually believes this crock of shit. Granted they are often also the people who think rape culture exists mainly to poison young women's minds and target innocent boys. 

I am positive that these two forms of victim-blaming can absolutely be compared. In one, you are suggesting that a group of people shouldn't be offended because they "got what was coming to them." And in the other, you are suggesting that a group of people shouldn't be offended because they, in a way, "got what was coming to them." They are both suggesting that the fault doesn't lie in the aggressor but in the one that should have remained vigilant of the aggressor's potential actions. We can't just say, "Don't rape" or in this case, "Don't pillage and walk to death several tribes of people." We have to also say, "And don't let yourself be raped" or "don't let yourself be walked to death by those with technology far outweighing yours, numbers far outweighing yours and resources far outweighing yours." If you still can't see a connection after that walk-through of it, I can't help you.

So where is the disconnect? Why won't anyone see that their words can be so much more than they intend for them to be? That minimizing these problems doesn't help but hinders the people that are speaking out against it. 

3.) We are just plain lazy.

Every time I read the comments on a news page or a friend's post on Facebook regarding this kind of thing, there are a hundred people out there screaming of their "tiring of political correctness." I don't know about the rest of you but I never tire of being respectful of other human beings. Except maybe the human beings that tire of being respectful of other human beings. (Ha! See what I did there?) But seriously, every single link I find suggesting that learning more appropriate terminology to approach political correctness is merely a Band-Aid to cover-up the problem as a whole makes me want to bash my head into something.   

Maybe the blatant racism/sexism/etc. that exists in our society today is the bigger problem. The bleeding pustule of a problem, no less. But to keep this wound metaphor rolling, what do you do when you have a wound that is infected and needs to be treated by a doctor? You clean it and cover it with a bandage of some kind until the problem can be properly addressed. Yes, political correctness will not solve the problems of the world but it will definitely set a guideline to what is acceptable in our society. If racist jokes and sexist remarks are acceptable in our society, then we are promoting a society of racism and sexism. We are saying it is copacetic to slight millions of people and their everyday struggles. And that is not okay.

Saying things like "that's gay" or "totally retarded" is a great example of this problem. Sure, you can say those phrases. Chances are you are going to offend someone, since there are both gay and mentally handicapped people at large in our world. Instead of using them though, how about you use better and more descriptive vocabulary words that don't provoke others? Is it too difficult to find an alternative? I haven't found that to be so.

Now for story time, where I also share how I have also been part of this sad blight on humanity: A year ago (maybe longer) I was having a conversation with my friend on the phone when I said how I had been "gypped" by the telephone company. He immediately stopped my story and asked me if I knew what "gypped" meant. I knew what the definition was but I had no clue what the origin of the word was. I was absolutely humiliated when I realized what it meant and that I was propagating a stereotype. I do believe at that moment though, I immediately went on the defensive. That is also normal. It is normal to feel embarrassed once you are made aware of distasteful phrases that you use. What is not normal is being advised about it and ignoring it entirely. It is okay to make mistakes. It is okay to learn. We are human beings and will spend the rest of our lives learning and growing. Don't let one of your mistakes be that you refuse to change an existing problem when you have the power to do so. 

Political Correctness, or Lack Thereof: Part 2 (Oklahoma Edition)

We Get By With a Little Help From Our Friends... Who are a Thousand Miles Away

“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.” --Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss

Sometimes, despite my best efforts, I can't get past the lack of motivation that comes with being depressed. I know last entry, I wrote a lot about the irrational thoughts and the severe fatigue but I didn't get a chance to write about exactly how much of my life the lack of motivation affects. How much guilt it manifests.

I used to have a lot of friends. I used to be extroverted... or more accurately, I used to be something resembling extroverted because that is what was expected of me in order for people to like me. As I've grown older, I've come to realize that I have to take care of my own wants and needs. However, the line between my wants and needs becomes blurred once the depression settles in. 

When does the line cross from need to want? I have no idea. But I do know that often I find that I'm at war within myself over something as insignificant as a trip out with my friend. I have the feeling that once I am with my friend I would find amusement and comfort in their company but in the few hours before I go to meet with them, all I feel is dread. I cast my eyes longingly at my office chair or the ever so captivating sheets of my bed and wonder why I ever made the appointment in the first place. I don't want to talk. I don't want to laugh. Well, that's not entirely true, I want to laugh but I don't want to put effort into making them laugh and that makes me feel guilty. How can I call myself a friend when I am using this person for the sole purpose of making me feel better? That isn't how friends work. I start to ask myself if I can pull it together long enough to get in a few witty quips for them. No, I don't think I can. After this conversation in my head, I feel even less motivated and even more sad. 

So one of two things will happen: First, I will go and be relatively miserable for the entire trip. I might laugh a few times. I might make them laugh a few times. Overall, I will feel overwhelming guilt because I don't want to be there in the first place. I will feel a secondary guilt for being out with my friend when I am sure that I won't be able to muster enough energy to spend on my family when I get home. The second scenario is the more likely of the two. I will call and cancel. Again, I will feel tremendous amounts of guilt for being "flaky" and cancelling on my friend.

What is truly sad about this (as many of you with depression are well aware of) is that those so-called friends of yours will probably exacerbate that guilt tenfold. At some point in the trip out, if you go that is, they will comment on your lack of interest or ask "why are you yawning so much?" or "why do you keep zoning out?" If you cancel, you may get the new friend title of "Flake." There is not much understanding that comes with depression beyond the professional field and even then, psychiatry is still a tween compared to other medical research. The requirement to "will yourself out of it" even if it is just temporary and for their benefit is way more settled in our society than the need for others to understand our needs to be the fuck alone.

 You can't force someone out of a depression and sometimes, the mere attempt to do so is more damaging than one would expect. To require someone to pretend to be something they are not, is telling them that they aren't good enough for you unless they are perfectly normal. They can't be damaged or unorthodox in any way. They can't be a "buzzkill" or "party pooper" or "enter your own insult here" because that makes us uncomfortable. We can't be bothered to look beyond our own little bubbles and see that an entire species of people exists with differences and needs. 

So the next time your friend cancels on you for the third or fourth or fifth time, instead of calling them rude and/or flaky, why don't you look beyond your own little world. Could they perhaps be suffering from depression? Could they perhaps be lacking the motivation? Could they just need something more low-key than you are willing to give them? Can you not put aside your expectations for one evening for them and maybe curl up on the couch in comfortable clothing and watch a movie or play a game or just... sit... do something for your friend that you wouldn't normally do? Because I guarantee you this, if you are willing to go the extra mile for me once in a while (and this is something that I have not experienced yet at all) then I would gladly, albeit with much effort, try very hard to put aside my feelings and distracting thoughts for one evening to give you the same treatment. I would come out of MY comfortable little bubble if you would do the same for me. Think about it and look at this cartoon for inspiration.

Living My Life, One Day At A Time

"The road must be trod, but it will be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere." (spoken by Elrond in The Fellowship of the Ring.)

It is easy, as an outside observer, to make the claim that depression is due to nothing more than a lack of willpower. It is also easy and accurate to describe those outside observers as delusional or total assholes. Here's why:

My oldest son, little Korben, is a Juvenile Myelomonocytic Leukemia survivor. He was put into a medically induced coma as a sick but otherwise perfectly normal two year old. Two months later, his muscles were the victims of atrophy, his sides were impaled with two chest tubes and his throat had been sliced open to make way for a tracheostomy. Despite having just mastered the skills of walking and talking, he was required to learn how to do them all over again. His tiny body was ravaged by adult doses of chemotherapy and full body radiation, turning his skin into what can only be described as the worst sunburn that I've ever seen. As is usual when they are irradiating the body, he had sores completely covering the inside of his mouth and the top of his tongue; during this time, we discovered that he was the third person in the entire world to be allergic, dangerously so, to T.P.N, the nutrition that they give patients intravenously when they are unable to process solid foods without pain or distress. Most of the friends that he made up on the tenth floor of O.U. Children's, the other patients similar in age to him, passed away within a year of his diagnosis and treatment. By the age of three, he had had more surgeries and more life experience than most people ten times his age. He's managed to work his way through it with counseling and understanding from his family.

Tobe, well, he was the most complicated of the pregnancies. A mere five days after his birth, I called my husband with severe shortness of breath and edema. We rushed to the hospital to discover that I was suffering from a peripartum cardiomyopathy, also known as heart failure due to the increased pressure on the heart from pregnancy. I was also diagnosed with severe pneumonia. My primary care physician insisted that I be admitted into the hospital to be treated but I was emotionally fragile and couldn't stand to be away from my newborn and four year old. Heavy doses of Lasix and nebulizer treatments got me through the major hump but I still occasionally experience heart palpitations and shortness of breath. I began seeing a cardiologist who dropped the bomb on my husband and I that having another baby, would likely kill me. We struggled with this news for weeks and I constantly battled back and forth between wanting to have the tubal ligation to prevent future pregnancies or continuing birth control. 

Before we could make a decision one way or the other, I took a pregnancy test. It was positive. I cried myself to sleep for weeks, WEEKS, trying to decide whether to continue with the pregnancy and possibly killing myself in the process and/or terminating the pregnancy right then and there. After weeks of grueling pros and cons, I decided that the only way I could live with myself was to try to carry the pregnancy to term. If I had to terminate the pregnancy or die, I would terminate the pregnancy. We luckily made it to full-term, even survived nearly two weeks of passive labor, and now have a beautiful baby girl.

We've lost a house. Were kicked out of our apartment because we had already given our notice. We lived in a hotel suite for two weeks but not before living with my grandmother. 

We've acquired normalcy, in the face of near financial ruin when I was laid off from my job after taking out a large loan to purchase a larger family vehicle, our now paid off minivan.

We've managed through the death of my grandfather and Zach's oldest sister, who we attempted to honor by passing on her middle name to our daughter, Skyler.

It has not been an easy life. It has been a grueling, demanding and heart-breaking life. Obviously, it has not all been downs but there have been a lot and within short succession of one another. How could anyone, after looking at this long line of painful memories, how could anyone honestly believe that the only reason we still trudge through a river of crap is due to my refusal to will myself out of this black hole? Willpower will not get rid of depression. Willpower does have something to do with depression but it has absolutely nothing to do with getting rid of it altogether. In fact, because I am feeling generous, I will tell you what willpower has to do with depression.

Every morning, I wake up and fight to get out of bed. I use all of my energy just to toss my legs over the side, set them on the carpet and walk the four feet to the bathroom sink to brush my morning breath away. I stare blankly at the mirror, trying to figure out what my husband sees in me and why he continuously puts himself through the trauma that is dealing with me and my disorder(s). Then my irrational brain begins to wonder if he does love me and if he only manages to make it through his days because he has someone else on the side. Someone who loves him and holds him and lets him ... just be. It becomes so overwhelming that I have to get away from the mirror and the reflection of that awful person that is standing in front of me. Even if it is me. By this point, I'm completely drained. I'm completely drained and it's only 6:35 in the morning. I'm completely drained and I still have to feed my son breakfast before school and get him to the bus stop. I have to give him snuggles and hugs good-bye, even though my irrational brain has taken over again and I am terrified that I'm sending him off to his school bus of doom or that a mass shooter is going to target his school. After that, I try to get an hour or two of sleep. Anything to recharge my brain just a little bit before I have to get up again for work. More often than not, I don't get any sleep. I just sit there and feel the exhaustion course through my veins. I desperately want to sleep... for days or weeks... whatever it takes just to reorganize the chaos in my head. Then I feel guilty, because I am a mother and a wife and a friend and I can't just lay in bed and be useless. 

By the time work rolls around, I am on the verge of a breakdown. Not because I hate my job. I don't. I love my job. But depression has taken anything and everything of value to me and made it cumbersome. Work is cumbersome. My kids, whom I love dearly, are cumbersome. My husband is cumbersome. And I hate myself and I hate my brain for that. Even if it isn't my fault, I hate myself for it. I can logically know that it isn't my fault and still wish that I weren't here, so that my family wouldn't have to go through the rigorous schedule of helping me recuperate from this disease. But then there are two things that keep me from just "selfishly" offing myself: the people that care about me and fear. The first is the fear. I am afraid to die. I am afraid of what will or will not come when the light leaves my eyes. I am afraid of that nothingness. The second are those people that care about me. Those that will feel my loss. That will grieve the future without me. As the depression's severity increases, I slowly care less and less about those people. The one thing that doesn't change is my fear of death. If that fear of death were to change, I don't know where I would be... or wouldn't be for that matter. It is a very sharp, fine blade that I am teetering on. One wrong move and I either fall off or slice myself in half or hell, maybe I'll swing out of there with nothing but a paper-cut small incision but either way, I don't feel like I will ever get out of this unharmed. 

After faking my way through work and patient's homes, smiling and laughing and ignoring the knot in my throat that has taken refuge there, I have been drained to the negatives. I have nothing left to give. I have a few snuggles that I can bear to pass out to my family. I can pretend to smile just a few more times. But the lure of my bed and the cool sheets are just too much to ignore. My body will sink into the bed, comforting and quiet, but I go right back to feeling awful and guilty again because I can't will even a little bit more energy for the ones that I love. Before I know it, the little bit of sleep I've managed to get is over and I have to start the new day over again, often with an energy deficit. 

I am not in my right mind. But even if I was, who would willingly put their family through such a troublesome existence? You say depression is weakness. That suicide is selfish? If this disease were to physically manifest as something else, would anyone be quick to judge and force the diseased to live as if they are normal? Is it just because it is invisible... silent... that you all can ignore the pain and suffering of those affected? Or have those of you that feel you have the experience to say what you do, just not lived the life of someone who either has had or has dealt with someone who has had depression? Depression is not weakness. It is a very strong individual that tries and fails to fight a disease such as this every single day but tries again over and over. That is admirable. And all of the ignorant, chair quarterbacks out there would be well to recognize that that strength is also beautiful. That uplifting the fallen is a worthy cause because some of these lost souls may have so much to give, they just need the strength to give it. 

Law and Order: Juvenile Edition, "The Case of Misplaced Water"

The Victim was found distressed and wet. The Suspect was repeatedly saying, "It was an accident." Witness A was yelling streams of information regarding the events in question. Witness B said, "Pffftt!" Witness C seemed shifty-eyed and disinterested; he was jumping on the couch. Officer Z and I attempted to piece together enough of the events to create a cohesive crime scene. It was apparent we would have to separate the Suspect, Victim and Witnesses to see if we could get the story to add up.

Officer Z and I started in Interrogation Room A with "The Suspect." When I entered the room, he was blubbering incoherently about needing a glass of a water. I used the deep breathing technique I used after many years on the beat, forcing the Suspect to calm himself. For clarity, I will refer to myself, Officer R, as O.R. from this moment on.

O.R: So, tell me what happened.
The Suspect begins to blubber again.
O.R: I'd really like to help you, son, but I can't understand you when you speak that way. I'm going to need you to take a few more breaths and tell me the story from beginning to end. No crying this time.
Suspect: Okay... I went to get a glass of water.
O.R: In the kitchen?
Suspect: Yes.
O.R: Was the Victim in there with you?
Suspect: Yes, he was.
O.R: Okay, continue.
Suspect: After I filled up my glass, the Victim tipped it over, spilling it all over the floor and counter.
O.R: Okay.
Suspect: I filled it up again and the Victim went for it one more time, so I poured the glass of water over him.
Officer Zach (now referred to as O.Z. for clarity): Are you suggesting that this act was in self-defense?
Suspect: Yes.
O.Z: Alright, son, stay put until we speak to the other witnesses.

We closed the door to Interrogation Room A. Since the other rooms were filled, we were forced to use the lobby for our questioning. Witness A was concerned for the Victim, who had since been put in a pair of dry clothes, and wished to be by the Victim's side. Due to overcrowding, we were forced to comply with the witness's request. It became apparent that the other two witnesses were in no condition to be of any use to us and were released, pending further investigation. The Victim will be thus referred to as Mr. V, for clarity.

O.R: Mr. V?
Mr. V: Yes?
O.R: We have spoken with the Suspect, who has given us more information regarding the incident. I am going to ask you some questions, I would like for you to keep in mind that I have been trained to know when someone is lying. It would be within your best interests to be up front and honest with me.
Mr. V: Okay.
O.R: Before the events in question, did you approach the Suspect in any way?
Mr. V: No.
O.Z: You didn't reach for the glass, tip it over, rush at him, or any other action that could be construed as aggressive?
Mr. V: No.
O.R: Mr. V, I am going to give you one more chance to divulge any information to us that could be misunderstood.
Witness A: Mr. V didn't do anything! I saw'l it! 
(Witness A will now be referred to as Wah, for clarity.)
O.Z: Okay, Wah, what did you see?
Wah: Well, neither of them were directly in my line of sight but I distinctly remember the Suspect pouring the glass of water on Mr. V, with no provocation.
O.Z: Did you see the events leading up to the incident?
Wah: No, I was sitting with Witness B, trying to give her a kiss.
O.Z: So, you can neither confirm nor deny that the splash was provoked?
Wah: I suppose not.
O.R: Mr. V, where was the Suspect when he splashed you? 
Mr. V: By the sink.
O.R: Where were you?
Mr. V: I was standing by the gate leading towards the sink.
O.R: Were you at anytime anywhere other than where you have suggested?
Mr. V: No.

O.Z. and I both surveyed the area of the incident, confirming that there was only a pattern of water that suggested the pouring incident occurred and no signs of a struggle, such as was indicated by the Suspect. We again went to clarify the Suspect's story.

O.Z: Alright, son. O.R. and I have surveyed the area and it is clear that the chain of events that you offered could not have been possible. In which case this is clear cut assault and battery.

(The Suspect immediately flushes and begins to squeeze out a few more tears.)

Suspect: I am telling the truth.
O.R: If that is the case, how come the crime scene has no other splash pattern beyond the incident in question?
Suspect: The original splash was further into the kitchen area. There was a tray sitting on the other side of the sink, it's filled with water. I promise you, there is no other way that the tray could have filled up.

O.Z. and I both investigated the tray and confirmed that there was water filling the tray. No other possible investigated avenue could have filled the tray. We decided at this time that the situation was clear and moved both Mr. V and the Suspect into the same room, in the lobby.

O.Z: We have taken into consideration all sides and have discovered that neither of you is telling the whole truth. Mr. V, we've come to the conclusion that you did show an act of aggression before the Suspect tipped the glass of water on you, as is apparent by the splash patterns of the tray next to the sink.

O.R, turning to the victim: Now, son, we know you were also lying. This was not an accident but an act of defiance after an attempt at play gone wrong.

O.Z: Our decision it that both of you will spend 30 minutes, hard time, in separate cells. You should be lucky that we aren't petitioning for a restraining order. Son, you can go into Interrogation Room A for now. We'll bring you a blanket and pillow.

The Suspect: Can I convince you to bring my dog?

O.Z: We will think about it.

O.R: And Mr. V; you will be spending the rest of your time here in Lockup B with two other cellmates.

Wah: What about me?

O.Z: You, Wah, can do whatever you want. Want to watch a movie?

The Suspect and Mr. V groan in unison, being escorted to their separate cells. 

((Basically, here is what happened. My six year old and his six year old friend had an altercation with a glass of water today. I started to just write about the story when the creative bug bit me in the ass (ouch!) and I just had to elaborate and exaggerate. Now, this little jewel is roaming around, cracking my friends up. It's nice to feel like you've contributed something to the artistic world. Even if it is amateur, stupid, etc. I'm pretty proud of it. Enjoy!))

Books, books and more BOOKS!

Somedays, I think it would be wonderful to get paid to read. Then I realize that no one in their right mind would pay me to read books that have already been published. Oh, well, I guess I am forced to read them in my off time.

Now for my assessment of the following series: The Hunger Games and Divergent. If you have not read either of them and/or are just planning on watching them as they come out in the movies, I'd stop reading now because I am going to spoil the shit out of them.

I am on the second book of the Divergent series. I was hesitant to read it because I am such a huge Hunger Games fan and was worried that maybe it would turn me off to that franchise. It didn't turn me off, per se, but I have spent some time comparing the two internally.

While I will always have a special place in my heart for The Hunger Games (as it was the first dystopian series that I ever picked up) I think that Divergent has weaseled it's way into first place. While they are both written for the Young Adult audience (which, let's face it, I'm not a young adult anymore) The Hunger Games and Divergent are well executed. The difference is that The Hunger Games I would be comfortable with sharing with my gifted six year old now and Divergent would need to wait a few years. Divergent is more likely to hit you where it hurts while the Hunger Games, in a way, sugar coats the effects of war. Yes, it destroyed District 12. Yes, Gale was flogged in the middle of the town square. But not until the very last book (and stop reading NOW to avoid previously mentioned spoilers) does it do any major damage by killing Katniss's sister, Prim. Don't get me wrong, the Hunger Games themselves are brutal but even they scoot around Katniss ever having to do any major killing herself.

Divergent, on the other hand, is brutal from the get go. The Dauntless initiation alone is full of inter-faction maiming, as Edward is stabbed in the eye with a butter knife by Peter and Tris is attacked by the same guy plus her supposed friend, Al. Not only were they intending on killing her (as I'm sure Peter has no conscience and would do just that) they groped her in the process. The fear simulations are terrifying and this is before the war between the factions even starts. Even though they give Tris the ability to overcome the affects of the fear simulation (meaning she can manipulate it to get out of whatever situation arises) the affect is still clear when she has to kill her family. (Although again, she bypasses that by shooting herself.) When the simulation to control the Dauntless begins (which has no power over the Divergent, Tris and Four/Tobias) the emotional toll on the reader quadruples. Tris is powerless to stop the simulation, forced to kill her friend, and eventually watch her mother and father's murders. The only time it gets a little "sugar-coated" (and let's face it, everyone would have been pissed if this hadn't happened) is when she encounters Four under the affects of an injection which held a stronger, Divergent friendly, simulation. She refuses to kill him, he wakes up and they both run off to Amity.

I'm reading the second book now, Insurgent, and it's even more brutal than the first.

Again, sometimes I wish I could give my assessment of these books as a profession. Not that anyone would care, nor listen, but I think I would just love to read all day long. But for now, my children are calling me and I guess I have to go be human for a while.

Why I Like Having My Own Blog

I don't really have a good reason.

You ever have one of those moments where you feel like if you don't write down something profound that you are going to miss one of the most important thoughts of your life? I am currently having one and I have no idea what it could possibly be about.

Today was my middle child's second birthday. (I'm working real hard on that middle child complex, if you hadn't noticed.) We didn't do anything special as his birthday party was in May (doubled up with the cousin for a pool party) until this evening. I baked (something I am terrible at) but ended up with some divine Funfetti cupcakes. We popped a couple of candles in, turned out the lights and sang happy birthday. He chose that moment to look at us expectantly, wondering why we hadn't blown out the hot fire in front of his face. Finally, we caved and blew it out for him when he started to whine and cringe away from the flame. Then, after we removed them and turned the lights back on, he decided the cupcake was still warm and blew on it. Little punk.

Then, we continued playing some Nazi Zombies (World at War, delish!) and got the kids corralled in bed. This is where I inappropriately add my romp in the sack with my husband directly after a story about my son's cupcake. Since we had finally decided the two babies could room together last night (meaning we finally, after two years have reclaimed our territory) we whipped out some Oriental Body Slide and went to town.  Now, I know this isn't exactly "blog" material and that I should probably leave this for close friends and maybe my father when he's pissed me off and I want to over-share what his son-in-law does to his daughter... but I have to let you guys know that this stuff is fantastic!

Here's what this miracle from the world of eroticism brings us... well, beyond that uncannily similar smell of Tarantula alcoholic drink mix. First, it comes with a flamboyantly gold tarp that you are supposed to set down before you get to work. Then you mix together the two bottles in four liters of warm water. Now, we are some rebellious folk so we didn't listen to the box when it said not to set up the tarp on our bed. Do not set it up on your bed. As fun as the product is, it is insanely messy and the tarp is not going to stay put when you get excited and start banging like you're having a duet on the bongos. Make sure that the kids are gone (or the dogs are put away) and set that shit up in your living room. You can always rent a steam cleaner. Anyways, strip down and begin pouring this weird (VERY weird) mixture on your partner and yourself. Then it's like you have Astroglide over your entire body. It's warm. It's wet. It's AWESOME. And the best part is that although your entire body is slippery, your, ahem, nether regions are perfectly capable of manufacturing friction. I honestly think we would have kept going had the tarp not continued to move beneath us and threaten our very new and very expensive king sized mattress. (This is why normal people read the directions.)

Anyways, that is your friendly neighborhood Rach's assessment of the erotic massage gel of doom. Enjoy it. And it really is nice to finally reacquire the ol' libido. Man, that thing has been screwing me around (or not, as the case may be) for well over two years today. Now, it's time to get some more gaming in. TGIF! (Don't judge me, I'm stoned... the romp hurt my junk.)

And Just Like That...

I'm having a bad day.

It's very easy to convince myself that something untoward is going on. That people are taking poorly about me behind my back; that my husband is having an affair. It's frustrating and ridiculous. And while I know that it is frustrating and ridiculous, I'd really like if my husband would get on board with all of this too.

1 Thing I Hate About Me

When I was five, my stepbrother molested me. Not only did he grope me as a prepubescent child... he made me touch him. As an adult woman, I still have moments of anxiety when being with my husband. Things that should be erotic and pleasant are sources of emotional distress. Instead I shut down and don't get into sex. It wasn't until last year that a male member of the family came forward with his abuse.

I spoke to my counselor about this. At least three known abused children; two female and one male. And all the asshole got was maybe 4-5 years in prison. I was the luckiest one as I did not get raped. The male was and he was positioning near the female (at 3) when one of her parents came home early. The odds of rehabilitation are VERY slim. Pedophiles of this nature don't discriminate on their prey. And it's very likely he still exhibits the same wants and desires.

And he is married with three children and a fourth on the way. I've been told to forgive and forget but I am just terrified that those children will come forward someday with accusations of abuse. They would never be normal. Sex and intimacy would be completely tainted for all of them. If they grow up to be similar to me (which is very normal with abused children) they will have multiple partners because they are certain they deserve nothing more.

I will add more later.

Toddlers, Anatomy, Jobs and Chaos!

Last night, my toddler stabbed my daughter in the eye with a steak knife. I got a hysterical text message at 6:30 p.m. (in the middle of class) about it. I, of course, packed up my shit and left to go home and check on her. The doctor says she is fine but the eye has been bugging her tremendously. 

My toddler is constantly doing uber-destructive shit like this to his little sister. He's poked her in the eye before but with a much less sharp instrument: a screwdriver. What do I do?! I know he's a jealous, curious, adventurous (and many other -ous's) toddler but he's either going to a) kill his sister or b) blind her. These things happen in the blink of an eye... er, no pun intended. It's not as if they are running around unsupervised. We have this house on lock down most of the time. We are the baby-proofingest parents ever! But sometimes, a knife gets left out and slides under the couch (thanks, honey.) Or sometimes, I have to rush to get ready for school and walk away for five minutes. 

Why You Should Read Whatever The Hell You Want...

I've been mulling over this article since last night. I was unsure if I should or would respond, or if it would even matter. I've decided that it matters enough to me (and 3K comments) to sit down with the article and explain why it's unbelievably elitist, snobby and blanketed.

First, Ruth Graham, you should be embarrassed (as both a human being and especially as a "former librarian") to make a blanket statement like you did and think it's acceptable. Then you even had the balls to call it "unconventional." Bless your cold dead heart.

Maybe the past ten-twenty years or so have showed a surge in adult sales for Young Adult novels. I'm not going to pretend like I don't remember the screaming "Twilight Moms." I think that to make your point you chose the worst book imaginable as your catalyst. "A Fault In Our Stars" is not just a young adult novel and you managed to isolate a very large group of very passionate adults by this choice. I have to wonder, Ruth, with your clearly superior reading material, did you manage to find an article discussing childhood cancer survivor statistics? I'm going to go with probably not or you would have recognized your mistake immediately. (Oh and yes, it makes you heartless... not a grown up.)

Let's say for the sake of argument (since the statistics I am looking for are unlikely to exist) that 75% of the Young Adult readers are normal, Joe Schmoe, work from 9-5 adults. You are discounting an entire 25% of readers: moms of children with cancer, adult childhood cancer survivors, adult cancer patients, oncologists, Hematology/Oncology nurses, etc. etc. It is obvious that I am being extremely conservative with my percentages here because I have no doubt that the numbers that I'm using are way smaller than the actual human beings I'm describing. (Speaking of, I am a mother of a childhood cancer survivor. Tomorrow, June 15th, he will make his four year anniversary of the life saving cord blood transplant. He is only six.)

Now let's go on ahead and just discount that entire 25%, because I'm feeling particularly ballsy myself. As a librarian, how can you with a straight face say that anyone, no matter their age or background, should not read whatever they want? Low literacy costs the country millions of dollars each year in healthcare. Low literacy nearly ensures that those suffering from it end up on welfare. A whopping 75% of people who receive food stamps, perform at the lowest two levels of literacy. Don't believe me? Read it here. (Note: I have absolutely nothing against welfare or food stamps, as I have benefited from both as a single mother of a child with cancer.) In 2013, someone wrote an article about how the illiteracy rate in the United States had not budged in 10 years. Maybe it's because snooty two-shoes such as yourselves have declared that there is acceptable and not acceptable reading material.

As an avid reader (ranging from J.R.R. Tolkein to Douglas Adams to Jane Austen and so many others that I can't even begin to name them all) I can't imagine ever telling a fellow reader that they should be ashamed of what they are reading. Are they enjoying it? Are they expanding their mind with each word? Have they just finished reading "War and Peace" and now want to slowly escape into something on a shorter level? Does it matter? Short answer: No. It does not. Maybe you feel that it does in your very tiny little bubble of judgment but it really, truly does not. Adults that read are more likely to pass on their love of reading to their children. I know that my son at six years old is already getting deeply entrenched in the reader's paradise. How could you begrudge anyone that?

Now, to take a stab at your assessment regarding the essay by Jen Doll stating, "At its heart, YA aims to be pleasurable." There are two main reasons why people choose to read: pleasure and education. I have never in my entire life heard of someone say, "I am reading this book because I want to be bored stiff." Do you read to be bored? Doubtful. I imagine that whatever you are reading is educational or interesting to you. Your "eye roll" appraisal of these books doesn't make you witty either. It instead reads of a very bitter, unhappy individual who can't stand the idea of someone getting a happy ending, even a fictional teenager with cancer. (Again, how can you say these things with a straight face? Did you come from under a bridge?) I do not need a happy ending to read a book. In fact, I also enjoy the "unconventional" endings of death and dismemberment. That doesn't mean that I can't look at other works of fiction objectively and enjoy their pleasurable and easy to read nature.

 "The Fault in Our Stars" took me back to a time when my two year old was a very sick little boy. I imagined what it would be like if he had been older when he suffered from it. It made me sit down and assess my emotions and fears and so much more. Maybe it is "nothing" or "makes you roll your eyes" but to me it is so much  more. This book told me that despite the hell that my son went through and very likely will go through again, that he could potentially have a happy ending. When this article and thousands more like it, say that that is extremely unlikely. So, don't you dare begrudge me a happy ending, Ruth Graham, when neither of us even got a happy beginning. If you ever get the chance to read this, I genuinely hope it gives you some perspective, as you desperately need it.

Unicorns and Rainbow Farts...

Or something like that. 

I figured that today I would make the effort to write something positive. Not because I'm in a particularly positive mood but I'm not in a bad one either and that is an accomplishment when you have BPD.

Last night, a pretty big thunderstorm came in. All three of the babies ended up in our bed. Thankfully, two weeks ago, we upgraded to a king-sized bed. It was weird being able to move around, get comfortable and not elbow somebody in the head. Skyler was laying in the crook of my arm, Tobe laid next to her, then Korben was snuggled up next to Zach. By the end of the night, Skyler was back in her crib in our room, Tobe was in the middle of the bed and Korben (who I thought was missing) had ended up at the foot of the bed tangled in the blanket... fast asleep. 

Often times, I get overwhelmed by my responsibilities. I don't feel like I contribute as much financially as I could. Zach says it's okay but I don't feel that it is. I'm in school full-time most times. (Although right now, I'm only taking one class and thank God for that because it's a 2.5 hour lecture immediately followed by a 2.5 hour lab twice a week. Anatomy/Phys... ick.) But then there are these moments where everything perfectly aligns. The babies are being sweet to one another, snuggling and quiet. Zach is in a good mood and wants to hold me and make me feel extra loved. And that internal voice of mine that tries to stir up trouble is finally still. And that is why I fight every single damn day to be better. This family deserves me at my best.

But there was a time, not that long ago actually, where I didn't have any of this. I had Korben and he was a perfect little amazing man who was just beginning to teach me how to be amazing. That little guy went through so much and God help me, he makes me want to not be a complainer. (Sadly that isn't my nature, so it's still a lot of work.) But Zach and I were still dancing the line between friends and lovers. Tobe and Skyler weren't even a twinkle in either of our eyes yet. And it felt so hopeless. Like no one understood me. I try to remember that I am lucky. That I am loved. That there are people out there that are fighting this disorder by themselves and it's awful. And I hope that one of these posts can give them a little tiny ray of hope in an otherwise dismal day. You aren't alone. You may be single but you aren't alone. There is always someone out there that loves and cares for you and understands.

And I am more than willing to be that for anyone who needs it. 

No Child Left Behind or To the Side or Even Kinda Parallel but Slightly to the Back because... Feelings...

Call me crazy but this whole "there is more to the game than being the best" attitude has spiraled completely out of control. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel it's necessary to beat "we have to win!" into our children... but I also don't think we should tell them that winning doesn't matter at all. It does.

I used to play basketball. I wasn't the best. In fact, I had terrible control of the ball. I couldn't dribble like some of the other girls on the team; behind their backs, through their legs, tossing it effortlessly to a teammate in some trick throw. That just didn't come naturally to me. But I wanted to be good. I wanted to earn my spot on that team. I wanted to be someone that they put out on the court in the first line-up. Since I never could seem to master control over the ball when dribbling, I took to becoming amazing at making baskets. And ya know what? I did master it. I was one of the first girls at my age that could make a three-point shot expertly at any place on around the court. Since we were approximately seven and eight years old, no one was taught to guard someone outside of that three-point rim, expecting them to be unable to make that shot. So, for a few years, they would have a play set up specifically for me to be completely open behind that line so I could make baskets. Eventually, all of the teams on our level caught up to our game and so that play was no longer an option but the point of the matter is that I worked hard to be good at something for my team.

Now my son is playing on a T-ball team. It may not be "all about winning" but it also isn't "just a game." It is much more than that. We are supposedly teaching these kids how to work hard together as a team, right? Well, explain to me how I can tell my child to be supportive of their teammates and root them on when some of his teammates aren't even trying? How can I tell my kid that he lost the game even though they played their hardest, when other kids DIDN'T try their hardest? How is it fair to my child to practice and practice and practice and excel in the game and continue to lose because other kid's parents think that it's no big deal? Bottom line. It isn't fair. It's one thing for your kid to be terrible at the game because they are just terrible at the game. If they try their absolute hardest and at the end of the day still suck, that's totally fine with me. But I have every right to be annoyed when my son, rosy cheeked and sweating his ass off in his batting helmet has worked his tail end off to run the bases outside in 100 degree weather and your child knowing better (as this isn't his first rodeo in the game) hits the ball and not runs but WALKS to first base and gets easily tagged out. Then you say, "Oh, it's okay, you tried your hardest." No. Your child did NOT try his hardest. Your child didn't try at all. And dammit all, if that was my kid, he'd be getting his ass chewed for it. 

It is okay to tell your kid that you are disappointed because they didn't try. They have to try. This isn't a world that our parents lived anymore. You don't get through high school and if you're lucky, college, and go out into the world to have your dream job. No, you have to work your ass off. Just my generation right now generally has to work for at least a Bachelor's degree to get anywhere. By the time our kid's are grown up and out in the world, we can probably expect for it to be a Master's level of education to get anywhere. And here we are, sugar-coating the ever living shit out of everything. And you know what really "busts my buffers?" That I am called the hard ass for feeling this way. I'M somehow the bad guy for this. No, the bad guy in this scenario is the parent who fails to prepare their kid for life outside of their little home bubble. College professors and managers aren't going to look at them and say, "Oh, well, you tried your hardest... so here's an A." They are going to say, "If that's your best, than you need to be withdrawn/fired." At the very least, if you want the world to be glittery and unicorn fart-y than you need to keep your kid out of competitive sports. Because right now, yeah, sure, they are six and seven year olds. But later, they will be ten and eleven year olds and the coaches and parents will chew them up and spit them out and your kid will be traumatized because you told them that anything less than their absolute best was enough.

Quit telling your kids that it's okay not to try. Quit telling them that they are allowed to be lazy little bastards when it directly affects the kids whose parents make them work hard. Because basically, what you are telling my kid and everyone else's kid who is actually trying that that work is for NOTHING. It's not for nothing. It's for a trophy or a 4.0 GPA or for valedictorian or for a scholarship or an amazing job. It is NOT nothing. And if you want to be nothing... be nothing on your own time.

/end rant

Why I Want to Be Like Grandma Dorothy

Let me tell you something about this old bird. She doesn't give up. She's beaten the odds of broken-heart syndrome, despite her husband of 63 years passing away in 2009. She's had a broken pelvis, ribs, legs, etc. etc. and she never, ever allows them to stop her from doing what she wants. Now, she's had a 

My Three P's

My family is starting to surpass the periphery of my Prozac and Percocet. 

Another update regarding my grandmother: She had an approximately 24 hour period where her memory was obscured and she became combative. She pulled out her catheter and was hallucinating, all symptoms of the subdural hematoma. The neurologist that they have been talking to (as I have not had time or ability to go up there without my gaggle of children, which I doubt is going to be helpful to her or to them at this point) said that she would not be released on her own cognizance but had to first stay in a skilled nursing center. As it so happens, I am friends with numerous senior care specialists; including but not limited to the LPNs, RNs and even the directors of some nursing facilities and home health care agencies whether directly or by association. Also, everyone that knows me knows how much I appreciate the efforts given to me and they'll go to great lengths to help me personally and even more so for my grandmother when they know her. Despite that, my "family" just refuses to allow me to be a part of the decision making team.

Ever since I was a child, I've been treated as the overly dramatic hysterical girl whose antics didn't deserve any attention. That is partly why I developed Borderline Personality Disorder. Eventually you overcompensate with rages and actual hysterics in a desperate attempt to get someone, ANYONE, to fucking listen to you. At that point, they kind of have to give you some of their attention because you are a danger to yourself, if not to others. Although even at my most dangerous moment of self-harm, my father didn't appear to have pity or sadness; just disappointment. What a way to grow up. Having the feeling that if you were able to overcome your fear of death, your dad might feel a bit of grief... but overall, he'd feel disappointment in the failure of what you had turned out to be. I still feel that, to this day. And for the longest time, I didn't want to use this blog as a reason to bash my family and/or friends from the past but unfortunately, they've all helped shape who I am today: for better and for worse. And I feel that if this blog about BPD and the struggles that I face is going to be of any help to someone else who suffers from this god-awful soul-crushing disorder, then I need to be more open and honest about my past and my present.

Anyways, back to the story. My grandmother is one of the only people I know that could honestly be considered for sainthood. All of us have the ability to be kind and generous, but she is truly a kind and generous soul. That is what she does. She gives to those that she loves because it makes HER feel better. She has taken care of all of us when we were ill or sad or hurting in some way and she knows exactly what to say. When my grandfather passed away in 2009, I wished upon wish that I could protect her heart from the pain of losing him. Everyone else seemed to be more worried about protecting their inheritance. At times, I almost wish that grandma had been the first to pass because grandpa, while also a caring soul, was much more paranoid to the idiocy of others and would never have put up with the shit that his two children are pulling. He would have put grandma in the fucking Plaza Hotel if it meant that she would be comfortable and would be better. Hell, he'd bring her home and have a squad of nurses and physical therapists living in their extra bedrooms to make sure she'd have the comfort and help that she needed. Unfortunately, he is NOT here and all that is left are her two sons that are so caught up in what money will be left when she goes that they are fighting me tooth and nail on putting her anywhere that is worthwhile.

Yesterday, I spent the majority of my afternoon and evening looking up information and getting numbers to people that could help find a skilled nursing center and/or a nursing home that could send out people to do the skilled nursing section. The latter would be covered by her insurance. I called my father, feeling excited at the work that I had put into it and he was not receptive to the information. So I made sure to give him the number so he could speak to this man directly. This man that I am talking about has been an advocate and supervisor in senior care for 20+ years. You'd think that with that information, my dad could come up with a great plan of care for grandma. After hanging up with my dad, I spent some time catching up on reading my Anatomy/Physiology book. A few hours later, I checked back with the man on Facebook and discovered that my dad hadn't even bothered to call. I can imagine it has to do with what he had said to me before we hung up which is that he was "too sleep deprived to care right now." It made my blood boil.

That is his mother. That woman stayed up and rocked him to sleep as an infant. She was and is a good, kind person and somehow the two "men" she raised are self-important assholes that couldn't give a rat's ass about her well-being. I don't understand this at all. I don't want to understand this at all. When my grandfather passed away, he told my grandma to give his son's his old fishing equipment. When they were looking at it, my uncle said to my dad, "What's mine is mine and what's yours is negotiable." I don't know about the rest of the free world but if my brother were to say that to me (and we've discussed this in length) I'd punch him in the face. I'd slap him around and ask him what the hell had happened to him in order for him to say such nonsense. He says that he would then thank me for my quick response and apologize for being a total asshat. My dad's response? He let my uncle have all of grandpa's fishing stuff. I'M SORRY, WHAT?! That should show you the level of cowardice that exists in my own father. He refuses confrontation, despite it's necessity at times. And as far as I know, that's why we exist in this plane of idiocy at it's current juncture. He refuses to argue with my uncle about his stupid decisions and considering that the man has had exactly zero interaction with the world or any life experience whatsoever, that is a dangerous decision to make. He only knows grandma exists for money. That is what he does. And poor grandma, wants to believe that people are all good inside and doesn't see that what he does is NOT for her best interests. I've told her this myself before. And my statement was accepted as nothing more than me being a "drama queen." Thankfully, my brother was there to set the record straight. I care more about that woman than any of them do. She has been there for me through everything and I want nothing more than her existence on this planet. Everything else is just a bonus. 

So what do I do? I have no control over this situation. My dad refuses to argue for her well-being and will therefore let my uncle make all of the crackpot decisions that he will to protect his inheritance. God knows, I just want my brother here again. We can't do anything but at least we can comfort each other during all of this. At least, my brother believes and cares about what I have to say.

More to come later... I'm sure... 

And it Begins... Again.

Today marks the start of my first day in the summer class, Anatomy/Physiology. 

Today is also the first returning T-ball game for Korben after his short summer trip to grandma's. 

Today is also Monday. Mondays are lame. 

This morning, I got one of my pills stuck in my throat. I tried to drink it down with iced tea and water. Didn't work. Tried a bowl of cereal. Didn't help. I made some coffee to see if that would dissolve the tablet and before I could get it made it seemed to dissipate. In the meantime, that was a God awful experience. I felt like I was having a heart attack. Granted, I've never had a heart attack so I'm unsure if that's exactly what it would feel like but it was bad enough to warrant that initial panicky thought. 

Secondly, I am having to remind myself that the