Just Call Me Pathetic


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The lack of blog writing isn’t from the depression I blipped into.  No worries there.  Nope.  45+ hour work weeks, school, 3 kids and weekends at the pool simply leave little time for writing.

So, I guess you could say my life is over flowing with all the good things.

That said, I still want to attempt 3-days-a-week content.  If that doesn’t work, I’ll drop to 2-days-a-week.  When I have a queue longer than my arm, I’ll go back to 3.  Or 5.  I don’t know.  I’m aiming for regular.  However often it may be.

Speaking of school, the class I’m embarking on now is Psyc 110.  Yep, I get to study psychology.  DREAMS!  THEY DO COME TRUE!

But can I just say that the amount in which you enjoy a subject outside of the classroom is directly proportionate to how much you can potentially loath to take pages after pages of notes on it.

Also, as an avid reader, I automatically hated being forced to read most anything assigned in literature class.  Ok, so have me read it.  Debate it.  I love a good discussion.  But if you ask me the key event in chapter three and then mark it wrong because I finished the book in one night and therefore gave you the key event in chapter 4, I will stab you. STAB YOU!

OK, not really.  But oh lord I used to piss teachers off with that.  Hah.  I guess they weren’t use to students who liked to read.  For fun.  It’s a real thing people!  Something Literature instructors should understand!

But yes, I’d much prefer discussing psychology then writing out notes defining it.

In other things that piss me off: That zip line tour I’ve been planning and excited about for weeks?  Yep.  Can’t go.  The appropriate term here is crushed.

Since we’re defining things.

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The official story that will go in my memoir should I ever write one will discuss how I took a hoof to the face while saving a tiny tiny infant from a herd of stampeding unicorns.  Very angry unicorns.  Only the baby and I can see them.

The reality is that I suppose with a condition like fibromyalgia and a history of joint issues, it isn’t unusual for my body to mutiny.  So dislocating my jaw isn’t overly off the wall.  I’m just grateful I got in back in socket on my own.  The urgent care gave me a muscle relaxer and sent me for X-rays.  The tech running the x-rays was flabbergasted an MRI wasn’t ordered.  My doctor will have to be the one to order that if I’m still in pain in a few days.  I don’t have time for this bullshit though so I’ll be just fine.

And the fact I may never eat a bagel again is totally unrelated.

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So rarely am I ever at a true loss for words.  You don’t have to know me long to know I’m happy to talk your ear off about anything and everything.  Rarely does a thought pop into my head that I don’t share, even if it’s simply out loud to myself.

So this struggle with words over the past week or two is astounding.  I’ve written plenty, sure, but not what I really need to talk about.  What I really need to bring up.

I feel this hole within me that only tears seem able to fill.  But the thing about tears is that they drain out of this hole quickly so I’m left with this need to refill the hole with more tears.  All while searching for something that just maybe won’t drain as quickly.  Nearly collapsing when I turn a corner out of line of sight of others at work, all activity stops for a minute of my body shaking with sobs fed from tears that won’t come, because I don’t have time to cry just then, but I can’t hold the anguish in so it has to escape as quickly as it can before I can reign it in.  No one check the vault tapes.  Those are private moments that don’t involve the green stuff.

I’m not suicidal.  That would be ridiculous.  I’m responding to life, and this emptiness I’m feeling won’t last.  I’m not self sabotaging.  That would only make things worse for me.  So clearly skills are working and I will pull through.  This isn’t even BPD.  I say that with no doubt or hesitation.  Anyone wondering how I know isn’t paying attention.

I’m working 50 hours weeks.  It’s a job I love.  A boss and team that makes me feel important daily, unlike I have ever felt before.  I’m working 50 hour weeks week after week while raising 3 kids and going to school.  I love every bit every one of those 3, but I’m tired.  I thrive under pressure and I adore a packed schedule, but I too must rest.  I too have my breaking point.

We have no staff at work.  No tellers, anyway.  The other side of the room is beautifully staffed.  Except that they end up having to run teller windows because we have no tellers.  So we must pick between one side of the room or the other having no staff.

It isn’t even the lack of staff alone that has me feeling this way.  We have a solid team.  We are Human Sigma 6 three times running for a combined 18 months.  There is no higher honor when it comes to customer and employee loyalty.  We set the bar others strive for.  Our staff is currently small.  But it’s solid.  “This is my family, I found it all on my own.  It’s little and broken but still good.  Yeah, still good.”  Our numbers need to triple behind the line but who we have is the best damn team you could ask for.  So where others would fall apart, we hold strong and show you WHY you are loyal to our branch, customer and employee alike.

It’s the reason we are short that has me hollow.  We didn’t lose our last 2 tellers because they were done with us and simply took a different job down the street.  Life decisions took them far away, from my world.  One to Chicago and one to New York and with it went what little local and true friendship I really have.  My branch is my family, but those were the two that made a point of hanging out with my weekly outside of work.  Board games or bars.  Pool or Kayaking.  Climbing or Walking.  Those girls showed me what real friendship was actually like.  Lisa was the first real, solid, healthy friendship I’ve had ever in all my years.  I met her when I was 20-fucking-8-years-old.  28 years of thinking unhealthy settling was the best I could have.  The best I deserved.

Years of asking what the hell is wrong with me?  What the fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck is wrong with me?  Is it me?  Is it you?  In thinking that there is either something wrong with everyone else, or simply something wrong with me.  As much as I’d like to think I really was born with an over abundance of awesome and the rest of the world just can’t handle it, the reality is that if it seems like everyone around you is an asshole, you have to seriously consider that the problem is actually you and they are responding to what you are putting out there.

I am the Sheldon Cooper of my word.  Only less brilliant and I really am crazy.  “My family had me tested.”  I could get away with it if I was some super genius.  Or regular genius.  But despite being a human calculator, all I am is the sole member of my bank team that actually likes math.

A tired, lonely, empty, human calculator.  If only I ran on batteries and not heart.

Instead, I’m all heart and as such it breaks over and over and over.  As you walk away from 10 years of, admitted unhealthy friendship, over a pair of shoes.  As my local close friendship moves away.  As I reach out to you for companionship and you show no interest.  As I see how socially awkward I really am but don’t know how to fix it.  As I know based on well establish pattern that the majority of the people in my life who have been the closest to me, tolerated me the best, I’ve never met face-to-face because I’m best when there is an entire internet between us.  Which would be glorious if going to a movie together didn’t involve having to find a movie that starts at the same time despite time zones.  If going to the bar or playing board games didn’t involve plane tickets.  And I don’t mean to diminish that friendship because these people I may have never met, at least not yet, would be there for me for me in a second, shovel in hand, asking who I know with a decent backyard.  They laugh.  But not because they don’t agree.

But as amazing as that friendship is, it isn’t enough  Not since I have learned what it is to have a regular girl’s night, in or out of the house, just hanging out not caring about a thing but spending time together.

I have a few I could work into my life more.  I girl I went to school with who has a kid Sambam’s age.  We talk about setting up play-dates.  She is about 10 minutes away  A girl I knew a long time ago that I’ve causally kept in contact with over the past few years.  We’re going kayaking next Saturday, in fact.  She is the furthest at an hour or so away.  Another woman I met at work as a customer, who is fun and I’ve hung out with her a few times.  She lives about half way between the other two.  But you know the difference between a friend, or even best friend, and an acquaintance?  While you can indeed hang out with both, one fills a deeply driven need, the other fills an afternoon.  And that’s Ok.  Not everyone should to be everyone’s BFFOREVER!  But I could appreciate the acquaintances more, because I’m sadly currently incapable of appreciating them as much as they deserve, if I had a local BFFOREVER.

I have fun with acquaintances.  Girlfriends know my soul.  And that’s what I need.  Someone local who would never need to read a word I wrote because they already knew it all.

Yes, that’s what I need.

I need to fill this hole.  With something that lasts longer than tears.  The vault is getting soggy.

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I’m trying to train myself to wake up every morning between 5:30 and 6. The idea being, maybe I can get shit done in those early morning hours before the house awakes. Having started school back up, every quiet moment I get is vital.

The major flaw is I’m known to hit the snooze, think 5 more minutes, and then pass back out, when I aim for early. And it turns out, that wasn’t the snooze. As it is, I have a series of 4 alarms every morning from the point of having to roll over and stir, right up until brush teeth and GO GO GO! (I assure that shower and dress fit in between nicely. The trick is going back to bed between the shower and dressing.)

Now, reading this you are probably assuming I’m always late to work. Aren’t you darling, bless your heart! Nope, I’m always early. Or at least on time. Which, to me, is another way of saying late.

It’s like my brain, even asleep, knows what time I have to be at work and what time it currently is as an alarm goes off.

But I want to beat the system. I may be able to get to work at 7:45 just as readily as I can 12:30, but I don’t want to push for time.

I want those precious moments in the morning where everyone sleeps and I rule to house and do as I please. And by, “as I please” I mean homework, dishes, blog work, etc. Free time is for those whom don’t have a career, 3 kids and a degree to achieve.

Slackers.

Guys, it’s in test phase, but I think I beat the system.

See, I ran out of Pandora time for my phone early this month and I needed a Plan B, so I installed the iHeart radio app on my droid. While looking around, I saw that it has a built-in alarm clock.

No shit, I can set the thing to go off at 5:30 (which is the very early range of my wish to get up early) and listen to it for a bit until I’m ready to move. I will, after all, never be capable of an alarm going off and me springing out of bed 30 seconds later. Well, maybe if I missed the first 3.

Sure enough, it goes off and relaxes me awake. The noise isn’t jarring so I don’t have the impulse to turn it off and make it go away, allowing me to fall right back asleep. (Snooze is for those awake enough to know what button to push.) Yet it is loud enough that I can’t start to tune it out.

So I spend 30 minutes listening to music while I slowly wake up and get ready to face the day.

As I said, we’re in test phase, but I have high hopes for this.

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We’ve already established I’m crazy. Stable or not, I don’t have issues, I have subscriptions. Though I prefer eccentric. So it shouldn’t be too far of a stretch of the imagination in me saying I’ve decided I’m going to try to teach Sambam to read by the time she is 3 or 4.

Hear me!

First, she wouldn’t be the first in my family to read that young. Not even the second. The power is within her.

Second, the younger the brain, the more sponge like it is. The younger you introduce things the greater and easier they learn it.

Third, I’m not assuming I’ll be successful.

Forth, I knew better than to try to attempt anything that involves the fine motor skills of writing that young. At that age it’s hard to even color inside the lines.

Fifth, I really don’t assume I’m going to have success.

Sixth, no this doesn’t mean I’m home schooling her like Luke.

Either way, even if she can’t read, I’m going to at least teach her the alphabet and I have no interest in waiting until she is older. I already have the flash cards.

She gets momma’s undivided attention as we play what is a game to her. I get the satisfaction that this might actually work.

The alphabet, not the reading. Not yet.

We go through each card in order. I say the name and make the sounds. Sometimes she giggles, sometimes she repeats the name, sometimes she says “a” 5 letters in a row. Her favorite is the letter “d”.

Then we go through again saying just the name since saying the sounds can be confusing to what it is called.

Then if I still have her attention, which is hit and miss, I grab about 4 cards, hold up 2 at a time, and ask her which one us the “a” or whatever, depending on what I’m actually holding. If she happens to point to the right one, which is currently pure chance, I get all excited and get her excited. Then I’ll hold up 2 different cards. Working different combinations of the same random 4 I selected. Repetition is key after all.

I don’t know that it will work, but I know we are having fun trying. She adores my attention and I know to stop when I lose hers.

It’s fairly win/win.

On a related note, I’m going to try the “which one is the…” game with Luke to see if it gains me any ground on teaching him his letters.

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I could have handled the sinuses.

It moving to my chest was to be expected.  For me.  Everything moves to my chest.  I have a great chest, after all.

But what I woke up to last Tuesday, the day before my 10-year-anniversary, was a bit much.

I woke up for my shower at about 6.  When I got out and went to lie back down to snooze and meditate, and just procrastinate on being awake (A vital part of my wake-up routine, I schedule it in.  This is why I have 4 different alarms spread between nearly 2 hours every work morning.) I realized I couldn’t shut my eyes, either one, without an intense burning sensation.  It was like the sand paper was covered in acid, as it sanded my eyeballs smooth.  I got a wet washcloth and pressed it hard over my shut eyes and that allowed me to keep them closed.  45 minutes later, I was fantastic and good-to-go.  Aside from the sinus crud.

As the morning progressed, I noticed my eyes were burning, and I kept losing vision.  In both eyes.  I could blink it back, but my vision kept blurring and getting foggy.

Granted, the foggy made sense when I looked in the mirror over my lunch break and observed the layer of snot covering both eyeballs.  Also, the pink and swollen.

Now, I don’t exactly have a ton of experience with pink eye.  I never got it as a child that I know of.  Only my middle little has had it of my 3, and his was so bad his eye was swollen shut.

But while I’m no genius and only play a doctor on the internet, if the eye oozes, you get thee to an eye doctor!  Thank nacho cheese god (a minor god… or major depending on your love of the cheese) for them being able to get me in same day, no notice.

Sure enough.  Thank sweet baby Buddha that it was bacterial pink eye and not viral.  I was only contagious if my eyeball made out with other eyeballs.  Totally killed its plans for the night but I kept it in isolation.  In my head. (That joke was officially taken too far.  I’m sorry.  Not sorry enough to take it down, mind you.  But sorry enough to apologize.)

I’m a baby when it comes to my eyes and putting stuff in them.  Contacts?  No thanks.  The puff of air during the eye exam?  First time in my life I consented, and only because I had a double eye infection.  Eye drops?  Only if I’m dying at it will be my only savior.

Well, guess what.  Pink eye?  I was counting the minutes until my next eye drop dose.  Oh, the sweet and instant relief.  Oh glory to the good stuff!

Granted, I did confirm I could close my eyes, drop it in the corner, and then blink it into place.  The good doctor suggested an extra drop each dose, then ordered me a slightly larger bottle.

Still.  Progress.

So yes, for my anniversary date, I was one hell of a hot mess.  We went to dinner and then played pool, with maximum strength sinus meds and eye meds in tow.

I was bringing sexy back!

Apparently the theme for this anniversary.

Because later that night, I brought sexy back.

And I ain’t referring to eyeball snot. *wink*

*wink*

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When I started this blog, back in December of 2008, one of the first things I pondered inside me and on paper was what my online identity would be.  Not being infertile or an ex-Mormon, but instead being in the throes of BPD and the early diagnostic stages, it was fairly obvious what my niche would be.

But four and a half years later, I’m not that same Karen and I’m not feeling my niche.  Not fully anyway.  I’m not in the throes of a break down.  I haven’t recently had and moved on from an affair.  I’m not in danger of taking a vacation at a mental ward.  I’m not a danger to myself or anyone else.  I haven’t cut in years.  I not scheduling my life around my therapies and my psychiatrist.  In fact, I’m not in any therapy and I only see the psychiatrist 4 times a year on a better safe than sorry policy I’ve implemented.  We’re getting ready to cut me loose there.  But since the Fibromyalgia treatment involves mental health meds, I’m not in a hurry to cut her loose because if those meds kick me too far unstable, I need her in my corner telling my meds doctor he’s a moron and to listen to me already.  He isn’t a moron.  He’s just in territory he hasn’t charted himself.

I’m not the same me.  I’ve recovered.  I’m stable.  I’m tired and cranky, but I’m raising 3 kids, working full-time and getting ready to introduce school to the mix.  You show me one woman in my shoes who isn’t tired and cranky and I want whatever she’s taking.  I assure you it isn’t legal.

In all honesty, I think that’ why I’ve slowed down on blogging.  It isn’t for a lack of words.  My husband can assure you that in the nearly 10 years we’ve been married, happily or otherwise, I’ve never once shut up.

But if I’m not writing my niche, what do I write?  What is my persona?  What place do I carve out for myself in this world to claim as mine?

I was, for a time, one of the more popular BPD bloggers out there.  Now by popular, you can’t compare me to your average blogger.  I couldn’t judge my impact by how many thousands visited me.  I couldn’t base my value on how many people pissed themselves laughing from my stories.  Instead I judged by how many emails I received crying out for help, or thanking me for help via my words.  I wasn’t marketable.  I couldn’t make ads work because millions saw them.  But I changed lives.  I saved lives.  That was success.  Honestly, that’s true success.

But I’m not that writer anymore.  Unless I drudge up old stories I can’t give those in the throes of despair something to compare to.  I can’t give you the “I’m no longer alone” effect and community.

I hit rock bottom.  I wrote it with a brutal truth.  A brutal honesty.  I broke all the rules.  I could have been denied jobs with a simply Google search.  I added real medical information about BPD.  Its diagnostic criteria, or at least how it applied to me.  Its statistics.  Who out there you see on TV, the big screen or hear all over the radio that might be going through this too.

But now I’m floating, swimming, even soaring.  I’ve grown.  And while I have no interest in taking this blog down, it is my home and it does still give important information, I don’t know how to grow it from here.

Identity.

What is my angle?  My persona.  Even when blogging with 100% truth, there is still a persona in place.  Every blogger has one.  They are lying if they say otherwise.

My persona focused on the downward spiral.  It didn’t mean I lied or covered up the good times in life.  It just meant my focus was on allowing you to relate to me at my worse.  That way, I wasn’t alone and neither were you.  It kept me writing and it kept people reading, because in writing and keeping people reading, I could slip in the information about how atypical anti-psychotics, while off label, can be magnificent for treating BPD.  That information, which I came upon myself, saved my life.  Yours?  Damn skippy I’m going to work to keep people coming back if I can save a life or two because of it.  Or help people in Israel find DBT.

But what do I have now to keep people coming?  Not just the hits I get via people Googling information about BPD and my blog being front page.  What do I have to offer that will keep people actively engaged now, in 2013, and beyond?

What the hell is my identity?

I don’t want to be the girl with chronic pain.  That’s being done, and well, by many others.  I’m not a mommy blogger.  Lordissa no!  I can’t spin my day-to-day into hilarity that has you literally laughing out loud and nearly your damn ass off, not simply “typing lol” without making a sound.

And that is all OK.  I’m not regretting that.  Well, maybe I wouldn’t mind being Bloggess funny.  However, there can only be one Beyonce the Metal chicken, and sadly, I’m Victor not learning to pick my battles.  I must fight them all. Fight ALL! THE! BATTLES!  Really, I don’t understand how I’ve been married for nearly 10 years.  That’s half my adult life!  A third my total life!  I can’t even commit to a favorite color.

And that’s not my niche.  I have no advice to offer on how to make a marriage work.  Unless you want tips on sheer bullheadedness in refusing to give up.  In which case, here is what you do: Your spouse asks for a divorce.  You tell them no.  There, niche covered.  Also, that advice doesn’t actually work for most.  Also, wouldn’t recommend the potential affair in that mess.  While it oddly fixed us, that also is very usually NOT the case.  So m’kay.  Affairs bad.  Bullheadedness not usually effective.  I double covered that niche.

Guys, who the fuck am I?

No, really.

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