T -5 days and counting.

On May 6th, I have a doctor's appointment.

A while back, I started a(nother) new journey in the hopes of being... well... normal-ish. My psychiatrist, who I'd basically fired because there was nothing new to try for my depression and anxiety, called me. Himself. Not his nurse or a receptionist. HE called me. The long and the short of it? He'd found someone in the state that was willing to do hormonal testing.

Let's back up a little. The theory here is that all those drugs that are supposed to make my brain just a tiny bit happier and feel a little less like dying, don't work for a reason. The thinking is that maybe it's not really a true depression at all. What if it's my hormones that are out of whack, and the depression is just a symptom of that? I've been trying to find someone to take me down this rabbit hole for a while now, but NO ONE was willing to go there. Not one doctor. And the one place in the entire state that does it is completely private pay. It's for rich people only. Apparently not being suicidal all the time is a luxury, and poor people need not worry their little heads about it. But I'm not bitter. *sigh*

So, I get the call from my old psychiatrist. He's excited. There is a doctor who is now specializing in hormones. She takes insurance. And a couple of his own patients have shown great strides in recovery while in this new doctor's care. I made an appointment. A few days later, I was sitting in her office. It went well, I suppose. I explained for the 5,000th time the symptoms I have, their severity, etc. We schedule hormonal blood tests and a follow up appointment. She gives me a book to read. I leave the appointment with a sense that maybe, just maybe it will work. But honestly? I'm certainly not holding my breath.

Thing is, I've done this sort of thing before. I find the new "best" doctor who supposedly knows all about tough cases like mine. I sit across from him or her at a desk. I spill my guts and talk about all the feelings that make me not want to exist any more. He or she nods politely and writes lots of notes. Usually, on a legal pad. I get a new prescription, leave full of hope, and wait. And nothing good ever happens. In fact, typically, only bad things happen. Nights spent puking happen. Vertigo happens. Feeling worse instead of better happens.

But this is different. It's a completely different journey. Hormone treatment is even less of an exact science than psychiatry. Can you imagine that? Another chance to be a guinea pig... but on an even bigger level. And this chance just feels a little different. The road is different. The view is different. And there are absolutely no promises. Just creams that I rub onto my skin every day and a hell of a lot of hope. Wishing and waiting for my body to cooperate.

We'll see. Next Tuesday is simultaneously hurdling towards me and slowly creeping along. I'm scared and excited all at once. The blood tests will be in, and hopefully a treatment plan will be put in place. But when the lights are out, and I'm lying in bed with my thoughts, all I can seem to find is fear of all this. And a million questions swirl around in my already chaotic head. Will this work? Will it fail? If it fails, will it at least give me a clue as to what to do next?

And the answer to all those questions in my head?

"It's hard to tell, smalls. It's hard to tell."

14,600 Days Old

Today is my 40th birthday.

I have to be honest. I never thought I'd see my 40th birthday. I was pretty sure that depression would claim me as yet another fatality. But, it didn't. I made it to FORTY YEARS. I made it! And at this moment, I'm doing so well. Life is not perfect. It never is. But, it's so, so good right now.

To many, thinking I'd never see this day may seem so very sad. But you know what? I don't see it that way at all. Y'all, it's a huge reason to celebrate. I proved to myself that I can do it... with a little (or a lot) of help from all the people who love me. And ohmygoodness, am I loved!

If you're reading this, there is a big chance that you've contributed to my life in ways that you don't really even know about. A smile here. A kind word there. Celebrating with me when things were AMAAAAAAZING. Holding me tight when things were not so amazing at all. Thank you for all of it. All the things big and small. You are loved and appreciated for it.

So, you know what's next? All sorts of things... big and little. And hopefully at least another 40 years. If I'm really lucky, even more. But mostly? I'm looking forward to the love.

Swim.

*deep breath*

A few weeks ago, I was in the hospital again. Admittance #4 of 2013, if we're keeping track.

#1) Gall bladder attack and removal
#2) Severe pancreatitis and liver disfunction
#3) Double pneumonia
#4) Psychiatric unit

Yes. I know what you're probably thinking. I really just told the entire internet that I went to the funny farm. The castle of crazy. The bin of loons. And it's not the first time. But to not say it out loud would send the message that having severe depression and anxiety is shameful. It's not. So, I said it out loud and refuse to be ashamed.

I was having a hard time. Multiple panic attacks every. single. day. Depression that made breathing seem like hard work. Near constant suicidal thoughts. It was pretty brutal. And after a while, it started to feel dangerous. So, I admitted myself.

I was in the unit for three days. It was not a good experience. Not even a little. Rarely are psychiatric units a place of hope. Truthfully, most units are places where they wait for your medications to start to kick in and the suicidal thoughts to go away. Nothing more than that. Understaffed. Chaotic. Sterile. Humiliating. That about sums it up.

The hardest part was when I met with the psychiatrist. I told him my history, social and psychiatric. I carefully listed as many of my medications as I could possibly remember. Prozac and Lithium and Celexa and Lexapro and... and... and... The list was a mile long. I answered all the usual questions. After a while, he just stared at me with a look of bewilderment and said, "We can't really do anything else for you. At this point, we'll have to rely on just improving your health. You need to try getting one of those..." And then, I stopped listening for a while. And it sunk in. I've tried it all. They are out of options. How can this be? Is my brain really *that* broken? Apparently, yes.

Huh. *long, awkward pause* Well, that sucks.

What did I do after that conversation with the psychiatrist? I kept swimming.

In case you skipped the video above, this would be a good time to watch it. It's worth it. I swear. I'll wait right here.

*************

So. What's next?

Well, I've been fighting this for 25 years and have to come to terms with the fact that nothing has worked over the long haul and probably never will. I have officially been diagnosed as "treatment resistant." I have to figure out exactly what that means and find a way to embrace it. A pill will probably never fix me, and that's that.

What have I been doing since I left the hospital?

Light therapy. Yoga. Occasional sleep deprivation. (Yes, that is actually a recognized treatment for depression.) I'm not sure if any of it is actually working, or if it keeps me busy between panic attacks. Either way, I'm doing it.

I keep telling myself that this is not the end. It's just the beginning. But instead of the beginning of a new treatment plan or approach, it's the beginning of acceptance. I'm going to stock up on metaphorical swimsuits. I'm going to learn to tread water now and again when I'm just too tired. I'm going to do the best I can to keep up my physical health so I can better cope when my mental health goes to shit.

I guess I'm just going to swim.

Off the Rails

A while back, someone (who shall remain nameless but rhymes with Hecki Berod) reminded me that I should write more. Or again, as the case may be. It's been ages since I put fingers to keyboard in order to actually SAY something. So, here is my attempt. But who am I kidding? I get more out of the writing than anyone will ever get out of reading it.

Things here have been... unlucky. I've been taught all my life that with hard work, good things will happen to you. You make your own luck. You can't just expect good things to happen to you. If things go badly, you have to take responsibility for those events. And for a long, long time, I believed it completely, taking it all straight to heart. When things didn't go well for me, I blamed myself and my inadequacies. It had to be all my fault, right? That's what I'd always heard, anyway.

Fast forward to March of this year (2013 in case you're time-challenged.) While driving to my grandmother-in-law's funeral (rest in peace, Grandma Lorraine), something happened. I was in so much pain. I insisted that Rhett immediately take me to the ER, because this amount of pain? NOT NORMAL. My gall bladder was chocked full of stones and about to pop. Great. An hour away from home with 4 kids while in my funeral clothes, and I choose to have my gall bladder nearly burst? Awesome, self. You win at weirdest timing EVER. But, a few good drugs, some emergency surgery, problem solved. Right?

Nope. After surgery, I still had pain and reflux and all sorts of weirdo gastro problems. I'll spare the details because... well... yuck. I was sure that it was my body just getting used to the idea of not having a gall bladder anymore. Wrong. There was something amiss.

In July, I had a full on attack of pain that left me almost unable to speak with my heart racing and my stomach completely revolting. The gall bladder pain? Nothing in comparison. Back to the ER we went, this time while in Topeka. Guess what? I had gall stone(s) left behind after surgery. Apparently, I was passing them. My liver was severely compromised. And worst of all, I had pancreatitis. In a nutshell, that means that your pancreas is inflamed, swollen, and STARTS TO EAT ITSELF. Dear sweet baby Jerome! WHAT. THE. HELL.

While in the hospital, I had an absolutely horrendous experience. My doctors were inconsistent with my care. They gave me the wrong meds. There was a huge host of other problems and mistakes that made it impossible for me to trust them anymore. So, I asked to be discharged. They agreed that would be fine and that I could easily recover at home. Within less than 24 hours after leaving, however, I ended up in another ER, in another town, because they'd forgotten to give me antibiotics and meds to manage my pain. (Pancreas eating itself = hurts like hell and needs antibiotics.) Wow. I really know how to screw the pooch, huh?

I could go on and on about the luck I thought I was making for myself. I could mention the double pneumonia and the countless doctor's appointment and the financial strain that this has put on my family. But, in the end, that's a waste of good words. And instead of wasting words, I'm going to get to the point: sometimes, unlucky just happens. And sometimes, it's not your fault.

Considering my long held belief that everything WAS my fault, I had to change my thinking completely. No one deserves or can cause this many things to go wrong in a 6 month period. NO ONE. Personal responsibility for your part in your own life is one thing. But all this business? The chaos and craziness? Utter bullshit that the Universe handed to me on a platter? No. And when I finally came to terms with the idea that I wasn't to blame, I found a little piece of peace. Proof positive that all I can do is my best and hold on for the ride.

In case you're wondering, I feel about 1,000 times better than I did a couple of months ago. Thankfully, my body has largely healed itself. Tests have been done, and it's believed that I don't have anymore bastard gall stones hiding out in my liver or lying in wait in my bile ducts. I've been deemed mostly "cured." But am I? Now, my life has been turned on end in the realization that I'm not in charge. Whoa. That's a bit of a shock to the system.

I'll eventually get over the shock, but I'm still knee deep in it at the moment. If I've learned nothing else in my 39 years, I've learned that life is messy and chaotic and CRAZY. Shock is normal. But, it will go away one of these days. Maybe.


Dear Self,

Life isn't fair. Don't take it personally. Don't (always) blame yourself. Just hold on because sometimes, the ride gets bumpy. And sometimes, it goes completely off the rails. Hang in there.

Love,
Me

Two swears and some underwear.

While wandering around the interwebs today, I ran across a blog post by the pretty darn famous Bloggess. Here's the link if you're so inclined as to read it: http://thebloggess.com/2012/09/today-and-forever/. Go ahead and read it if you'd like. I'll wait.

Before we go any further, I absolutely have to share the video she featured today. It speaks to me on so many levels. But, a word of warning: there are exactly two swears and some underwear. Oh, and two hairy armpits. I think it's absolutely worth watching, though. Unembarrassed, I will admit that I watched it no less than five times. I said it spoke to me, remember?

So, the point of all this? Today is World Suicide Prevention Day. As someone whose blog is called "Grabbing My Happy," you can probably appreciate the fact that happiness is not something that has ever come easily to me. I've lived with depression and anxiety for decades. DEC. ADES. Not exactly what I had in mind for the grand plan that was to be my life, that's for sure. While in the midst of all this mental illness crap, I've been looking for happiness like a lost contact lens. I've closely examined every square inch of myself and my life in order to locate it. Sometimes, I've had to push and shove my way into it. It's a little like having a "fake it until you make it" attitude. I take a shower, put on my favorite outfit, a little makeup, and plaster on a smile. Before I know it, that smile doesn't feel nearly so fake. And sometimes, it just sneaks up on me. A hot cup of coffee. My favorite pair of jeans. A silly joke. Sneaky happy is my favorite kind.

If you're finding yourself so lost that happiness is only a memory, please reach out. Pick up the phone. Shoot off an email. Do something so you don't have to feel so damn alone. Because you're not alone. Not at all. In fact, not by a long shot.

Depression is a big, fat liar, liar pants on fire. It tells you that the world, and everyone in it, is better off without you. But, it is so very wrong. Your life is worth something. YOU are worth something. Just hang on.

Resources:
http://take5tosavelives.org/
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
http://www.hopeline.com/

I have something to say.

It's been a really, REALLY long time since I posted on this blog. There's been so much going on. In fact, there's so much, that I'm not entirely sure where to start. So, for now, I'm not going to catch anybody up. Instead, I'm going to blog about something that's been in my heart for a while. It's something that I've wanted to say for so long, but needed to find the words for. So, here goes nothing.

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."  

- John Watson

Some days, this world disappoints me on an epic level.

I was raised to believe that I was no better than anyone else. I was raised to be compassionate and fair. I was raised to try to do the right thing... even if it wasn't easy or popular.

Unfortunately, lately, I'm finding it harder and harder to believe in human kind. Sometimes, it seems as if empathy is nowhere to be found.

Several months ago, it started with some folks who didn't believe in birth control. And because they didn't believe in it, they wanted it to become harder to get and pay for. And, of course, it should never be covered by insurance.

A little later, the abortion issues came back into public view. We don't believe in abortions under any circumstances. Not at all. Even if you're raped. But since we're unable to completely outlaw them at the moment, we're going to make you suffer if you choose one. Even if your baby has died in your belly or is horribly deformed, we're going to make you jump through hoops. There must be a waiting period. You must have an ultrasound. And during that ultrasound, a technician must tell you all about the fetus's body parts... or lack of them. And if you're getting an abortion because you already have too many mouths to feed and no way to pay for that baby? We want you to further suffer with that decision.

And then, it came around to the discussion of general healthcare. Affordability. Individual insurance mandates. Obamacare. We don't want to pay for anyone's healthcare. Period. Unhealthy? No insurance? Tough shit.

After that, it seemed that the conversation shifted to public programs to help those who are generally less fortunate. "I don't want to pay to let lazy people sit on their asses while I work hard." It doesn't matter how hard you're working to look for a job in an absolutely terrible economy. If you're not working, it's all your own fault. And we don't want to give you a red cent. And if you ARE working, let's say a minimum wage job, we don't want to help you either. Because if you just worked harder, you wouldn't need any help.

Most recently, the focus has changed to Chick-fil-A, gay rights, and the fact that a fairly large portion of our population still can't wrap their brains around homosexuality. Homosexuality is a danger to our society. And giving gay people the right to marry? Absolutely not. Because marrying someone of the same sex is going to devalue all marriage. Of course.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a liberal. One look at my Facebook timeline will tell you exactly where I stand on just about all of the above issues... as well as a few that I didn't mention.

Thing is, I'm tired. I'm tired of people not loving each other. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of the judgment and the blame and the hurt. I'm tired of a nation that claims to be predominantly Christian, but rarely follows even the most basic principles of loving your neighbor or leaving the judgment to God... which are pretty darn good ideas even if you throw the subject of religion completely out the window. The whole thing, quite honestly, has me completely baffled.

I seriously doubt that my views will change those of anyone else. I can talk about it until my throat is hoarse and my heart is broken. But, nothing will really change.

But, I do have a challenge. I challenge you to go out into this world that often seems full of anger and hate and frustration and put a tiny bit more love into it. Smile at a stranger. Hold open a door. Drop a $5 bill on purpose so that someone might find it. And if you really want to shake your life to its core, consider for just a moment that everyone is fighting a hard battle. No one is perfect. Bad shit sometimes happens. And maybe finding a tiny bit more compassion, kindess and tolerance in your heart could truly change your life. Yes. It truly could.

My moment.

"There came a moment in my life when I realized that I had stepped into another part of my life. I used to walk into a room full of people and think, do they like me? And one day I walk in and I thought, do I like them?"- Victoria Principal

I had that moment this weekend at a pottery convention. Yes, I did.

Some folks may or may not know that my cousins own a pottery store. Each year, they put on a mini convention in which pottery store owners from across the country come to learn about new techniques and products, socialize, share information, etc. My cousins are always generous enough to invite me to join them because overall, it's a GREAT time. And while these conventions are fun, they tend to be NERVE WRACKING for me. Creative types can be intimidating. I would be so worried about whether I was good enough to be there. I would think about my hair and my clothes and my weight. Was I smart enough? Was I worldly enough? Was I successful enough? Was I artist enough? All my answers would normally be a quiet-as-a-mouse, "no."

But this weekend, I felt differently. This weekend, I walked into the room feeling as if I was every bit as good as those creative types who manage to make a living doing what they love. Just. As. GOOD. Different, but equal. And that was okay with me.

Each year that I attend, I offer to bring cupcakes for the meal that they serve on Saturday night. I love doing it, and was eager to get a chance to flex my baking muscles.

When I proudly presented my cupcakes to the group of people, most people were enthusiastic and offered many kind remarks about my baking abilities. It was nice to be appreciated and recognized. Who doesn't like a good pat on the back now and then?

A bit later, as a woman was standing in front of the cupcakes, trying to decide which one to take, another woman walked over to advise her. This cupcake authority blurted out, "Oh, don't take that 'breakfast for dinner' cupcake. It wasn't very good at all." She knew that I'd made those cupcakes, and still proceeded to explain that it didn't knock her socks off and that it wasn't worth the calories. I was a little taken aback at the comment, truth be told. But, I managed to grin wide and reply, "Well, that cupcake is a bit of an acquired taste." Thankfully, she walked away as quickly as she'd approached the table. 

In years past, I would have melted into a pile of depression on the floor in the face of such a criticism. I would have quickly left the room, had a good cry, and taken every single word to heart. 

But this year was different. This year, I truly let it roll right off my back. It was still rude and annoying, but I didn't care about her point of view. Perhaps it was because there were other people eating that exact same cupcake and raving about how delicious it was. Perhaps it was because she isn't exactly the most diplomatic person I've ever met. Either way, I didn't care. I DID NOT CARE.

At that very moment, I knew that I'd turned a corner. Will I always be able to brush things like that off? Probably not. But for once, I didn't give a shit what she thought about me or my cupcakes. For today, it just didn't matter. She was irrelevant to me, and that felt good. 

Way to go,me. Way. To. Go.

Honey badger don't care. Okay... maybe a little.

Sometimes, it seems like the Universe is talking to me. Before you call the dudes in the white coats to come get me, hear me out. There are certain lessons in life that are tough to learn. REALLY tough. And they come up over and over and over again. One of my lessons just seems to crop up on a regular basis: giving other people too much power over me... caring much too much about what others think of lil' ol' me.

I'm sure in all my nerdiliciousness, it comes as a huge shock that I was bullied a lot in school. I was teased about my glasses. I was teased because I was too smart. You name it, I was teased for it. In middle school, even my math teacher got into the act by calling me "Six" on a regular basis. In Roman numerals, six is VI. And, according to Mr. Herring, VI stands for "village idiot". Maybe he thought I didn't care about his little nickname for me. But, he would be wrong.

High school was the worst. Walk down the hall... hear girls whisper "bitch" as I passed by. Dirty looks. And little things like having a song with the repeating lyrics "I hate everything about you" dedicated to me at my senior prom. (No, I'm not kidding. Video is below if you have no idea who Ugly Kid Joe is or why he's so angry.)



College was easier because almost everyone there was pretty darn smart. EVERYONE was a little different. And it was okay. But, man... I still cared entirely too much what others thought of me. Truth be told, I did a heck of a lot of stupid things, all in the name of trying to fit in, trying to be cool/loved/accepted.

Fast forward to becoming a parent. Geesh. When Macey was born, I was so worried about what everyone thought of me. For some reason, when you have a baby, people feel the need to share their opinions freely, and I took almost every unsolicited comment to heart.

"You're not breastfeeding?! You might as well be feeding your baby rat poison!"

"She was a preemie? Poor thing. Did you _________?" (fill in the blank with some reason that it was my fault my water broke at 34 weeks.)

"You had an epidural?! Weren't you worried about the effects on the baby?!" (insert look of disgust here)

The bottom line is that I've always cared entirely too much about what others thought of me. I've based my whole self image on other people's views. And you know what? That is really screwed up.*

As I'm getting older, though, I'm gaining perspective. I'm starting to care less and less. More often, I'm adopting the attitude of "Opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one, and yours stinks." Obviously, a serial people pleaser like myself can't just turn it around in one fell swoop. But, I'm working on it. The Universe keeps delivering LOTS of opportunities to just say "NO" to what others think of me. And maybe one of these days, when my hair is old and gray and my boobs are reaching my knees, I won't give other people's opinions of me a second thought. But, until then, I better get off the computer and take a shower. I'm expecting a package delivery from the UPS man, and what would he think if I answered the door in my snowflake pajama pants? *shutter at the thought*

*For the record, instead of writing, "That is really screwed up." I replaced the word "screwed" with the F-bomb. But, ironically, I decided to change it for fear of offending anyone. See? I still have a long way to go. :)

I had a dream...

A few nights ago, I had a dream. I haven't had a dream this good in a long, long time.

I was baking. In a commercial kitchen. In a STORE, y'all. It was my store. And it was glorious.

It was sleek-ish with a few industrial antiques here and there. The walls were a beautiful rich pumpkin color. One entire wall was worn brick full of character and stories to be told. There were beautiful little spotlights everywhere. It had a strong smell of coffee and cakes. There were little tables in which folks could sit down with a salted caramel mocha and a chocolate chai spice cupcake. It felt warm and cozy. It felt like mine.

On one side, there was a case filled with cupcakes and breads and other bakery-type offerings. So pretty. So chic. On the other side, there was a little room used as an office that Rhett and I shared. He worked on graphics and web design. In my spare time, I worked on graphics and code.

In this dream, I got a chance to combine the two things that I love most: baking and design.

Of course, I woke up and thought, "Aaaaahh... isn't that nice!" And then I thought about it some more. Of course, the realist in me surmised that it would be nearly impossible to accomplish. Where in the heck would I get the many tens of THOUSANDS of dollars that it would cost to start such an operation? And could I keep such a place afloat? And would I be working myself to death?

Obviously, this dream is a long shot... as most good dreams are. But, it all starts with dreaming it and thinking that there's a small chance that it really could be possible. So, I'm putting my dream out there in the Universe, writing it out so that whomever's in charge can know what I want deep down in my heart.

Hello, God/Universe/etc. It's me, Jenny. Are you listening?

Christmas makes me want to throw up a little.

A few weeks ago, I started really thinking about Christmas. Instead of feeling excited, full of anticipation, I felt sick to my stomach. My thoughts on the issue?

- We don't have the money this year. Well, actually, we DO have money, but it really needs to go to things like new tires for the Suburban, paying off some debt, and saving for future "oh shit" moments.

- It's SO MUCH PRESSURE. Pressure to get the right gifts. Pressure to live up to the expectations. Pressure to have the best Christmas EVER. *barf*

- How do we give the kids a fantastic Christmas without the normal festival of greed? As the kids get older, they want EXPENSIVE things. Their friends are all receiving things like iPods and phones and pricey video games. We can't compete with that. And honestly, we shouldn't even try.

When I thought about my FAVORITE holiday, Thanksgiving, I tried to figure out why I love it soooo much more than Christmas. Why? Because there's no pressure. We get together with our families. We play board games and work puzzles. We eat yummy food that we look forward to all year. We cuddle and talk and laugh. There is SO MUCH LOVE when we get together for Thanksgiving. I couldn't help but wonder... how can I make Christmas more like Thanksgiving?

So, I called up my mom. Then, I called up my sister. Then, I called my mom again. We talked about making the season special without the pressure. More love. Fewer gifts. More time together, doing what makes our hearts feel good.

So, for my side of the family this year... no presents for the adults. Seriously. Instead, donations to people who really need it. Whether it's a clean water fund, adopting a family for Christmas, or something else that our hearts feel close to, we're donating instead. Because when it's all said and done, I don't need THINGS to tell me that my family loves me.

Even on Rhett's side of the family, we're cutting back. This year, we drew names for a gift exchange. Considering how big our family is, it's still a lot of money, but it's a heck of a lot better than buying every single person in the family a gift.

I still struggle with what to do for the kids, though. Big kids? Probably money, as there is no better gift than letting THEM choose what is important to them, budgeting their money, etc. Ella is more complicated, as there must be toys. But, she's just as happy with a bouncy ball from a vending machine as she is with an expensive "this year's must have" toy. So, we'll be focusing on fun stuff that will last instead of trendy toys that end up discarded in a day or two. Finger paints. A bright pink ball. New crayons. Toys that keep on giving and never get old.

So, this year for Christmas, less pressure. More love. More memories. More FUN.

Who's with me?

It's been a while, huh?

Well, I just pulled 301 photos off my camera. Yes. Really. Can you believe it's been over 3 months since I downloaded pictures? What kind of mother am I anyway?! Geesh.

So, what have we been doing for the last 3 months?

Ella turned four. Can you believe it? FOUR!

Ella insisted on a Blue Mermaid theme. Never heard of the Blue Mermaid? That's because it was a character in exactly ONE episode of  Team Umizoomi on Nick Jr. 

Jeebus, Ella. Really?

This is the evil Squidy... who was also only in that one single episode and was the archnemesis of the Blue Mermaid. 

The poor Blue Mermaid apparently has no bones in her arms. *saggy mcsaggerson* Oh well. I guess that's what happens to mermaids that venture out of the sea onto dry land*?

*I realize that's a lame excuse, but Ella totally bought it.

Then, we started school. And all those pictures were LAME (the few that I remembered to take.) So, we'll skip over that.

After that, Macey came home. For good. I'm so glad to have my girl home. There are just no words. *sniff, sniff* So thankful. She's HOME.

Then... HALLOWEEN! Complete with eyeball mini cupcakes. 

(below, left to right) 

Macey decided to be an 80's valley girl. She has the vocabulary and "accent" DOWN. She's almost as good as her momma at being totally awesome, dudes. *wink*

Ella was very reluctantly a cave girl who chatted up every single adult she came into contact with. "Your deck is CREEEEEEPY!" "Dude, you have a lot of stairs!" "You have numbers on your house, kinda like a car." "Two pieces? You are AMAAAAAAZING!"

Cole was Harry Potter for the second time. He ADORES Harry Potter. He's read all the books multiple times. If memory serves, he's had three Harry Potter birthdays. And since the last movie was released, the book series is over, and this is his last year trick or treating, he decided to pay homage to his favorite character of all time... Harry James Potter. 

We have a rule at our house that 6th grade is the last year for trick or treating. After a kid gets to be as big as or bigger than the adults passing out the treats, it's just time to stop. So, this year, Carter watched from the sidelines. Can you believe how grown up he is? I mean... he's started SHAVING. His FACE. Yes. Really.

So, we've been busy. Life has been chaos... sweet, beautiful, gorgeous insanity. But, truly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Totally MIA... well... almost totally.

It's been entirely too long since I posted. I need to get on that. Like... NOW. Updates to come. :)

Happy. Yes. Really.

Anyone who has read this blog before knows that I've been struggling with depression and anxiety for DECADES. I've been to countless head shrinkers. I've tried just about every medication in the book. I've had ridiculous amounts of therapy. And fairly recently, I tried working with an herbalist to see if I could find something... ANYTHING... to make me feel normal. But, that didn't work either. *insert four letter word of your choice HERE*

Truth be told, I'd pretty much given up. Over 20 years of trying to feel better will do that to a girl. There just comes a point when you have to accept that this is the way your life is going to be and learn to live with it.

Or do you?

I went to my family doctor a couple of months ago about my asthma and migraines. Both had been really bad all spring, and I needed to come up with some solutions.

The asthma was easy enough to take care of. A prescription for some Singulair. Done and done.

My migraines? Not so easy to figure out. They hit me hard once a month. When I explained this to my doctor, telling her that I was pretty certain that they were due to hormone issues, she wanted to dig deeper. She asked more about my mental health history. I told her everything. I explained that I thought I was not, in fact, depressed or had biopolar, but instead had PMDD... premenstrual dysphoric disorder. It's basically like PMS to the extreme. And holy shit... she agreed completely.

So, how to you treat PMDD? You take about a half dose of an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor). In this case, she gave me Celexa.

I tried it. The side effects were tough for me to take... even with just a half dose. Constant headaches, nausea, dizziness. YUCK. Put that in with some massive PMS/PMDD symtoms, and I was one miserable girl. Dammit, Janet.

But, I've taken these kinds of meds before, and I know that the side effects almost always go away eventually. Despite a completely terrible 2 weeks, I kept taking it. Something told me that I just needed to hang in there just a little bit longer. So, I did.

Fast forward two full months later. I feel better than I can ever remember. Yes. Really. I have good days and bad days, just like everyone else. I'm far from numb. But, I'm happy most of the time. My reactions to things are... dare I say... appropriate. Nothing seems like the end of the world anymore.

Even better: in the last month, I've had mild headaches here and there, but I haven't had any migraines. Yes. That's right. NO MIGRAINES.

Holy crap. I'm afraid I'm going to jinx myself, but is this what "normal" feels like? If so, SIGN ME UP.

An explanation

I've been so quiet lately. If you know me well, you know that is weird. I'm NEVER quiet. But, lately, I haven't felt like writing much. I've been feeling strangely quiet and private and guarded. But, I feel like I need to explain some things. Here we go.

Here's the deal with Macey. Back in May (or was it April?), when her bio dad and I decided that she could try living with him, we made a deal. My big stipulation to this living situation was that he moves out of his parent's home and live on his own by the end of the summer. Period. It was not negotiable.

Why is living with his parents a big deal? Well... I'm sorry to say that it's for a LOT of reasons. His dad is nuts. Like, untreated massive OCD nuts. He's also a recovered alcoholic and drug addict. His mom is not in good health. She had a brain tumor removed a year ago, and it's becoming clear that she's dying. Slowly, mind you... but she's dying. On top of all this, their famiy is dysfunctional in a way that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. I mean... almost all families are a little dysfunctional, right? But their brand of dysfunctional is pretty severe. It's not a dangerous situation, but it's not emotionally healthy to be there either. I'll just leave it at that.

Macey's bio dad has been living with his parents for the last 2+ years. He's been telling me that he can't wait to get out of there for ages. And since I know that he'd had time to save his money for deposits and such, I figured that he might actually DO IT. He might actually move out and start a life with Macey... and make her happy.

Thing is, it's been months, and Macey and bio dad are STILL living with his parents. About a week ago, I talked with bio dad about this, and we both agreed that maybe this "living in Illinois for a year" thing might not work out. I gave him another week and told him that we just need to focus on what's best for Macey... even if that means coming back to Kansas. He actually agreed with me.

It's still summer technically summer, so why is this such a big deal NOW? Well, school enrollment is in 2 weeks. I have to plan (and pay for it.) There are school supplies, moving her back home, and all the other stuff that goes along with a change of this sort. So, it's kinda now or never, ya know?

Well, I gave him the week that we agreed to. And then I called Sunday. He thought he *might* have a place lined up, and was trying to put off the decision even further. I had to put my foot down. No concrete plans? No place to live? No Macey. It's simple. This is the very last thing in the whole world that I want to have to do, but he HAS to be responsible. He can't put this off anymore. He agreed to this. Time is up.

And, of course, because I had to put my foot down, the conversation led to him telling me what a terrible parent I am. I'm a fat, stupid bitch. I'm controlling. He's convinced that he's paid more attention to Macey in the last 3 months than I have in her entire life. I don't deserve her. And best of all, I should just come get her so that he doesn't have to deal with the likes of ME anymore. *wiping away the tears* And the really bad part? Macey agrees with him,except for the coming to get her part. She refuses to come home no matter what their living situation is. She hates me. She won't even speak to me. At all.

Well, just hours after this gut wrenching conversation, he has a confirmed place to live, furniture to sit/sleep on, and every one of my demands met. They are moving in less than 2 weeks. One minute, he tells me to come get her, and then, it's all worked out and she's staying. Ugh. Really?

So, that leaves me in a place in which I have to figure out exactly what to do from here. I gave my word that I would let her live there as long as bio dad has his own place. And, at the 11th hour, he does. Do I go get her and MAKE her come home anyway? Just because he's a name calling jerk that insulted me in a way that no one deserves? Or do I let her stay there? I promised, after all. And then there is the fallout of my decision. Will Macey have the right not to speak to me if I haul her home? Will she just make everyone here in Kansas absolutely miserable if I go get her? It's a no-win situation for me, really.

The best compromise I could come up with is a contract of sorts. It's not a legal document, of course, but it puts in place some very concrete demands on her parenting and living situation. For instance, she has to maintain at least a 3.0 grade point average. (She's never had less than a 3.5, so this should be cake for her.) I must have a copy of her grade cards within a week of them being sent home. She must continue to live in a safe, clean, comfortable house and NOT with his parents. She must not be left alone on an everyday basis for more than 2 hours at a time (I don't have a problem with a latchkey situation, but refuse to let her spend the majority of her time at home completely alone.) That sort of thing. The rules are broken? I'm coming to get her no matter what day of the year it is. The expectations are clearly laid out and are not at all negotiable. Basically, if he screws up, I don't have to be the bad guy anymore. HE will be the bad guy. HE will be the one who broke the rules and it will be HIS fault. (I'm not delusional enough to think that Macey won't still blame me on some level. But, you can't have everything.)

So, there it is. It's hard. It sucks. And I'm sad. But, I'm powering through it. It's all I can do, really.

My life is a whole lotta awesome.

There are days, when I feel sorry for myself. I'm bummed because I don't have more money. Or I get stressed out because my "to do" list is too darn long. Or I'm frustrated because I feel taken for granted.

Thing is, my life is a whole lotta awesome when I really think about it.

Have I been hurt in the past? Hell yes.

Have I been stepped on and cast aside? Yep.

Have unfair things happened to me, changing the fabric of who I am forever? Absolutely.

But, am I still breathing? Moving? Living? YES.

Do I always find a way to have food and shelter? Warmth? Clean water? YES.

Even in the midst of hurt and pain and anger, have I been loved anyway? Has at least one person let me know that they care and are there for me, no matter what? YES.

I have been given so many gifts. I'm lucky enough to be smart and creative. I've been educated enough to love learning new things, and embrace the chance to think outside the box. Worlds have opened up for me because I've been taught to think critically and logically. I've been loved in spades, so I've never felt completely worthless (at least not for long.) I've been hugged when I've needed it. I've been supported when I just couldn't stand any longer. And my needs, at times, have been put first instead of dead last. I have so many tools... so many advantages to make my life awesome in a way that some people on this planet only dream of and may never realize.

No, my life is not perfect. Sometimes, someone leaves a ding in my car or steals my mail or hurts my feelings. But, overall, my life is a whole lotta awesome. And I am incredibly grateful for it.

This rose colored glasses moment is brought to you by the letters L, O, V and E.

Are you SURE?

Tonight, as Rhett and I were lying in bed, in that space between sleep and awake, we were contemplating my "problem".

It went a little something like this:

Rhett: "You know what your problem is?"

Me: "Do tell."

Rhett: "You're always trying to improve yourself. Like... all the time. You're always trying to be a little bit better than you were the day before. And I think it's driving you crazy. You just need to be yourself and be done with it."

Me: "Doesn't everyone try to improve themselves?"

Rhett: "Hell no."

Me: "Are you SURE?"

Rhett: "Absolutely."

Huh. I think he's got a point. Maybe just being who I am at exactly this moment wouldn't be such a bad thing. Maybe I'm already good enough. Maybe I don't need to learn (another) new hobby. Or figure out how to make the perfect from scratch vanilla cupcake. Or aspire to be an "after" from a very poignant episode of "What Not to Wear." Maybe I'm okay... messy closet, imperfect pedicure, tragically fitting capri pants and all.

Just the thought of that is very freeing.

Fly away impractical self-expectations! See ya. Wouldn't wanna be ya.

Woobie? Hair? Same, same.

I got a haircut. After it was all said and done, there were at least 8 inches of length on the salon floor. Probably more, actually. But, it was hard to tell because she cut it off in stages. I kept telling her, "Cut off another inch, please. Yes, another, please." Truthfully, I wouldn't be at all surprised if my locks were a full 10 inches shorter in the end. (And in case you're wondering, yes, I tipped my lovely hairdresser handsomely for being so incredibly patient with me.)

If you know me in real life, all this hair cutting business is a BIG deal. I've had really long hair for quite some time. When you're a girl who is firmly planted in a size category of double digits, hair can sometimes become a security blanket. It was absolutely, positively like my woobie. Soft and comfortable and safe. And dirty and disgusting and worse for the wear.

So, I cut it off. A reverse graduated bob. Layered within an inch of it's life.

Wow. I'm amazing with that camera, huh? I cut off the entire top of my head in this picture. AWESOME. Oh well. Either way, you definitely get the idea. (I think it looks better in person. Just so ya know.)

After I got home from "The Great Cut of 2011", I felt in love with it. LOVE, folks. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE. I kept looking in the mirror. I played with my hair incessantly. Two peas in a pod... me and my purdy hair.

Then, I went to bed. And I cried a little. Okay. A lot. What in the hell was I thinking?!

Oh yeah. I was thinking that I desperately needed a change. I needed to be different. I needed to break free from the security blanket and do something a tiny bit daring. So I did.

This morning, there were no more tears. Instead, there was just, "Good morning, purdy, crazy, curly hair. I love you."

I must be stopped.

First of all, I have a killer headache. So, please excuse any possible ridiculous ramblings/mispellings/general not-making-much-sense-edness that might occur. Thank you. :)

My sister got engaged over the weekend. I'm SO. EXCITED. for her and her fiance. And you know what? I'm also excited for me. Why in the world would HER engagement be an exciting thing for ME? Because I love a wedding. I love to decorate. I love to dream and plan and... and... and... You get the picture. The idea of helping with her with a wedding is making me downright GIDDY. A wedding, you guys! A WEDDING!!! *ahem*

This is the embarassing part of this blog entry. I already started a Pinterest board just for wedding ideas. Even though I completely realize that I'm not the one getting married. Yes, it's sick. Yes, I must be stopped. Sister o'mine, I apologize. I cannot help myself. Perhaps pinning like a mad lady will contain the crazy and result in fewer calls to you that start, "Oh, Sister... I just saw this truly FANTABULOUSLY AWESOME idea!"

I hope she leans on me for help and advice and such. If not, I won't be offended. (Yes, I promise.) But, I want her to have a wedding that may be small (per her & fiance's wishes, of course), but lovely and meaningful and the kind of day that leaves her smiling long after she says, "I do."

Congrats, Carey and Aaron! You two rock the casbah.

And... *squeal* a WEDDING!!!

In case you're wondering...

Someone anonymously asked how they can get their hands on a pair of Converse cupcake sneakers. As much as I would love to think that Converse only made them available to ME, in reality, anyone can order a pair!

Go to Converse.com . There are two buttons at the top: "Shop" and "Create". Choose "Create". On the right side of the page (near the middle), you'll see "View all customizable shoes". Click that and choose whatever style of Converse you want. Mine are the "Chuck Taylor All Stars", but you could get high tops or anything else your heart desires. From there, you'll be taken to a design tool that lets you pick out the color or pattern that you want on each and every part of the shoe! You can customize almost EVERYTHING about the shoes... clear down to the lining and the color of the stitching!

And by the way, if you order a pair, I would suggest ordering at least half a size smaller than what you usually wear. Maybe even a whole size. Their shoes run pretty big, and customized shoes absolutely cannot be returned/exchanged for any reason at all. It pays to go to the mall and try on a pair to make sure that the size is right. Also note that the shoes on the website go by a unisex sizing system. So, if you're a size 7 womens, it translates to a size 5 in unisex.

I hope all that info helps! If y'all have any questions about it, let me know in the comments. But this time, leave me an email address or something so I can shout back at ya. :)

*For the record, I do not work for Converse. I didn't get paid for posting any of this on my blog. And I absolutely did NOT get these shoes for free. But, if the Converse marketing fairy ever wanted to give me a free pair, I certainly would not turn them down. ;)

Cupcakes + Shoes = AWESOME

Remember my Mother's Day gift from Rhett and the kids? That adorable rendering of custom Converse sneakers with cupcakes on them? I was so excited, I even posted the rendering on my blog. Some people didn't believe they existed. Cupcakes sneakers? Surely those are meerly mystical dreams that live in a fantasy land of unicorns and leprechauns and fairies! Well, my friends, they DO exist.

BEHOLD THE POWER OF THE CUPCAKE SNEAKERS!

Ummm... are these not the cutest things you've ever seen? They're a tad big, but nothing a thicker pair of socks can't cure. I love them so much, I'm just plain giddy about the thought of wearing them. Giddy, people!

Rhett, if you're reading this... THANK YOU, BABY. *enormous, silly grin*

And look at the little custom touch on the back! I could put whatever I wanted on the heel stripe, and I couldn't think of anything that would make me happier than looking back there and seeing "Cake Love". *swoooooooon*

Now, I'm not a particularly whimsical girl. I don't adorn myself with fun, bright jewelry or embrace the use of many accessories. I don't own a pink purse or hair bows or anything that really resembles something from childhood. Hell, I can go a week or more without even wearing makeup for Uncle Pete's sake! But these shoes... they threaten to turn me into a bubble gum pink wearin', glitter rockin', side ponytail sportin' chick-a-dee.

Goodbye, sophistication.

HELLO, CUPCAKE SHOES!