I wrote this a week after my last surgery (so a week after I received the most devastating news of my life). I don’t know why I wrote it. I was in my car and I just “felt” it. I feverishly started typing on my i-phone while driving (not so smart or safe anywhere, but especially in the AK in the winter time!) Anyway, it just made me feel better. Like I had decided, and what I had decided was that this disease was not going to decide for me. I think I want a reminder of that indignation stepping into the New Year, because indignation is what gets things done in my world:
So here’s what happened: I cried. Then I cried some more. I buried myself under my covers, and I cried for a week. Then I stood up, wiped my ass off, washed my face, and said “fuck this”. I have lost too much in my life, I have had too much taken away. Time after time I have had to be “strong”. I have had to pull myself together with no help, and survive… thrive. I will not do that now. I will not simply accept this as my lot in life and move forward. I will not be “strong”. I will be fierce. I will be angry. I will fight and I will win. I will pray for my miracle, because I deserve a fucking miracle. I will leave no stone unturned. I don’t care what anyone tells me. I will be a mom. I will get fat and pregnant. I will scream my way through a natural birth. I will have this. This one time, I will win.
ADSPACE
December 31, 2009
December 30, 2009
A Long December
Apparently, the Counting Crows decided to sum up my entire 2009, way back in 1996.
Curious why this is the song of the year? Lyrics of note:
“I can’t remember the last thing you said as you were leaving. Oh the days go by so fast.”
“If you think that I could be forgiven, I wish you would.”
“I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower.”
It has been a long December (slash, entire year), but there is reason to believe. Maybe this year will be better than the last.
Is it 2010 yet?
Curious why this is the song of the year? Lyrics of note:
“I can’t remember the last thing you said as you were leaving. Oh the days go by so fast.”
“If you think that I could be forgiven, I wish you would.”
“I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower.”
It has been a long December (slash, entire year), but there is reason to believe. Maybe this year will be better than the last.
Is it 2010 yet?
December 29, 2009
Dear Mr. Firefighter
On the day of the first snow of last winter (so, a little over a year ago now), V had his first real “little boy” moment. While taking advantage of the 15 seconds when no eyes were upon him, he precariously climbed on a chair and attempted to reach a magnet he desired on the fridge. At not even 2 years of age yet, he teetered, he tottered, and he fell… taking the entire chair with him. When his face hit the top edge of the chair on the way down, he managed to slice his teeth straight through his bottom lip, severing it completely off (and I am not exaggerating, I actually had his little lip in a Ziploc bag for transfer to the hospital).
By the time the ambulance arrived, Syrah was a wreck (holding her little boy who had been so damaged) and could barely contain her hysterical sobs. Little man was screaming (both in pain and also probably out of fear over his mothers reaction) and IV was furious, blaming Syrah for not watching V carefully enough (because apparently, under a crisis we all redirect our emotions in different ways.)
I was trying to remain calm, because I knew:
A.) That was what both Syrah and V needed from me.
and
B.) That little man would survive. I knew (only logically, of course) that he would be just fine.
But the blood and the emotion and the craziness did have me a little dazed. I barely paid attention at all to the firefighters directing Syrah and IV to take V to the hospital. I followed in a different car with the remnants of his lip, and as I was walking through the hospital corridor a firefighter walked by me and smiled a warm and genuine smile. I walked right past him, barely acknowledging his presence and not realizing until minutes later that he had been one of the same firefighters in our home (at the time I had just moved to Alaska and was still living with Syrah and IV) just 20 minutes prior.
V was fine, of course (Syrah and I both stayed home from work the next day, and were shocked at how “OK” he seemed to be. He wanted to eat and drink like normal, and it was all we could do to keep him from wrestling!), but it was days later before Syrah and I looked at each other and said “So… Did you see those firefighters?” Neither of us had realized it in the moment. We were both too shocked and emotionally charged to pay attention to good looking men, but those men were good looking. Really good looking. The one who had smiled at me in particular was just my type; I clearly must have been in a very serious head space to not have noticed him at all at the time!
About 9 months later I was at the grocery store and there was a group of firefighters who I kept passing in the aisles. One of them caught my eye, and I kept thinking to myself “How do I know him?” It took the whole shopping trip for it to dawn on me, and by that point the firefighters had already paid and walked out. Thus, I found myself chasing down a group of firefighters in the parking lot of a Fred Meyer before they made it to their truck. I felt compelled to thank them for their kindness that day, and to tell them that little man had healed almost perfectly and was the most amazing kid they could ever hope to meet. Plus, I was hoping to build up the courage to ask this firefighter out. Alas, by the time I caught them I was embarrassed (as it was in that moment that I realized that I had gone to the store totally scrubbed out, and without an ounce of make-up on) and nervous in my words (I think I was actually star struck, if that makes any sense at all) and after a few minutes of rambling (in which these men were very gracious with my awkward search for words), I walked away with my tail between my legs (and the feeling that Mr. Firefighter may have been thinking to himself “I remember her being hotter”). I called Syrah, and relayed to her my embarrassing encounter with “our” firefighters, and we both laughed it off.
I was shopping on my lunch break again today, when I saw the fire truck pull up (what is it about the sight of a fire truck that can just "do it" for a woman?) and “our” firefighters step out. This time I did not approach them (even though I looked much better… I really do love the way my working girl Express pants [i.e. “The Grown-Up” look] accentuate my butt!) I stayed away, both out of a fear of further embarrassment, and in a last-ditch attempt to maintain at least some of my dignity (after all, I’m the picky one here… boys chase me damnit!) Besides, he’s probably married.
Still… I’m thinking about formulating the following letter and sending it to the fire station:
"Dear Mr. Firefighter (Who’s Name I Do Not Know):
Would you like to be my baby daddy? I really am quite the catch, and I think you have the most amazing smile. Please let me know no later than November, 2010. Happy New Year!"
What do you think? It could totally work, right?!?
By the time the ambulance arrived, Syrah was a wreck (holding her little boy who had been so damaged) and could barely contain her hysterical sobs. Little man was screaming (both in pain and also probably out of fear over his mothers reaction) and IV was furious, blaming Syrah for not watching V carefully enough (because apparently, under a crisis we all redirect our emotions in different ways.)
I was trying to remain calm, because I knew:
A.) That was what both Syrah and V needed from me.
and
B.) That little man would survive. I knew (only logically, of course) that he would be just fine.
But the blood and the emotion and the craziness did have me a little dazed. I barely paid attention at all to the firefighters directing Syrah and IV to take V to the hospital. I followed in a different car with the remnants of his lip, and as I was walking through the hospital corridor a firefighter walked by me and smiled a warm and genuine smile. I walked right past him, barely acknowledging his presence and not realizing until minutes later that he had been one of the same firefighters in our home (at the time I had just moved to Alaska and was still living with Syrah and IV) just 20 minutes prior.
V was fine, of course (Syrah and I both stayed home from work the next day, and were shocked at how “OK” he seemed to be. He wanted to eat and drink like normal, and it was all we could do to keep him from wrestling!), but it was days later before Syrah and I looked at each other and said “So… Did you see those firefighters?” Neither of us had realized it in the moment. We were both too shocked and emotionally charged to pay attention to good looking men, but those men were good looking. Really good looking. The one who had smiled at me in particular was just my type; I clearly must have been in a very serious head space to not have noticed him at all at the time!
About 9 months later I was at the grocery store and there was a group of firefighters who I kept passing in the aisles. One of them caught my eye, and I kept thinking to myself “How do I know him?” It took the whole shopping trip for it to dawn on me, and by that point the firefighters had already paid and walked out. Thus, I found myself chasing down a group of firefighters in the parking lot of a Fred Meyer before they made it to their truck. I felt compelled to thank them for their kindness that day, and to tell them that little man had healed almost perfectly and was the most amazing kid they could ever hope to meet. Plus, I was hoping to build up the courage to ask this firefighter out. Alas, by the time I caught them I was embarrassed (as it was in that moment that I realized that I had gone to the store totally scrubbed out, and without an ounce of make-up on) and nervous in my words (I think I was actually star struck, if that makes any sense at all) and after a few minutes of rambling (in which these men were very gracious with my awkward search for words), I walked away with my tail between my legs (and the feeling that Mr. Firefighter may have been thinking to himself “I remember her being hotter”). I called Syrah, and relayed to her my embarrassing encounter with “our” firefighters, and we both laughed it off.
I was shopping on my lunch break again today, when I saw the fire truck pull up (what is it about the sight of a fire truck that can just "do it" for a woman?) and “our” firefighters step out. This time I did not approach them (even though I looked much better… I really do love the way my working girl Express pants [i.e. “The Grown-Up” look] accentuate my butt!) I stayed away, both out of a fear of further embarrassment, and in a last-ditch attempt to maintain at least some of my dignity (after all, I’m the picky one here… boys chase me damnit!) Besides, he’s probably married.
Still… I’m thinking about formulating the following letter and sending it to the fire station:
"Dear Mr. Firefighter (Who’s Name I Do Not Know):
Would you like to be my baby daddy? I really am quite the catch, and I think you have the most amazing smile. Please let me know no later than November, 2010. Happy New Year!"
What do you think? It could totally work, right?!?
December 28, 2009
16 & Pregnant
I made the mistake of watching a marathon of 16 and pregnant last night (such a bad idea; I of course wound up in tears). I had put my DVR on pause while I went to brush my teeth, and as I was brushing I was pondering. That’s where I found myself thinking that if I had gotten pregnant at 16 I would have figured it out (and hopefully better than some of these girls, one of whom is kind of a train wreck [and an assault charge waiting to happen]). In an instant I realized, “if I am sitting here thinking I could have figured it out then, why couldn’t I figure it out now?”
When I think about all the times that I could have gotten pregnant if I had been just a little less responsible… Well, in truth I probably wouldn’t have wanted to get pregnant. I’m starting to think no daddy would be better than some of the daddies I could have stuck my kid with! I have been with 13 men (I think… sometimes I feel like I’m forgetting one [and my poor father just reached for a fork to gauge his own eyes out with]). Of those, I can only imagine ever wanting to raise a child with maybe 3 (and I’m not even thinking of this in a relationship sense, I’m just thinking about their abilities to be a decent parent). The good news is; I actually came to this realization about two years ago (after a scare with one of the men I would not have wanted to raise a child with), and I really started to tighten up my standards regarding suitable partners for my bed! The bad news is; I get laid a whole lot less now.
The point was, I caught myself off guard by thinking “I could have done that, if it had happened”. If I could have figured it out had it just “happened”, why can’t I figure it out now by choice? It’s because I’m scared, that’s why. When you forget to take your pill, or the condom breaks and you just wind up pregnant, well yeah, you figure it out. You do the best you can (and no one expects any more of you). But when you actually make that choice; when you choose to bring a baby into this world all by yourself (and spend an exorbitant amount of money doing so), suddenly it’s bigger. You have to do better than your best, because your best may not be enough and this was a choice you made so you have to be enough. You know what else? If I choose to do it alone, then there will be no happy willing daddy there to pick up the pieces if I mess it all up, and that will have been a choice I made; the almost impossible task of being both Mommy and Daddy. What if I’m not enough?
I feel like my entire life is ruled by a fear of making mistakes right now. I never used to be so afraid.
When I think about all the times that I could have gotten pregnant if I had been just a little less responsible… Well, in truth I probably wouldn’t have wanted to get pregnant. I’m starting to think no daddy would be better than some of the daddies I could have stuck my kid with! I have been with 13 men (I think… sometimes I feel like I’m forgetting one [and my poor father just reached for a fork to gauge his own eyes out with]). Of those, I can only imagine ever wanting to raise a child with maybe 3 (and I’m not even thinking of this in a relationship sense, I’m just thinking about their abilities to be a decent parent). The good news is; I actually came to this realization about two years ago (after a scare with one of the men I would not have wanted to raise a child with), and I really started to tighten up my standards regarding suitable partners for my bed! The bad news is; I get laid a whole lot less now.
The point was, I caught myself off guard by thinking “I could have done that, if it had happened”. If I could have figured it out had it just “happened”, why can’t I figure it out now by choice? It’s because I’m scared, that’s why. When you forget to take your pill, or the condom breaks and you just wind up pregnant, well yeah, you figure it out. You do the best you can (and no one expects any more of you). But when you actually make that choice; when you choose to bring a baby into this world all by yourself (and spend an exorbitant amount of money doing so), suddenly it’s bigger. You have to do better than your best, because your best may not be enough and this was a choice you made so you have to be enough. You know what else? If I choose to do it alone, then there will be no happy willing daddy there to pick up the pieces if I mess it all up, and that will have been a choice I made; the almost impossible task of being both Mommy and Daddy. What if I’m not enough?
I feel like my entire life is ruled by a fear of making mistakes right now. I never used to be so afraid.
December 27, 2009
Stalker Cop
I’ve had a few friends ask me how my second date with the cop (who I wasn’t that into, but had agreed to go out with again because on paper I really should have liked him) went. Well, there was no second date. Mostly because cop went stalker-cop and totally freaked me out. Somehow I wound up with a stage-5 clinger on my hands after just one blind date.
I already told you all that he had texted me less than 2 hours after our initial date to tell me that it had been the best night he had had in a while and that he couldn’t wait to see and talk to me again. That was already a little over the top for me, but then he started calling the next day. He was pushing hard and fast for a second date, telling me that he was so anxious to see me again he wanted to make sure it was sooner than later (as in, he was shooting for within the next 48 hours; like I don't have a life I would rather be attending to over spending all my free time with some guy I just met!) I realized pretty quickly that this guy was way more into me than I was him (I mean, we spent less than two hours together, and I lied and said Syrah was in labor to get it to end when it did [yes, I went into the bathroom, called her, and came out and said “my best friend is in labor, I have to go!” How could any man, under those circumstances, not realize that maybe I wasn’t completely enraptured?] We didn’t even kiss!)
The more intense he got, the less fun a second date sounded (in fact, the idea of spending more time with this guy had my stomach in knots). When I tried to use my medical issues as an excuse to not go out with him again (because yes, I'm classy like that) he actually begged me to change my mind. He left me a 4 ½ minute message (because once I got through explaining that there would be no second date I promptly turned off my phone… What can I say, I’m mature like a tenth grader!) telling me he had "fallen head over heels" for me the second I had walked in the door, that I was everything he had been looking for (he went on to list all of my wonderful qualities, which he had somehow garnered after knowing me for just a very short time), and that he saw a real future for us (apparently this guy is great at seeing the future, but not so great at reading normal cues). He explained on this message that he knew all about infertility issues (and went into a long history of his mother's struggles) and that if I cared about him even half as much as he cared about me (how do you begin to quantify how much you care about a person you’ve known for only two hours?) I would give "us" a chance because; who knew, he may be the man I start my family with (yes, he threw that out there) sooner than I would think possible. I'm sorry, but I only spent 2 hours (have I made that clear yet?) with him. There was nothing special at all about the date. I thought he was nice, I was going to go out with him again, but whoa! Way too much, way too fast bucko! I'm actually terrified of hearing from this guy again, or worse, running into him (stupid small town)! I was driving around today and there was a cop behind me and I found myself thinking “if this guy pulls me over, I swear…”
He freaked me out so bad that when I came home from work the next day to find a box of sweaters I had ordered from Victoria’s Secret that had clearly been ripped open (not "post man was a little rough with it" ripped open, but "completely torn down the side with a box cutter and sitting there totally picked through" ripped open) all I could think was that stalker-cop had looked up my address, been to my house, seen a box from Victoria’s Secret, and in a creepy rage opened it up just to discover it was only clothes (nothing was missing) and not lingerie... He really may be just a very nice guy who would never do anything like that, but he creeped me out so bad that he was my first suspect.
And it wasn’t just that he was so adamant that I should go out with him again (although, just for the record: if you go on one date with someone [one date that doesn’t result in any hanky-panky and only lasts through dinner], and that person says they don’t want to go out with you again, shouldn’t you just leave it at that? Is there really any basis to push?) It was also just how sure he was that I was so damn special. Maybe there are some girls out there who would find that really romantic (the kind of girls who want to be doted on and taken care of), but to me there is nothing romantic about a guy deciding I'm "the one" he's been looking for after one date. He knows nothing about me. I was on my very best behavior. He didn't even get to see any of my (numerous) flaws. When you put someone on a pedestal, the only direction they have to go is down, and there is just something so intimidating about someone deciding you are so much more than you are.
I hate disappointing people, but you know what? Sometimes I'm a wreck. I can shut people out without a seconds thought. I can be stubborn and so sure I'm right when I'm wrong. I can hurt the people I love just because I'm hurting, and worst of all, lately I cry at the drop of a hat (and I HATE being emotional). I’m not saying I’m not a freaking catch (because let’s face facts; all humility aside, I am pretty amazing!) I’m just saying; I am not perfect. Some guy deciding I am after sharing one meal with me is just a little overwhelming, because the only thing I would ever be able to do is let that guy down. Especially since I wasn't even really all that interested in him in the first place.
I’m not putting myself down because of my flaws (so save all the e-mails telling me how great and worthy of love I am). I accept that no one is perfect, and that my flaws are just a part part of who I am (and the things I don't accept or like, I work on changing). I would just rather have a guy recognize right up front how warped I can be (and decide that that's just part of my charm), than build me up into something I'm not (and even more importantly; something I don't want to be). I don’t need (or want) a man who is so convinced I’m perfect that he will give me anything I want; I need a man who loves me enough to recognize I need to be put in my place most days. I need a man who isn’t afraid to tell me when I’m being crazy (which happens fairly frequently), and who knows how to stand up to me when I’m wrong. My final word on this subject is; I can be neurotic, and cold, and sometimes I can have a meltdown that is almost impossible for any man to deal with or understand. No man should fall “head over heels” for me after just two hours. I am simply not that special... Just ask any guy who has ever dated me!
I better not start getting a bunch of tickets!
The experience did teach me one thing though. I have never been all about desperately trying to find someone, and I was going to go on a second date with this guy (even though I wasn't that into him) just because I thought I needed to try harder and give more guys a chance so that I could find my baby daddy. I had started to question how I have dated over the years, and wondered if maybe I was being a bit too picky. In retrospect, I don't even want to think about how over the top this guy would have been after a second date!
Lesson learned. I am removing the dating pressure. I refuse to let this disease make me feel like I have to settle. I need (and have always needed) dating to happen more organically (i.e. no more blind dates please!) I know it’s possible for me to find love, because it did happen that one time. I’m just going to stop trying for it and go back to being happy being me; happy being single. If it’s meant to happen, it will. From now on though, I’m going back to only going out with guys that make my heart skip a beat. If I don't feel like I can't stand not getting to know a guy, I'm not going to get to know him; plain and simple. If I end up being a single mother because of it, so be it. I would rather be a single mother than a mother who settles for some guy she's not that into just to have a baby, and then wakes up 10 years from now thinking "Crap. I used to have values. I used to be picky. Now I'm stuck with THIS guy?" I would rather be a single mother, than to be a woman raising a child with a guy who isn't "the one". I never was that good at sharing anyway.
I have never allowed myself to feel like I need a man for anything, I refuse to allow this disease to change that. When Mr. Right comes around I will be ready. I will be open and available and willing. One thing I will not be is tied down to Mr. Not-So-Right simply because I was afraid of running out of time.
I already told you all that he had texted me less than 2 hours after our initial date to tell me that it had been the best night he had had in a while and that he couldn’t wait to see and talk to me again. That was already a little over the top for me, but then he started calling the next day. He was pushing hard and fast for a second date, telling me that he was so anxious to see me again he wanted to make sure it was sooner than later (as in, he was shooting for within the next 48 hours; like I don't have a life I would rather be attending to over spending all my free time with some guy I just met!) I realized pretty quickly that this guy was way more into me than I was him (I mean, we spent less than two hours together, and I lied and said Syrah was in labor to get it to end when it did [yes, I went into the bathroom, called her, and came out and said “my best friend is in labor, I have to go!” How could any man, under those circumstances, not realize that maybe I wasn’t completely enraptured?] We didn’t even kiss!)
The more intense he got, the less fun a second date sounded (in fact, the idea of spending more time with this guy had my stomach in knots). When I tried to use my medical issues as an excuse to not go out with him again (because yes, I'm classy like that) he actually begged me to change my mind. He left me a 4 ½ minute message (because once I got through explaining that there would be no second date I promptly turned off my phone… What can I say, I’m mature like a tenth grader!) telling me he had "fallen head over heels" for me the second I had walked in the door, that I was everything he had been looking for (he went on to list all of my wonderful qualities, which he had somehow garnered after knowing me for just a very short time), and that he saw a real future for us (apparently this guy is great at seeing the future, but not so great at reading normal cues). He explained on this message that he knew all about infertility issues (and went into a long history of his mother's struggles) and that if I cared about him even half as much as he cared about me (how do you begin to quantify how much you care about a person you’ve known for only two hours?) I would give "us" a chance because; who knew, he may be the man I start my family with (yes, he threw that out there) sooner than I would think possible. I'm sorry, but I only spent 2 hours (have I made that clear yet?) with him. There was nothing special at all about the date. I thought he was nice, I was going to go out with him again, but whoa! Way too much, way too fast bucko! I'm actually terrified of hearing from this guy again, or worse, running into him (stupid small town)! I was driving around today and there was a cop behind me and I found myself thinking “if this guy pulls me over, I swear…”
He freaked me out so bad that when I came home from work the next day to find a box of sweaters I had ordered from Victoria’s Secret that had clearly been ripped open (not "post man was a little rough with it" ripped open, but "completely torn down the side with a box cutter and sitting there totally picked through" ripped open) all I could think was that stalker-cop had looked up my address, been to my house, seen a box from Victoria’s Secret, and in a creepy rage opened it up just to discover it was only clothes (nothing was missing) and not lingerie... He really may be just a very nice guy who would never do anything like that, but he creeped me out so bad that he was my first suspect.
And it wasn’t just that he was so adamant that I should go out with him again (although, just for the record: if you go on one date with someone [one date that doesn’t result in any hanky-panky and only lasts through dinner], and that person says they don’t want to go out with you again, shouldn’t you just leave it at that? Is there really any basis to push?) It was also just how sure he was that I was so damn special. Maybe there are some girls out there who would find that really romantic (the kind of girls who want to be doted on and taken care of), but to me there is nothing romantic about a guy deciding I'm "the one" he's been looking for after one date. He knows nothing about me. I was on my very best behavior. He didn't even get to see any of my (numerous) flaws. When you put someone on a pedestal, the only direction they have to go is down, and there is just something so intimidating about someone deciding you are so much more than you are.
I hate disappointing people, but you know what? Sometimes I'm a wreck. I can shut people out without a seconds thought. I can be stubborn and so sure I'm right when I'm wrong. I can hurt the people I love just because I'm hurting, and worst of all, lately I cry at the drop of a hat (and I HATE being emotional). I’m not saying I’m not a freaking catch (because let’s face facts; all humility aside, I am pretty amazing!) I’m just saying; I am not perfect. Some guy deciding I am after sharing one meal with me is just a little overwhelming, because the only thing I would ever be able to do is let that guy down. Especially since I wasn't even really all that interested in him in the first place.
I’m not putting myself down because of my flaws (so save all the e-mails telling me how great and worthy of love I am). I accept that no one is perfect, and that my flaws are just a part part of who I am (and the things I don't accept or like, I work on changing). I would just rather have a guy recognize right up front how warped I can be (and decide that that's just part of my charm), than build me up into something I'm not (and even more importantly; something I don't want to be). I don’t need (or want) a man who is so convinced I’m perfect that he will give me anything I want; I need a man who loves me enough to recognize I need to be put in my place most days. I need a man who isn’t afraid to tell me when I’m being crazy (which happens fairly frequently), and who knows how to stand up to me when I’m wrong. My final word on this subject is; I can be neurotic, and cold, and sometimes I can have a meltdown that is almost impossible for any man to deal with or understand. No man should fall “head over heels” for me after just two hours. I am simply not that special... Just ask any guy who has ever dated me!
I better not start getting a bunch of tickets!
The experience did teach me one thing though. I have never been all about desperately trying to find someone, and I was going to go on a second date with this guy (even though I wasn't that into him) just because I thought I needed to try harder and give more guys a chance so that I could find my baby daddy. I had started to question how I have dated over the years, and wondered if maybe I was being a bit too picky. In retrospect, I don't even want to think about how over the top this guy would have been after a second date!
Lesson learned. I am removing the dating pressure. I refuse to let this disease make me feel like I have to settle. I need (and have always needed) dating to happen more organically (i.e. no more blind dates please!) I know it’s possible for me to find love, because it did happen that one time. I’m just going to stop trying for it and go back to being happy being me; happy being single. If it’s meant to happen, it will. From now on though, I’m going back to only going out with guys that make my heart skip a beat. If I don't feel like I can't stand not getting to know a guy, I'm not going to get to know him; plain and simple. If I end up being a single mother because of it, so be it. I would rather be a single mother than a mother who settles for some guy she's not that into just to have a baby, and then wakes up 10 years from now thinking "Crap. I used to have values. I used to be picky. Now I'm stuck with THIS guy?" I would rather be a single mother, than to be a woman raising a child with a guy who isn't "the one". I never was that good at sharing anyway.
I have never allowed myself to feel like I need a man for anything, I refuse to allow this disease to change that. When Mr. Right comes around I will be ready. I will be open and available and willing. One thing I will not be is tied down to Mr. Not-So-Right simply because I was afraid of running out of time.
December 26, 2009
Kids Say The Darndest Things
I have a friend who has a little boy in the first grade who is just a riot. He is always on, and can have you cracking up in seconds without even really trying (and he knows it). The only way to describe him is as a firecracker (complete with the bright red hair).
I’m still swollen from my last surgery. It’s been six weeks, but they were so invasive this time (even getting into my intestines) that my Dr. told me I could expect this for at least a few more weeks. I’ve never been “thin”, but I do have the quintessential hourglass figure, and my tummy has always been pretty flat (more or less). Now, my swelly-belly and I do look like we’re sporting a bit of a baby bump. The funny thing is, I don’t even care. Sometimes I catch myself starring at my little bump dreamily when I get out of the shower and thinking “this is how it will look when…” I know, I’m completely and totally warped!
So anyway, I saw my friend’s son during the Christmas festivities. We were playing a rousing game of Sorry! with his sister and cousin (somehow I always find myself playing with the kids, even when there are plenty of grown-ups for me to socialize with), when out of nowhere he says “You’re going to have a BABY”… I thought to myself “do you know something I don’t know?” but said instead “Oh yeah? What makes you think that?” And he says “Because look at your belly!! HAHAHAHAHA!” The whole time miming a larger belly in front of his own stomach. His laugh was infectious. He knew he had just called me out, and thought it was the funniest thing that had happened all night. I couldn’t help but laugh myself.
I so want a wicked little boy to call my own!
I’m still swollen from my last surgery. It’s been six weeks, but they were so invasive this time (even getting into my intestines) that my Dr. told me I could expect this for at least a few more weeks. I’ve never been “thin”, but I do have the quintessential hourglass figure, and my tummy has always been pretty flat (more or less). Now, my swelly-belly and I do look like we’re sporting a bit of a baby bump. The funny thing is, I don’t even care. Sometimes I catch myself starring at my little bump dreamily when I get out of the shower and thinking “this is how it will look when…” I know, I’m completely and totally warped!
So anyway, I saw my friend’s son during the Christmas festivities. We were playing a rousing game of Sorry! with his sister and cousin (somehow I always find myself playing with the kids, even when there are plenty of grown-ups for me to socialize with), when out of nowhere he says “You’re going to have a BABY”… I thought to myself “do you know something I don’t know?” but said instead “Oh yeah? What makes you think that?” And he says “Because look at your belly!! HAHAHAHAHA!” The whole time miming a larger belly in front of his own stomach. His laugh was infectious. He knew he had just called me out, and thought it was the funniest thing that had happened all night. I couldn’t help but laugh myself.
I so want a wicked little boy to call my own!
December 25, 2009
I Am Exactly Where I Need To Be
From the soundtrack of my life, this is the song I play (often on repeat) whenever I need a reminder to breathe.
On this day (notably not one of my favorite days), I share with you (my friends and loved ones) the musical equivalent of valium. When I feel like a rubber band is around my chest and I can’t possibly cope with the obstacles that are staring me down, I put this song on repeat until I feel “normal” again.
Merry Christmas everyone, I’m off to partake in one of my most long-standing holiday traditions: intruding upon other people’s families!
On this day (notably not one of my favorite days), I share with you (my friends and loved ones) the musical equivalent of valium. When I feel like a rubber band is around my chest and I can’t possibly cope with the obstacles that are staring me down, I put this song on repeat until I feel “normal” again.
Merry Christmas everyone, I’m off to partake in one of my most long-standing holiday traditions: intruding upon other people’s families!
December 24, 2009
Santa Who?
I continued what has to be the worst Christmas tradition ever tonight. Christmas has always been one of my least favorite holidays, for reasons I can’t even really explain without going into a lot of boring and painful memories of Christmas past; and I am determined to focus on Christmas present and Christmas future this year if it kills me. Anyway, as a way to counteract some of my Christmas blues throughout the years, I have engaged in retail therapy (my one enduring vice whenever I’m down) and bought myself some overpriced “want” (versus “need”; a distinction I am working more and more on recognizing) and called it my Christmas present to myself. This year I was doing really well not going down that route, but then today I braved my way out into the Holiday traffic and went shopping with my eye on one prize and one prize only: A flat screen TV.
When I moved from San Diego I literally sold every one of my belongings. I packed my clothes into one suitcase, and then threw that in my car for the long drive to starting over. I loved it. I thought it was the greatest idea I had ever had to completely cleanse myself of everything and begin anew. Little did I know at the time that everything in Anchorage costs more than anywhere else; much much more. There is no IKEA, Overstock won’t deliver, and even used items on Craigslist are insanely overpriced. I have kicked myself 100 times over the last year and a half when I have gone to buy anything from a bed to artwork. Still, I have slowly but surely added to my possessions again. Since I moved into my house though I have been watching a tiny (15”) tube TV loaned to me by a friend of a friend who was getting ready to toss it. Everyone who walks into my house comments on it, and even I have to admit I’ve found myself standing inches away from it from time to time trying to decipher some note that whatever television program I am watching didn’t deem necessary to read aloud. I have wanted a new TV since I bought my home, but they are so darn expensive (at least in the realm of “wants” vs. “needs”), so instead I have looked, and finagled, and backed out… every single time.
I received a pretty decent Christmas Bonus last week, and paid off some of my medical debt from the past year with it. I had promised myself I wasn’t going to use it on anything that qualified as a “want” because this was the start of a new me, and who knows what my “needs” are going to be next year with whatever choice I decide to make (let me remind you that none of those choices will be covered by insurance). But then I woke up this morning feeling extremely rebellious, and the next thing I knew I was out shopping for TV’s. When I found a 26” Samsung LCD that was marked down $150 I couldn’t help myself (or at least that’s what I’m claiming). And so, another year has passed where I have bought myself an expensive present I do not need, reasoning that it’s not like anyone else is going to buy it for me. This is what happens when you don’t have a husband or children: you make selfish, unnecessary purchases because there isn’t really any reason not to.
And it was as I was making this purchase that I realized that this is how things have always been. I have always been able to provide for myself whatever I have needed (or wanted) and I have taken great pride in that. I don’t wait around for someone to lend me a helping hand (or give me a generous gift). When I want something, I take care of me. I’m lucky because I have always been able to do this, but tonight it had me thinking "Why should a baby be any different?" I have always been able to handle anything handed to me, and I have never gone long without something I’ve wanted. I am strong. I am capable. And I am stubborn enough to get what I want when I want it all on my own if that’s how it has to be. Santa wasn’t going to bring me a flat screen, and he’s not going to bring me a baby either. Maybe this time next year the gift I need to give myself is a family, no matter how unconventional that family may be.
I would rather have a baby than a flat screen any day.
When I moved from San Diego I literally sold every one of my belongings. I packed my clothes into one suitcase, and then threw that in my car for the long drive to starting over. I loved it. I thought it was the greatest idea I had ever had to completely cleanse myself of everything and begin anew. Little did I know at the time that everything in Anchorage costs more than anywhere else; much much more. There is no IKEA, Overstock won’t deliver, and even used items on Craigslist are insanely overpriced. I have kicked myself 100 times over the last year and a half when I have gone to buy anything from a bed to artwork. Still, I have slowly but surely added to my possessions again. Since I moved into my house though I have been watching a tiny (15”) tube TV loaned to me by a friend of a friend who was getting ready to toss it. Everyone who walks into my house comments on it, and even I have to admit I’ve found myself standing inches away from it from time to time trying to decipher some note that whatever television program I am watching didn’t deem necessary to read aloud. I have wanted a new TV since I bought my home, but they are so darn expensive (at least in the realm of “wants” vs. “needs”), so instead I have looked, and finagled, and backed out… every single time.
I received a pretty decent Christmas Bonus last week, and paid off some of my medical debt from the past year with it. I had promised myself I wasn’t going to use it on anything that qualified as a “want” because this was the start of a new me, and who knows what my “needs” are going to be next year with whatever choice I decide to make (let me remind you that none of those choices will be covered by insurance). But then I woke up this morning feeling extremely rebellious, and the next thing I knew I was out shopping for TV’s. When I found a 26” Samsung LCD that was marked down $150 I couldn’t help myself (or at least that’s what I’m claiming). And so, another year has passed where I have bought myself an expensive present I do not need, reasoning that it’s not like anyone else is going to buy it for me. This is what happens when you don’t have a husband or children: you make selfish, unnecessary purchases because there isn’t really any reason not to.
And it was as I was making this purchase that I realized that this is how things have always been. I have always been able to provide for myself whatever I have needed (or wanted) and I have taken great pride in that. I don’t wait around for someone to lend me a helping hand (or give me a generous gift). When I want something, I take care of me. I’m lucky because I have always been able to do this, but tonight it had me thinking "Why should a baby be any different?" I have always been able to handle anything handed to me, and I have never gone long without something I’ve wanted. I am strong. I am capable. And I am stubborn enough to get what I want when I want it all on my own if that’s how it has to be. Santa wasn’t going to bring me a flat screen, and he’s not going to bring me a baby either. Maybe this time next year the gift I need to give myself is a family, no matter how unconventional that family may be.
I would rather have a baby than a flat screen any day.
December 23, 2009
Home Sweet Home
I’m back in Alaska where I belong! San Diego was exactly what I had hoped it would be, and I think being there got me thinking straight again (if nothing else, the Vitamin D boost has me feeling less crabby!) I actually wound up having a good time in Arizona too; a drama-free family visit, which was what I desperately needed it to be (why is it that family has the ability to bring the absolute best or absolute worst out of you depending on the circumstances? These trips home always have the promise of going either way, and thankfully no one pulled the worst out of me on this go-round [which is surprising given how much easier that is to do lately!]) My brother was his usual pain-in-the-ass self, but I still loved seeing he and his wife, and it was great to get to spend some time with my dad and grandparents. Overall, I can’t complain!
When I walked in the door tonight my bed was cluttered with mail (mostly bills and Christmas cards), and there are now two bags that need to be unpacked, laundry that needs to be done, and groceries that need to be bought (I had half a PB&J for dinner because that’s all that I had in my cupboards)… Instead of doing any of this, I made an absurdly large bowl of popcorn, crawled into my bed that I have so dearly missed, and caught up on my DVR… I can handle the rest tomorrow, I am just so happy to be home and back to my quiet routine.
I’m lying here ready for bed far too early, and pondering another email I received yesterday. Seattle Reproductive Medicine got back to me with my AMH levels. The point of that test was to verify that I do still have eggs to retrieve. A previous test hadn’t looked great, but my RE was pretty sure that was because of all the hormones I was on, and I wasn’t too worried because I knew I had similar tests for both my donations and there were more than enough eggs then; it just wouldn’t have made sense that my supply would have depleted so drastically. The results basically confirmed that. My levels were 1.2, and anything above 1 is considered normal (hooray for good news!) It’s a range up to 3, so it’s not the greatest number possible, but at least it’s above normal. The RE wrote that she didn’t think there would be any issues retrieving eggs to freeze. This of course got me in a tizzy again, because it was basically like she was assuming that I had already made my decision, when of course I haven’t. I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but I just don’t like the idea of someone who doesn’t know me at all assuming they know what’s best for me, and I really don’t like the idea of this Dr. or her staff judging me if I choose differently than she thinks I should, especially since they are still going to be the ones getting me through these cycles no matter what I choose. I wrote her right back and asked her for the pregnancy success rates of egg freezing, embryo freezing, and fresh cycles. Her response was:
Those odds aren’t good. In fact they’re even less than what I had originally assumed. I knew egg freezing odds were low, but I didn’t realize that embryo freezing was so low too, and to be completely honest, I really thought fresh IVF cycles had higher success rates. I’m not even a little bit stoked on the 60% odds of that (and really, who would be? That’s my best option, and it’s just barely better than a coin toss), but I’m really not all that moved to bank on something with 30% odds. How can any doctor, in good conscience, encourage those odds? And how can she continue to act like that’s the only responsible choice for me to make? At the end of the day it’s all going to cost about the same (egg freezing is actually a bit more expensive), so I hate that the choice I’m “supposed” to make is the one with the worst odds. It’s kind of like saying “Well, something is obviously wrong with you since you don’t have a husband by now, so you should just be thankful with what little we can offer someone like you.” I feel like I'm supposed to show up with bank statements and background checks just to prove to her that I'm worth those 60% odds.
I need to wrap my head around some of this the next few days and then just make a decision. I can’t keep going back and forth. My vacation gave me a chance to ignore this all for a few days, but now it's time to face it. I need to just decide, and then start working on making that decision a reality.
What’s the best way to make an impossible choice?
When I walked in the door tonight my bed was cluttered with mail (mostly bills and Christmas cards), and there are now two bags that need to be unpacked, laundry that needs to be done, and groceries that need to be bought (I had half a PB&J for dinner because that’s all that I had in my cupboards)… Instead of doing any of this, I made an absurdly large bowl of popcorn, crawled into my bed that I have so dearly missed, and caught up on my DVR… I can handle the rest tomorrow, I am just so happy to be home and back to my quiet routine.
I’m lying here ready for bed far too early, and pondering another email I received yesterday. Seattle Reproductive Medicine got back to me with my AMH levels. The point of that test was to verify that I do still have eggs to retrieve. A previous test hadn’t looked great, but my RE was pretty sure that was because of all the hormones I was on, and I wasn’t too worried because I knew I had similar tests for both my donations and there were more than enough eggs then; it just wouldn’t have made sense that my supply would have depleted so drastically. The results basically confirmed that. My levels were 1.2, and anything above 1 is considered normal (hooray for good news!) It’s a range up to 3, so it’s not the greatest number possible, but at least it’s above normal. The RE wrote that she didn’t think there would be any issues retrieving eggs to freeze. This of course got me in a tizzy again, because it was basically like she was assuming that I had already made my decision, when of course I haven’t. I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but I just don’t like the idea of someone who doesn’t know me at all assuming they know what’s best for me, and I really don’t like the idea of this Dr. or her staff judging me if I choose differently than she thinks I should, especially since they are still going to be the ones getting me through these cycles no matter what I choose. I wrote her right back and asked her for the pregnancy success rates of egg freezing, embryo freezing, and fresh cycles. Her response was:
“I would estimate that pregnancy rates from egg freezing are about 30%, embryo freezing 40% and fresh 60%. Please keep in mind these are estimates only, based on the best of my knowledge!”
Those odds aren’t good. In fact they’re even less than what I had originally assumed. I knew egg freezing odds were low, but I didn’t realize that embryo freezing was so low too, and to be completely honest, I really thought fresh IVF cycles had higher success rates. I’m not even a little bit stoked on the 60% odds of that (and really, who would be? That’s my best option, and it’s just barely better than a coin toss), but I’m really not all that moved to bank on something with 30% odds. How can any doctor, in good conscience, encourage those odds? And how can she continue to act like that’s the only responsible choice for me to make? At the end of the day it’s all going to cost about the same (egg freezing is actually a bit more expensive), so I hate that the choice I’m “supposed” to make is the one with the worst odds. It’s kind of like saying “Well, something is obviously wrong with you since you don’t have a husband by now, so you should just be thankful with what little we can offer someone like you.” I feel like I'm supposed to show up with bank statements and background checks just to prove to her that I'm worth those 60% odds.
I need to wrap my head around some of this the next few days and then just make a decision. I can’t keep going back and forth. My vacation gave me a chance to ignore this all for a few days, but now it's time to face it. I need to just decide, and then start working on making that decision a reality.
What’s the best way to make an impossible choice?
December 22, 2009
Wanna Go Halvsies?
I received an email yesterday from the center I donated my eggs through. It said that the family I donated to in July of 2007 had given birth to twins (a boy and a girl) in 2008. They’re now looking to extend their family further and were wondering if I would be willing to donate to them again. I know that 14 eggs were originally retrieved, so I’m not sure if they have already used all the frozen eggs or are simply opting for the better odds of a fresh cycle, but I wouldn’t mind knowing; if only to have another perspective on the success rates of one option versus the other.
Regardless, this e-mail was a bit of an initial sting for a number of reasons. First of all, I felt the familiar pang of jealousy I have right now when faced with any woman blessed with children, but this pang was even worse because I helped create those babies. I can’t help but feel like I’m owed a baby of my own when I’m reminded that I helped give two to someone else. I have always said that I feel no claim on those children whatsoever (their mothers carried them, nurtured them with their bodies, gave birth to them, and are there every second of their lives now), but there is that reminder that on some level they are a part of me. I never thought I wouldn’t be able to make some of my own, and now that that’s a possibility it is hard to be faced head on with the fact that there are now children out there that might be just like the ones I could have had. Secondly, there is the tiniest part of me that blames my problems on my donations. I don’t regret donating, and I don’t think that I would take it back (I know now more than ever how much what I did meant to those women), but the timing of everything does make me feel that my endo was probably always an underlying condition, and that putting my body through that process (and those drugs) not once, but twice (and then not returning to the pill) is what amped the disease into high gear. Like I said, I still refuse to regret the decision to donate, but every time I'm reminded of how the decision I made back then has effected me now it's a bit of a kick in the butt. Finally, I actually would like to help this family. I truly understand now how difficult it is to not be able to do this on your own. I always felt for the women I helped, but I never really got how painful their journey was. Now this family has two babies with my DNA, and there is nothing in the world I would love to do more than help them complete the large family they (and I) have longed for. I do feel a connection to them, and I do want to help them, but obviously I can’t.
I waited 24 hours to respond to the woman, mostly because I wasn’t sure how to respond. I finally penned a characteristically long email detailing my plight of the last year and urging her to please pass this information (as well as my newly acquired knowledge of my mother’s and maternal grandmother’s hysterectomies due to endo) onto the families I donated to, so that they could begin early treatment for their daughters (i.e. the pill) once they entered puberty. I finally ended the email by saying that as much as I wish I could help, I’m simply not in the position to do so at this time. I told her that I’m looking into doing IVF or egg freezing myself here in the next year, and I need to be looking towards finding a way to make a family happen for myself now.
I thought a lot about the last sentence I wrote, but then for good measure I stated that I wouldn’t be opposed to going “halvsies” (yes, I used that non-word) with this family, if we could find a way to make a cycle equally beneficial for both of us (i.e. we each get half the eggs). There were so many legalities involved in both of my donations that I don’t think there is a lawyer or doctor in this world that would actually take that case on, but I figured “What the hell?” I really would like to help this family, and it’s not like I need 14 eggs for myself (hopefully); maybe there is a way to make it work? I obviously wouldn’t want to be paid in that situation, but it wouldn’t hurt to have someone splitting the costs of the procedure with me either (although, the cost of IVF doesn't worry me nearly as much as the cost of actually raising a child). Am I totally crazy? It probably doesn’t even matter, because like I said, I don’t think there is any way to make it work; it didn't hurt to ask though, right?
I've got to say, I wouldn’t mind seeing pictures of those twins. If I’m going to sink all that money into having a baby, I wouldn’t hate knowing that it at least has some adorable genetic siblings out there, thereby increasing the odds that it would be equally adorable!
Regardless, this e-mail was a bit of an initial sting for a number of reasons. First of all, I felt the familiar pang of jealousy I have right now when faced with any woman blessed with children, but this pang was even worse because I helped create those babies. I can’t help but feel like I’m owed a baby of my own when I’m reminded that I helped give two to someone else. I have always said that I feel no claim on those children whatsoever (their mothers carried them, nurtured them with their bodies, gave birth to them, and are there every second of their lives now), but there is that reminder that on some level they are a part of me. I never thought I wouldn’t be able to make some of my own, and now that that’s a possibility it is hard to be faced head on with the fact that there are now children out there that might be just like the ones I could have had. Secondly, there is the tiniest part of me that blames my problems on my donations. I don’t regret donating, and I don’t think that I would take it back (I know now more than ever how much what I did meant to those women), but the timing of everything does make me feel that my endo was probably always an underlying condition, and that putting my body through that process (and those drugs) not once, but twice (and then not returning to the pill) is what amped the disease into high gear. Like I said, I still refuse to regret the decision to donate, but every time I'm reminded of how the decision I made back then has effected me now it's a bit of a kick in the butt. Finally, I actually would like to help this family. I truly understand now how difficult it is to not be able to do this on your own. I always felt for the women I helped, but I never really got how painful their journey was. Now this family has two babies with my DNA, and there is nothing in the world I would love to do more than help them complete the large family they (and I) have longed for. I do feel a connection to them, and I do want to help them, but obviously I can’t.
I waited 24 hours to respond to the woman, mostly because I wasn’t sure how to respond. I finally penned a characteristically long email detailing my plight of the last year and urging her to please pass this information (as well as my newly acquired knowledge of my mother’s and maternal grandmother’s hysterectomies due to endo) onto the families I donated to, so that they could begin early treatment for their daughters (i.e. the pill) once they entered puberty. I finally ended the email by saying that as much as I wish I could help, I’m simply not in the position to do so at this time. I told her that I’m looking into doing IVF or egg freezing myself here in the next year, and I need to be looking towards finding a way to make a family happen for myself now.
I thought a lot about the last sentence I wrote, but then for good measure I stated that I wouldn’t be opposed to going “halvsies” (yes, I used that non-word) with this family, if we could find a way to make a cycle equally beneficial for both of us (i.e. we each get half the eggs). There were so many legalities involved in both of my donations that I don’t think there is a lawyer or doctor in this world that would actually take that case on, but I figured “What the hell?” I really would like to help this family, and it’s not like I need 14 eggs for myself (hopefully); maybe there is a way to make it work? I obviously wouldn’t want to be paid in that situation, but it wouldn’t hurt to have someone splitting the costs of the procedure with me either (although, the cost of IVF doesn't worry me nearly as much as the cost of actually raising a child). Am I totally crazy? It probably doesn’t even matter, because like I said, I don’t think there is any way to make it work; it didn't hurt to ask though, right?
I've got to say, I wouldn’t mind seeing pictures of those twins. If I’m going to sink all that money into having a baby, I wouldn’t hate knowing that it at least has some adorable genetic siblings out there, thereby increasing the odds that it would be equally adorable!
December 20, 2009
Happiness Is...
A photo list of all the things I love about San Diego that I cannot find anywhere in Alaska:
A 700 calorie White Chocolate Dream Ice Blended Coffee from Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf:
(Worth every calorie, thank you very much! Starbucks has nothing on you CBTL!)
A Raspberry Mojito Martini from JRDN:
A JRDN Cheese Plate to share with my Kris:
Nut Crusted Brie in Mango Salsa from World Famous:
(I have actually tried multiple times to replicate this recipe; it is an impossible task!)
The view I used to adore on my long runs on the boardwalk:
Fast Food worth eating (i.e. grilled cheese sandwiches and animal style fries!):
$19 pedicures:
(Seriously! So much more expensive in the AK, and so much less worth it when your toes are always covered up! I may or may not have spent this entire trip barefoot!)
Frozen Yogurt on every street corner:
(In this case from Yogurt Land; blueberry tart and toasted coconut with yogurt chips, brownie bites, and actual coconut… yum!)
My all time favorite bottle of wine (2006 LEAL Threesome… It’s a small vineyard, but if you are into wine at all you have to check them out, I love everything they make!) that I have even tried (to no avail) to get shipped to Alaska straight from the vineyard:
(This particular bottle is the best blend you will ever find, I swear! My heart officially belongs to a tall old friend and co-worker who scored me 3 bottles for a steal! Now I just have to get these bad boys back to the AK without them breaking in my bag!)
What an Acai bowl should look like:
(This company in the AK started making them and I got all excited, but as soon as I bought one I was disappointed. They pre-make them and then freeze them, so by the time you get it the granola is soggy and the bananas are brown. It’s pathetic.)
Vegetarian hot dogs from the hot dog stand where the man hooks me up with nacho cheese, shredded cheese and cream cheese:
(The best thing in the world to eat after a drunken night!)
Gringos Fajitas:
(I truly do miss good Mexican Food!)
And
Gringos Frida Rita (a pomegranate margarita):
(It gives me such heartburn, but I still love it so!)
Looking back on this list of things that I love and miss about San Diego, I realize that the vast majority relates to food. What can I say; I’m a fan of food! Plus, I feel like I’ve been deprived of so many of the edibles I loved down here since moving to the AK… But of course, what I love and miss the most about SD is my time with my girls. It has been so amazing to spend this time with them, and I am incredibly grateful for these wonderful women in my life.
The girls threw a house party last night (The Holiday Hoopla) and it was the perfect opportunity to see everyone and catch up. I drifted through the party with a glass of water in my hands (not wanting any repeats of Thursday night) and mingled with everyone. One question I kept hearing over and over again was “when are you moving back?” People here can’t believe that I could actually like my life in Alaska (which I understand; when it's 75 degrees in December and you are riding your bike down the beach, it's hard to fathom that anyone could ever be as happy somewhere cold and snowy!), and some of them have actually blamed my general change in attitude on my move as opposed to the last year I’ve had (and the fact that I may just be progressing beyond a need to drink to have fun… there was a lot of confusion last night over why I didn't have a drink [or multiple drinks] in my hand!)
It’s funny, because the last time I was here was a little less than a year ago and I left very sad and wondering why I had ever moved in the first place. I don’t feel that way this time though. There was a guy at the party last night (a very good looking guy who was just my type), and he and I were talking for a while. He’s a 27 year old camera man for MTV and films extreme sports. He was drunk, I was not. As the night progressed and his lines got less and less smooth (at one point he looked longingly at me and told me that I had the most beautiful eyes of any girl he had ever seen, and that he could tell by my eyes I was the girl he was supposed to settle down and have babies with… he actually proposed, more than once), I started to realize that had I been drinking I probably would have fallen for every word and we would have wound up at a hotel somewhere consummating our never-would-be marriage. As it was though, I was thinking to myself that while he was very cute, and he had very nice lips (and it felt great to have someone paying that kind of attention to me, especially since it’s been a while since I’ve actually consummated anything), he was also very drunk and I didn’t really have the patience to be taking care of him when I could be spending time with my girls instead. The next thing I knew, he was going home with our old neighbor!
And that’s PB for you. I remember dating here and loving it! There was always another option; always another flavor of the week (for the guys and the girls), but you had to be willing to jump on that flavor (literally) when you had the chance. I’m not in that place anymore. I want someone who is going to hold me and love me even when I don’t look my absolute best; someone who is going to look into my eyes and see something special for real. I don't really want to wake up next to a guy who doesn't remember my name; no matter how good looking he is (or how kissable his lips may be!) I don’t hold anything against this guy (or all the guys here like him), because that used to be my favorite game; I’ve just outgrown them. I didn't feel like playing "who can spread their legs the fastest" to win the best looking man in the room. I want someone (and something) that I don't think I would ever be able to find here.
I also sat and watched my friends last night, having a blast dancing around, laughing, and loving life until it was morning (and then donning their sports attire and heading out for a Sunday Funday). I remember when I could do that, and it seemed like all that life was worth living for. I looked at them last night and couldn’t help but feel a little jealous, because I do remember just loving that life. But, it’s not what I want anymore. I feel so much more driven to be as healthy as possible (to eat and drink right, get enough sleep and attempt to pull off those scheduled workouts) because I want my body to be as strong as it can be right now; because I want to have at least some control over my health and well being. I don’t want to be going to bed late, and I don’t want to be waking up with a hangover that I squelch with another drink. I don’t know when my mentality changed (because I seriously thought this trip was going to be all about me reverting to my old ways), but that’s not the life I want anymore. I really did have a blast this weekend (and I wouldn’t give these moments up for anything), but I feel like this last year has aged me. It’s made me look at the future sooner than I probably would have otherwise, and now I don’t want to be ignoring the present; I want to be trying to figure it out. I’m actually excited to get home to the remnants of the snow storm I left behind, and to see how much E.K. has changed in the last few days. I want to play with V and tell all my fun stories to Syrah, Loo, and Mrs. King. I'm just ready to be "home".
The truth is, I realized last night that San Diego isn’t always going to be the San Diego I remember either. It is only a matter of time before my friends start getting hit by the same revelations I’ve been slammed with (although, hopefully in less immediate and permanent ways), and they will start wanting other things too. They will fall in love, or have babies, or just decide they want to be closer to their families or new careers, and that will be it. San Diego (especially PB) has a way of prolonging the inevitable for a little longer than most places, but I wouldn’t be surprised if in just a few years most of these girls I love will be spread out across the country. San Diego won’t even be my San Diego eventually. As it is, nothing has changed but me, but I’m pretty positive that won’t be the case for long. So, why would I move back? I can’t go backwards in life, and I can’t cling to (and try to re-create) happy memories simply because I’ve hit a rough patch. I’ve got to move forward, and I’ve got to figure out how to get through this realistically and without a drink in my hand to guide me.
I’m off to Arizona tomorrow to spend a few days with the family. That’s always a tough one for me because Arizona is the home of so many bad memories, but maybe that will all feel different too. Who knows? Maybe my perspective has changed. Regardless, I am already excited to head back to my real home in Alaska and start working on the rest of my life! Thank you San Diego, for reminding me how to smile and getting my head back in the game! You will always have a little piece of my heart, and three years worth of the best memories in my head...
A 700 calorie White Chocolate Dream Ice Blended Coffee from Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf:
(Worth every calorie, thank you very much! Starbucks has nothing on you CBTL!)
A Raspberry Mojito Martini from JRDN:
A JRDN Cheese Plate to share with my Kris:
Nut Crusted Brie in Mango Salsa from World Famous:
(I have actually tried multiple times to replicate this recipe; it is an impossible task!)
The view I used to adore on my long runs on the boardwalk:
Fast Food worth eating (i.e. grilled cheese sandwiches and animal style fries!):
$19 pedicures:
(Seriously! So much more expensive in the AK, and so much less worth it when your toes are always covered up! I may or may not have spent this entire trip barefoot!)
Frozen Yogurt on every street corner:
(In this case from Yogurt Land; blueberry tart and toasted coconut with yogurt chips, brownie bites, and actual coconut… yum!)
My all time favorite bottle of wine (2006 LEAL Threesome… It’s a small vineyard, but if you are into wine at all you have to check them out, I love everything they make!) that I have even tried (to no avail) to get shipped to Alaska straight from the vineyard:
(This particular bottle is the best blend you will ever find, I swear! My heart officially belongs to a tall old friend and co-worker who scored me 3 bottles for a steal! Now I just have to get these bad boys back to the AK without them breaking in my bag!)
What an Acai bowl should look like:
(This company in the AK started making them and I got all excited, but as soon as I bought one I was disappointed. They pre-make them and then freeze them, so by the time you get it the granola is soggy and the bananas are brown. It’s pathetic.)
Vegetarian hot dogs from the hot dog stand where the man hooks me up with nacho cheese, shredded cheese and cream cheese:
(The best thing in the world to eat after a drunken night!)
Gringos Fajitas:
(I truly do miss good Mexican Food!)
And
Gringos Frida Rita (a pomegranate margarita):
(It gives me such heartburn, but I still love it so!)
Looking back on this list of things that I love and miss about San Diego, I realize that the vast majority relates to food. What can I say; I’m a fan of food! Plus, I feel like I’ve been deprived of so many of the edibles I loved down here since moving to the AK… But of course, what I love and miss the most about SD is my time with my girls. It has been so amazing to spend this time with them, and I am incredibly grateful for these wonderful women in my life.
The girls threw a house party last night (The Holiday Hoopla) and it was the perfect opportunity to see everyone and catch up. I drifted through the party with a glass of water in my hands (not wanting any repeats of Thursday night) and mingled with everyone. One question I kept hearing over and over again was “when are you moving back?” People here can’t believe that I could actually like my life in Alaska (which I understand; when it's 75 degrees in December and you are riding your bike down the beach, it's hard to fathom that anyone could ever be as happy somewhere cold and snowy!), and some of them have actually blamed my general change in attitude on my move as opposed to the last year I’ve had (and the fact that I may just be progressing beyond a need to drink to have fun… there was a lot of confusion last night over why I didn't have a drink [or multiple drinks] in my hand!)
It’s funny, because the last time I was here was a little less than a year ago and I left very sad and wondering why I had ever moved in the first place. I don’t feel that way this time though. There was a guy at the party last night (a very good looking guy who was just my type), and he and I were talking for a while. He’s a 27 year old camera man for MTV and films extreme sports. He was drunk, I was not. As the night progressed and his lines got less and less smooth (at one point he looked longingly at me and told me that I had the most beautiful eyes of any girl he had ever seen, and that he could tell by my eyes I was the girl he was supposed to settle down and have babies with… he actually proposed, more than once), I started to realize that had I been drinking I probably would have fallen for every word and we would have wound up at a hotel somewhere consummating our never-would-be marriage. As it was though, I was thinking to myself that while he was very cute, and he had very nice lips (and it felt great to have someone paying that kind of attention to me, especially since it’s been a while since I’ve actually consummated anything), he was also very drunk and I didn’t really have the patience to be taking care of him when I could be spending time with my girls instead. The next thing I knew, he was going home with our old neighbor!
And that’s PB for you. I remember dating here and loving it! There was always another option; always another flavor of the week (for the guys and the girls), but you had to be willing to jump on that flavor (literally) when you had the chance. I’m not in that place anymore. I want someone who is going to hold me and love me even when I don’t look my absolute best; someone who is going to look into my eyes and see something special for real. I don't really want to wake up next to a guy who doesn't remember my name; no matter how good looking he is (or how kissable his lips may be!) I don’t hold anything against this guy (or all the guys here like him), because that used to be my favorite game; I’ve just outgrown them. I didn't feel like playing "who can spread their legs the fastest" to win the best looking man in the room. I want someone (and something) that I don't think I would ever be able to find here.
I also sat and watched my friends last night, having a blast dancing around, laughing, and loving life until it was morning (and then donning their sports attire and heading out for a Sunday Funday). I remember when I could do that, and it seemed like all that life was worth living for. I looked at them last night and couldn’t help but feel a little jealous, because I do remember just loving that life. But, it’s not what I want anymore. I feel so much more driven to be as healthy as possible (to eat and drink right, get enough sleep and attempt to pull off those scheduled workouts) because I want my body to be as strong as it can be right now; because I want to have at least some control over my health and well being. I don’t want to be going to bed late, and I don’t want to be waking up with a hangover that I squelch with another drink. I don’t know when my mentality changed (because I seriously thought this trip was going to be all about me reverting to my old ways), but that’s not the life I want anymore. I really did have a blast this weekend (and I wouldn’t give these moments up for anything), but I feel like this last year has aged me. It’s made me look at the future sooner than I probably would have otherwise, and now I don’t want to be ignoring the present; I want to be trying to figure it out. I’m actually excited to get home to the remnants of the snow storm I left behind, and to see how much E.K. has changed in the last few days. I want to play with V and tell all my fun stories to Syrah, Loo, and Mrs. King. I'm just ready to be "home".
The truth is, I realized last night that San Diego isn’t always going to be the San Diego I remember either. It is only a matter of time before my friends start getting hit by the same revelations I’ve been slammed with (although, hopefully in less immediate and permanent ways), and they will start wanting other things too. They will fall in love, or have babies, or just decide they want to be closer to their families or new careers, and that will be it. San Diego (especially PB) has a way of prolonging the inevitable for a little longer than most places, but I wouldn’t be surprised if in just a few years most of these girls I love will be spread out across the country. San Diego won’t even be my San Diego eventually. As it is, nothing has changed but me, but I’m pretty positive that won’t be the case for long. So, why would I move back? I can’t go backwards in life, and I can’t cling to (and try to re-create) happy memories simply because I’ve hit a rough patch. I’ve got to move forward, and I’ve got to figure out how to get through this realistically and without a drink in my hand to guide me.
I’m off to Arizona tomorrow to spend a few days with the family. That’s always a tough one for me because Arizona is the home of so many bad memories, but maybe that will all feel different too. Who knows? Maybe my perspective has changed. Regardless, I am already excited to head back to my real home in Alaska and start working on the rest of my life! Thank you San Diego, for reminding me how to smile and getting my head back in the game! You will always have a little piece of my heart, and three years worth of the best memories in my head...
December 19, 2009
Dream Analysis 101
So I had this dream last night, or a nightmare really. In it I was here (the one place in the world where I feel the safest and most loved), but I was all alone. I was asleep at first in my dream, when this thing opened the door and came to get me. You should know that one of my biggest fears throughout my entire adult life has been home invasion. I don’t know where this fear stems from, but I have lost a lot of sleep worrying about being attacked in the night. The weird thing was, in this dream the monster coming to get me wasn’t just one person, it was a combination of every person and thing that has ever hurt me in my entire life. I could literally recognize pieces of my mom, and my stepmom. There were remnants of friends who have betrayed me, and men who have let me down. The dog that attacked me when I was 8 was there in the face, but the most overwhelming presence there (the one person responsible for causing the most hurt and damage to me) was myself. This beast was large, and scary, and I was all alone. I woke up in a cold sweat, too scared to fight it off on my own. I couldn’t go back to sleep for over an hour.
Dreams are fun, huh?
Dreams are fun, huh?
December 18, 2009
Brokedown Beach House
I made it to SD (after what can only be classified as one of the worst flight experiences I have ever had), 6 hours later than I was originally supposed to land, but here nonetheless. I had been planning on taking a nap (I flew the red eye and I’ve never been able to sleep on planes), but when I got in town in the afternoon instead of in the morning, I didn’t want to waste any more of my preciously short time here. I got myself a coffee and decided to power through.
Thursday night was my night with one of my all time favorite girls. Kris was working the rest of my weekend here, so I had promised to dedicate this one night to her. She is one of the most fashionable, perfectly put together women I know, so I did my best to try and keep up. I put on a party dress and heels (circa sweet 16), and got myself dolled up for the first time in months (which I think I needed more than I knew… there is something to be said for reminding yourself that you can look good when you try). She showed up and of course looked fabulous in booty shorts, leggings, a white top, a leather jacket and the hottest boots I have ever seen (a look I could never in a million years have pulled off, but that was absolute perfection on her… bitch!) I immediately felt silly next to her, but I always do and I love the girl so much that I refuse to care! We really are quite the pair. I am tall (5’7”) and curvy (but in a way that I love and am proud of), and Kris is small (maybe 5’) and petite (with the exception of her new additions up top that almost rival mine!) I always joke that when we are in pictures together it looks like I’m the gentle giant about ready to eat her!
We went to my favorite restaurant in town (JRDN in the T23 hotel), had the raspberry mojito martinis I adore (there is nothing comparable in the AK), and ordered the cheese plate I crave while we caught up. I then had a glass of my favorite wine (that I can only find at that restaurant) and we went to a show at The Comedy Store. We walked in and were of course seated right in the front (both of us had the twins out and on display; we were prime comedy material), and we were the butt of quite a few jokes and come-ons! That’s half the fun though, right? Half-way through we decided to play the Lesbian card and that produced a whole new slew of jokes (the best looking comedian there [by far] made sure to let us know how fond he was of our work… I almost wanted to take it back!) I had 2 drinks there (a Baileys and Coffee and a Bacardi and Diet) officially making it the most I’ve had to drink in at least 5 months, all in one night! I was still feeling pretty OK though.
Once the show was over we went to my old bar, and that’s when things started to go downhill. Fast forward at least 6 shots of tequila later (my drink of choice back in the day), and I had some poor 24 year old marine following me around like a sad puppy dog (my big pick up line as this guy started to get too forward was “I’m infertile and need to have a baby soon, and I’m not going to hook up with you tonight, so you probably shouldn’t waste your time”… classy, I know. The weird thing is, it didn’t detour him… at all. What is wrong with boys?), but, he was good-looking and tall, so I let him chase me. The other problem was that Kris and I had been going shot for shot, and even though she drinks much more often than me now, I also have at least 50 pounds on her, so she was drunk… really drunk… angry drunk. At the point when one of my old bouncers came and told me it was time to find a ride home for her I called her boyfriend (who is easily one of my favorite guys that any of my friends have. He is such a good guy, and the perfect complement to my spunky little Kris) and got her taken care of. For some inexplicable reason I decided to go back in though, by myself. This was an especially odd choice given the fact that I had fallen walking Kris out… hard. Heels and booze don’t mix for me, and I was bloody and cut everywhere, but especially my knee:
You have to understand, I spent so much time in this bar (working and drinking) over the years that it used to feel like home. I think I wanted to feel like that again; to feel like this was where I belonged. But without Kris by my side I was left to look around at all these young, perfect girls dressed in all the hippest trends and drinking their asses off like this was all they wanted out of life; I suddenly felt extremely stupid in my party dress with my drink in my hand and a young boy following me around like I was the coolest person he had ever met. I wasn’t feeling very cool. I was feeling like a grown up with too many problems on her plate to be getting drunk in a bar like she was 21 again. So, I logically ordered more shots. Eventually I started to feel like crying, at my bar. The place was packed, and even though I have friends there who love me, they were busy and working and this was not the place or the time. I left before I could make an even bigger ass of myself.
As I was walking out though, the booze and the emotions and the reminder that this wasn’t where I belonged anymore all hit me, and I really couldn’t hold back the tears. One of my old bouncers caught me (to make sure I was OK) and I couldn’t even really explain what was wrong. I just kept walking. Then I heard the marine following me, and calling out my name (only he was pronouncing it all wrong) and I turned around with tears in my eyes (and embarrassed over the indignity of yet another stranger seeing me cry) and yelled at him “That’s not my name! You’re saying it wrong! Leave me alone, I already told you you’re not getting any!” He stopped following me after that… Poor guy, he probably really was just trying to be nice!
I cried the entire 6 blocks “home” (because it’s hard not to think of that house on Thomas Street as my home after all the happy memories I had there with my girls), and when I walked in the front door Al was there to hold me and let me cry. So, that’s what I did. I cried in her lap for a good hour, just sobbing so hard I couldn’t stop. It was probably something I really needed (I haven’t cried like that with someone who loves me at all yet, and it was nice to have her there just letting me fall apart as much as I needed to), but in retrospect the booze had me being all kinds of over-dramatic, so I think I scared my poor old friend into thinking I was truly loosing it over this. I’m not, really; it was just that I am already over emotional, and the combination of booze and Lupron was probably not my best idea ever. And, I really did want to come here and just feel better, but this isn’t my “home” anymore, and that world I tried to blend into last night isn’t my world anymore. That realization was a bigger kick in the ass than I would have expected, but it’s the reason I left here over a year and a half ago, so I don’t know why I was so surprised to find that being drunk in a bar wasn’t what I needed to feel better. That’s just not my life anymore; even more than that, I don’t want it to be.
I woke up this morning to find this on the floor next to the couch I passed out crying on:
Does that look like the scene of a drunken breakdown, or what?!? Scattered beads of a shattered bracelet: check. Tossed aside clothing in a fit of rage over a night that did not turn out how a party dress night should: check. The unintentional forfeit of most of my dignity: double check. I was clothed on the couch only because Al dug my pajamas out of my bag and forced me to get dressed. I have good friends. I have friends who love me. I really am so lucky for these ladies in my life. Especially because they all realized that drinking wasn’t what I needed either, so here we are, on a Friday night in PB; sitting on the couch, watching stupid TV, and eating yogurt from Yogurt Land (why has this fad not hit Alaska? I have coconut and blueberry tart yogurt combined with yogurt chips, brownie bites, and actual toasted coconut… it is heaven, and much better than a shot of tequila!) We may even walk to my favorite hot dog stand (the scene of many a drunken night once upon a time) later and get the veggie dogs with cream cheese, shredded cheese, and nacho cheese that I love (yes, I know it sounds disgusting, but I swear it is the best thing ever!) Tomorrow we are making Christmas cookies, and I am putting together a big cheese platter for the Holiday Hoopla house party the girls are putting on (the party I plan on staying 100% sober for!) This may not be my life anymore, but these girls are my heart, and I am exactly where I want to be in this moment… I'll have plenty of time to get back to my new home and figure out how to make this life work for me in just a few days.
Thursday night was my night with one of my all time favorite girls. Kris was working the rest of my weekend here, so I had promised to dedicate this one night to her. She is one of the most fashionable, perfectly put together women I know, so I did my best to try and keep up. I put on a party dress and heels (circa sweet 16), and got myself dolled up for the first time in months (which I think I needed more than I knew… there is something to be said for reminding yourself that you can look good when you try). She showed up and of course looked fabulous in booty shorts, leggings, a white top, a leather jacket and the hottest boots I have ever seen (a look I could never in a million years have pulled off, but that was absolute perfection on her… bitch!) I immediately felt silly next to her, but I always do and I love the girl so much that I refuse to care! We really are quite the pair. I am tall (5’7”) and curvy (but in a way that I love and am proud of), and Kris is small (maybe 5’) and petite (with the exception of her new additions up top that almost rival mine!) I always joke that when we are in pictures together it looks like I’m the gentle giant about ready to eat her!
We went to my favorite restaurant in town (JRDN in the T23 hotel), had the raspberry mojito martinis I adore (there is nothing comparable in the AK), and ordered the cheese plate I crave while we caught up. I then had a glass of my favorite wine (that I can only find at that restaurant) and we went to a show at The Comedy Store. We walked in and were of course seated right in the front (both of us had the twins out and on display; we were prime comedy material), and we were the butt of quite a few jokes and come-ons! That’s half the fun though, right? Half-way through we decided to play the Lesbian card and that produced a whole new slew of jokes (the best looking comedian there [by far] made sure to let us know how fond he was of our work… I almost wanted to take it back!) I had 2 drinks there (a Baileys and Coffee and a Bacardi and Diet) officially making it the most I’ve had to drink in at least 5 months, all in one night! I was still feeling pretty OK though.
Once the show was over we went to my old bar, and that’s when things started to go downhill. Fast forward at least 6 shots of tequila later (my drink of choice back in the day), and I had some poor 24 year old marine following me around like a sad puppy dog (my big pick up line as this guy started to get too forward was “I’m infertile and need to have a baby soon, and I’m not going to hook up with you tonight, so you probably shouldn’t waste your time”… classy, I know. The weird thing is, it didn’t detour him… at all. What is wrong with boys?), but, he was good-looking and tall, so I let him chase me. The other problem was that Kris and I had been going shot for shot, and even though she drinks much more often than me now, I also have at least 50 pounds on her, so she was drunk… really drunk… angry drunk. At the point when one of my old bouncers came and told me it was time to find a ride home for her I called her boyfriend (who is easily one of my favorite guys that any of my friends have. He is such a good guy, and the perfect complement to my spunky little Kris) and got her taken care of. For some inexplicable reason I decided to go back in though, by myself. This was an especially odd choice given the fact that I had fallen walking Kris out… hard. Heels and booze don’t mix for me, and I was bloody and cut everywhere, but especially my knee:
You have to understand, I spent so much time in this bar (working and drinking) over the years that it used to feel like home. I think I wanted to feel like that again; to feel like this was where I belonged. But without Kris by my side I was left to look around at all these young, perfect girls dressed in all the hippest trends and drinking their asses off like this was all they wanted out of life; I suddenly felt extremely stupid in my party dress with my drink in my hand and a young boy following me around like I was the coolest person he had ever met. I wasn’t feeling very cool. I was feeling like a grown up with too many problems on her plate to be getting drunk in a bar like she was 21 again. So, I logically ordered more shots. Eventually I started to feel like crying, at my bar. The place was packed, and even though I have friends there who love me, they were busy and working and this was not the place or the time. I left before I could make an even bigger ass of myself.
As I was walking out though, the booze and the emotions and the reminder that this wasn’t where I belonged anymore all hit me, and I really couldn’t hold back the tears. One of my old bouncers caught me (to make sure I was OK) and I couldn’t even really explain what was wrong. I just kept walking. Then I heard the marine following me, and calling out my name (only he was pronouncing it all wrong) and I turned around with tears in my eyes (and embarrassed over the indignity of yet another stranger seeing me cry) and yelled at him “That’s not my name! You’re saying it wrong! Leave me alone, I already told you you’re not getting any!” He stopped following me after that… Poor guy, he probably really was just trying to be nice!
I cried the entire 6 blocks “home” (because it’s hard not to think of that house on Thomas Street as my home after all the happy memories I had there with my girls), and when I walked in the front door Al was there to hold me and let me cry. So, that’s what I did. I cried in her lap for a good hour, just sobbing so hard I couldn’t stop. It was probably something I really needed (I haven’t cried like that with someone who loves me at all yet, and it was nice to have her there just letting me fall apart as much as I needed to), but in retrospect the booze had me being all kinds of over-dramatic, so I think I scared my poor old friend into thinking I was truly loosing it over this. I’m not, really; it was just that I am already over emotional, and the combination of booze and Lupron was probably not my best idea ever. And, I really did want to come here and just feel better, but this isn’t my “home” anymore, and that world I tried to blend into last night isn’t my world anymore. That realization was a bigger kick in the ass than I would have expected, but it’s the reason I left here over a year and a half ago, so I don’t know why I was so surprised to find that being drunk in a bar wasn’t what I needed to feel better. That’s just not my life anymore; even more than that, I don’t want it to be.
I woke up this morning to find this on the floor next to the couch I passed out crying on:
Does that look like the scene of a drunken breakdown, or what?!? Scattered beads of a shattered bracelet: check. Tossed aside clothing in a fit of rage over a night that did not turn out how a party dress night should: check. The unintentional forfeit of most of my dignity: double check. I was clothed on the couch only because Al dug my pajamas out of my bag and forced me to get dressed. I have good friends. I have friends who love me. I really am so lucky for these ladies in my life. Especially because they all realized that drinking wasn’t what I needed either, so here we are, on a Friday night in PB; sitting on the couch, watching stupid TV, and eating yogurt from Yogurt Land (why has this fad not hit Alaska? I have coconut and blueberry tart yogurt combined with yogurt chips, brownie bites, and actual toasted coconut… it is heaven, and much better than a shot of tequila!) We may even walk to my favorite hot dog stand (the scene of many a drunken night once upon a time) later and get the veggie dogs with cream cheese, shredded cheese, and nacho cheese that I love (yes, I know it sounds disgusting, but I swear it is the best thing ever!) Tomorrow we are making Christmas cookies, and I am putting together a big cheese platter for the Holiday Hoopla house party the girls are putting on (the party I plan on staying 100% sober for!) This may not be my life anymore, but these girls are my heart, and I am exactly where I want to be in this moment… I'll have plenty of time to get back to my new home and figure out how to make this life work for me in just a few days.
December 16, 2009
Life Is Hard...
but you are harder!
My favorite Armenian said that to me recently, and it was exactly what I needed to hear at the exact right moment… Now I get to see her (and all of my other girls) in just a little over 12 hours and I cannot wait! A few weeks ago (the night I brought home all of my medical records and sifted through every last page of the depressing coverage of my insides) I got on Facebook in an attempt to distract myself from the pictures of my battered ovaries. That's when I saw my old roommates were throwing a party this weekend, and I impulsively booked a ticket. I had been trying to get to San Diego for months (it’s one place where I always leave feeling better, no matter what), but I kept looking at the last minute and just couldn’t afford the tickets. Two weeks wasn’t the best advanced notice either, but I booked the ticket anyway (using all 55,000 of my airline miles), and now I am going to go and let loose for the first time in too long!
This is exactly what I need to clear my head right now: Sunshine, beach, food from my favorite restaurants, warmth, and the time to laugh and catch up with some of my very best friends! I am ready for a little rest and relaxation (and just the slightest amount of partying) with the girls in my life who always know how to make me smile and the men in my life who never really meant much of anything, but who don’t look so bad naked (yes, I may let an old fling or two buy me some drinks and remind me how fabulous I am!) I have every intention of spending this weekend letting go of all the stress I’ve been holding on to and acting like the single, childless (sexy and fascinating) woman I really am. Once I’ve let myself smile and relax, I’ll be ready to come home and figure out how to rectify at least the childless part of that situation... hopefully I'll be ready to make some decisions. In the meantime though:
My favorite Armenian said that to me recently, and it was exactly what I needed to hear at the exact right moment… Now I get to see her (and all of my other girls) in just a little over 12 hours and I cannot wait! A few weeks ago (the night I brought home all of my medical records and sifted through every last page of the depressing coverage of my insides) I got on Facebook in an attempt to distract myself from the pictures of my battered ovaries. That's when I saw my old roommates were throwing a party this weekend, and I impulsively booked a ticket. I had been trying to get to San Diego for months (it’s one place where I always leave feeling better, no matter what), but I kept looking at the last minute and just couldn’t afford the tickets. Two weeks wasn’t the best advanced notice either, but I booked the ticket anyway (using all 55,000 of my airline miles), and now I am going to go and let loose for the first time in too long!
This is exactly what I need to clear my head right now: Sunshine, beach, food from my favorite restaurants, warmth, and the time to laugh and catch up with some of my very best friends! I am ready for a little rest and relaxation (and just the slightest amount of partying) with the girls in my life who always know how to make me smile and the men in my life who never really meant much of anything, but who don’t look so bad naked (yes, I may let an old fling or two buy me some drinks and remind me how fabulous I am!) I have every intention of spending this weekend letting go of all the stress I’ve been holding on to and acting like the single, childless (sexy and fascinating) woman I really am. Once I’ve let myself smile and relax, I’ll be ready to come home and figure out how to rectify at least the childless part of that situation... hopefully I'll be ready to make some decisions. In the meantime though:
December 15, 2009
Good Enough
Painting has been an ongoing project since I bought and moved into my home (which was a big deal in and of itself. This place is mine, just mine. I love that. It feels safe and right and makes me feel like such a grown-up). First, there was the overall paint job, which a friends brother actually helped me with in such a huge way (I may or may not have provided the underage youth with a few cases of beer in exchange for his efforts, but I’m not owning up to anything!) but then came the edging. I am bad at edging. I am very bad at edging. I don’t care what tools or techniques you have to offer up, I can’t do it.
I have tried. Since last May I have painted and repainted in a constant effort to find perfection. Unfortunately, this is one arena where my perfectionism is in direct confrontation with my complete and utter inability to accomplish the task at hand well. I am lacking the patience required to go slow. I don’t move that slow; I like to be consistently plowing forward. I’m great at home projects when they keep me learning, working, and thinking about the next step (I loved teaching myself how to re-do all my lighting), but painting is just the same tedious move over and over again. There is something to be said for how calming painting can be to me (it’s possible I may need a little repetition to focus on from time to time to keep my mind off the less stable facets of my life), but the adverse effect occurs when my perfectionism gets in the way of my horrific painting skills and I get frustrated.
Well, I am here to tell you: I am officially throwing in the paintbrush. After about 20 different layers on the edging (in every color, in every room) I am calling a truce with my walls and giving up. This paint job is as good as it is going to get. The ex used to make fun of my truly awful edges (it really did look like something a 3rd grader had done at one point there), and maybe that’s what motivated me to keep trying. He’s not going to be checking up on the work now though, so I am retiring as a painter. I’m tempted to throw away the paint so that I don’t wind up convincing myself in the middle of the night some night to touch up “just that one spot”, but no. I’m simply going to put it down in the garage and forget about it. For once in my life I am going to have to be OK with “good enough”, because this isn’t getting any better unless I find myself a baby daddy who also works as a professional painter!
Speaking of the ex, I saw him today. He pulled up next to me at a light when I was on my way to work. I knew it was his truck, but it was dark and I was just hoping he hadn’t noticed me. No such luck though. When I looked over he was grinning and staring and waving. For reasons I cannot even explain, the simple fact of him acknowledging me and waving pushed me so over the edge that I flipped him off. Even as I was driving away, I kept trying to figure out why I had done that. You have to understand that I am not that girl. I can almost always pretend like I don’t give a shit, even when I really really do. I immediately texted his sister and told her that I had officially lost my ability to interact as a normal human being. I was ashamed of myself, but not ashamed enough to apologize to him.
As I was driving away from the scene of the bird flip, this song came on:
It gets easier, right? I’ve been let down plenty in my life, but not ever by someone I made the conscious decision to let in. I’ve never really had my heart broken by a boy, it kind of blows…
I have tried. Since last May I have painted and repainted in a constant effort to find perfection. Unfortunately, this is one arena where my perfectionism is in direct confrontation with my complete and utter inability to accomplish the task at hand well. I am lacking the patience required to go slow. I don’t move that slow; I like to be consistently plowing forward. I’m great at home projects when they keep me learning, working, and thinking about the next step (I loved teaching myself how to re-do all my lighting), but painting is just the same tedious move over and over again. There is something to be said for how calming painting can be to me (it’s possible I may need a little repetition to focus on from time to time to keep my mind off the less stable facets of my life), but the adverse effect occurs when my perfectionism gets in the way of my horrific painting skills and I get frustrated.
Speaking of the ex, I saw him today. He pulled up next to me at a light when I was on my way to work. I knew it was his truck, but it was dark and I was just hoping he hadn’t noticed me. No such luck though. When I looked over he was grinning and staring and waving. For reasons I cannot even explain, the simple fact of him acknowledging me and waving pushed me so over the edge that I flipped him off. Even as I was driving away, I kept trying to figure out why I had done that. You have to understand that I am not that girl. I can almost always pretend like I don’t give a shit, even when I really really do. I immediately texted his sister and told her that I had officially lost my ability to interact as a normal human being. I was ashamed of myself, but not ashamed enough to apologize to him.
As I was driving away from the scene of the bird flip, this song came on:
Slipknot isn’t usually my go-to band, but this is why I love music so much. There is a song for every occasion, feeling, and moment in life; no matter what. I was driving away (irritated with myself for being so irritated by his mere presence) and this is what comes on. It was the exact right time because in that moment it was exactly how I felt about him (so hurt and angry and sad all at once). In actuality (the rest of the time beyond that moment), I don’t know how I feel. I cared about this guy a lot; I would have thought we would have always at least been able to find a way to be friends. It’s hard to see him though. It’s hard to pretend like he didn’t completely and totally break my heart. This is the guy I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with; the guy I thought I was going to have a family with (long before I knew that I may not be able to have a family at all, which just makes it that much harder now when the pressure is on). I don’t actually want him to disappear, but he’s the one who decided he couldn’t be anything to me. He completely blew me off when I needed him, so I wouldn’t mind it if I didn’t see him for like 2 years, and if by that time I was happy, and had a baby, and had flat-out forgotten his name! That’s what I get for moving to a small ass town though, where everyone knows (and talks shit about) everyone else, and without fail you will always run into the one person you want to see the least. Somebody want to remind me what I was thinking when I did that?
December 14, 2009
This Drug is a Bitch (and apparently now, so am I)
I’ve read a lot about Lupron. The side effects are well noted, and there are many women who call it "poison" and beg other women not to even try it. It’s been shown to cause bone density loss, and for that reason you can only even be on it for one year. For me, it was this or a looming hysterectomy; it was the only thing my Dr. thought could buy me more time. So as far as I was concerned, there wasn't even really a choice. I will gladly take the Lupron (and recommend it to other women in my position) if it buys me more time to make those difficult decisions. The truth is, as much as the side effects suck, I’m still able to function normally, whereas in comparison; there were entire days when the gnawing and unrelenting pain of endo completely knocked me on my ass and I wasn’t able to do anything. The continuous emergency room visits were embarrassing, and I felt like everyone around me must think I'm a hypochondriac. I can cope on the Lupron though, and I personally think I handle it pretty well. I am more than capable of laughing off the side effects, because there is something amusing about a 26 year old woman in Alaska suffering from hot flashes in the middle of December. Still though, I’m starting to wonder how this drug is going to effect my potential for actually finding a baby-daddy!
The nausea was the first thing to hit. I was told that I would have about a week before I started having side effects (because the shot itself is supposed to last for 3 months), but the day after my first shot I was sitting at my desk eating strawberries when all of a sudden I had a wave of nausea just wash over me and I was retching in my trash can (always a confidence booster at work!) As soon as it passed I sat there staring at my desk for a minute (trying to ascertain whether or not anyone had heard my lovely display), when I noticed the overly sugared and iced brownie that I had bought the day prior. Suddenly I was starving, and I ate the entire thing right then and there (and it was not a small brownie) and held it down just fine. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. It’s gotten better, but it is still there, and it sneaks up on me out of nowhere. Certain smells (or sights) just set me off. We had board meetings a few weeks ago and some genius ordered sushi for everyone. I sat through all those meetings working extremely hard not to look at the sushi, because the sight of it was all I needed to be pushed over the edge. Another fun one is my boss’s cologne. It is horrendous. It has always been horrendous. Now though, I can’t be in the same room with him without feeling like I’m going to lose my last meal. How exactly am I supposed to bring that up? Then today our maintenance guy thought it would be really funny to show me the dead shrew he had just caught in a trap. I literally was losing my breakfast at my desk within seconds... I don't think he'll do that again. Usually I feel fine as soon as I vomit though, so I almost prefer those moments to the times when the nausea just lingers... I’m eating so much less right now, and then even when I feel better I just can't bring myself to go all out because I’m afraid of anything that may upset my stomach (but don't kid yourself into thinking I'm losing weight, the Lupron helps me keep that on too!) I’ve pretty much completely given up on drinking because I can’t even fathom surviving a hangover right now.
Then there are the hot flashes, which are particularly special and come out of nowhere. I leave the house every day bundled up for the brisk winter weather, and before I know it I can feel the heat start in my cheeks and then run down the back of my neck. I am tearing off layers and sweating, and people are looking at me like I’ve lost it. Then a few minutes pass and I’m freezing, because I’ve now sweat through my clothes and am drenched. By that point the hot flash has passed and my soaking wet body is turning into an icicle. The night sweats are fun too. I go to bed cold, and then I wake up in sheets that are completely saturated. My poor roommate walks around the house all bundled up because I’ve turned the heat down to 61 degrees (no joke), and I still find myself sweating. Why would any man want to sleep next to me right now?
Another one is the fact that I’m tired all the time; I honestly feel like I can’t get enough sleep. My energy level is completely pathetic, and I feel like such a loser because I never want to do anything anymore. This last Saturday I went to bed at 9pm (I am 26 years old, that is simply unacceptable), and then slept in until 10am Sunday morning. I don’t even know how I did it, but then I was ready for bed again by 9 Sunday night. I’m going to San Diego this week to catch up with my favorite girls, and I am terrified my friends aren't going to love me anymore because I simply cannot imagine keeping up with them! I've become a little old lady who sits around complaining about how tired she is and how sick she feels. I never used to be like that! I used to be fun, I swear!
One of the things I was most excited about when I started Lupron was that I stopped bleeding. I had been spotting for months, and it was really putting a damper on any potential sex life I saw for myself (there is something that makes you feel just that much more un-fresh when you are constantly bleeding!), but, after a few days of being all-clear, I started spotting again. It hasn’t stopped since. It’s not bad, or heavy, but it’s just always there. I know I saw a movie once upon a time (South Park?) where one of the characters said "never trust anything that bleeds for a week and doesn't die". Well what about something that bleeds for 5 straight months? This is getting ridiculous now, never has there been a better STD repellant than how un-sexy a steady stream of blood can make you feel!
But it's my irritability that has caught me the most off guard. I’ve always been a little high-strung and prone to panic, but I’ve also always been pretty patient with the people in my life. Lately though, I feel like I am on edge all the time. I just don't feel like myself, and I feel guilty because I know I haven’t been the easiest person to be around. There are people in my life who I really do love, but who I can't even talk to right now because I don't have the patience to deal with them, and everything they say seems to irritate me. What is that? I know I’m being unreasonable, but it's almost like I just can't help it. I am on edge... all of the time, just waiting for someone to say the wrong thing.
As a result of my new-found irritability, I’ve caught myself resisting the urge to use the C-word (c-u-n-t), which was never before a common utterance in my vernacular (although, I did see The Vagina Monologues years ago, and they had an entire monologue devoted to reclaiming ownership of the word; since then I’m less opposed to it than I was before) but suddenly everyone is a Cunt. In my defense, I haven’t actually outright called anyone that, but I think it. I think it a lot. I've been thinking it in daggers towards a certain person who I’m consistently annoyed with having to deal with (so much so that I'm sure she can feel it) "Cunt Cunt Cunt!" Sometimes I even add it to songs and sing it in my head. It's quite possible that it has become my new favorite word, and yet I still haven't dared to speak it out loud in anyone's presence. Sometimes I think it so hard though, that I'm surprised it hasn't actually popped out. Think about it. If you were really pissed off (and let's face facts, lately I've been pretty pissed), how great would it feel to scream that word at the top of your lungs? And how much greater would it feel to direct it towards someone who really deserves it?
The thing is, I never used to be an angry, aggressive person (OK, I can hold a grudge, but I am also capable of just killing people with kindness, or using my silence as the best possible weapon), but lately I feel like I am ready to explode. I feel like I have no control over my emotions, and every little thing makes me feel like boiling over. There are people in my life who I know are not good people, but who I have to deal with at fairly regular intervals, because that’s just life. I’ve always prided myself on being able to handle these people with grace, and not even kind of allowing them to effect my day. Now though, I don't have the patience to be around people I know are crappy. I feel like dropping the "adult" act I have going on and calling them on all of their shit. I no longer want to "rise above", instead I want to get down in the mud and give them some of their own medicine. And that my friends, would be a very wrong thing to do. So instead, I find myself counting backwards from ten, thinking naughty words, and reminding myself to breathe daily (if not hourly).
The worst though (by far) is how emotional I’ve been. I cry over nothing now, and I was never a big crier. It’s like I have no control, I just start crying over the simplest things, and then I cry even more because I’m mad at myself for crying (yes, my irritability is directed the most towards myself right now, more often than not due to my inability to control my emotions). Today I started crying because I got a raise, but it wasn’t as much as I had hoped for. I waited until I got to my car, but still. I've been calculating all the possible costs of a potential baby in my head and I don’t see how I can possibly make it work on my current salary. When I found out I was getting a raise, I guess I was hoping for a boost that could make up for that difference, and this boost didn’t come anywhere near that. But come on now, what kind of a person cries because they got a raise?
I am sweaty, and bleeding, and whiney, and cranky, and puk-ey. I am putting on water weight (at least that’s what I like to call it) in all the wrong places. I can’t believe the men aren’t knocking down the door right now, can you? I am a hot fucking mess. What kind of man wouldn’t want me just like this?!? If I can’t find a man in the condition I’m in to fall in love with me (and to fall in love with back, which may be the real leap because let’s face it, I can only handle people in short intervals right now!), then there is truly something wrong with this world, right?
The irony here is that I’m told I’m running out of time; that if I am going to find a baby daddy it needs to happen now. Yet, the drug they put me on to buy me more time makes me less and less attractive to the opposite sex every day. I’m about to start begging for sex on the streets. OK, not really (I’m pretty sure I could get it if I really wanted it), but seriously, how am I supposed to find a partner when no part of me feels desirable or attractive. I don’t even want to flirt (I’m actually getting annoyed lately when men try) and I used to be a damn good flirt! I kind of look at the men who hit on me right now (and surprisingly, there are more than you would think) and all I can think is “Do you see me right now? I haven’t slept right in weeks (hence the dark circles), I’ve given up on make-up, and I just threw up 30 seconds ago. Where are your standards?” I’ve decided that if they’re flirting with me in the state that I’m in, there must be something wrong with them.
And that is the joy of Lupron. This drug is a bitch, and apparently now, so am I…
The nausea was the first thing to hit. I was told that I would have about a week before I started having side effects (because the shot itself is supposed to last for 3 months), but the day after my first shot I was sitting at my desk eating strawberries when all of a sudden I had a wave of nausea just wash over me and I was retching in my trash can (always a confidence booster at work!) As soon as it passed I sat there staring at my desk for a minute (trying to ascertain whether or not anyone had heard my lovely display), when I noticed the overly sugared and iced brownie that I had bought the day prior. Suddenly I was starving, and I ate the entire thing right then and there (and it was not a small brownie) and held it down just fine. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. It’s gotten better, but it is still there, and it sneaks up on me out of nowhere. Certain smells (or sights) just set me off. We had board meetings a few weeks ago and some genius ordered sushi for everyone. I sat through all those meetings working extremely hard not to look at the sushi, because the sight of it was all I needed to be pushed over the edge. Another fun one is my boss’s cologne. It is horrendous. It has always been horrendous. Now though, I can’t be in the same room with him without feeling like I’m going to lose my last meal. How exactly am I supposed to bring that up? Then today our maintenance guy thought it would be really funny to show me the dead shrew he had just caught in a trap. I literally was losing my breakfast at my desk within seconds... I don't think he'll do that again. Usually I feel fine as soon as I vomit though, so I almost prefer those moments to the times when the nausea just lingers... I’m eating so much less right now, and then even when I feel better I just can't bring myself to go all out because I’m afraid of anything that may upset my stomach (but don't kid yourself into thinking I'm losing weight, the Lupron helps me keep that on too!) I’ve pretty much completely given up on drinking because I can’t even fathom surviving a hangover right now.
Then there are the hot flashes, which are particularly special and come out of nowhere. I leave the house every day bundled up for the brisk winter weather, and before I know it I can feel the heat start in my cheeks and then run down the back of my neck. I am tearing off layers and sweating, and people are looking at me like I’ve lost it. Then a few minutes pass and I’m freezing, because I’ve now sweat through my clothes and am drenched. By that point the hot flash has passed and my soaking wet body is turning into an icicle. The night sweats are fun too. I go to bed cold, and then I wake up in sheets that are completely saturated. My poor roommate walks around the house all bundled up because I’ve turned the heat down to 61 degrees (no joke), and I still find myself sweating. Why would any man want to sleep next to me right now?
Another one is the fact that I’m tired all the time; I honestly feel like I can’t get enough sleep. My energy level is completely pathetic, and I feel like such a loser because I never want to do anything anymore. This last Saturday I went to bed at 9pm (I am 26 years old, that is simply unacceptable), and then slept in until 10am Sunday morning. I don’t even know how I did it, but then I was ready for bed again by 9 Sunday night. I’m going to San Diego this week to catch up with my favorite girls, and I am terrified my friends aren't going to love me anymore because I simply cannot imagine keeping up with them! I've become a little old lady who sits around complaining about how tired she is and how sick she feels. I never used to be like that! I used to be fun, I swear!
One of the things I was most excited about when I started Lupron was that I stopped bleeding. I had been spotting for months, and it was really putting a damper on any potential sex life I saw for myself (there is something that makes you feel just that much more un-fresh when you are constantly bleeding!), but, after a few days of being all-clear, I started spotting again. It hasn’t stopped since. It’s not bad, or heavy, but it’s just always there. I know I saw a movie once upon a time (South Park?) where one of the characters said "never trust anything that bleeds for a week and doesn't die". Well what about something that bleeds for 5 straight months? This is getting ridiculous now, never has there been a better STD repellant than how un-sexy a steady stream of blood can make you feel!
But it's my irritability that has caught me the most off guard. I’ve always been a little high-strung and prone to panic, but I’ve also always been pretty patient with the people in my life. Lately though, I feel like I am on edge all the time. I just don't feel like myself, and I feel guilty because I know I haven’t been the easiest person to be around. There are people in my life who I really do love, but who I can't even talk to right now because I don't have the patience to deal with them, and everything they say seems to irritate me. What is that? I know I’m being unreasonable, but it's almost like I just can't help it. I am on edge... all of the time, just waiting for someone to say the wrong thing.
As a result of my new-found irritability, I’ve caught myself resisting the urge to use the C-word (c-u-n-t), which was never before a common utterance in my vernacular (although, I did see The Vagina Monologues years ago, and they had an entire monologue devoted to reclaiming ownership of the word; since then I’m less opposed to it than I was before) but suddenly everyone is a Cunt. In my defense, I haven’t actually outright called anyone that, but I think it. I think it a lot. I've been thinking it in daggers towards a certain person who I’m consistently annoyed with having to deal with (so much so that I'm sure she can feel it) "Cunt Cunt Cunt!" Sometimes I even add it to songs and sing it in my head. It's quite possible that it has become my new favorite word, and yet I still haven't dared to speak it out loud in anyone's presence. Sometimes I think it so hard though, that I'm surprised it hasn't actually popped out. Think about it. If you were really pissed off (and let's face facts, lately I've been pretty pissed), how great would it feel to scream that word at the top of your lungs? And how much greater would it feel to direct it towards someone who really deserves it?
The thing is, I never used to be an angry, aggressive person (OK, I can hold a grudge, but I am also capable of just killing people with kindness, or using my silence as the best possible weapon), but lately I feel like I am ready to explode. I feel like I have no control over my emotions, and every little thing makes me feel like boiling over. There are people in my life who I know are not good people, but who I have to deal with at fairly regular intervals, because that’s just life. I’ve always prided myself on being able to handle these people with grace, and not even kind of allowing them to effect my day. Now though, I don't have the patience to be around people I know are crappy. I feel like dropping the "adult" act I have going on and calling them on all of their shit. I no longer want to "rise above", instead I want to get down in the mud and give them some of their own medicine. And that my friends, would be a very wrong thing to do. So instead, I find myself counting backwards from ten, thinking naughty words, and reminding myself to breathe daily (if not hourly).
The worst though (by far) is how emotional I’ve been. I cry over nothing now, and I was never a big crier. It’s like I have no control, I just start crying over the simplest things, and then I cry even more because I’m mad at myself for crying (yes, my irritability is directed the most towards myself right now, more often than not due to my inability to control my emotions). Today I started crying because I got a raise, but it wasn’t as much as I had hoped for. I waited until I got to my car, but still. I've been calculating all the possible costs of a potential baby in my head and I don’t see how I can possibly make it work on my current salary. When I found out I was getting a raise, I guess I was hoping for a boost that could make up for that difference, and this boost didn’t come anywhere near that. But come on now, what kind of a person cries because they got a raise?
I am sweaty, and bleeding, and whiney, and cranky, and puk-ey. I am putting on water weight (at least that’s what I like to call it) in all the wrong places. I can’t believe the men aren’t knocking down the door right now, can you? I am a hot fucking mess. What kind of man wouldn’t want me just like this?!? If I can’t find a man in the condition I’m in to fall in love with me (and to fall in love with back, which may be the real leap because let’s face it, I can only handle people in short intervals right now!), then there is truly something wrong with this world, right?
The irony here is that I’m told I’m running out of time; that if I am going to find a baby daddy it needs to happen now. Yet, the drug they put me on to buy me more time makes me less and less attractive to the opposite sex every day. I’m about to start begging for sex on the streets. OK, not really (I’m pretty sure I could get it if I really wanted it), but seriously, how am I supposed to find a partner when no part of me feels desirable or attractive. I don’t even want to flirt (I’m actually getting annoyed lately when men try) and I used to be a damn good flirt! I kind of look at the men who hit on me right now (and surprisingly, there are more than you would think) and all I can think is “Do you see me right now? I haven’t slept right in weeks (hence the dark circles), I’ve given up on make-up, and I just threw up 30 seconds ago. Where are your standards?” I’ve decided that if they’re flirting with me in the state that I’m in, there must be something wrong with them.
And that is the joy of Lupron. This drug is a bitch, and apparently now, so am I…
December 13, 2009
Are you there God? It's me, S.I.F.
I grew up in the church, kind of. My granddad was a minister. When my parents were married (and he was preaching in town) we were regular members of his congregation. I sang in the choir, I believed in the power of prayer. I was young, but the church felt like home. Then my parents got divorced, and my mom came out of the closet, and for some inexplicable (at least to me, at the time) reason we no longer went to church (now I know it’s because we were all sinners, and my granddads church was a pretty strict Methodist congregation where we were no longer welcome... and also, my mother may have stopped wanting to be preached at).
Years later, when I was maybe in 6th grade, I had friends whose families started bringing me to church with them. I got involved in the choir again (although, for the life of me I don’t know why anyone would ever have let me sing in a choir after the age of like 7), and more importantly to me, I was cast in a role almost immediately through their drama department (I had aspirations of being an actress from a very young age). It was my first acting gig, I played "Stormy". I loved it. I got to perform in front of the entire church, we got to take a group trip to California, and there was a boy in the group who I had the biggest crush on (the only motivator I really needed as the hormonal almost-teenager I was!) It was around that time when my friends parents started to pick up on the fact that my mommy was into other mommies though (it didn’t help that she would come to school activities with her girlfriends and partake in the kind of PDA that would make anyone uncomfortable at a child’s school function, no matter who was involved in the coupling). First, my friends weren’t allowed to come play at my house anymore, and then slowly but surely, they stopped wanting to hang out with me at all. Before I knew it, my “church friends” were making my life miserable at school, and I was fighting more battles for my mom than any child should ever have to fight for a parent. There were kids who told me I was going to Hell because of who my mom was (and also that my entire family was going to get Aids... junior high was awesome!)
Needless to say, I didn’t try church again until I was in college. Syrah was dating a guy at the time who was very charming, and was from a very devout family. They started picking us all up from the dorms on Sunday’s and taking us to church with them. I loved it, not just because the church itself seemed so large and full of faith, but because I just adored the togetherness of us all going and then getting brunch as a group afterwards. It felt like family. I loved making a whole day out of it, so much so that I even spent my 21st birthday (which just so happened to fall on Easter Sunday) partaking in this ritual, and not bemoaning the loss of my “power hour” or drunken 21st at all. Shortly thereafter though, we discovered that Syrah’s little alter-boy was some kind of narcissist and his psychosis was borderline scary. The boy could lie like you wouldn’t believe (turns out he never was a professional baseball player, and he also didn't compete as a Tai Kwon Do pro and had never modeled a day in his life after all, among other outrageous mistruths) and he took great joy out of manipulating situations to his liking. We stopped going to church with them after a pretty messy break-up where he actually dropped out of school in a ploy to show Syrah how much he needed her (they had only been dating a few months).
It was around that time that I started to formulate my list of things I hated about church. Firstly, I had encountered far too many “church people” who were judgmental, hateful, and hypocritical. I lost contact with my mother from a young age, but I never believed it was because she was a lesbian (instead, I felt it was because she was bat-shit crazy and that I was better off without her). Throughout my life though, I had so many people preach to me about how wrong my mother’s lifestyle was. This used to raise so much indignation in me I cannot even explain it. I wanted to scream back at every one of those “religious” people that “a sin, is a sin, is a sin” and ask them what exactly they believed their judgment was. I was never OK with the concept that my mother’s sexuality was a choice she had made, after all, who would choose a road that was so much more difficult? If anything, I’ve argued the idea that certain people may have been put on this earth to gauge the tolerance of others, and from my experience, it was the self-proclaimed “religious” people who spit the most venom in regards to who she was born as. My other difficulty was that I had been exposed to a lot of “super-churches”, and the scramble for money always astounded me. I just couldn’t force myself to believe that the God I looked towards really wanted such a large push to build the biggest church in town, complete with a shopping center and school. Call me crazy, I just felt like there were other things we should be praying for.
So, it was a few years before I tried church again. At the time I was living in San Diego and felt the urge to go, for reasons I don’t even remember now. It was just before Christmas, and I went by myself and enjoyed the entire sermon. It wasn't until the end that they lost me. The pastor had been so amazing that entire hour, but as people were leaving he said “And just remember; This Christmas is about Christ, so the next time someone tells you ‘Happy Holidays!’ you make sure and stop them and say ‘No! Merry Christmas!’ It’s high time we stop being PC and take December back as ours!” That’s when I was over it. Completely. I thought to myself “What if that person is Jewish, or celebrates Kwanzaa, or was simply trying not to be offensive in their well wishes? Who am I to push Christmas on them?” And I get that the bible encourages spreading the word, but that is simply not me. I am not the girl who will ever push my beliefs on anyone, because you know what? I am far from perfect, and I will not pretend to have all the answers. I never went back.
I’ve always had faith and considered myself to be a spiritual person. I’ve always prayed and believed in a higher power, and I have always blindly followed the idea that I have a purpose. I love having religious conversations with people, as long as they are logical and open-minded. I’m fascinated by other people’s beliefs, and by what drives those beliefs. I just gave up on ever finding a church that would encompass my beliefs and my drive to be accepting of everyone, no matter what. I don't agree with everything in the bible taken at the most literal interpretation, and I don't know that there is anywhere that will allow me to be an ala-carte Christian. I had always thought I would go back when I had kids (because despite some of the drawbacks, I think there is something to be said to raising children with faith), but until that point I didn’t think I would try again. I didn’t have the belief that I could find someplace where I felt comfortable. There was also always the fact that I didn’t relish the idea of giving up my Sunday mornings (I do love a good sleep-in!)
When I started my job here though, I quickly discovered that the one friend I made at work was part of a pretty religious family. He and his wife and 3 kids attended church every Sunday, and they also participated in activities and bible studies throughout the week. This surprised me, mostly because this guy was so much like me. I have a crass sense of humor, and I often lack the filter required for appropriate/normal human interaction. I don’t always carry myself as a person of faith, and have always kind of figured that finding my way back to church would take a literal act of god! My friend shared my sense of humor, and my crude nature. Yet he was such a wonderful husband and father, and so involved in the church. I loved our conversations on the topic, because he was so open to my issues with religion. He pointed out time and again that my experiences were not how church was supposed to be, but I was not so quick to believe. Either way, it was nice having a sounding board when I had questions. I strive to be a good person (and like to think I always have), but I have lost my way on more occasions than I can count. There were years there when I was not so good to myself. I struggled with an eating disorder, with cutting; I slept with men who weren’t good to me (and who I wasn’t so good to back), and I punished myself in general for things that weren’t my fault. Even after I pulled myself out of that dark place, I still struggled with letting people in, and my stubbornness could incur a wrath of epic proportions upon those I felt had wronged me. I punished, and to this day I still hurt the people who care about me when I am hurting; usually without any real intention, but also without any real drive to stop it. I know that I am far from being devout, and that as much as I struggle to be a good person, I often fall very short of the mark. One of the biggest questions I have always had is how much I really deserve from religion after all of the things in my life I have done so wrong.
After this last surgery though, I was struggling. There were days immediately after when I didn’t want to get out of bed. I felt so wronged, and was so angry. When I did go back to work, and broke down in my friends office (something that is so unlike me, I don't typically show so much emotion in such inappropriate settings), he encouraged me to try church. He gave me the recommendation of a church in town that he thought would be the best fit for me, and he sent me on my way. Normally I would have taken this advice with a smile and a nod, and then never followed through. But, at the time, I was so lost and so hurt (and wanted nothing more than to not feel that way), that I went to church. Less than two weeks after surgery (and finding out that I may be losing the one thing I had ever really wanted), I got myself up early on a Sunday and I got ready and went to church for the first time in years all by myself. I just felt like I could use some faith.
I had actually been doing pretty well that entire weekend (I had made it 2 days without tears, and had torn myself out of my bed to get together with friends), but as soon as I walked in there I just felt emotional. There were kids running around everywhere, and I think that’s probably what got me the most (I am still struggling with seeing pregnant women [or women surrounded by children] and not feeling like I’ve been jipped somehow. I’ve determined that my Doctors office should have a separate entrance for its infertile patients, because that is the one place where I feel like losing it the most; surrounded by women who have my dream!), but I held it together. Then, in the middle of worship, the singer stopped and said something along the lines of “Did you feel that pastor? Someone here needs help and the spirit is here for us to help them”. I immediately felt uncomfortable. The pastor stepped in and said “Can we get a few of our elders up here? This is not planned, but there seems to be someone here who needs our help and we are being drawn to assist them. If you feel like you are being called to right now, please come up and talk to our elders and they will take you to a private room to talk and pray and figure out how we can help you”. It was so weird. The church was full (we’re talking well over a hundred people, and I was in the back blending in), but not a single person went up front to talk to them. I felt like I was supposed to (as I was fighting back tears), but that would have been so unlike me. To draw attention upon myself in a room full of people I didn’t know would have taken a level of courage I do not have (and more importantly, it would have taken a complete belief that this call really was for me, and I just couldn’t convince myself that I would ever warrant that kind of interaction). But then this young, alternative-looking woman came up to me and said “I don’t normally do this, but I feel like I’m supposed to pray for you, do you mind?” Seconds later those tears I had been fighting burst through and I was broken down. Suddenly, 2 more women were around me, and they were all praying. For healing. For faith. For strength. The whole thing was just so surreal (and embarrassing, I was crying in front of complete strangers), but by the time I left I felt better.
I still don’t really know what any of that means. It was one of those moments in time when you find yourself questioning if it really happened. My friend at work thinks it was a divine intervention of the Holy Spirit. He said I should take it as proof that God cares so much for me that he would reach out to me in such a way the first time I ever really went into church looking for something. I don’t know if I would go that far. I still have trouble believing that God really works that way, and that even if he did, I would be the one he picked. I mean, after all, I am a sinner if ever there was one. I am promiscuous (although, since I let myself fall in love and get my heart broken, my sex life has taken a pretty serious downturn… I am highly disappointed by this fact and the lack of sex in my life, so it’s not like I’ve made a change for the good!), I curse like a sailor, and I can hold a grudge like no one else I’ve ever known. Even my dad, upon hearing I had been going to church, asked if the place had burned down the second I entered. I can’t believe that I would be worthy of that kind of intervention, but thinking it does make me feel better. And if something that large hadn’t happened my first go-round, I may not have gone back (I probably would have sat quietly and observed, and then went on my way thinking it wasn’t really for me). I know there are people out there who would think that this entire revelation is just silly, and I can’t blame them. If I hadn’t been there I would chock this entire story up to someone’s pathetic need to believe in something, but it made me feel better. Going there makes me feel better. So I’ve been going every week since.
I’ve been observing lately. This church is full of families, and I can’t help but watch them. There is this guy who sits near me with his beautiful wife and their 3 kids. He is exactly my type; dark hair, un-groomed facial hair, beautiful eyes. In truth, he is probably one of the most attractive men I have seen in a while (another reason I am undeserving of a divine intervention; I have been coveting this married man every Sunday for the past 4 weeks!) He’s young, and his wife is gorgeous, and they have 3 young and beautiful children. Every service they hold their kids and sing during worship, and once the kids go off to Sunday School, they hold each other. I find myself watching them and thinking “Wow. What wrong turn did I make in my life that I didn’t get that? And how do I go back and fix it?”
There is another woman (one of the women who came and prayed for me that first visit), who has two young, rambunctious, and naughty boys (and I say that in the best way possible. There is not much I wouldn’t give for a couple of naughty boys of my own!) They run down the aisles when she isn’t looking and punch and poke at each other, but they just love her. They cling to her side and vie for her attention. She is not a beautiful woman; more plain than anything else, but she loves those boys, and her face brightens up when they speak to her. She wears a ring, but it is only ever her and those boys, so I like to think that they are hers and hers alone. I like to pretend that she is a single mother and that she is doing a damn good job of it.
The church ministers to my passions. The weekly flier has recently been looking for a tempory home for a 14 year old boy, and if I didn't have a roommate I would have called and taken him in immediately (I just saw The Blind Side, I'm now convinced I want to turn some young boys life around!) They have recently opened up a homeless shelter for single women and their children. I want to volunteer there, but I am hesitant to step forward. I haven’t really made any connections or ties (I will forever be uncomfortable in groups of people I don’t know. I am fine surrounded by friends, but when I am a stranger in a room my shyness comes out full force), but I want to be a part of that shelter. One of these Sundays I’ll grow the courage to put my name on that list.
My favorite part though is that they alternate pastors every week. So far, there has been a different speaker every time I’ve gone. I like that, because I like getting peoples varying perspectives; I like hearing different stories. A few weeks ago the pastor was a young kid (he can’t have been much older than me) with a faux hawk and an electric guitar. He spoke about the end of times, and he had me in deep thought the rest of the day. Today, it felt as though the pastor was speaking directly to me. He spoke about how the devil had stolen many Christmases from him by making him focus on all the things he doesn’t have, and on all the people who had left him. I hate Christmas. I have hated Christmas for as long as I can remember. It has always reminded me of the people in my life who have let me down. It has always been a painful day for me. I’ve always promised myself that when I have children of my own I will make the effort to make Christmas what it is supposed to be, but now that that dream too has been altered (and possibly forever destroyed), this Christmas seems particularly unnerving. There was a time in my life when I was convinced that everyone I ever loved would hurt me and leave me (and I had some pretty strong evidence to back that up). I’ve worked so hard to be able to let people in, and to rid myself of those fears; maybe it’s time to take the destruction away from Christmas as well.
He said one other thing that really struck me. He said that Jesus may not always be there when we think we need him, but when he shows up he will be right on time. He said that in the end, everything will be better. I have been praying a lot lately. For a miracle, for an end to feeling so hurt by this, and for the strength to make it through. I’m here Jesus. I am waiting. You can go ahead and show your face anytime now; I’m ready for it to be better! I was reading some things I’ve written throughout my life, and I came upon something I wrote about 2 years ago. It’s when I was in school finally finishing my degree, living in San Diego surrounded by some of the best friends a girl could ever hope for, and planning the next stage in my life: my move to Alaska. I wrote about how great my life had been lately; about how I was almost waiting for the other shoe to drop because I felt like everything was going too well. That is my biggest fault, I cannot simply be happy when things are right; I have to prepare myself for when they won’t be. I know better than most people that life has its ups and downs and that you have no control over when those dips appear. Even when I am at the high points, I wait for the falls. I would love to change that about myself, to enjoy the highs when they are here and keep those memories close when the downs appear. I know this life has more to offer me, and I know that these struggles will be eased eventually. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right? I’ll admit, part of me has been dragging my butt out of bed every Sunday because I feel like I can use all the help I can get. This is the most I have struggled in a long time, I need to feel like I have something to hold on to, and more importantly, I need to feel like something is pointing me in the right direction. I have no idea how to make the “right” decision, and I struggle daily with what is best for any future baby, what is best for me, and what is best for anyone who may come into my life in the future. I need guidance from somewhere.
There are prayer request cards they hand out every week. I’ve had one filled out and sitting in my purse since that first Sunday. I can’t bring myself to drop it in the box. Every time I go to do it I think about those women and their children in that shelter. There are people in this world struggling so much more than I am. I have always been able to provide for myself, I have always been able to take care of me, and I have been blessed in this life with a drive to succeed and friends who always support me, no matter what. I have more than most people, and I have never had a “need” I couldn’t fulfill. I feel selfish putting my request for prayers in that box; I feel undeserving.
So instead I just ask for myself. Are you there God? It’s me, S.I.F. I need your guidance, I need your support, and I need your light on the path that I am supposed to take, because I simply cannot see the way…
Years later, when I was maybe in 6th grade, I had friends whose families started bringing me to church with them. I got involved in the choir again (although, for the life of me I don’t know why anyone would ever have let me sing in a choir after the age of like 7), and more importantly to me, I was cast in a role almost immediately through their drama department (I had aspirations of being an actress from a very young age). It was my first acting gig, I played "Stormy". I loved it. I got to perform in front of the entire church, we got to take a group trip to California, and there was a boy in the group who I had the biggest crush on (the only motivator I really needed as the hormonal almost-teenager I was!) It was around that time when my friends parents started to pick up on the fact that my mommy was into other mommies though (it didn’t help that she would come to school activities with her girlfriends and partake in the kind of PDA that would make anyone uncomfortable at a child’s school function, no matter who was involved in the coupling). First, my friends weren’t allowed to come play at my house anymore, and then slowly but surely, they stopped wanting to hang out with me at all. Before I knew it, my “church friends” were making my life miserable at school, and I was fighting more battles for my mom than any child should ever have to fight for a parent. There were kids who told me I was going to Hell because of who my mom was (and also that my entire family was going to get Aids... junior high was awesome!)
Needless to say, I didn’t try church again until I was in college. Syrah was dating a guy at the time who was very charming, and was from a very devout family. They started picking us all up from the dorms on Sunday’s and taking us to church with them. I loved it, not just because the church itself seemed so large and full of faith, but because I just adored the togetherness of us all going and then getting brunch as a group afterwards. It felt like family. I loved making a whole day out of it, so much so that I even spent my 21st birthday (which just so happened to fall on Easter Sunday) partaking in this ritual, and not bemoaning the loss of my “power hour” or drunken 21st at all. Shortly thereafter though, we discovered that Syrah’s little alter-boy was some kind of narcissist and his psychosis was borderline scary. The boy could lie like you wouldn’t believe (turns out he never was a professional baseball player, and he also didn't compete as a Tai Kwon Do pro and had never modeled a day in his life after all, among other outrageous mistruths) and he took great joy out of manipulating situations to his liking. We stopped going to church with them after a pretty messy break-up where he actually dropped out of school in a ploy to show Syrah how much he needed her (they had only been dating a few months).
It was around that time that I started to formulate my list of things I hated about church. Firstly, I had encountered far too many “church people” who were judgmental, hateful, and hypocritical. I lost contact with my mother from a young age, but I never believed it was because she was a lesbian (instead, I felt it was because she was bat-shit crazy and that I was better off without her). Throughout my life though, I had so many people preach to me about how wrong my mother’s lifestyle was. This used to raise so much indignation in me I cannot even explain it. I wanted to scream back at every one of those “religious” people that “a sin, is a sin, is a sin” and ask them what exactly they believed their judgment was. I was never OK with the concept that my mother’s sexuality was a choice she had made, after all, who would choose a road that was so much more difficult? If anything, I’ve argued the idea that certain people may have been put on this earth to gauge the tolerance of others, and from my experience, it was the self-proclaimed “religious” people who spit the most venom in regards to who she was born as. My other difficulty was that I had been exposed to a lot of “super-churches”, and the scramble for money always astounded me. I just couldn’t force myself to believe that the God I looked towards really wanted such a large push to build the biggest church in town, complete with a shopping center and school. Call me crazy, I just felt like there were other things we should be praying for.
So, it was a few years before I tried church again. At the time I was living in San Diego and felt the urge to go, for reasons I don’t even remember now. It was just before Christmas, and I went by myself and enjoyed the entire sermon. It wasn't until the end that they lost me. The pastor had been so amazing that entire hour, but as people were leaving he said “And just remember; This Christmas is about Christ, so the next time someone tells you ‘Happy Holidays!’ you make sure and stop them and say ‘No! Merry Christmas!’ It’s high time we stop being PC and take December back as ours!” That’s when I was over it. Completely. I thought to myself “What if that person is Jewish, or celebrates Kwanzaa, or was simply trying not to be offensive in their well wishes? Who am I to push Christmas on them?” And I get that the bible encourages spreading the word, but that is simply not me. I am not the girl who will ever push my beliefs on anyone, because you know what? I am far from perfect, and I will not pretend to have all the answers. I never went back.
I’ve always had faith and considered myself to be a spiritual person. I’ve always prayed and believed in a higher power, and I have always blindly followed the idea that I have a purpose. I love having religious conversations with people, as long as they are logical and open-minded. I’m fascinated by other people’s beliefs, and by what drives those beliefs. I just gave up on ever finding a church that would encompass my beliefs and my drive to be accepting of everyone, no matter what. I don't agree with everything in the bible taken at the most literal interpretation, and I don't know that there is anywhere that will allow me to be an ala-carte Christian. I had always thought I would go back when I had kids (because despite some of the drawbacks, I think there is something to be said to raising children with faith), but until that point I didn’t think I would try again. I didn’t have the belief that I could find someplace where I felt comfortable. There was also always the fact that I didn’t relish the idea of giving up my Sunday mornings (I do love a good sleep-in!)
When I started my job here though, I quickly discovered that the one friend I made at work was part of a pretty religious family. He and his wife and 3 kids attended church every Sunday, and they also participated in activities and bible studies throughout the week. This surprised me, mostly because this guy was so much like me. I have a crass sense of humor, and I often lack the filter required for appropriate/normal human interaction. I don’t always carry myself as a person of faith, and have always kind of figured that finding my way back to church would take a literal act of god! My friend shared my sense of humor, and my crude nature. Yet he was such a wonderful husband and father, and so involved in the church. I loved our conversations on the topic, because he was so open to my issues with religion. He pointed out time and again that my experiences were not how church was supposed to be, but I was not so quick to believe. Either way, it was nice having a sounding board when I had questions. I strive to be a good person (and like to think I always have), but I have lost my way on more occasions than I can count. There were years there when I was not so good to myself. I struggled with an eating disorder, with cutting; I slept with men who weren’t good to me (and who I wasn’t so good to back), and I punished myself in general for things that weren’t my fault. Even after I pulled myself out of that dark place, I still struggled with letting people in, and my stubbornness could incur a wrath of epic proportions upon those I felt had wronged me. I punished, and to this day I still hurt the people who care about me when I am hurting; usually without any real intention, but also without any real drive to stop it. I know that I am far from being devout, and that as much as I struggle to be a good person, I often fall very short of the mark. One of the biggest questions I have always had is how much I really deserve from religion after all of the things in my life I have done so wrong.
After this last surgery though, I was struggling. There were days immediately after when I didn’t want to get out of bed. I felt so wronged, and was so angry. When I did go back to work, and broke down in my friends office (something that is so unlike me, I don't typically show so much emotion in such inappropriate settings), he encouraged me to try church. He gave me the recommendation of a church in town that he thought would be the best fit for me, and he sent me on my way. Normally I would have taken this advice with a smile and a nod, and then never followed through. But, at the time, I was so lost and so hurt (and wanted nothing more than to not feel that way), that I went to church. Less than two weeks after surgery (and finding out that I may be losing the one thing I had ever really wanted), I got myself up early on a Sunday and I got ready and went to church for the first time in years all by myself. I just felt like I could use some faith.
I had actually been doing pretty well that entire weekend (I had made it 2 days without tears, and had torn myself out of my bed to get together with friends), but as soon as I walked in there I just felt emotional. There were kids running around everywhere, and I think that’s probably what got me the most (I am still struggling with seeing pregnant women [or women surrounded by children] and not feeling like I’ve been jipped somehow. I’ve determined that my Doctors office should have a separate entrance for its infertile patients, because that is the one place where I feel like losing it the most; surrounded by women who have my dream!), but I held it together. Then, in the middle of worship, the singer stopped and said something along the lines of “Did you feel that pastor? Someone here needs help and the spirit is here for us to help them”. I immediately felt uncomfortable. The pastor stepped in and said “Can we get a few of our elders up here? This is not planned, but there seems to be someone here who needs our help and we are being drawn to assist them. If you feel like you are being called to right now, please come up and talk to our elders and they will take you to a private room to talk and pray and figure out how we can help you”. It was so weird. The church was full (we’re talking well over a hundred people, and I was in the back blending in), but not a single person went up front to talk to them. I felt like I was supposed to (as I was fighting back tears), but that would have been so unlike me. To draw attention upon myself in a room full of people I didn’t know would have taken a level of courage I do not have (and more importantly, it would have taken a complete belief that this call really was for me, and I just couldn’t convince myself that I would ever warrant that kind of interaction). But then this young, alternative-looking woman came up to me and said “I don’t normally do this, but I feel like I’m supposed to pray for you, do you mind?” Seconds later those tears I had been fighting burst through and I was broken down. Suddenly, 2 more women were around me, and they were all praying. For healing. For faith. For strength. The whole thing was just so surreal (and embarrassing, I was crying in front of complete strangers), but by the time I left I felt better.
I still don’t really know what any of that means. It was one of those moments in time when you find yourself questioning if it really happened. My friend at work thinks it was a divine intervention of the Holy Spirit. He said I should take it as proof that God cares so much for me that he would reach out to me in such a way the first time I ever really went into church looking for something. I don’t know if I would go that far. I still have trouble believing that God really works that way, and that even if he did, I would be the one he picked. I mean, after all, I am a sinner if ever there was one. I am promiscuous (although, since I let myself fall in love and get my heart broken, my sex life has taken a pretty serious downturn… I am highly disappointed by this fact and the lack of sex in my life, so it’s not like I’ve made a change for the good!), I curse like a sailor, and I can hold a grudge like no one else I’ve ever known. Even my dad, upon hearing I had been going to church, asked if the place had burned down the second I entered. I can’t believe that I would be worthy of that kind of intervention, but thinking it does make me feel better. And if something that large hadn’t happened my first go-round, I may not have gone back (I probably would have sat quietly and observed, and then went on my way thinking it wasn’t really for me). I know there are people out there who would think that this entire revelation is just silly, and I can’t blame them. If I hadn’t been there I would chock this entire story up to someone’s pathetic need to believe in something, but it made me feel better. Going there makes me feel better. So I’ve been going every week since.
I’ve been observing lately. This church is full of families, and I can’t help but watch them. There is this guy who sits near me with his beautiful wife and their 3 kids. He is exactly my type; dark hair, un-groomed facial hair, beautiful eyes. In truth, he is probably one of the most attractive men I have seen in a while (another reason I am undeserving of a divine intervention; I have been coveting this married man every Sunday for the past 4 weeks!) He’s young, and his wife is gorgeous, and they have 3 young and beautiful children. Every service they hold their kids and sing during worship, and once the kids go off to Sunday School, they hold each other. I find myself watching them and thinking “Wow. What wrong turn did I make in my life that I didn’t get that? And how do I go back and fix it?”
There is another woman (one of the women who came and prayed for me that first visit), who has two young, rambunctious, and naughty boys (and I say that in the best way possible. There is not much I wouldn’t give for a couple of naughty boys of my own!) They run down the aisles when she isn’t looking and punch and poke at each other, but they just love her. They cling to her side and vie for her attention. She is not a beautiful woman; more plain than anything else, but she loves those boys, and her face brightens up when they speak to her. She wears a ring, but it is only ever her and those boys, so I like to think that they are hers and hers alone. I like to pretend that she is a single mother and that she is doing a damn good job of it.
The church ministers to my passions. The weekly flier has recently been looking for a tempory home for a 14 year old boy, and if I didn't have a roommate I would have called and taken him in immediately (I just saw The Blind Side, I'm now convinced I want to turn some young boys life around!) They have recently opened up a homeless shelter for single women and their children. I want to volunteer there, but I am hesitant to step forward. I haven’t really made any connections or ties (I will forever be uncomfortable in groups of people I don’t know. I am fine surrounded by friends, but when I am a stranger in a room my shyness comes out full force), but I want to be a part of that shelter. One of these Sundays I’ll grow the courage to put my name on that list.
My favorite part though is that they alternate pastors every week. So far, there has been a different speaker every time I’ve gone. I like that, because I like getting peoples varying perspectives; I like hearing different stories. A few weeks ago the pastor was a young kid (he can’t have been much older than me) with a faux hawk and an electric guitar. He spoke about the end of times, and he had me in deep thought the rest of the day. Today, it felt as though the pastor was speaking directly to me. He spoke about how the devil had stolen many Christmases from him by making him focus on all the things he doesn’t have, and on all the people who had left him. I hate Christmas. I have hated Christmas for as long as I can remember. It has always reminded me of the people in my life who have let me down. It has always been a painful day for me. I’ve always promised myself that when I have children of my own I will make the effort to make Christmas what it is supposed to be, but now that that dream too has been altered (and possibly forever destroyed), this Christmas seems particularly unnerving. There was a time in my life when I was convinced that everyone I ever loved would hurt me and leave me (and I had some pretty strong evidence to back that up). I’ve worked so hard to be able to let people in, and to rid myself of those fears; maybe it’s time to take the destruction away from Christmas as well.
He said one other thing that really struck me. He said that Jesus may not always be there when we think we need him, but when he shows up he will be right on time. He said that in the end, everything will be better. I have been praying a lot lately. For a miracle, for an end to feeling so hurt by this, and for the strength to make it through. I’m here Jesus. I am waiting. You can go ahead and show your face anytime now; I’m ready for it to be better! I was reading some things I’ve written throughout my life, and I came upon something I wrote about 2 years ago. It’s when I was in school finally finishing my degree, living in San Diego surrounded by some of the best friends a girl could ever hope for, and planning the next stage in my life: my move to Alaska. I wrote about how great my life had been lately; about how I was almost waiting for the other shoe to drop because I felt like everything was going too well. That is my biggest fault, I cannot simply be happy when things are right; I have to prepare myself for when they won’t be. I know better than most people that life has its ups and downs and that you have no control over when those dips appear. Even when I am at the high points, I wait for the falls. I would love to change that about myself, to enjoy the highs when they are here and keep those memories close when the downs appear. I know this life has more to offer me, and I know that these struggles will be eased eventually. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right? I’ll admit, part of me has been dragging my butt out of bed every Sunday because I feel like I can use all the help I can get. This is the most I have struggled in a long time, I need to feel like I have something to hold on to, and more importantly, I need to feel like something is pointing me in the right direction. I have no idea how to make the “right” decision, and I struggle daily with what is best for any future baby, what is best for me, and what is best for anyone who may come into my life in the future. I need guidance from somewhere.
There are prayer request cards they hand out every week. I’ve had one filled out and sitting in my purse since that first Sunday. I can’t bring myself to drop it in the box. Every time I go to do it I think about those women and their children in that shelter. There are people in this world struggling so much more than I am. I have always been able to provide for myself, I have always been able to take care of me, and I have been blessed in this life with a drive to succeed and friends who always support me, no matter what. I have more than most people, and I have never had a “need” I couldn’t fulfill. I feel selfish putting my request for prayers in that box; I feel undeserving.
So instead I just ask for myself. Are you there God? It’s me, S.I.F. I need your guidance, I need your support, and I need your light on the path that I am supposed to take, because I simply cannot see the way…
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