sueeeus

I’ve had thoughts milling about that I was considering writing about, but at this point all I have is a quagmire and the best thing to do would be to get some rest, and let sleep bring on its healing restoration, and hopefully with the dawn I’ll have a better grasp.

I might not be feeling so irritated that it’s past midnight and BB is still awake.  Irritated that he doesn’t obey when he’s asked to go to bed, irritated that if a bed time is to be enforced, it appears that it’s entirely up to me to make it happen.  Irritated that I tried to go to bed over two hours ago, knowing full well I’d need to pump around midnight, and that in getting some rest ahead of time, I might have a chance at not feeling like a trainwreck in the morning when I need to be working.  Irritated that all the time passed, and still he’s awake, and I can’t postpone it any longer and absolutely must pump NOW, but in so doing, will give him yet more cause to force himself to stay awake.

(Hello again, Gorgeous Boy!)

Counting today, I have three week days of leave remaining, and I find myself teetering on the brink of anxiety.  So there are things that I try to remind myself:

• there will always be laundry to wash, dry, fold, and put away
• there will always be dishes to wash, dry, and put away
• there will always be groceries to buy and meals to plan and prepare
• there will always be bills to pay, accounts to reconcile, errands to be run
• there will always be work to do
• there will not always be a teeny tiny snuggly baby to have and to hold

This helps me put things in perspective, when I begin to panic, wondering where the time has gone and find that my days are consumed with mostly mundane things, and that soon I will have to add to each day several hours of computer working time.  It’s not that I won’t have time for all that I have now.  I will just have to rearrange the manner in which I do things.  I spend a good amount of time each day pumping, and concurrently on the computer.  Soon I’ll be doing bona fide work during much of this time, so that should have little impact to the overall picture.  I’ll just be adding a few more hours to this.

Rather than be anxious and wistful that my leave is coming to an end, I should stop and smell the roses.  I should see the forest and the trees.  I should savor the teeny tiny snuggly baby times, because they are fleeting.

That being said, I love the middle of the night feedings the best.  My precious LB is mostly asleep and not fighting himself or me, and takes the bottle with little or no fuss.  When I pick him up he draws his little legs up to his body like a froggie, and I snuggle him close and listen to his funny rythmic feeding sounds, which are somewhere between a very softly braying donkey and a very softly honking goose.  I need to capture that sound!  Rather than try to sleep through the night, I’ve decided to do a pumping session between 2 and 4 a.m., as I’ve learned that there tends to be more milk during this time.  I feed him prior to pumping, so I’m awake enough to savor the time, aware of the smile on my face as I hear those funny sounds and feel the warmth of his tiny body snuggled close to mine.  It’s a magical, fleeting time that I treasure to the utmost.

As for everything else, I must try not to panic.  There is time for all of it.  It’s just life being lived.

Run along now.  This is a post that will likely be long and laborious.  I’ve just got a load of disappointments that are eroding my sense of equilibrium, so I think it may behoove me to write it out.  Perhaps I’ll feel better at the end of it.

• Much as I’m grateful for the magic and mystery that is the human body, and its ability (however challenged, in my case) to produce milk, and much as exclusive pumping has its advantages, I have to admit that I am, after all, disappointed that I don’t get to be one of those nursing mothers, completely attuned to her child, the child contentedly suckling away.  I suppose there is a bit of grief to process here.  It’s one of those experiences that I’d longed for and worked valiantly toward.  And it’s apparently not for me.  I’ve studied in earnest hundreds of pictures of nipples and breasts (dear me, I might actually get blog traffic for that combination of words) and suckling babes trying to determine what they have that I don’t have.  Yes, milk flow was and is certainly a handicap, but it appears that I come from a line of women who can not nurse.  Not my grandmother, not my mother, not my sister.  My nipples are wide and flat, and the aerolae are huge.  I could do without Gadget’s ever helpful mother’s suggestion that perhaps the baby would be able to nurse if he’d get his mouth past the nipple and on to the ‘dark circle part’.  No, dear MIL, I wasn’t aware of that.  Sigh.  She means well, so I shouldn’t be so sarcastic and short with her.  And she hasn’t seen what I have to work with.  Not that I plan to flash my breasts at her, but it would go a long way in explaining things.
• I don’t like goodbyes.  My sister and her family came to spend LB’s first week with us, and she filled three freezers with amazing food for us, to tide us through many months.  She’s wonderful and generous and I love her to bits.  It’s always so hard to say goodbye, and I selfishly wish and hope that one day we can live closer, much much closer, to each other.
• Shortly after my sister left, my mother and her husband (MH) arrived, to spend ten days with us, and they left this morning.  None of the siblings have a particularly close relationship with her, but we love her.  She’s our mother.  So I’m sad when she leaves.  It took a little arm twisting to convince her to stay as long as she did.  I don’t know how much of it is her, and how much is her husband, but they generally stay only a day or two, and they zip off long before sunrise, sometimes without even saying goodbye.  Well, they say goodbye at night before bed, but what’s the hurry?  They’re retired.  It’s easy to push buttons and tread on nerves (more on this later), but even so, it’s sad to say goodbye.
• With a new baby, we’ve been trying to organize some family get togethers, so everyone can meet him.  One of my nieces planned a trip up, and wanted to make a dinner for us.  We gladly accepted, and as the time drew near, we all decided to get together at my SIL’s place, rather than my place, because she’s more centrally located to all of us, so the commute would be much easier for most people.  She planned to make Thai food, so Gadget said he’d stay home, since he doesn’t like Thai.  I gave him the evil eye, and later I told him that it would mean a lot to me if he’d go, regardless of what was being served for dinner, because it wasn’t really about the food in the first place.  He said he was only kidding (but he wasn’t) and that he’d go.  Then we were trying to figure out when to get together with Gadget’s family, because we wanted to do it while my mom was here, for more family bonding.  We weren’t certain of the dates, so the next thing we knew, my mother’s husband was dialing the phone.  He’d called my niece, and proceeded with the grand inquisition, which probably freaked her out a bit.  It would me.  He has a tendency of taking more initiative within the family than many of us are comfortable with.  For instance, he spanked my nephew once, and I’m not sure how my SIL handled that, but my sister who witnessed it was livid, as was my BIL, and because of that, MH is not welcome to stay in their home.  Somehow, I didn’t notice that event, but I kept a bit of an eye on him while here, because I didn’t want him to be disciplining my child in such a manner.  He came close, but didn’t cross the line where I’d have had to rear up as MAMA BEAR and tell him to leave the discipline to me.
• The day for the niece dinner arrived, and we converged on my SIL’s home.  But where was the niece?  Dinner was to be around 6, and she didn’t even arrive until after 7.  She has two kids of her own, which she left at home for this trip, but surely she knew that kids can only wait so long while maintaining reasonably good behaviour.  Surely she knew that?  My SIL ended up putting together a quick kids meal to take care of the hoarde of hungry children.  Once my niece arrived, she seemed preoccupied, and went to work immediately in the kitchen, prepared a fine meal, grabbed a plate, took a bite or two at most, then left.  She left!  I don’t know….  I was disappointed because we were having this family get together that it seemed as though she didn’t even want to be a part of.  Maybe she didn’t really want it to be a big thing, and maybe she just wanted to come to my house by herself and cook dinner for just us, rather than for us, my mom and her husband, my sister, my nephew, and my SIL and her kids (half of whom are her half-siblings).  Maybe it was family overload and maybe she has a touch of social anxiety.  It runs in the family.  I just don’t know.  But I felt disappointed afterwards, and even now, thinking of it.  I’m certainly taking it personally, whether or not I should.  It feels sort of like rejection.
• The next day was the Gadget family get together.  To make it easy, we bring all the food and we drive an hour and a half to get there, so they don’t have to do anything but show up at the MIL’s house.  The rest of them live only minutes from her, so it makes it very convenient.  But do they show up?  NO!  Only one of Gadget’s sisters came, apart from the brother who already lives there.  His other sister and dad, who live less than a mile away, didn’t come, nor did the other brother.  It will be a long time before I agree to a get-together up there again.  It was especially disappointing because it seemed like it should have been a big deal, to come meet a brand new baby in the family.  Plus, with my mother and her husband making the effort to extend themselves to the other side of the family, it all seems like a slap in the face.  And more rejection.
• I’ve made the recent observation that there are several personalities within my family, that, were I not related, and should I cross paths in the course of living with people of these personalities, I wouldn’t befriend them, and probably would never even make any effort to introduce myself or interact with them at all.  At all.  This makes me sad, because these are my people.  What is it they say, that you can love someone, but not like them?  I suppose this is how it is.  And it makes me sad.  And maybe a bit ashamed.
• I find it very sobering to recognize that those traits which I find most frustrating and least appealing in my mother are traits that I quite possibly manifest myself.

…it doesn’t seem to have helped (much).  I’ve written it out, but don’t feel much better, if at all.

• Shopping may be in order.  For something very expensive.  Like furniture.  Or diamonds.  (Not really)
• Or a vacation.  A nice room in a quiet place.  By myself.
• Maybe just a day in the city.  A hair appointment.  A coffee.  A walk along the water.  By myself.
• Maybe an art or craft project.
• Wine would be nice.  So very nice.  Alas.
• One thing I will begin this day is a freshening of the home.  Open all the windows, strip all the bedclothes, wash all the pillows, sheets, towels and throws.  Scrub away all traces.
• I need to get back into a good head space.  Back to my old self.  That nice person with an easy smile.  She who I can barely remember.  I hope it doesn’t take too long to find her.

I didn’t go to the airport. And I really did have meetings. Three of them. Honest! (Seriously. I really did.)

Other People’s Children.

I suspect that the next month or so will be filled with laborious posts about me working through my lack of graciousness as a host, step-mother, and human being.

It could be, in part, due to pregnancy hormones. I suspect it’s mostly just me, though.

My blood sugar is up. Way up. It’s been a few days, and I want to try to regroup my inner self and work my way to a place of relative tranquility, and reassess before I call my doctor and get the order for injectable insulin. I know that stress wreaks havoc on blood sugar control.

I don’t know why I let things get to me. I think I might feel a bit helpless, in that I’m sort of forced into the situation of sharing my home and my life with near strangers for a while. It rocks the boat somewhat, and add to that the fact that I’m the one who is basically shouldering the expense for the better part of all of it. Not that I’m complaining that much about the cost (yet). I sort of doubt Gadget would be able to see his kids if he weren’t married to me (unless he moved to Kentucky). He doesn’t make enough to cover more than the child support (and it’s only for the one) and basic living expenses, so if he had to come up with enough to cover plane tickets, entertainment, and food, I think he’d be hard pressed. And of course he wants to bring both kids out. Which is fine for now, but the boy is 19 now, and at some point this summer I’m going to have to let it be known that he’s welcome to visit in future, but he has to get here on his own dime. Or else I’ll tell Gadget that he’ll have to come up with the tickets on his own. Oh, I don’t know. I sound like such a selfish money grabbing cow.

And of course, Gadget takes every opportunity to bring out the comparisons, that I don’t freak out when MY nieces and nephew are here, and I have a much higher threshold of tolerance for them than I do for his kids. It’s true. I tell him that of course I’m more comfortable with my people, just like he’s more comfortable with his. He’s been making comments about how spoiled and privileged mine are, and how annoying that is to him. All of which I don’t appreciate one bit. I think its in defense of his own kids, but it’s a childish way to reason things out, and I wish he wouldn’t do it. Just accept that his kids are the way they are, and don’t compare them to mine. Please!

In many ways, I think his kids are more spoiled. They’re not raised to be independent thinkers. They’re not raised to learn responsibilities. If they had more income to work with, they’d have more privileges and conspicuous consumption. As is, they each have their own TVs, VCRs, and DVD players in their own rooms. They have video games. They don’t have the latest and greatest, but they have much. I don’t plan on allowing my little one to have his own TV, ever! If there is TV time, I want it to be family time, and limited. The same goes for video game time. Bedrooms are for sleeping and imaginative toys/play, but not mind-numbing electronics.

People can live rich and fulfilling lives with very little income. There are many wholesome and satisfying things to do. But these people have very limited vision and imagination. I think Gadget is just as guilty of this as anyone. Why else would I call him Gadget? He always wants things. Motorcycle (unauthorized acquisition), boat, big screen TV, hot tub (another acquisition that I regret, frequently), fancy truck, electronics, and on and on and on. And he’s got most of these things! (I’m an enabler, and I need to make it stop.) I do make sure that I often express that there will be no boat, ever, unless it’s a rowboat or canoe. No snowmobiles. No ATVs. No dirt bikes. No, no, NO!

Anyhow. I’m trying to put my finger on what’s causing me the most immediate stress. I’m finding myself very weary with the boy’s attitude and mannerisms. He’s constantly making noises. There’s a steady commentary. Or else just body sounds, like noisy throat clearing, or grunts and groans. Lip smacking. Loud gulping when he drinks. And he sniffs everything. He opened a box of cereal and stuck his whole face in the box, then inhaled. I don’t know why, but it bugs the hell out of me. When I’ve got the food laid out on the table, he sticks his face close to the various dishes and inhales. It makes my skin crawl. And I think I saw him sneeze without attempting to cover his mouth, with the silverware drawer open. I hope it’s not true, but I suspect it is. I didn’t empty the drawer and re-wash everything. But I felt like it. I have kitchen towels for drying dishes and separate ones for drying hands. I have a huge stack of towels for kitchen use. I don’t want anybody using the dish towels for hands. And I find that it bothers me to use the same hand towels, even, after I see him using one. I think my OCD is teetering on the brink of something more serious. I’m a little ashamed of myself, but at the same time, think that maybe I need to just respect that this is the way I am for whatever reason, and work with it so that there can be as little rocking of the boat as possible. So I can always just get myself a fresh hand towel, and reiterate that the dish towels are only for dishes. It’s easy enough without making him feel like he’s untouchable. I think that may be what it boils down to though. Or else it’s just the aftermath of how I process the extreme lack of common sense and independence that I’m witnessing on a near constant basis. It’s very wearisome to hear I can’t spoken over and over and over again, without actually taking a moment to assess and at least try to figure out ____. I can tolerate it with my three year old. He’s three, and I’m trying to teach him to think about things and try things, rather than say he can’t. But these folks are not three. And I was over half way through college when I was 19.

It makes me grateful for my own upbringing. Yes, my dad was a tyrant and my mom was a martyr, and living conditions were generally deplorable, but they were both strong and independent people and they both had a good hard work ethic. Yankee Ingenuity. It’s something my dad would often say in reference to my mom. While he had the scholarly genius (and complete lack of common sense), she had the practical genius (and somewhat lack of scholarly intellect). And although neither were active in teaching us anything, that I can recall, we learned much from observation and example. We (some of us, anyway) learned that we can find a way to do nearly anything, given the will. We left home and struck out on our own at the earliest opportunity.

I can hardly imagine this boy on his own, making his own way. It sounds as though he wants and hopes to live at home, that his mother wants him home, but the stepdad wants him out. Of course he despises his stepdad. I can sort of see the stepdad’s point of view though. Even though neither adult is working, he does and has worked sporadically, so he is the only income generator in that household. I can’t even begin to comprehend the mother. I can’t put the points from A-to-B, that a person can live without contributing or generating some of that living. My mother was a homemaker, a SAHM, who generated no income, but she worked her ass off. She was in no way or shape any kind of a drain or burden on anybody. But their mother… They learn from observation that they can get by without actually working. It’s a shame, and it bothers me deeply. I guess she thinks she contributes financially, because she collects the child support from Gadget, and they use that to live on. So by bearing his child, she’s done her part until the girl turns 18. Of course I think Gadget should support his child. And so does he. It just seems that she should make an attempt to do so as well. If she were teaching them life skills, values, and simple appreciation, that would be one thing.

Maybe it’s a Southern thing. A Southern, cultural thing. I don’t know. It seems like there are hard-working, intelligent, and responsible people who come from the South. And if I think of it, there are plenty of unimaginative lazy people in every part of the country. Even here.  So it can’t just be a Southern thing.

Meanwhile, I need to get a grip.  I took my little one and left the house on Saturday morning, went to the gym, then got groceries.  I needed to be AWAY.  I felt bad, knowing those kids were feeling housebound and would love to go grocery shopping, but I needed to be AWAY.  We were gone for over four hours.  It helped a little.  Yesterday I left again, alone, just to go to the store for more groceries.  (These people eat a LOT!)  I’m used to quiet, so having people underfoot all day, making strange sounds on top of everything else, is grating on me.

Selfish cow.

There have been many times in my life in which a discovery like this might have put me in a foul mood.

Especially if it happened to be found in a load of our best whites – you know, the expensive plush turkish spa bath sheets, and my brand new white pants and summer shirt. Of course it didn’t manifest itself in the load of darks. No, that wouldn’t be nearly so interesting.

Surprisingly enough, to both myself and the man I married, I shrugged it off. Of course, I did leave the pen fragments on the kitchen counter before I left home, so that he would see them when he got home. I had things to do, and no time to work out a damage control plan, but I was somewhat curious as to what his reaction might be. After all, there are only three people living in this household, and I’m quite certain that instrument of destruction did not originate with me or the wild child. So.

I did receive a somewhat sheepish phone call, but there was only the slightest hint of sheepishness. No apologies. Very few words. And I continued to surprise myself. In days past I would stew and remain irritated for days at the laziness, stupidity, and irresponsibility that could cause such a thing. But not now. And I’m not even on Zoloft any more. It’s a wonder of wonders.

All part of a new me.

…Carefree…

…Young(er)…

!!

So, when there is so much gray, what can one do? If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.*

I do wish I’d had a video camera to capture the expression on my son’s face when his mother walked through the door. After his initial shock, he came up to me, cradled my face in his meaty little paws, and kissed my head.

Then he gave me a present. “A prize.” (Surprises=presents=prizes around here.)

“Thank you,” I said.
He beamed.
“What do I do with this?” (me)
“Play with it.” (Grownups are so daft, they don’t even know what to do with prizes.)
…and a little later…
“Don’t choo wanna play with your prize?” (Grownups are such ingrates, with no imagination whatsoever.)
…and the next morning…
“Hey! Why is your prize still here? Don’t choo yike it?” (Grownups. What a bunch of fuddie duddies.)

*I’m a bit self-conscious about the next time I show my face at the office. It’s such a dramatic change that people won’t be able not to say something. Obviously, I didn’t think this through. Must brace myself against pending social anxiety. And make sure I do a good job with the makeup.

So today it’s a reprise of the now-and-then marital whinge theme.  Go away, this will be long, boring, and self-indulgent.

The other day, Gadget commented that I should go back on Zoloft.  Because I’m such a grouch. 

Darling, I’m just acting the way you usually act.  See how nice it is to live with someone like that?

He doesn’t see it.  He thinks he’s perfectly amiable, and I’m the one who is out of sorts.  Granted, I am out of sorts; my tether is short, and I’m much more sensitive to tones of voice and what is conveyed with expressions than what is actually said with words.  Zoloft certainly helped buffer me from all this.

Still, it would be nice if he’d acknowledge that he’s not always the most pleasant person on the face of  the planet.

Perhaps I have a future with a long-term Zoloft relationship.  Or marital counseling.  Or both.  Perhaps second trimester hormones are amplifying things for the time being.  Or not.

One thing is apparent.  Spending a morning in the land of extreme-pissed-offed-ness does no favors to one’s blood sugar, and therefore overall health.  By the time I remembered to check, it was 110.  Fasting.  Not good.  So it’s obviously bad for my health to stew, yet I just didn’t have the wherewithall to pull myself out of that funk, and took the low road, allowing myself to fume all morning.

It’s indulgent, I know.  But good grief!  I feel as though I don’t expect much, so if what little expectations I have aren’t met, I am immediately and thoroughly disappointed.

And how I don’t like disappointment.

Feeling a bit out of sorts over the fact that today is garbage AND recycle day, and a certain life partner was too lazy to put it out last night.  I want it out on the evening prior to collection day.  Always.  Without fail.  Rain or shine, wind or sleet, in sickness or in health.  End. Of. Story.  No exceptions.  I’m very hard-nosed that way.

I noticed he wasn’t in bed around 4:30 a.m.  Oh good, he’s up early to take out the trash.  He climbed back into bed around 5:30 a.m.  I inquired whether he was calling in sick today.  Yes.  Fine, I don’t mind.  I hope you feel better soon.  As long as you took the trash out.  Back to sleep for me, for another 20 precious minutes.  Upon arising, I notice the master bathroom trash is still full.  Well, so he missed one.  I can let that slide.  Oh.  The bedroom bin is also full.  Starting to get annoyed.  Downstairs, peeking out the window, the absense of bins on the curb sets me spinning into the depths of pissed-offed-ness.  Yes, I could choose not to be angry, but I don’t.  Instead, I fume.  And stomp about gathering up all the various recycle and non-recycle bins.  It’s not like I don’t have a morning routine in which I have a set amount of time to dress myself, dress the child, pack breakfast for the boy, pack breakfast and lunch for myself, load the car, take him to daycare, and drag myself to work, invariably a few minutes late.  I don’t really have time to deal with the trash.  And I don’t care that he’s feeling sick.  I do all the rest of the household tasks, whether I’m sick or not.  The laundry gets done.  The cooking gets done.  The dishes get done.  The pantry gets stocked.  The fridge gets stocked.  Granted, I actually like to do these homemaker tasks, so generally, I’m FINE with the gross imbalance.  But the shirking of the one regular task that I see as his responsibility sends me postal. 

I find corporate buzzspeak so wearisome.  What does it actually mean?  Drives me nuts.  So, enough of that.

Today I woke up feeling happy.  Not that I don’t usually wake up happy, because I tend to be a morning person, but today I awoke in better spirits than usual.  Which is quite nice.  And to add to an already pleasant morning, BamBam (I’m thinking that I will begin referring to them as Pebbles and BamBam, assuming the peanut really is a girl!) actually woke up on his own.  Which meant that we didn’t have the normal get dressed and ready and out the door struggle. 

I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that, for the first time in I can’t remember when, I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to attend to a child or my own bladder that can no longer be ignored.  Or, perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I actually exercised yesterday.  Yes, stop the presses.  We joined a gym, and I’m loving the aqua aerobics.  Especially because the pool is full of real people with real shapes and sizes, and not super models and beach bunnies.  I feel so much more comfortable in this gym environment than I’ve ever felt in the past.  I think it’s part of why I’ve hated gyms for so many years.  The gyms I belonged to in years past tended to be filled with vain and superficial people for which the external appearance was paramount to anything.  Not my scene.  And I even looked good back then! 

Now, I don’t usually do this, but I feel compelled to share a link to an amazing talk given by an amazing woman.  My sister has written a book (and I hope she publishes it soon, because I just know it’s incredible, and want to buy a bazillion copies to send to all my friends –okay, several copies, because I don’t actually have a bazillion friends) and found this link, which she says describes some of the characters in her book.  It’s really great, because it’s science that corroborates her art.  It thrills me!  I listened to it at work — multi-tasking, of course — and ended up needing tissue to dab away tears.  It was that good.

Now, to take some of that insight and do something with it.  Translation:  I really, really, really need to tap into my right hemisphere more.  The question is, how?

I get a newsletter from the Mayo Clinic. Today’s gem: “Coping with stress is easier when you identify your stress triggers, manage your time well and beat burnout.”

Duh…

I can identify my number one stress trigger. That would be Mister Gadget, in all his pleasant glory.

I don’t think I mentioned that I’ve been tapering off the Zoloft. I’m nearly done, and have learned some interesting things in the process. The first thing is that Zoloft worked wonders as a marriage stabilizer. If When Gadget, my man of few words, which, when uttered, tend toward sour and sarcastic, and I bicker (oh, the commas in this sentence are dizzying), I end up the worse for wear, and he is oblivious to the fact that there is even an argument in progress, and generally snaps at me to inquire why I’m being so nasty, again, oblivious to the fact that he is snapping at me. The frustration rises and consumes me in the instant, and I’m powerless to express anything, and find myself on the verge of tears. It’s maddening. And I’m not a nasty, sour person. I’m gentle and pleasant (for the most part).

I ask him what he thinks it means if I need to be medicated in order to live harmoniously with him. “You’re still going on about that? I’m over it. It’s history,” he says, in reference to the spat, assuming that’s where I’m coming from when I ask him what he thinks it means if I need to be medicated… He does that. Makes assumptions about what he thinks I’m talking about, instead of actually listening to what I’m saying. It’s maddening!

And perplexing. At work, effective communication is one of my professional skills. I’m generally diplomatic, patient, and pleasant. I help bridge cultural chasms, for crying out loud, and bring about a meeting of the minds. People are usually cooperative, and even if they’re not, I can still deal with it. But on the home front? We do not communicate well. And I don’t know why. Obviously, I think he could stand to be more cooperative. He just thinks I’m stubborn and overly sensitive. It’s true, I admit it, but I’m generally reasonable, and not stubborn for the sake of being stubborn. Whereas he seems to be stubborn for the sake of being stubborn. It’s more entertaining for him. Or something. It would be nice if he could see that what’s merely entertaining for him is serious for me, and perhaps, possibly, make a little self-sacrifice and attempt to show some consideration for my sensitive nature. To tell me not to be sensitive is of very little help. If I knew how to curb my sensitivities (naturally), then I’d DO it. Work with me here, please.

Meanwhile, I’m pulling out my hair, and wondering if tapering off the Zoloft is such a good idea. Zoloft gave me a buffer that allowed me that instant of time to seek words rather than be immediately incapacitated in the face of frustration. So I wonder how I can possibly acquire that buffer naturally. I don’t need it for work. I don’t need it for my child. I don’t need it for my siblings or my friends. I only need it for Mister Gadget. Why is that?

The other thing I’ve noticed with the taper is that the first few days with a reduced dosage are fine. Even great. But the fourth day is another story. There was a spat on day 4 of the first dosage reduction cycle, and there was a spat on day 4 of this one as well. It could be coincidence, but something tells me it’s not. Interesting. After day 4, things seem to normalize. I go two weeks on each reduction. I’m nearly done. One week to go. I’m wondering if I’ll have another meltdown in a week and four days.

Now, I’m not saying that Gadget is a complete jerk and I’m an angel among angels (although, when it comes to being behind the wheel, it’s a completely different matter, and yes, I’ll say he tends to be a consistent jerk in that respect). The frustrations of which I speak are not a constant thing. THANK GOD! This latest is an unloading of the most recent day 4 experience. We have many harmonious times. There’s not such an emotional need to write things out and unload when things are harmonious, though. The result is a rather lop-sided portrayal of the relationship.

I have a beautiful life. Truly, I do. I just have my moments.

Coming soon, a show and tell post about recent inspirations and corners of my home.

I heard a quote the other day. You need to give yourself permission to live life more fully. It struck me as apropos in the aftermath of losing my brother. I’ve been moping about for weeks, wrestling with a multitude of emotions. Sorrow. Disappointment. Despair. Melancholy. Uncertainty. Guilt. Wistfulness. Anxiety. And such. It’s not just him. It’s the holidays. I think I struggle with general melancholy every year, brought on by a warped sense of how things should be. I’ve observed that how things are is often a state brought about by overcompensation for how things should have been. For instance. The whole commercialized gift-giving thing. I’ve watched friends and siblings overcompensate unhappy childhoods by showering their children with excesses. They take it for granted, expect bigger and better every year, and lack satisfaction unless the status quo has been met by name brand or dollar amount. There is no appreciation for the simple things. Things that actually have meaning. Or usefulness. Things that somebody thought about and put effort into making. Material things don’t make your children love you more. And they don’t make up for what was lacking in your own childhood.

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Sometimes I think empathy is a curse. Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Feel their pain. But to what end To what good How can I retain clarity of mind to gain wisdom and understanding, rather than get caught up, as I am so apt to do, and sink in, spiraling downward into gloom and despair

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Words are very powerful. Once you put them out there, into the universe, there’s no getting them back. For good or naught, they are launched on the winds of forever. That’s why I just deleted an hour’s worth of text. A pity party of one. What good would it serve, other than to get it off my chest I wrote it out, part of it anyway, and released some of the sadness and tension in so doing. It doesn’t have to be shared. It doesn’t have to go out into the universe where possibly it could bruise someone else.

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There is something that terrifies me. I realize, in many ways, I am very much like my brother. The one who found no recourse but to release himself from the confines of this earth. There are many ways in which I am not like him, though, and this helps assuage the fear. He was frighteningly intelligent. I am not. He was reckless. I am not. He was earnest to the (n)the degree. I am only earnest to the (n-3)rd degree. He drank beyond moderation. I do not. He was fearless. I am not. But in his heart of hearts We are the same. I think. I get him. I think.

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About living life more fully. What does that mean Those words sent me further into the mire until I pondered what is actually meaningful to me. More than anything, my beautiful boy. That after a lifetime of yearning, he IS my heart’s desire. To be sad that my life isn’t full is to tragically overlook how incredibly blessed I am. And what else is fulfilling, in the world of Squished Piggies A good job. A good wage. Food in the pantry. A roof over my head. A shirt on my back. A hot shower whenever I want it. The love of a good man. So I’m not a jet-setting glamour girl. I tried that. It wasn’t any more fulfilling than kicking back on the sectional with my man and my boy, watching TV. (But it would be nice to be in better shape and wear cute things, and it used to be fun to shop for cute things, back in the day.) So I’m not a socialite. The friends I do have are warm and wonderful. Not a bit superficial. It might be nice not to have to work for a living, but I like to work. It would certainly be nice to have more sleep, get more exercise, see more sunshine, breathe more fresh air, and eat more fresh food. I get some, so it’s still good.