Void

I imagine that there are not many people out there tonight who are not horrified today.  Who's hearts are not heavy, minds are not troubled.  People who have shed tears, held their loved ones a little longer and a little closer than usual.  Who all of a sudden realized that bitching about the price of gasoline is crass when the price of another's violent action was so dear.

Today's events are truly evil.  People will fling out there gun control, mental health, parenting, warning signs.  The public will be horrified for a while, and then slowly, but surely, we will go back to our daily lives.  The victims' families will have to live their lives; the town will have to heal.

But nothing will change.

To quote one of my favorite bloggers, "This shit doesn't happen in a void".

We live in a culture that glorifies violence.  Especially violence against women, children, the poor, the disadvantaged.  We also live in a culture that commodifies people.  People are viewed as objects to bend to the will of certain authorities.  Consent is optional.  We also live in a culture that values rugged individualism.  Reaching out for help is a weakness.

What does all of the above have to do with today's events? 

First of all, violence is normalized.  Look at our movies.  Look at the video games we see.  Look at all of the bullying that goes on. Humans have a great capacity to be inordinately cruel to people.  I am not just talking physical violence here; people are frequently mentally and emotionally violent as well.  Bullying is accepted, despite the efforts of many to raise awareness.  Maintaining privilege for a few is valued over bringing everyone to equal ground.  What does this have to do with violence?  Violence changes people.  Exposure to violent acts desensitizes people to it.  I can't tell you how many times people come into my office and tell me there was no domestic violence in their home and then in the next breath admit their father "only" slapped their mother, there was "only" shoving, there was "only" things thrown at each other during arguments.  What is acceptable to some is a direct product of their environment.  Most of the time, someone was trying to exert  power and control.  This leads to the second point- people as commodities.

People are frequently viewed as beings who need to submit to authority, to other people who are hostile to the idea of consent and autonomy over their own body and destiny.  Most frequently, this is tied to the idea of abortion, but it goes much deeper than that.  Anyone who is not one of the privileged ones does not deserve to have authority over their lives.  People are disposable, to be used as weapons; something to take anger, fear, frustration, out on.  They need to be just like everyone else.  There is no room for differences. No room for the mentally ill, for those of different cultures, for those who won't submit.

The third point, that people are supposed to be "rugged individualists", ties into the idea that today's events HAD to have had some warning signs.  If I had to guess, I would say that there was some kind of decompensation.  Some kind of "joking" about violence, that was probably accepted because of my first point about living in a culture of violence.  That may have been questioned by one of the "unprivileged", but dismissed because they have no authority.  Or that may have been outright ignored because of fear, because of not wanting to believe it, because people don't want to get involved or make someone get angry.  The idea that you have to take care of your own problems; that society has no responsibility to you.

In order for meaningful change to occur, we have to attack the very fabric that supports these acts.  No one likes to think that we support this kind of thing, but society does in fact do so.  Stigma about mental illness.  Poor access to services.  Easy access to guns.  And a society that gives our children games that make it fun to kill, that makes it OK to exert power and control in unhealthy ways, that makes it normal to marginalize people, and then wonders why we have a 20 year old who commits such atrocities.

No, not everyone who is mentally ill will commit such acts.  No, not everyone who watches or plays violent games will commit such acts.  No, I don't blame the people who could have seen signs and possibly stopped this and did not.  Who do I blame?

Us.  I blame us.  We keep wondering why things don't change; yet we expect that it will be the "others" with the "problems" who change.  When will we see that WE are the problem.  No othering here.  US.

Elf

So there is this new trend out now...Elf on a Shelf.  I am hoping and praying that none of the kids in Alexis's class pick up on this phenomenon, and that it fades away by the time Charlie starts school.  Why you ask?

Well the short answer is that I am lazy as hell.  I see all of these people posting pics of the cute things that their naughty elf does, and in the words of Sweet Brown, "Ain't no body got time for that."  I mean, I guess I could succumb to societal pressures to be the perfect parent, but honestly having to figure out things for that elf to do would cut into my youtube video watching time.  Plus, I would have to remember to move the damn thing every night and I am lucky I remember to put my shoes on in the morning.  My hats off to the parents who do this for their children and have fun with it.  I will make it up to my kids in other ways, I suppose.  Like their knowledge on how to use a wine cork or how to beat that one level on Angry Birds...

Truly, though, the whole concept is a bit creepy.  This naughty elf who stalks you and leaves little "presents" behind for you like some kind of demented spirit hell bent on fucking with your mind...I am truly starting to question the sanity of America.  First Katy Perry sells a bajillion records, then this psychopathic elf who comes into your house and fucks things up?  In the name of Christmas spirit?  That is almost as demented as the concept of the Tooth Fairy.  Sure, let's remove body parts and place them under our pillow to get cash.  And we wonder where the concept of the black market for kidneys came from...but seriously, who the FUCK thinks of this shit?

(On a side note, conversations about the Tooth Fairy in our house usually go like this:

Charles:  Alexis lost a tooth.

Me:  Shit.  Do you have a dollar?

Charles:  No...I do have this Canadian dollar coin though.

Me:  How you know when the Tooth Fairy hates you...you get a Canadian dollar.)

If I am going to get my children to behave, it is going to be through emotional manipulation and empty threats.  Not some creepy toy that magically comes to life.  I have my standards for how I am screwing my kids up.  Not sure if they fall below or above Elf on the Shelf...I'll leave that for the general public to decide.

Santa

Conversations overheard in my house while watching Elizabeth's Portable North Pole video:

Santa, when talking about the video cameras that are all over the Portable North Pole:

Santa:  Now we have installed cameras all over the village...

Elizabeth (jerks back from the screen and darts eyes around the room):  Uh, cameras?  Oh God...

Santa:  Here, in my huge library, I have a book about every child...

Elizabeth:  HOW HAS THIS GUY NEVER BEEN INVESTIGATED???

Santa:  Santa Claus knows you very well...

Me:  God, I hope he does not mean in the Biblical sense...

Santa comes to a picture of my sister and I pretending to be zombies on bath salts and eating Elizabeth...

Santa:  You are lucky to have family that loves you so much...

Later on, Santa says:

Santa:  Elizabeth, you have been asked this year to not sulk when you are angry.  Let's see if you have been a good girl this year....(elves pull the lever on the machine, and it comes back she is on the nice list...) Elizabeth, you are on the nice list!

Elizabeth:  Yeah, I nailed it.

Santa:  Now I want to show you my most secret place...

Elizabeth:  Yeah, I bet he has candy there too...

Me:  Well, there are a bunch of toys there...

Charles:  Toys, candy, and cameras.  Sounds like a pedophile's paradise. 

Me:  Only in America would we encourage this.

Santa waves good-bye, Elizabeth gives him a high five.

Anxiety

One thing that I don't talk about much is all of the anxiety that I have on a regular basis.  I am constantly having to talk myself down from the ledge of a panic attack because, say, I become convinced that I have left the iron on and the house is going to burn down and kill all of our animals and the resulting trauma will be so devastating to our children that one is going to start selling crack, one is going to be a serial killer who wears people's skin like a dress and one is going to be a Katy Perry fan and get arrested for stalking her.  All because of my negligence in failing to turn off an appliance.

Makes a lot of sense, right?  I mean, for God's sake if my children are going to be fucked up, it is going to be because I parent inappropriately and because their mother is a therapist, not because I forgot to turn off the fucking iron.  (And let's be honest, it is more likely to be a dryer fire because the iron does not get turned on all that often in this house...)  However, at that exact moment I become firmly convinced of this dire outcome and my body starts to ready itself for fighting or flighting.  It often takes all of my strength to talk myself down and to reassure myself that my outlandish beliefs are incredibly unlikely.

I am more successful at times than others.  This Christmas season is a perfect example.  I normally have most, if not all, of my Christmas shopping completed by Black Friday.  I usually start shopping early in the year, looking for items that people would like and picking up stocking stuffers etc., as I go along.  This year I decided for some unknown reason to ignore my crazy and to try shopping like normal people do.

WTF was I thinking?  This must be the same force that makes people with diabetes stop taking their insulin, or people with alcohol dependence say "I can have just one..."  My anxiety level has been THROUGH THE ROOF the past few weeks.  I tried valiantly to tell myself Dec. 8.  Charles and I are going shopping on Dec. 8.  I tried to point out to myself that I did in fact have quite a few gifts.  That I did get a lot on Black Friday.  That I was ALMOST DONE buying stocking stuffers.

Nope.  I became increasingly convinced that my children were going to have a horrible Christmas because I was not done shopping.  That we are somehow going to face financial ruin because I was not done shopping (cause you know, all of the debt we are currently in plays NO ROLE at all...).   That I was going to forget someone because I was not done shopping, ruin their Christmas as well, and create yet another serial killer by doing so.

I wish this was hyperbole; that I was exaggerating. It is not.  Being unorganized and not having a plan or things together...add that to my list of things that the devil will torture me with when I get to hell, along with people walking around saying "I seen" and "You was".  I was getting increasingly distressed because I was not done.

I caved.  I placed an amazon.com order today and finished my shopping.

This, people, is my Christmas gift to you:  If you ever feel as though you are losing it, come back and re-read this post.  My crazy is sure to make you feel better about whatever you are facing.

You're welcome.

Validation

After Alexis came inside from playing outside one blustery day, she turns to me and goes, "It smells like cold  outside."

Yes, child...yes it does.

Shopping II

So my husband must have mixed some bath salts into my coffee this morning because I decided that it would be a fine idea to go grocery shopping this afternoon.  At Walmart.  On a Saturday.  Only bath salts could possibly induce the delusion that this is a fine idea.

So I pull into the parking lot and find a spot that is close to a cart corrall and far enough away from the entrance that I can lie to myself and say that I am walking for my health, yet close enough that I don't actually break a sweat.  I get out of the car and narrowly avoid being clipped by the 100 year old lady driving a car that I am pretty sure doubles as an aircraft carrier while she is trying to park in those handicapped spots that run parallel to the flow of traffic.  Apparently to park in these one requires the dexterity of a surgeon.  She had the dexterity of Lenny from Of Mice and Men.  Despite what should have been a warning to get the hell out of there, I cheerily walked in and selected a cart.

Foolishly believing that because the first one I got did not have any annoying squeaks or require an alignment it was going to be a great trip, I briskly walk through the entrance.  On a related note, has anyone ever bitched about the exposure to whatever mysterious forces works the alarms at department stores?  I mean, really, aren't they somehow altering my DNA?  Maybe that explains the force that is Charlie...it is some kind of weird force like the radioactive spider was for Spiderman.  Or perhaps that is why I walk into Target to get laundry detergent and end up with a new bed set and shoes for the entire family...some kind of mind control.

Anyways, I am not 50 feet into the entrance when someone from 100 yards away spots the Thanksgiving display (the whole two foot by four foot display, that was the only one in the entire store, might I add).  She swoops in for the kill like a perigrene falcon does with a mouse.  Frightened that I might snatch up all 14 turkey tablecloths and 27 paper plates and napkin packages that there were, she darts in front of me and cuts me off.  They really need to equip those carts with horns.  Gritting my teeth, I walk around her and to the health and beauty section.

There, I search for an aisle that is not overly crowded to cut through so I can get to the back where the children's Zyrtec is.  I finally find one and sneak back there, only to find the mystery cart.  The cart that is half full, yet with no owner.  WTF, people?  If only they made it so that carts were able to go with you to where you needed to go....

I grab what I need and attempt to get to a main aisle.  There, at the end of the aisle that I had the misfortune to choose, were two old ladies chatting up a storm.  And blocking the whole fucking aisle.  Having no choice but to press on due to the traffic behind me, I politely say, "Excuse me".  They turn and glare at me.  I fully expected their eyes to roll back and to see flames dancing in them.  Indignant at being asked to be polite, they begrudgingly move out of the way, giving me the stink eye the entire time.

I head over to produce.  While examining the lettuce, those fucking sprayers come on to lightly mist the veggies.  I never understood the reason for that stupid spray...Because apparently, the same logic behind a wet t-shirt contest works for selling veggies?  Slightly damp now, I press on and turn the corner.

I run smack dab into someone who is re-stocking the shelves.  Because you know, it is super important to make sure that there are 4, 798 additional packages of hot dog buns on the shelves to supplement the 7,906 that are already there.  Super important.  There might be a run on hot dogs.  They are really popular right around Thanksgiving, I hear.

Aggravated, I finally finish up and head to the checkouts.  People joke about the number of checkouts that are open, but really, I think that the powers to be at the stores really make sure that there is an inverse relationship between the number of people in the store and the number of registers open just to fuck with the general public.  So I get in line and wait.  I see a client and quickly duck down to read a magazine cover until they pass.  I check my phone to see if perhaps time had stopped because that line sure wasn't moving.  I finally get to the checkout.  I wince at the total...I spent how much and got nothing but a cart full of things that will last us a week...then I get to have the privilege of doing it all again?

The real kicker is...I didn't buy ANY alcohol.  Really, they should hand that and/or Xanax out at the doors just for surviving. 

Immunity

One of the hardest things for me to come to terms with in dealing with two separate autoimmune diseases is the fact that I now have a compromised immune system due to the medications that I am taking.  It is quite ironic in a way...the very medications that slow the progression of my diseases and keep my own body from attacking itself, my blood from clumping and killing me, my immune cells from making my salivary glands produce spit, my nasal cavities and my lungs from drying out, are the same medications that make my immune system not attack the very things it should attack.

Don't get me wrong...it is not like I have to go around wearing a mask or a full body suit or anything.  I am not on my way to be the next bubble boy (or girl, since I lack the requisite penis to be a boy...).  It just means that a simple cold can very quickly progress to a sinus infection, bronchitis, or even pneumonia.  Secondary infections are very quickly becoming a given with me versus an occasional occurrence. Flu shots are no longer optional as the flu could very well kill me.

This is hard for me to accept sometimes.  Just the other day, I had to leave work because I got violently ill. I puked twice there, then twice more at home.  I am still not sure what was going on there...I wonder if it was something that might have given someone else just a rumbly in their tummy.  I hate that I have to use sick time, to leave work, because of this.  I hate that a simple cold forces me to have to take cough medicine and decongestants in the hope that I can stave off a bacterial infection.  I hate that I feel so badly when I get sick.

I would estimate that about 95% of the time, I feel good.  My meds work.  But that other 5%...ugh.  It is the ultimate betrayal when your own body turns against itself.  Then when you fight back and cause other issues...it is hard.  Especially when you are one who is used to just working through illness.  Having to accept that I physically CAN'T anymore is hard.

It was a lesson I needed to learn though...how to care for myself.  Most women tend to need this lesson.  It is a shame that it took this to get me to learn it.  It is more a shame that society will look at me and tell me that I need to just buck up and deal with it.  If I could not feel this way, I wouldn't.  I would trade all of my sick days for never having to deal with these issues.  But the reality is there is not a cure.  So I trudge along and hope that one day there will be.

Dog

Spartacus was barking hysterically this evening.  Now, that dog does not bark usually.  It is actually a pretty attractive trait of his, unlike his tendency to lean into you while you are petting him to the point that he knocks you both over.  He then pouts and simpers when you stop petting him but for the love of GOD DOG I AM ALREADY BRUISED UP ENOUGH FROM CHARLIE!!!

Deogie is the one who barks because he has little dog Napoleon syndrome.  He also has a bit of an identify crisis, mostly due to him not being a Pitt Bull like he wants to be.  Maximus is just a moron and if you push him over, he just falls over and lies there.  Which is nice when you want him to stay, but kinda sad when he can't find his way out from under a blanket.

But Spartacus, unless you have a bowl of food or a bone, does not like to exert even a quarter of the energy that Deogie so effortlessly expends being a ball of anxiety or that Maximus spends being floppy.  So when he barks, I usually look immediately whereas with the other two, I take my time.

Looking outside tonight, across the empty field just beyond the walnut tree at the edge of my property, there was a man emptying his truck into the yard waste bins.  No immediate threat, except I guess Spartacus did not like the lights on the top of his truck.  I stepped outside to yell "Hush!" at him and no sooner than I did than that truck took off and left.

Spartacus turned to look at me with wide eyes.  His reverential stare said, "OMG!  You made it go away!  MY HERO!!!"  He then laid down contentedly with a happy grin on his face.

If only my kids stayed thinking I had magical powers like the dogs.  Instead, they grow up and realize that I am imperfect.  That I can't give them everything their heart desires.  That I am human. 

You can learn a lot about how a dog loves his or her human.  Sometimes, we need to be reminded of why we love the ones around us.  We need to return to that simple way of being.  Minus the leg humping, cause that might get you arrested.

Delusional

There needs to be a Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders diagnostic code for the psychotic state that is toddlerhood, I think.

Seriously.  Toddlers are some of the most rapidly cycling, labile, and quite frankly DELUSIONAL individual people on the planet.  Teenagers run a close second.

I have both in my household.

I also consume alcohol.

There may be a correlation.  Or causation.  Just sayin'.

Back to toddlerhood...they have some of the most firmly held beliefs in recorded and non-recorded history.  Ever try changing a toddler's mind about wearing a coat?  Eating dinner?  Not playing in traffic?  They hold onto their delusional beliefs with a steadfastness that cult leaders should study and try to perfect.  So do teenagers, but the bad part is they can argue back and aren't easily manhandled into doing what you want.  I can't exactly hold Elizabeth down and shove her into a coat.  Though I imagine it would be entertaining to a lot of people should I try.  I might also make the news for my 15 minutes...

I have been trying to change Charlie's mind about calling me Mommy.  It is too goddamned big for her to do this.  I am Mama and she is my baby.  End of story.  I was trying to get her to call me Mama instead and she just looks at me like I am smoking crack and goes about her day.

I tried to push the issue with her.  I told her, "Mommy is not an option here.  I am Mama.  You call me Mama and you are my baby."

She looked me directly in the eye and goes, "OK, Dada."  Then giggled.

Pass the martinis....

Saved

One thing that I repeatedly hammer home to my chemical dependency group is the disease model of addiction.  Chemical dependency is a progressive, chronic, treatable, and fatal disease, just like diabetes, thyroid disease, or heart disease.

And Sjogren's.

I don't often think about Sjogren's in that light.  No one really wants to confront their own mortality, let alone the possibility that a condition you have could potentially hasten it.  My father died from complications stemming from it.  It is a treatable, but not curable, disease.

I don't often think about the fact that my dry eyes will get worse.  That I might lose my teeth due to the dry mouth.  That my sinus infections might get more frequent and severe.  That I am more susceptible to pneumonia.  Neuropathy. Lymphoma. 

I never know what kind of day I am going to wake up to.  Most mornings, I move like an old lady getting out of bed.  The early morning stiffness most days lessens and I can function.  Then there are days when my body just aches.  When walking hurts.  When sitting hurts.  When the fatigue is so mind numbing that even sleep is not a relief.  Getting a simple cold is not simple for me.  It always almost develops into a sinus infection or bronchitis that requires antibiotics.

That being said...I can treat all of this.  I take medications to slow the progression of the disease.  I can limit my intake of gluten to help with the inflammation of my joints.  I can use eye drops, drink plenty of water, and suck on sugar free hard candies.  I can take antibiotics when I get an illness that other's immune systems would be able to fight off.

I know that how I feel some days is not normal.  I know to do all of this to take care of myself because I have a diagnosis.  I have a diagnosis because of my son.

Had Gabe never died, I would never have stopped to take a look at my own health.  I would have continued to think that the mind numbing fatigue was a function of being a parent.  That the joint pain was just from over use.  My eyes and mouth have been dry for so long that I don't remember what they feel like normally.

Had Gabe never died, I may have had many complications.  Not only do I have Sjogren's, but I have a clotting disorder.  What would it have taken to get my attention?  A stroke?  Pulmonary embolism?  Permanent incapacitation?  

I now focus on the fun in my life, precisely because I don't know for how long I can fully enjoy it.  I try to laugh at myself and the absurd around me because there are days when I don't want to.  I try to be there for my children who are living to the fullest I can now, because I don't know for how long my health will stick around.

I don't want my kids to remember me as being sick.  I also don't want Gabe's death to have been in vain.  The greatest gift that my son gave to me and his sisters is the gift of that diagnosis and the treatment that accompanies it.  Because of Gabe, I can eliminate that fatal part of the disease definition.

Thank you, son.