Sunday, February 27, 2011

Abdominal Pain

It's back.

The last time I felt like this was a little over a year ago.  In January of 2010 I actually went to the ER and spent a few days in the hospital.

I don't know what else to say, other than I feel like I am complaining a lot.  I feel like she thinks I am just complaining.  I am hearing, "Call the doctor" a lot, but what she doesn't understand is that I've BTDT with the doctor and I just got those bills paid off.  They never did tell me what was wrong with me.  I really don't want to run up more Dr. bills.  (It seems regardless of health insurance status, everything is a quarter of a million dollars to run -  blood work, CT scan, sono, FUCK I even had an ERCP... they found nothing.)

I don't know what the point of this is.  I just feel sick.  No, I don't want to to eat.  No, I don't want to play Sorry Sliders.  No, I don't want to paint anyone's finger nails.  No, I don't want to answer the "Why" question all day long.  I don't want to do anything except curl in a ball.

I'll be honest.  I am afraid.  I'm afraid of what the pain is from.  Afraid I'll always have it.  Afraid I'm going to go into debt again.  Afraid I'm going to live in pain because I don't want to go into debt again.  Afraid she doesn't believe me. 

I know I'm not being rational.

Friday, February 25, 2011

I Lie.

I lie to my shrink.  Well, she's not technically my shrink.  She is the PA at my psychiatrist's office.  I see her and not the actual Crazy Doc because it seemed at one time easier to get an appointment with her.  That's it.  The only reason.  The availability.  In my state she does have prescriptive authority, so it seemed like a true win-win situation.  (I don't know how the PA thing works in other states and I just don't care enough to look it up- I'm looking up enough shit for grad school.)

You can own these chairs too! Visit:
When I did see a shrink though, there were times when he and I would have what I called "The stare down session."  This would be where he and I would sit in uncomfortable leather wing back chairs (much like the ones I found for sale on the Internet and posted here).  However, our chairs were on opposite corners of the room.  

During "Operation Stare Down" I would look at my hands or my feet, his desk, try to figure out what book he was reading.  I would look at his shoes.  I would look around the room for the tissue box, because when I did need it I could never find it.  I think he moved it each week on purpose.  Occasionally, I would look up at him and then he would give me a grin.  Or was that a smirk?  Was he smiling at me to reassure me?  Was he smirking at my uneasiness?  I hated those sessions.  WHAT THE FUCK was he doing?  I think he could have let it go on for an hour like that... if I hadn't started talking about something.  Anything.

That's when I started with dream analysis.  I would tell him my dreams that I remembered from that previous night or throughout the week.  I am a vivid dreamer.  He seemed very excited about that and would literally spring from his chair and hop to his desk to grab a notepad to take notes.

The note taking made me more nervous than "Operation Stare Down."  Was I talking too fast?  Is he recording verbatim?  Is he taking personal notes?  Is he just making a grocery list for later?

All in all I liked that therapist the most, and I lied to him the least.  You have to understand... it's not that I enjoyed lying to previous therapists or counselors.  I wasn't ready though.  I was not ready for the realness behind a true therapeutic relationship and a true therapeutic session.  As soon as I stopped lying in therapy, I stopped lying to myself, I stopped lying in my relationships with friends and loved ones. 

I lied for a long time.  To myself.  To my husband.  To my kids.  To my friends.  I'm not just talking about my sexual identity.  I really lied.  About everything.    Sometimes I would lie about things I didn't need to lie about.   Sometimes I lied because it was easier than the truth.  Sometimes I lied just because it's what I had always done.

Currently, I do not.  I have found that the statement, "Honesty is the best policy" (or whatever the fuck that statement is) kinda is true.  If you can find a way to be appropriately honest, in the appropriate time, it is always best.

Old me sometimes tries to tap me on the shoulder.  On Wednesday of this week I had a phone conference appointment with one of my instructors at noon.  S and I were all wrapped up on the couch in a blanket loving on our Josephine and loving on each other.  S had to leave on a trip at 2... I got busy pressing her uniforms, making sure her suitcase was packed right, etc.  When S left a little after 2 I realized I fucking forgot my phone appointment with my instructor!  Goddammitmotherfuck!  Immediately, I thought, "just call her and tell her you've been sick and just woke up.  Or email her and tell her you've been sick...."

Whoa.  Whoooaaaa.  Wait a minute.  Uh huh. 

I called her immediately and apologized.  I told her I got very busy with "things around the house" and if she needed to reschedule... if this was a bad time... She stopped me and with a laugh said she completely understood and this time was just fine.

Phew.  Okay.  So while I feel like an idiot for completely forgetting my phone appointment, at least I don't feel like shit for lying about it.

Yep.  Very simple, very basic things like that.  Things that maybe everyone else takes for granted.  But I actually make a conscious effort to do.  Because I find it part of my authenticity.  In fact, last year Motherless threw it in my face that I "am a liar" and that she "cannot believe anything I say."  It might not be fair to quote that, bit it was something very similar to those words.  It stung and she was right.  I told her so.  I told her that I had lied to her and to a lot of people, but that I was working hard to not do that anymore.  I told her I would just have to prove myself to her ... I just wanted a chance.  I wanted her to give me a chance.

based on that fucking paper?  I just feel good.  Here, Give me it back.  I'll change a few to 50.  That was their sole basis.  The paper.  I was sleeping, eating, concentrating well, anxiety was in check, etc.  Ugh.  I just didn't want them fucking with my doses so I thought... well... I thought I needed to be 100.

Apparently 100 is bad.  I have never made that mistake again.  Now, I write in numbers I make up... 65.... 80 (careful now... don't get too close to 100).... sometimes 55....

With the anxiety part of the form the goal is lower numbers so I write in numbers like... 15.... 30.... 8.... buwahahahahaha.  I refuse to use the 0, 25, 50, 75, 100. 

At my last appointment this week, I realized I am the only asshole filling this paper out.  Is this the PA's tool?  She's a tool.

I finally get in to her office after waiting in the waiting room for 45 minutes, and I realize I need a refill for my anxiolytic of choice.  We have to talk about my anxiety.  Really - truly - the only anxiety I am having right now in my life is surrounding her, her office practices, and the fucking Depression and Anxiety Tool she is making (what appears to be) only me fill out in the waiting room.

So I lied.  I told her how much better I've been doing since last time we met and she gave me all those really good ideas about time management and list making and how now I feel a lot more in control of my worry and anxiety and ..... I can see her chest puffing as I am talking.  She is smiling too.  I'm trying not to roll my eyes as she gets out some special notepads made specifically for list taking with little check boxes so you can check off what you've completed.

Oh that's what I need.  Check boxes.  That will help me, a busy working mom of five kids in grad school.  A FUCKING LIST WITH CHECK BOXES.  How about you just fill my Rx for that Ativan just in case these little check boxes don't work?

I leave her office and look at my Rx in my hand.  She wrote it wrong again.  My antidepressant is an XL not an SL.  Which, by the way dumbass, there isn't an SL... it's SR.  
I have 90 days to find someone new.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

It's a GIRL!

I've been so absent in my blog world lately because I've been so present in my real world.  Motherless has been coming over more and more.  I have been so freaking happy it's almost sickening.  I told S the other morning that it will be "back to normal" when we have a fight.  You know - have an explosion, and then realize that we are both still there, loving each other and everything is going to be okay.  Like moms and daughters do.  This is usually over a parenting matter where one person is just trying to do what's best for the other.  S was all like, "Uh.  NO. I hate it when she is mean to you."

My wish came true.  Sorta.  I'll get to that later, read on.

S and I recently became the very proud parents of a little guinea pig girl.  We named her Josephine.  Stand by for annoying parental bragging photos:

Our baby, Josephine.

When we saw her - no, more like when we held her - we knew she was coming home with us.  S tried talking the kids into taking her home, but L had her heart set on a couple of gerbils.  So I said to S, "Let's get her and she can be our fur baby."

Look at that face.  Really.  Look.
ohmygod! S got so excited when she heard that.  This is the first time in her life that she hasn't had a pet of any kind.  To be honest, I've been ready for a pet too.  I think the house needs something here that the kids can enjoy and look forward to coming to every week.  PLUS, and this might sound totally fucking crazy and I don't give a shit... but The Baby is 3 now, and this is about the time that I start jonesing real bad for another baby.  I know... crazy shit.  S and I already decided... no babies.  So, this little Josephine, fucking perfect.

S makes fun of this picture.

She says I look like a new mother; beaming with pride and love.

I am.

Anyway, we get her home, and I cannot and will not put her in her cage.  I am so excited about my our new baby.  I want to tell Motherless.  I want Motherless to see her, hold her, love her like I do.  I know Motherless will... you see Motherless is an animal person, just like S is (*sigh*)... and Motherless had the cutest fucking guinea pig that she had to let go of not too long ago.  I can tell she grieved that loss.  It was hard for her.  I was apprehensive about how she would feel about Josephine because of the loss of her piggie.

I texted her and told her my exciting news.

What did she do?  She texted back that she was worried I was going to lose interest in a month and not take care of Josephine and she didn't want to feel responsible for that.  She also reminded me of previous pets we owned while I was married to her dad that...err... didn't go well.  Then, the proverbial cake topper was when she informed me that the kids aren't at my house enough to warrant a pet and all of their responsibilities.


I was in tears.  Not gonna lie.  And I told her so.  "That hurts."

I know the number of days my kids are here a week.  I don't need reminding... and goddamnmefortrying to create a fucking home here for them, for her too.  A place they can feel comfortable.  A place they want to come back to.

I just let it go with her.  She was parenting me and it fucking hurt, and I'll be honest, it was a little insulting.  But, I just let it go.

A few hours later, she texted that she was "secretly jealous of Josephine because she missed her guinea pig so much."  I commended her for admitting that.  And we joked around.  And she has been coming over and loving on Josephine ever since.  And loving me.  And I've been loving her.  So, we had our little fight and we all survived.  I know bigger ones will come.  I'm trying to brace myself.  I wonder though if the bigger fights will come when I am parenting her... or if she will just keep trying to parent me. 

Motherless giggling at her fur sissy.

We discovered Josephine is pregnant.  Due any day now.  Only I could pick out and fall in love with a pregnant guinea pig.  We thought she was just fat.  We loved that about her.  Her big, round, fat belly - well, that and her super messy hair.  (Did you get a look at that hair?  OMG it's a wreck!)

Her first night in our home, I was holding her and I told S... "I think I feel fetal movement in here!"  I made S feel.  Then we did our Internet research and determined that she was indeed pregnant.  Crazy.  Just crazy.

I'm convinced this is why I wanted her.  (See, now I'm the one who wanted her, not S.)  Because I wanted her to have a homebirth, surrounded by love and comfort.

 We have decided that if Josephine goes into labor and S is gone on a tip, Motherless will come to help with the delivery.  This is actually kind of funny, because "help with the delivery" should include nothing more than staying out of Josephine's way.  Pretty much what midwives do.  We are the guardians of normal, safe birth.  I will (hopefully) get to show Motherless a little bit about what midwives do... a little bit of how we "sit on our hands" and let the mamas follow their instincts, trust their bodies, and just give birth!

Midwives intervene when they need to.  If there is trouble, an emergency, something of that order.  And we will with Josephine too.  Like if one of her pups needs a face cleaning.  Or if there is a dystocia.  I actually have no idea what to do with a guinea pig dystocia, but I am pretty sure it is NOT the same thing we do with a human dystocia.

Here's a little secret for you all... even if S is here, not on a trip, I am calling Motherless to come right over.  She has got to be a part of this.

I never knew I could be this much in love with so many creatures.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Motherless: Home Again

I have been very hesitant to blog about Motherless recently.  I'm afraid I'm dreaming and if I blog about it, I might wake up.  That sounds cheesy.  I know.  But it's true.  Things between her and I have been so good lately that I am afraid I might do something wrong to "jinx" this.

That doesn't happen though.  Right?

After her pre-birthday date with me we kept up communicating really well.  She has been coming over to my house to watch movies and we eat, laugh, and even TALK.  We sit on the couch and everything.  At first it was more painful to have her coming here... because it made it even more lonely when she wasn't.  Also, the fact that she doesn't know where the spoons are, or where the light switch in the kitchen is... makes me very sad.  She should know that.  She should know where we keep the cereal.  She should know these little things that make it feel like she is part of this family... our family.  But, she keeps coming over.  I think she might start to learn where these things are...

Last night we watched Best in Show (a hilarious mocumentary about dog shows).  Then I made her watch Waiting for Guffman which is another one of Christopher Guest's hilarious mocumentary type films.  Really people, just watch them.  We laughed so hard.  I gave her a little mini-facial with a homemade sugar scrub.  I rubbed some Aveeno lotion on this really weird diffuse sandpaper like rash all over her trunk. (Sorry to get nurse-like, but I'm thinking Scarlet Fever here.  I didn't mention it to her because I didn't want to freak her out.)

This past weekend we spent an afternoon together and picked out her graduation dress (she's graduating from Jr. High this spring).  It's beautiful.  She is beautiful.  I felt so honored to be able to be a part of it.  Just six months ago I remember tearing up, thinking... "I wonder if Motherless will let me help her with picking out dresses for dances and graduations and such."  It made me very sad to think that... no... that I might miss out on that.  But I was starting to come to an acceptance.

I was starting to be able to allow myself to accept whatever she could give me.

And now, she's giving me more than I ever thought possible right now.  She even came for dinner last weekend.  I had my whole family there.  All five of my babies... and my love.  After we ate, we all watched a movie, then I took Motherless to her friend's for a sleepover.  My heart full... I slept peaceful that night.

Last night I hugged her and kissed her on the forehead.  She's taller than me now so this felt awkward for several reasons.  

After she had gotten back to her father's house, I had to ask her... I couldn't take it any longer... We texted this:
I am in green and Motherless is in grey.

So there you have it. 

I have never felt more loved and accepted. 

I only hope that she feels the same from me.

Please Excuse Me: I'm New Here.

That's what I say often when I seem to be clueless.  Which happens a lot.  Like at work... when I can never remember where the extra peri-pads are... or when I call the operator instead of registration to put through an admission.  I just say, "Uh sorry, I'm new here."

I've worked there for almost five years.

Another example: I take the kids on a road trip to a museum, park, or pool, and I don't bring any snacks, towels, or diapers.  "I'm new here."  Like I'm a first time mom... or a babysitter.  Actually I think sitters and nannies are super well prepared.  In fact I've been jealous of their organization before.  SOME even make spreadsheets for meal planning.

My point... oh... my wedding dress.  I found it.  It's exactly right.  There is nothing I want to change.  (Except maybe the waist measurements, but I'm gonna try to stick with that P90X thing and see what happens.)  It's even vintage... from Etsy... so it's all recycled and everything.  It makes me feel so good inside.

The description:

1950's party dress in a pale pink sheer chiffon with pink underlayer. Ruched bodice with cowl overlay and sash in back. Full skirt and metal zipper at side seam with hook and eyes.

It was listed for under $300.00.
That's right.  I mean it just doesn't get any better.  I felt like I was dreaming.  Did you read that description?  PINK CHIFFON.

 And here is a photo of the lovely back of the dress.

That is what sold me.  The sash.  I literally did a little gasp when I saw the photo of the back...

Okay, I know I sound very materialistic right now.  Obsessing and drooling over this dress for what... for my wedding day.  Well.  Well yeah.  Fuck yeah.  I don't even care that it's my second wedding.  It's S's first.  And it's my last!  (Is it okay to laugh at that?  I can never tell what is in bad taste when it comes to second marriages...)

As soon as I got the approval from my go-to-girl, Jess, I went straight to Etsy and bought this.  I don't like to buy clothes without Jess.  She knows how to dress me.  Whenever I buy clothes without her, I end up hating what I've bought and/or feeling like shit when I wear what I've bought.  Whenever I am making a "big" purchase like this I ask her opinion.

So yeah.  I'm embarrassed to admit that, in the literal sense of the word, "I'm new here" when it comes to Etsy - as in I've used it as shopping porn, but I've never made a purchase.  This was my first Etsy purchase.  So I think it is fair and reasonable that I missed something.  Something kind of big.  I was excited.  I didn't see this:
This dress is reserved for echosketch until Friday 2-18-11.
Who the fuck is this echosketch bitch?  And why does she think she can RESERVE my dress until Friday?  
I promptly emailed the Etsy store owner and strung those words together a little nicer - plus I added my (now) famous line... "I'm new here!"  Apparently this chickie doesn't get paid til Friday.  Uhm.  Yeah.  I gots the bills now.  Ship my dressie!!  IT IS MINE. (Please picture a pout and a foot stomp.)

So now we wait.  If she buys the dress on Friday, there is still hope, says the Etsy store owner.  Apparently echosketch is also concerned about size and may return the dress if it doesn't fit.  (Dude.  P-90-X plus a yeast cleanse... it might work.)  

I don't know if I'm getting all Bridezilla now or what, but I've been a little weepy over this.  I thought about going back online and searching for other vintage dresses... but then I decided to give myself the night off.  I need time to grieve.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Something Old. Something New. Something Borrowed. Something Blue.

Yes, I'm that girl.  I think we've established that.  Or you're starting to see it now, aren't you?  While I claim to be this feminist, lesbian who wants to have a non-traditional relationship... there it is.... these little instances of "tradition" that I just- like.  I don't know why.

Connections.  I feel a connection?  Perhaps.

At first I thought I didn't want a diamond ring (or any ring at all) from S.  The ring she gave me in August was going to be just fine!  A simple silver band, that is all I need.  But she kept saying things like, "You need a proper ring."  And would ask if I liked diamonds or other stones.  Between her and I we both have plenty of other pieces of jewelry that could easily be reset into a new ring.  But I didn't want a traditional wedding ring. 

I didn't want a traditional marriage.

S wants to wear a ring.  A simple band.  I started searching for eco-friendly materials.  I searched for recycled rings.  I even found recylced wedding bands that were matching for each of us.  Each time I got online though, my browsing would direct me... somehow... to pretty-shiny-rings.  I just can't help it.  I like the shiny.

But no!  I was so resistant.  I would close my browser and be so frustrated with myself.  Confused too.  Once, I even put on my wedding set from my ex husband.  Oh god.  I just realized S will read this. - Eh, I'm not editing.  She'll be fine. - So, I put that on... and it was like an epiphany.  I got it. 

I didn't want a traditional marriage. 

It had nothing to do with that wedding set.  I put those pretty rings on, and I felt nothing for him.  Nothing for our marriage (not to sound callous, but the rings don't evoke emotion about my marriage to him).  The rings just didn't symbolize that FOR ME.

They are just shiny-pretty-rings.

And I wanted one.

Then I saw S's ring that was her grandmother's.  I remember one day when she put it on my finger and said, "I want you to wear this.  I think this would look better on you than me."  It is a very pretty ring.  For some reason I never felt comfortable wearing that ring.  It isn't because I didn't like it.  I loved it.  I thought it was beautiful.  I was touched.  I was so touched I didn't want to cry.  But, something about wearing it, didn't feel right.

Her grandmother is dead.  I didn't know if it had something to do with her spirit.  I believe strongly in things like this... maybe her spirit hadn't let go yet... was still here.  I'll not go any further with that.  I'll just stop there.  My point, is that I never wore the ring.  I just didn't feel it was right for me.  But I wanted to.  I would look at it.  And try it on.  And take it off.

Then on my "date" with Motherless, for her pre-Birthday, I wore it.  And it felt right.  I wore it for a few days before it hit me.  This is my wedding ring. 

I don't know if you all think I'm crazy now or what.  But, I don't really give a fuck.  The ring is too big for me.  So I had to wear it on my right hand, second finger... it almost fits best on my index finger of my right hand.  The more I realized how "right" the ring was, the more calm and settled I felt.  A couple days later, I asked S if she thought it would be an appropriate wedding ring.  "Of course," she said. 

Last week we went to the jeweler and picked a band out for her, and they will size her grandmother's ring as well.  The very well meaning sales ladies (think- big hair, leggings, knee high boots, too much makeup, rings larger than I've ever seen, and bracelets on each writs, big watches, etc...) tried to convince me I needed a wedding band as well - to show that I'll be married.  However, with the design of the ring, the band would need to be a wrap around type of a thing, and would need to be soldered to the original ring.

No.  I don't need a band to show or prove my marriage.  No.  I do not want to alter this very special ring that S's grandmother probably took such great pride in, and her grandfather probably worked his ass off to give her.  Thank you, but no.

actual wedding photo of a friend.  her grandmother's shoes.
Traditions.  Connections.  They must actually mean something to me.  Not to society. 

We are still waiting for our rings from the jeweler.  When they call me, I think I'm going to discuss with S waiting to wear them.  Our state recently passed a Religious Freedom and Civil Union Act; however, it will not go into effect until after June 1, 2011.  We've discussed getting married (real-same-sex-married) in another state or even another country.  We have even discussed NOT getting married but having our own little ceremon(ies) whenever and where ever we feel like it with whomever we want present.  We have discussed our families.  Do we want them there?  Do they want to be there?  My children... our children... are they going to be there....  If it's a "destination wedding" how will that work with five kids... oh wait... four... because will Motherless attend?  OH FUCK... I'm rambling....

I'm a traditionalist.  I want a ceremony.  I want to put our rings on each other, and I want vows- maybe even vows we've written ourselves.  I don't think this will make it mean any more than if we didn't do it.  But I do think it is more romantic.  I do think it will be nice to have that memory.  I do think it will be a nice addition to "our story" that we get to tell our next generations. 

I don't know the logistics yet.  But as S so eloquently put it to the jeweler when asked if we were in a rush to get her band, "There is no rush.  There's no shotgun here.  It's not like anyone's pregnant."