Author: SammiSteeves

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

2004 was a year. I finally permanently walked away from my unhealthy on again/off again relationship. Back then, Justin was just my best friend, who I loved with all my heart. 2004 was the year I told myself I’d be single, promising Justin that at the end of that year, I would be willing to explore the possibility of dating him (even though I already knew I would one day marry him).

2004 wasn’t my healthiest year.

I made a lot of bad decisions. Or at least, decisions that make me look back and think, what was I thinking!?

But you can’t regret those things. Every decision you make helps lead you where you need to be.

I got my first tattoo in 2004: magenta stars on my foot. A few months later I got more stars (because, who doesn’t love stars), this time on my pelvis. They were fun and cute. I was going to add to them. Because, why not!?

I waited. In fact, I believe I waited a whole year. In that time, I also married Justin (because, when he said, “you’re never going to come visit me,” I had to prove him wrong. And 6 months later, I married my best friend).

Initially I was…not entirely impressed with my additional stars. The shop’s apprentice did them, and while I am all for giving people a chance, this girl didn’t have it. Part of the way through she said, “let’s do some stars with thick outlines, and some with thin.” Let’s just say we don’t know what we’re doing.

You know what makes a not-so-great pelvic tattoo even better? Stretching it out. Two times.

I told myself that someday, I would do something about those damn stars.

Fast forward to December, 2011. My sisters and I got matching DeBie tattoos. And the tattoo artist said, “I can fix those stars for you.” Could it be?! Is there really hope for them?!”

Sadly, before I was able to get back to New York and get back in with him, he passed away. I gave up the idea of ever getting those dang stars taken care of.

This past year, working a full time job and playing single mom (even if it is just a temporary gig), I decided to take Justin’s advice, and start treating myself. Not necessarily the way most people would choose to. My gifts to me have come in the form of needles being jammed into my skin. And then I decided it was time.

So long, farewell. After 13 years, I was ready to say goodbye to the permanent reminder of the crazy year I spent finding myself.

You won’t be missed.

And Justin? Yeah, I’ll keep him. đź’–

Sending Out an SOS

It’s been a long day/week/month/year (pick one). I unintentionally let work consume me. But this isn’t about my job. Or my depression. Or my fresh tattoo repeatedly getting stuck to my underwear all day long (for real, I would like to know the trick to making that not happen, although I’m sure it’s Don’t Tattoo Your Bajingo). This is about my flipping smoke alarms that are wired together, like a giant torture device.

Do you want tinnitus, because I’m pretty sure this is how you get tinnitus.

Let’s flash back to an hour ago. I had just peeled my underwear off of my tattoo, and was debating what I could possibly wear instead of underwear (hey Siri, what’s a good alternative to clothes), when I heard my children fighting.

Someone threw a pillow, the other threw a punch. Both were shrieking that the other was responsible. “Cut it out you two,” because I’m still trying to figure out how to approach the whole tattoo-sticking-to-my-underwear situation.

Then a door slammed.

And then, one of my nightmares came true……again.

For the fourth time in the 6 years we’ve lived here, the smoke detectors went off. This isn’t one little beeping alarm. Oh no, this is six alarms shrieking in unison throughout the house, and thus begins the fun game: guess which smoke detector has a dying battery. Instant. Anxiety.

Maybe I don’t change the batteries often enough, but twice they’ve had to replace the main control/alarm/shrieky wall decoration. One year I even said, “when I keep the carbon monoxide detector (aka the piece that holds the entire shriek system together) plugged into the system, every single alarm goes off and I can’t make them stop!” He shrugged and said, “Thur ain’t no reason for a carbon monoxide detector in these houses anyway, so just go ahead ‘n’ leave it unplugged.” Sounds like a plan! Until the follow year during our annual inspection, the next guy said, “let me replace that for you.” No! Please don’t!

I don’t even know why they’re all interconnected, other than to destroy my eardrums as I run screaming through the house, disconnecting every single flipping smoke detector in the house. Somebody make it stop!!!

My ears are still ringing.

This is probably what Justin hears every day of his life.

I now have 5 smoke detectors and a carbon monoxide detector, sitting battery-free on my counter. Until I feel like playing this game again.

I keep asking, “is there still an alarm going off?!”

Now. About this tattoo-sticking-to-my-underwear issue……

Don’t Tell Me to Stop

So, my blood pressure has been astronomically high since…honestly, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but back in February, my dentist pointed out how dangerously high it was. I take nothing seriously, so at the time I said “ok. I’ll look into it.” A few weeks later when I went back to get a few broken fillings replaced (nighttime Sam has spent over 3 decades sabotaging her smile with grinding), the dentist informed me that my blood pressure was so high, she would only do work on me if I got nitrous. Which was strangely like being drunk at the dentist (honestly, I slept through my dental work). She once again asked me to please see my doctor.

Meh.

Well, here we are, 4 months later. It’s still high in the sky, and I still rarely take these things seriously. Until my doctor last week (during a completely unrelated appointment) said, “I want you to stop taking your antidepressants.”

Umexcusemewhat??

Deer in headlights.

“How long have you been on the Effexor?”

“Um…4 years?”

“And how long has your blood pressure been high?”

“Um…”

“4 years?”

After coming out of the haze of the initial shock, I agreed that I have felt lately like it wasn’t working. But I had mostly chalked that up to other issues: my husband is on the other side of the Earth, I am a year into the full time working mom gig, 9 months into my single working mom stint. I’m a serious introvert, with a lack of a local support system. I am terrible at multi-tasking. And I inherited my Mom’s overactive tear glands.

But really, I get too overwhelmed. And if I cry any more, I might dry out and turn to dust.

I guess. I don’t know. Just when I start thinking, “maybe this week I won’t cry at work,” I have a nervous breakdown in a parking lot over a dented bumper.

So, in order to address my super-high-for-unknown-reasons blood pressure, I have to be unmedicated. For the first time since…shortly after Xander was born. That, to me, is scarier than any blood pressure, heart issue, scare.

I have dealt with/suffered from depression since I was……9? 5? Always? It’s hard to say. Meds have come and gone, and none will ever make me “normal,” but they sure do keep me from shattering plates on the floor because Justin paused too long before telling me what he wanted to drink with dinner (can we talk about the hero of this story for a minute? Because the partners of us mentally unstable squirrels are by far the most under-appreciated at times. And mine has put up with a lot in 13 years, and still sticks around to help keep me sane).

Also, the unmedicated, barely-functioning depression I suffered through while pregnant with Shea (while Justin was deployed), springs to mind. I could be a non-functioning blob before kids–that is not really a state I can enter into while having to be responsible for tiny humans.

I am officially one week into the process of slowly cutting back (so as not to be launched into the head pounding, nightmare-inducing, vertigo causing, withdrawal that this particular medication is known to cause…in me…after one missed dose). I’m still overwhelmed. I still cried today at work (literally because I was told I had to call the help-desk to sort out an employee’s timecard. And then I couldn’t find the number. And then my phone cut out. And then…tears). My blood pressure is still high.

Deep. Breath.

Stay positive.

You can do this.

Everybody Needs a Boxer for a Pillow

Justin has been a real punk lately. Not in the “you don’t appreciate me,” sense–it’s more: “you’re supposed to be the voice of reason in this relationship!”

In the last 4 days, he has tagged me in about 6 Facebook posts about dogs needing to be rehomed; two of those dogs are boxers! And Sunday my neighbor called and asked me to please adopt their boxer.

Wait, only yesterday I was in tears about how I have too much on my plate!

BUT THEY’RE BOXERS!!!

I have a real soft spot in my heart for those big dopey schmoopy faces. They are underbite and muscles and drool and trouble. And I love them all.

Where is my boxer farm already, Mr Steeves?!

In the meantime, I have to stay strong and resist all temptations to adopt all unwanted dogs in the Kentuckiana region. I want them all. But, I have to be my own voice of reason and tell myself, “no, Sam. You can’t–”

“But what if I quit my job!?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I know. But–”

“No.”

Fine. Grant me the strength I need to not adopt three more giant trouble making smooshy faces.

I won’t do it. But I sure do want to.

I have to work. To save up. For my boxer farm. Or, mostly my home for old grouchy dogs who just want to take naps.

When in Doubt, Cry it Out

I’ve been having a rough week. There is no real cause, other than depression is sometimes a rollercoaster of awesome emotions. I have found myself in tears daily.

Not just in tears, but crying as my boss talked to me.

Did I screw up? Yes. Was I in trouble? No. Was I crying because of the talk(s)? NO!

He took it like a champ. “Well now, don’t cry about it.”

“It isn’t that!” And then came straight sobbing. Which always makes me hold my breath, in a sorry attempt to stop it. Which, let’s be honest, only makes it worse.

That was Monday.

Tuesday, different talk, more tears.

I locked myself in the bathroom and had a good long sob. Pity party for one.

I thought I was good. I thought I had it under control.

Five minutes later, I was hiding in the locker room, sobbing once more. There comes a point when you realize you just have to give in and allow yourself to not be ok.

I honestly love my job, but sometimes I have regrets: I am not the type of person who can do it all. Single working moms are real life super heroes, and this past few days have been another chunk of time where I question my though process: what made me think I could go from being a Stay At Home Mom whose husband was here, to being a Full Time Working Mom whose husband was on the other side of the globe!?

My morning started off no better. This is the point in the story where I also explain that my blood pressure has been astronomically high lately. While I was making breakfasts and lunches and FaceTiming Justin, our children were going to war, simply because Shea likes to torment her little brother, and Xander likes to hold a grudge and retaliate. Justin gets to calmly sit and eat his dinner, while I try to keep this insanity in check.

Luckily for my boss, I got my daily dose of crying out of the way before he came in this morning. Honestly though, when I pulled in and saw he wasn’t there, I could hear him saying, “I just don’t think I can handle another day of Sam cryin’!” And I finally think I got all of it out of my system.

Until the next breakdown. Because depression doesn’t play by any set of rules. Depression is just that uninvited guest that shows up and eats all your ice cream, and doesn’t help you do dishes. What a jerk.