Tag: Anger

Break My Stuff, Before You Go-Go

Our household goods arrived yesterday, which sounds like it could be a good thing. It was getting tiresome, sitting on a mattress on the floor, to watch tv. And my washer and dryer are back, so laundry can happen in-house again, which (believe me) is exciting.

Of course now there are so many boxes, we can barely navigate our way through this house, which is feeling smaller by the second. I was getting sassier and sassier, as Justin kept reminding me, “you keep saying it’ll be fine; it’s only 11 months.”

And then, upon finding the 3rd broken item, I lost my cool. And had an epic blowup tantrum.

“YEAH! Join the army! We’ll take care of you. Give us 20 years and we’ll force you to move and break all your shit! You should be grateful that we’ve only broken half your shit! Maybe next time we can break more!!!!!!”

Justin calmly stood there and didn’t once tell me to calm down or stop swearing, which I appreciate. When I was finished freaking out, he said, “but nothing in the kitchen was broken, right??”

I guess some packing person needs a gold star for successfully packing plates without breaking any. Heck, they stole (or lost) most of our silverware during the last move, so Justin didn’t even trust them with our spoons this time. He was taking no chances.

Honestly, every move we trust them with less and less…which is kind of how we ended up in the “too much stuff and not enough uhaul” situation.

When I told him he needs to find the brackets for the kids’ shelves, so I can bolt them to the walls, he whispered, “but you didn’t fill out the paperwork to drill holes in the walls yet.” We’re paying ____ a month for a shoebox! I don’t give a shit about their stupid paperwork! “Actually Sammi, it’s [more].”

You aren’t helping!!!!!!

Justin also informed me that there is a spouse briefing at the exact same time as the open house for the middle school, which seems like terrible planning on this stupid, stupid school’s part (it might not be stupid. I might just be feeling angsty still). So guess who won’t be going to the spouse brief. This is how I get a reputation for being “standoffish.” I guess today won’t be the day I learn how to properly curtsy to officer wives, or pour tea and serve crumpets. Or whatever they expect me to do. Guess what—I’m not in the army, ya bunch of crusty butts.

:::Deep breath:::

So, this morning I am quietly sitting in my “living room” that barely fits my couch, drinking my coffee and listening to the traffic noises from the highway outside our “house.” I’m once again trying to channel Bob Marley, convincing myself that “every little thing, is gonna be alright.” And maybe we’re done finding broken items. And maybe all we have to do at this point is figure out how to get everything to fit.

Grandma Got The Covid From Her Grandkids

True confessions: I hate that “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” song. It’s obnoxious. However, if people continue to be selfish, we’ll get a whole new parody, Covid-style.

What I am really having a hard time with, is the fact that a majority of these people have never missed a single family holiday get-together. So, as a person who hasn’t had Thanksgiving with family (beyond my husband and kids) since 2014, I am here to tell you, you will survive.

In 15 years, Justin and I have made it home for one Thanksgiving, back in 2006, before our wedding. In 15 years, we have made it home for 7 Christmases (ok, I managed to make it home for 10, but Justin doesn’t always have the luxury of just flying home). Ask any military family, and they can attest: you will survive.

And maybe you’re in the mindset, “it won’t get me.” Well, that is great for you, and I’m proud of your ability to stay positive…or, negative?? Either way, how much of a jerk will you feel like, if your need to spend the holidays with your relatives, ends up with a senior member of your family sick, or worse, dead? Will it have been worth it??

So, this holiday season, since so many people out there love to throw around the phrase “support our troops,” let’s play a game. Let’s all pretend we’re too far away to make it home for Thanksgiving, or Christmas. Let’s act like the soldiers stationed overseas, who don’t have the luxury of selfishly asking, “should I risk killing grandma??” We can all play soldier and spend one holiday season away from our immunocompromised relatives. If hundreds of thousands of military families stationed around the globe can do it year after year, I’m pretty sure you can suffer through this one.

Choose Your Own Adventure

Wednesday morning—yeah, Veteran’s Day—Justin checked his email on his work phone. “Well, I guess they didn’t accept my request to stay here. I just got an email that I need to rank my options for our next duty station.”

Another “choose your own adventure?!” But I thought this was the final adventure!?

I spent the past 48 hours going through the stages of grief: Denial and anger were obvious, and expected. The bargaining stage was…unexpected.

“Justin? What if you have a profile? They can’t PCS you if you’re injured, right?? So…who do you know that could sham a profile long enough for us to stay here until you can drop your retirement packet??”

This is when I get the you’re being ridiculous look. “Sammi. I can’t do that.”

“Ok, but what if I break your kneecaps?? Or maybe one…what injury could you stumble upon that would be enough to keep us here, but not bad enough to cause permanent damage…what about that shoulder of yours? What about that hamstring tear—is that something we could reenact??”

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and while it really isn’t that desperate, I’m being a big whiny baby. I don’t want to move. I feel like we just got here. Can’t we shout COVID and just stay here long enough to retire from here?

Of course not.

An army wife friend of mine shared this last week. And I almost spit my coffee everywhere.

This morning, Justin texted me to notify me that he had ranked his job options from 1 to 50. The top two would keep us here (yey). Then there are some university gigs: Alabama, Montana, Pennsylvania. This chapter of the adventure book is somewhat new, since Justin usually gets three options to choose from. Ranking 50 jobs and then holding your breath while duty stations fight over you? This is new. Or do you rank your jobs and then battle the other soldiers who chose that same duty station. Is this when Justin can put his combatives skills to the test? Is this like a Pokémon battle, Army duty station style? Fort Carson! I choose YOU (just kidding—everyone wants Fort Carson)!

As every soldier or spouse knows, nothing is set in stone until orders are in hand and the movers are at your door.

In the meantime, Justin and I will be looking at houses in Tuscaloosa…for funsies.

And now we come to stage 5: acceptance. I might not love the idea of moving again, but if it has to happen, might as well suck it up and embrace it…eventually…around March…when we actually find out if and where we’re going.

Emphasis on the If, since we definitely did the unthinkable when we spent six years at Fort Knox.

And Out Come the Wolves

Or at least the wolf spiders.

Kentucky has taught me to appreciate the giant monsters.

This evening, I spent close to an hour mowing my backyard, which, if you’ve SEEN my back yard, you would know that seems excessive for such a small space.The problem is, I haven’t been good about keeping up with it. This last month of coming off my antidepressants has been awful. It made me remember why it is I’m on them in the first place. I’ve been mean, irrational, occasionally paranoid, and a slew of other fun emotions. If I yelled at you, I’m sorry. If I cried uncontrollably in front of you, thank you for not running away–or thank you for understanding when I ran away.

If you have never dealt with a chemically imbalanced brain, it’s hard to describe the feeling of being absolutely out of control. My brain has been misfiring, pulling and pushing me in 30 directions all at once, all while a voice is yelling “you’re doing it wrong! You’re failing!” Every ounce of my strength was thrown full-force into my job, but of course with my brain not functioning properly, the mistakes have just been piling up. Again, with the neon sign flashing failure above my head. Or maybe in my head. It’s been an electrical storm of emotions, along with the deafening skepticism.

Thankfully, as of Monday, my blood pressure is back to normal–it turns out that the same medication that brought me mental stability was also trying to give me a heart attack. Honestly, after this last 2 week, I still think my mental health is more important. I would rather succumb to a heart attack than I would deal with my inner voice kicking my while I’m down.

Like the roller coaster you didn’t want to get on in the first place, you spent that entire time thinking this is awful! Make it stop! And when it’s over you vow to never do it again.I will never do that again.But back to the spiders!

In my state of meh, my lawn had become a wild jungle of almost knee-high grass. Perfect for wolf spiders–perfect for a tiny world full of insects, really. But, oh my gosh, every pass of the lawn mower, 5-15 spiders with bodies the size of quarters ran in panic! Save yourselves! She’s a functioning human being again and she’s catching up on life!!!

When we first moved to Kentucky, I remember sending a picture to my best friend (a Kentucky girl), and asking “what the heck is this!?!?” As a non-lover of spiders, Justin was called upon often in our first year–“there’s a spider in the bathroom staring at me! And I really have to pee! Please come kill it! And then he deployed and I was left to deal with them. I had to continually remind myself, they’re the good spiders. They’re the reason we have no black widows. They don’t mean to be terrifying. Now, I have a respect for them. They don’t mean to be giant, 8-legged creatures who prefer life in the tall grass of my backyard.

And now I’m sitting here realizing that my depression is a lot like the wolf spiders. I have spent my life hating it–why can’t my brain just function properly? But this is me. And I don’t mean to come in a mentally unstable package. But, at least I am back on the path to sanity.

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.