Tag: Depression

Sometimes I’m sad. And that’s ok.

Tell Me Why You Cry

Ok, I’ll tell you.

Eight years ago, I inherited my grandmother’s Christmas cactus. It has moved from New York to Kentucky, and then on to Alabama. This sucker is pretty darn big. And glorious.

The first bloom, in my care.

A few weeks ago, Justin pointed out that it was looking……not great. It was wilty and sad. I shrugged it off–we’ve been through hard times before, and there have been some segment losses along the way, but it always turns out ok in the end.

Except, it wasn’t turning around.

I thought maybe it needed a change of scenery. It has lived by our front door for over a year. Maybe it wanted more direct sunlight??

Entryway home – Before things got bad.

I swapped it out with another Christmas cactus, one I got 2 years ago on sale after Christmas. That one was happy; it was budding! Maybe this old broad just needed a vacation.

It simply wasn’t perking up. This morning I climbed up on a chair to see what was going on in there. I gently picked up one limb, and…it broke off! Not only did it break off, but it was slimy and smelled. What is going on here!?!? I picked up another limb, and this one oozed…and then fell off. I killed it!!!

Not only did I kill it, but what’s remaining looks like Danny DeVito!

See the DeVito resemblance?!

By this point, I was panicking and crying. This is so ridiculous, why am I crying over a damn plant!?

Before you start thinking these tears are because I had some amazing relationship with my grandmother, let me just stop you there. We were not close. In fact, my Mom was one of the Disowned Children. I didn’t see my grandparents from before my teen years, until I was in my 20s. I really just loved the plant, and I loved the idea that it was almost as old as me. The fact that it had been my grandmother’s was more just a neat plant history tidbit. Christmas Cactus: The Early Years.

Now it has root rot, and this is so 2020, it hurts.

To top it all off, as I was driving to pick up supplies, in an attempt to revive the damn thing, I passed Xander’s school and instantly remembered that today was picture day! And I didn’t bring him at 8:45 for pictures!!!

So now I have a dying cactus that looks strangely like Danny DeVito, a son who who’t get school photos this year, and I found out I didn’t get the job I applied for two years ago!

Wait. Stop. What?!

I received two email notifications this morning, about an aquatics job I applied for in 2018. One informed me that I am unqualified and ineligible; the next informed me that I am qualified…and ineligible. I honestly don’t know what is happening at this point. Did someone wake up this morning and decide it was time to clean out their inbox, because believe me, I figured out some time in the beginning of 2019 that I obviously didn’t get the job. So, that’s for the weird emails with conflicting informations. I wouldn’t have taken the job anyway.

Then, after picking up the supplies I need to hopefully salvage some portion of this poor, old ass cactus, I went grocery shopping at Aldi…where multiple people were buying mass quantities of eggs. Fifteen dozen, 20 dozen, and thirty-four dozen!!! Is there some crazy Thanksgiving tradition that I’m unaware of, that requires hundreds of eggs (to be fair, the woman who announced, “I have 34” dozen eggs also had about 15 jugs of hand soap. So maybe she’s just doomsday prepping)?!

So now I’ve killed my ancient cactus, missed picture day, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing with hundreds of eggs, I didn’t get a job I applied for two years ago. Oh! And I dressed for cold weather (since it’s been in the low 60s all week, and it was 80º! I was wandering around in the world, in a fleece turtleneck thing, that I couldn’t take off, because I decided it would be smart to wear a tank top that should only ever be worn as an undershirt. Which I was. But it left me with zero options for removing layers.

This day! This year!

A happier time.

Enjoy my glorious Christmas cactus, back when it was beautiful. I’m going to try to save what’s left of it.

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.

New Year, New Me

Just kidding. It’s more like New Year, Same Me…hopefully a better version of me? I’m trying.

In all honesty, in 37 years I have yet to remake myself in any way. I went away to college and told myself I would be outgoing. I transferred and told myself this time I would be outgoing. By my 20s I realized that was not really ever anything I would be, let alone anything I actually wanted. I embraced the introvert in me.

Organization is another issue for me. I’m a disaster. I’m a tornado in a trailer park. I really do try. Every move, every season, I try to be better at not being a train wreck. Again, this is easier said than done. Lists are made, and lost. I try every approach imaginable, and I always seem to find myself back in the land of Overwhelmed.

I can accept that I will never be the person whose home is something out of a magazine, but this year I really, really would like to be able to get it together and keep it that way. Fewer naps; more organizing.

Here’s hoping my depression and ADD are willing to cooperate. Because the excuse, “I couldn’t do the dishes–it was raining,” doesn’t always go over well…seeing as though dishes (and laundry, and most other cleaning tasks) take place indoors.

Happy 2020!

Sitting, Waiting, Refilling

Monday was a busy day. After dropping Rufus off for his round 2 heartworm treatment, I ran to the hospital for my own appointment–no worms involved. Between the appointment and waiting in the lab (for 30 minutes) so that I could hand the receptionist my cup o’pee, I was not feeling like waiting again at the pharmacy.

Fort Benning is a massive post. And the hospital is equally as large. Which means, any time you have new meds to pick up, you should probably just block out your whole day, because it’s going to take the rest of your life.

I skipped out, and said to myself, “you know what makes sense? Come back Thursday. Pick up your new prescription at the hospital, and then head over to the refill pharmacy (yup, that’s right. 2 separate locations, because nothing can be simple), and pick up your refills that will be ready Thursday morning.”

Of course, then Xander decided to get sick at school. Poor Xander. But I was not taking him out into the world. So, it’s fine–I’ll just move prescription pick-up to Friday.

It’s a good thing the people watching is spectacular, because after waiting 10 minutes to get a number, I was handed 355; they’re currently on 276.

I should also add that my kids have a half day, and will be home by 12:30. I planned for a 60 minute wait, but I’m now a thousand percent sure I will be here until midnight.

Thankfully, the people watching is top notch. For one thing, there are always at least a dozen basic trainees. They are usually in varying states of injured–some have masks on, some have crutches, occasionally an arm is in a sling. And then just as many look perfectly fine. One thing that is the same, regardless of their status, is their obsession with food. These boys (it’s almost always boys), they raid the vending machines. It reminds me of the way my kids reacted to the vending machine at my job–how much can we get with this money??

I know nothing about basic training, but I can assume that they are fed. Of course, to see these young men cramming their pockets full of candy bars and soda, you would think that maybe wasn’t the case.

Back when I split my forehead open, I was lucky enough to sit in the waiting room with a dozen basic trainees who were suffering from a stomach bug. At one point the triage nurse came out and went full mom: “are you here with an upset stomach?! Throw that candy and soda away, and put a mask on!” Ah yes, I also like to chug soda and eat snickers when I’m violently puking……no wait. That’s an absolute lie. Of course I also don’t go to the Emergency Room for the pukes.

The other fabulous thing to see–or hear–are the individuals who put their phone on speaker, and then tell the world about every procedure they’ve had done in the last 24 months. You had what lanced and drained?? No no, I don’t want to know about it (just kidding. Talk louder).

And finally, the people I dislike: the friend-makers. Please, if I am reading, don’t sit down next to me and try to be my friend. I’m in my cocoon of anti-social. And I certainly don’t need to hear about what your doctor thinks is wrong with you (ok, maybe I do–but I prefer overhearing to the straight-forward story-telling).

It’s been 30 minutes, and they’ve made it all the way to 289. I better cancel my Thanksgiving plans–I live here now.

I’m Judging Me

Anxiety is super judgy. It makes everyone stare at you, watching your every move.

Except, none of it is real and it’s all in your head. Your brain is the only judgy bitch in the room.

Today was Thanksgiving Lunch at school. Every year I have to force myself to go, and not be a total freak. Once again, Justin was unable to join me today, so I found myself going it alone. Which makes it worse. I can handle public situations like a boss when I have someone to hide behind.

Even though I fought with myself all morning (I don’t have to go. They’ll never notice), I sucked it up and went. Arriving early, just like they suggested. I signed in, grabbed my visitor sticker, paid, and when they called first grade parents, in I went.

I sat in a room full of strangers, proud of the face that I was doing it, and even though I hated it, I was here. The kids started pouring in. And then I realized what a terrible mistake I had made: Xander is in second grade. I was so busy making sure I survived this trauma, that I panicked and jumped the gun on actually going in.

While the first grade parents were locating their children, and the kindergarten parents were saying goodbye to theirs, I snuck out the door with my to-go container full of Thanksgiving Lunch. I hid the evidence of my failure in my car, took a deep breath and tried again.

Did I survive? Yes. Did I actually eat lunch with my kids? Well, no. But I was there.

As I headed out to my car at the end of it all, my brain announced, “good job–I knew you could do it.” Oh shut up, you judgy bitch. Where were you 2 hours ago when I needed the pep talk!?