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.
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.
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……
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.
When I sat down and wrote my first blog and said this would be random and all over the place, I meant it. My life is random and all over the place. I’m trying desperately to remain calm, because I am anything BUT calm.
I suffer from depression, which manifests itself in all types of ways. Firstly (and mostly), I get angry. And not just “ooh, I was so mad.” I mean blood boiling, steam coming out of my ears anger. Where every word out of my mouth is loud and screamy, and I am often left with a sore throat. All while the little voice in my head is whispering “stop yelling,” and trying to be heard over my own voice that is streaming out of my mouth at Threat Level: Broiling Hot Lava. My husband is also somewhere about, speaking in a normal tone, telling me to stop yelling.
We Snuggled; We Snacked.
My depression has also gone so far as to become debilitating–thankfully only once. Unfortunately it was while Justin was deployed, and I was alone in Germany. And I was pregnant. And un-medicated. I could fake sanity enough to get through a 9 hour work day (which, thankfully, began at noon). My partner -in-crime (and snacking) was Bruce, our grumpy pug. We watched tv together, and got fat together. It was fabulous. I cooked for myself until I ran out of clean pots and pans. Then I ordered take-out until I built up the momentum to clean my filthy kitchen so I could start all over again. My therapist at the time was amazing, thankfully. Each week she would reassuringly say, “this week, just try to clear off…” and would name one surface in my apartment to work at. Obviously I survived, but it was certainly the lowest of low points.
Back to anger. My daughter is difficult. Shea is 8, and she is beautiful and funny and sweet. Of course then she is also defiant, confusing, and the puzzle I can not crack. Most people only see the sweet, funny girl, and that’s a good thing! Her teacher has seen both sides, and is probably the most incredible teacher she will ever have. I am beyond thankful for his ability to help her when she is at her most defiant.
This morning it was her outfit. If you know me, then you know I am very carefree. My kids can dress any way they like, even if that means Shea is wearing her white flower girl dress over a pink shirt, with rainbow leg warmers and sneakers (and Justin is staring at me and saying “she looks ridiculous!”). Today was one of those days where I had to step in, and suggest a little more. Even now, an hour after she left for school, it is only 27°F. Shea chose a long-sleeved shirt (perfect choice), multi-colored pineapple print short shorts, dinosaur leg warmers, and penguin knee socks. It was really something, BUT it’s still below freezing, so I asked her to please put a skirt over the ensemble, or a dress. Anything to add an extra layer. “I don’t have any skirts.”
“Ok, here is a skirt.”
Grumbles and growls from Shea. I then brought her 4 MORE skirts. At this point, she is whining at a low and constant hum, something like a window AC unit. My last words are “fine, then you pick something else,” and as I walk away, she is yelling at me that she has nothing.
Nothing? NOTHING?! My heart rate is rising. I’m still trying to grasp on to calm. I suggest pants, skirts, and dresses again. Justin is now reminding her that they have to leave so he can take her to school and get to work on time. It’s already 8am, which is usually when they are walking out the door. Still she refuses.
And then Calm Mom whispers goodbye, and she floats off to the land of Children-Who-Don’t-Get-Mad-and-Growl-at-Their-Parents. Blood Boiling-Angry Mom steps in. And I yell.
Justin tells me to stop yelling. I yell back that “I CAN’T!” Honestly, I can’t. I want to, but the heat building up inside has to come out somehow. For a while, I pushed it back down inside with binge eating. I would get mad; I would stand in the kitchen eating Nutella from the jar, while I searched for a bag of chocolate chips, or any other candy I could shove in my face. Then I would get a stomach ache and find myself looking in the mirror, wondering how it is that I’ve gained 50lbs since getting married.
I’m fresh out of Nutella, and there is no chocolate in the house, and I stopped the self-destructive binge-eating a year ago. So instead, I walk away. I stand in the kitchen and drink my coffee, and occasionally go to check on her progress. Now, with my EXTREMELY CALM husband’s help, she is putting on jeans. That are way too small. I snap, “those do NOT fit! PLEASE put on pants that FIT!” Justin AGAIN (and still calm-how does he do it) tells me to stop yelling. “This is RIDICULOUS! What size are these?! 6?! WHY ARE THEY EVEN IN HERE!?” I take the jeans and leave. I am most definitely making everything worse.
Justin says I created the “Shea Monster,” and he might very well be right. In my defense, I try REALLY hard to stay calm. Really I do. I can go days, weeks even without yelling, or raising my voice. My therapist, and Shea’s, have told me I need to be firm with her, and not let her walk all over me, because it seems when I give up (“you did your homework and answered every question wrong. Let’s erase your answers and work on it together. Oh, you DON’T want to correct it? Fine. Turn it in like this”), I’m letting her win. But how are you supposed to “stay firm” and hold your ground (without yelling), and not give up, when your opponent (in this case, an adorable 8 year old with ADD and Oppositional Defiance) will NEVER back down?
Now Shea is wearing a pair of jeans that are downright falling off of her. Justin asks if she has any clothes that actually fit her, and I can’t decide who I want to yell at the most. I think I just want to stand in the middle of the room, stomp my feet and scream at the top of my lungs. Just because. I get Shea a THIRD pair of jeans, and while she take five whole minutes putting on her sneakers, I take our puppy, Emma, outside. And breathe.
Justin and Shea leave for school. Then Justin is off to work. I have 5 hours to regain my cool, and chances are, by the time Shea walks in after school, that happy sweet girl will have returned.
I still feel like a terrible mom. Justin would (lovingly) agree. Because we love each other, and are ridiculous. He is calm, and I am volcanic. Or at least my mouth is.
