Why be normal when I can be awesome?!

Rediscovering your self is a 24/7 job; much like addiction. On any given day I might feel that addiction was harder or this part is. I think right now it's a toss up. Figuring out who I am and what that means is terrifying and exciting, both. And they frequently occur together. It's like a roller coaster I'm not certain I want to ride, but know I have to, and getting off means stopping the ride for a lot of people around me too. Initially, I started this journey knowing one thing about ME; not my roles in life, just ME. I knew I like to paint. I put so much stock in that that at times it was the mantra repeating in my head. The one thing I had that harnessed me to this process. If I didn't have that, God only knows where I'd end up. That was my thinking up until about a week ago. I was sitting at an NA meeting and I had an epiphany. Painting is NOT the only piece of my personal puzzle I've got. I'm an addict. And for the vast majority of the public, I think, that isn't something you share a lot. But I've learned my identity, much of it, is tied up in that. And it is a great thing. I accept who I am. I will never be "normal" like my parents may or may not have wanted. When I look at the friends I've made since the beginning of this journey, I see strength, creativity, wisdom, perseverance, loyalty, and the BEST damn sense of humor. These are my people. I'm more comfortable in my skin now than I've ever been. When I get to a meeting, stress melts, my heart heals, I feel solid. I have this whole other family now. We are kind of dysfunctional, but in the best ways. Make a mistake? Have a relapse? Come back to a meeting and you aren't judged or punished. You're told "welcome HOME". Isn't that what everyone goes through life wanting? I'm honored to be part of this group of people labeled addicts. I couldn't handpick better people. And to those of my friends and family who are decidedly NOT addicts, I love you too. You've supported my journey, my recovery, my rebuilding. I'm excited to show you who I'll be when I grow up. If I ever decide to...

Action Jackson

Over the last week I've heard two words more than my own name over the course of my life. Those words are clarity and anonymity. Exactly a week ago I just hit a wall. The corner I'd painted myself into over time was small and tight and kind of dark. My brother spent an hour on the phone with me calming me down. I spent an hour on the phone with another friend while I mostly cried, and being the friend she is, she even cried with me a bit. I texted with a couple other friends, I was 'talked out'. One of those friends sent me in the direction of someone who would become a new, extremely valued  friend. Those two together, along with my brother and my friend saved my life. I've been aware of my proverbial corner getting tighter for some time. I came to the conclusion some time ago I was going to reach the point of no return without help. Wednesday was that day. So, when what you're doing no longer works, or maybe never did, you have a choice: continue on as is or make a change. If I chose to just keep my head down and plod on, it was going to end horribly. I see that. I was reluctant to see it at first, but because of the people above, my sisters (all of them), and a couple people who found themselves in similar corners before me but chose to change and did so amazingly well, I'm making a change. A terrifying, exciting change. I've opted to check into a substance abuse program. As with any other life-altering decision, there's paperwork. Pardon my French, but a shit ton of it. My physician wrote to my insurance company agreeing that treatment is the best option for me. Then I submitted to a four hour substance abuse evaluation which then based on my answers, assigns me a numerical score. Low scores would mean seeing a therapist once a week for example. As the score ascends, so does the degree of treatment. I scored on the high end of residential treatment. Yup. Living there. This all sounds like I've got heroin crumbles in the bottom of my purse, but no. They're Goldfish. What pushed me over the line were a variety of life experiences only I could have prevented; and some simply couldn't have been. The one I will disclose briefly because of the stigma and because I am not ashamed and because I know it's happened to others who still haven't said anything and because I will take that shot in the dark I could help someone. This is the same angle I crept out on with anorexia and the sheer number of private messages I got from people thanking me for making them feel maybe just a little more normal was more than reaffirming. I was raped when I was 18.  I don't think additional details are necessary. I will say this, I kept this to myself for 18 years. Keeping it secret, not saying the words out loud, wishing it away; none of this helped. I wonder sometimes how my life would be different if I'd said something when it happened. It doesn't matter, but I do wonder. I don't know yet exactly where I'm headed or when, we just finished jumping through all the hoops. But, I'll let you know when I know. Jeff is strong, but my girls, amazing as they are, are going to struggle with this. Please keep my whole family in your thoughts and prayers. I know what I'm capable of right now, I hope to be even more capable. Also, it sure wouldn't hurt to like myself a little more. Regardless, in the end, I plan on kicking some serious ass. Thanks all.

Reality Check

I've been on narcotics for three years solid, and God really only knows how long of a total run I've had.  I struggle with addictions for sure; anorexia, OCD, and now narcotics? Maybe? I don't know. I've stopped taking Valium (for muscle spasms in my back post surgery) and I've cut out oxycodone. That one is huge. Once upon a time, I was taking them 4 or 5 at a time, not for pain but for fun. It felt like I was crawling the walls, but I was warm and happy. I would turn on a CD and stay up all hours. The next day I'd go to work and do the same thing there. No idea how I was conscious. But when people started bringing me work to fix that I had no recollection of doing or signing off on, I kind of knew there was a problem. The funny thing is, I was seeing a therapist at the time. She saved my life. Actually saved my life. She diagnosed me as having PTSD, a dissociative personality disorder, and a suicidal psychosis. Fun, right? I think I overwhelmed her. But, she saved me. She did, along with a psychologist, a dietician, and a physician. But, I never said a word about the narcotics because they were the only thing pushing me through. And, they were so easy to get. It would amaze you. Anyway,  for some reason still kind of unknown to me, I decided to stop loading up on narcotics for a good time. I cut back, I didn't quit. So fast forward however many years later we are, and I'm sitting with feelings I don't like. My therapist tried to teach me that. I had to relearn what I was feeling. I stopped feeling anything at all. It was easier just to be still inside and without narcotics that was impossible. I'm on the verge now of being drug free. My second back surgery over, the pain lessening, I'm on the least amount of narcotics I have ever been. Ever. It feels good. But I know I have to feel and that scares me sometimes. It's so easy to pick up everyone around you when you have that warm feeling washing over your body. But, when that warm feeling goes away, not cool. I was really struggling the other day; just having a hell of a day and my sister told me something that still, as I sit here, makes my throat tight and my head spin, because I didn't ask, and she couldn't possibly know, but this was something I needed to hear more than anything. My maternal grandpa was my best friend when he died. He told me old, out of date stories that always made sense and brought connection to whatever I was feeling just then. He was amazing. When we knew he was dying, my cousin and I drove to him to say good bye. Our moms warned us, they said grandpa was just done. He was sad and tired. He just stared out his window, no acknowledgment of anyone's presence. We took turns, my cousin and I. First he talked to grandpa and I sat with our grandma who had long since disappeared due to Alzheimer's. Before we walked into their room, we made a promise to each other, my cousin and I. We would not cry. We wouldn't put that on grandpa. We switched. Michael sat with grandma and I took my seat next to grandpa. I took his hand in mine and immediately dissolved into tears. I apologized. I told him I hadn't wanted to cry, that I didn't want that to be how we last spoke. He actually looked at me. He squeezed my hand tight and said "little girl, you have been the light of my life but now you have to let me go". So, there it was. In the moment I lost my best friend, I found out that I was important to someone amazing. So, the other day I was melting down. I talked to my sister and when we were winding down she said to me "You are a light, don't forget that. People are drawn to you because you are a light". I still can't read it without crying. So, I'm going to try to be this so called light that isn't dimmed by drugs. Still, if I end up in treatment, feel free to drop me a line!!

Next Up...

On the heels of the blog I posted earlier today, a bit of perspective from that particular point in recovery, I offer you this blog from another perspective; the pre-surgical perspective.

I am 23 days out from surgery number two. This surgery is needed to correct a complication from the first operation. At this point, I kind of liken the whole experience to that of childbirth. During and immediately after childbirth you are aware of how scary it can be, how physically it is not the most fun a person can have. But, give yourself some time and you find yourself romanticising the whole thing. When Ava was one and we talked about having another baby my memory was all birth balls, dimly lit rooms, peaceful music, doting nurses, Jeff by my side, the miracle of doula care; perfection. And, in all honesty, that was true, but there were parts of it such as Ava's heart stopping and that she wasn't breathing and was immediately taken away to be revived. I forgot all of that. Until... our car was screaming down the Beltline in Madison, Jeff on the phone with the physician, then hanging up and admitting he'd made a wrong turn, getting to the hospital and finding they had no more maternity rooms, and that this baby was in a hurry. Being terrified that the baby wasn't advancing, that something was wrong, and then just moments later there she was in my arms. A lot of parallels here. Honestly.

Immediately after surgery as I lay there with my morphine drip, cards, flowers, visitors, and a pretty great menu at my fingertips, I thought this is not so bad. But, I had no clue. I hadn't yet tried to sit up, to roll over, to get to the bathroom, to move at all. But, I got to those things and through them. I made it home, I made it through the depression, I got better at walking and ditched the walker, I eventually drove again and got the green light to walk more. And all of a sudden none of it seemed all that bad. Then we found out I had to go back in. At first, I was extremely upset. I cried A LOT. I apologized to my family a lot. I felt terrible, like a huge burden. But all of that was emotional. I had kind of forgotten the physical struggles I would once again encounter. But now as I sit here 23 days out, I'm remembering quite clearly. I remember when the nurse and two orderlies came into my hospital room and woke me from my crazy morphine induced dream to get me up and "walking". The second orderly brought the walker in and I said "I don't need that" to which they smiled and said "you're still laying down". I sat up, with a lot of help, some unladylike words, and a lot of sweat. And realized pretty quickly that, yes, I would need that walker. That first time standing up was WOW. I know that'll happen again. I know I'll ride home in the car clenching every muscle in preparation for every bump, brake, acceleration, and gust of wind after psyching myself up for 5 minutes that I could even make the transfer from the wheelchair to the car. The first time I sneezed I went from gleeful anticipation of something fun and relieving the human body can do to Jeff standing over me saying "are you ok?!?!" I went down hard. It was like someone grabbed my spinal cord and yanked on it. Sneezes still take my knees out from me. It's just a lot funnier now (right, Toni?). What I am most afraid of though, bar none, is the very first moment I wake up after surgery. It feels foreign, cold, bright, loud, and I realize how little I'm in control. I want to wake up, to open my eyes, to move my body under my own control, but I just can't do it. And worst of all, that damn catheter. I told my surgeon, the surgical prep people, the pre op people, and my anesthetist to get that thing out before I was conscious. I also made Jeff tell whoever would listen the same. Throughout my lifetime of kidney issues I have had more time spent dealing with catheters than I would ever wish on my worst enemy. But, no. They save that for last. Maybe it's the last bit of power they wield over patients who refuse to get up and walk. That would do it for me.

Anyway, 23 days. Yikes. After the 26th I'm officially a shut in. Don't be a stranger. I'll even wear my good jammies. And, I might share the cookies Katie is going to make for me again. Right Katie??

Keep on Keepin' On

I started this blog a little while ago and must have been interrupted and then forgot about it because it seems "publishable", by my own definition and standards. I'm not going to change anything about it. I'm going to leave it as it sat, I'm going to publish it. It is harsh and ugly, but it is true. Normally I stumble across old blogs that I didn't finish and just redline the shit out of them. But this one continues to be fitting, appropriate, and timely.

I am one of four siblings. I've always felt I was the "melting pot". I'm not the rebel, but I stepped out of line and got in trouble. I'm not the smartest one, but I achieved things academically I wouldn't have bet on. I'm not the prettiest one, but if I put a little effort into it I can look nice. I used to be the athletic one though. I played and loved soccer. My parents put me in tennis. I played basketball and volleyball, and even achieved my red belt in Tae Kwon Do. In high school, the girls track coach tried to recruit me to run sprints, but the season coincided with soccer and that was where my heart was. I'm not saying by any means that I was an all star at any of this. What I'm saying is that I was active. I was comfortable pushing myself physically. I thrived on being competitive. But what was stronger and more competitive was the way I saw my own body. My siblings have always been thin. Until my sister had kids who got into track, she wasn't a runner. Now she's a triathlete and a track coach. My other sister got into yoga and Kung-fu and became a solid machine. And they look beautiful doing it. As I grew, had kids, encountered stress, my back became a problem. One year ago, we found out I'd broken my back; twice. I had slowed down greatly by then because I'd been fighting pain along with kidney problems for a long time. And, it showed. I think. Nine weeks ago I had lumbar fusion. Any activity I was involved in came to a screeching halt. My world became sleep, narcotics, physical therapy, and lots of feeling lonesome for my family who was still very much on the go. I have forever described myself as the "meaty" kid in our family. I've always had a bit...more. It became a problem at about 14. At 30 years old, after looking into the eyes of my beautiful girls, I guessed that I was worth the effort it would take to get well. It took 4 years of intense therapy, dietitians, therapists, psychiatrists, weekly weigh ins, and an exceedingly patient physician. But, I did it; I got 'healthy'. While it was still a daily internal battle to make the right choices, I stayed on track for the most part. I even stopped comparing myself to my siblings. Then came this lumbar fracture diagnosis which, at the time, was the best news I'd heard in forever. I cried extremely happy tears. I had almost convinced myself it was all in my head and then someone told me it really, truly wasn't. Coming back from a lumbar fusion is hard on every level you can imagine but, for me, the worst of it is losing muscle, gaining weight, and feeling like everyone is looking at you because it's that obvious. I am not ok with my body and I'm in a position where there is just not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it. I eat healthy, but my activity level has dropped so much my whole system is out of whack. 'Get on a treadmill', 'go for a walk outside', 'there are little things you can do that will make a big difference'. Really? Because I can't lift more than a half gallon of milk, I can't walk further than a half mile on a great day without having crippling pain that night or the next day, I can't kick a ball or throw a ball, can't expose my incision to the chemicals in public pools, no housework or lawn care. I can't even carry the girls' backpacks from the kitchen to the front door without my back becoming one big, snarled mass of spasming muscle. So, the plan is to get my back healed and ok and then take on the cosmetics. But, it really doesn't take much to push a recovered anorexic off the deep end, and that's where I am now. Every thing I eat is a number, every shirt that fits strange or pants that seem all of a sudden not to be mine make me promise myself I'll stop eating. Every damn Victoria's Secret catalog that finds it's way to my house and every well paid, personal trainer toting superstar that shows up on TV looking fabulous at my age and beyond makes me feel just lousy. Sad and frustrated. Angry and stuck and full of "f**k it, I can't possibly screw up something held together by rods and screws and cages! I'm going to run and run and run until I'm me again. Me who offends other women because my disappearing hips no longer hold my pants up and I look as though I'm intentionally advertising my chosen underwear designer, me who loses her hair and sleeps all the time and never feels happy even when I hit that weight goal of double digits only. Me, whose little girls look up to, emulate, and see in themselves. Me. Who will feel exactly what I feel in this moment even when I weigh 97 pounds. Me, who sees the WOMEN who weigh more, carry themselves better, and turn the heads of men everywhere." It is a hard place to be. I hate it. I will continue trying to sort through my head and eat to be healthy and understand that this is my struggle right now. And there are other people whose struggles are more dangerous, more sad, more lonely, or less surmountable. I'll keep you posted. After all, it's only been a year since I last blogged. ;)

Let's Not Think This Through...

I haven't blogged in a year+. I think this is because I started thinking too hard about blog topics instead of reacting publicly to all the things that happen around me. Thinking hard has never done me any favors. I tried to think of baby boy names on the eventuality that Jeff and I would one day bring a son home. Hard thinking got me Blyvonik. It's a family name, or so I remember being told. Jeff felt differently. He asked why name our son something complicated and foreign sounding. There are plenty of English names that portray the same image. Words like Pneumonia or Syphilis. I still beg to differ. The middle names I initially suggested for our first daughter, after deep thought, ended up being the names of noxious weeds. Again, I was thinking too hard. I have a habit of this over-thinking business. Not so long ago, after one of the girls had been ill and I'd completely lost track of the days of the week, I enlisted Jeff for the bucket holding, warm bath running, sheet bleaching duties so I could get out of the house for a bit. Because my life is glamorous and exciting, I was headed to Petsmart. I parked in their lot and noticed there weren't many other people there. "Quicker trip for me", I thought. I walked up to the door and expected that automatic open and whoosh of inside air. I got neither. I knew they weren't closed because it was 6:15. My brain fired right up and went to work solving the problem. Sometimes, there are those "what would you do" shows where they demonstrate how dependent on electronics and computers people have become. The people will just walk away and give up on crossing a to-do off their list instead of employing the old opposable thumbs grasp and pull technique. Well, I was not going to be that guy! So I waited just a second, kind of moved around in front of the doors thinking perhaps I'd missed the camera angle, but to no avail. When that didn't work I took things into my own hands. I crammed my fingers in between where the glass doors met and started prying them apart. It took some serious effort. They didn't want to open, but I knew anyone who saw me would say to themselves or their small, impressionable children, "look at that woman! She's not waiting for it to be done, she's DOING it! THAT is who you want to be!!" I made it through the first set of doors only to be met by a second set. In for a dime, in for a dollar. Once again, I got my fingers in there and forced my way in. I was sweating now and my fingertips stung a bit. They were also covered in something black from all the pressure I'd applied to the rubber door jams. As the second door opened, I looked up and there were the people rooting for me. Only they weren't rooting for me. There were three employees and one customer finishing up his transaction. They were all staring at me and then one of the employees said very slowly as if maybe I needed slow words so as to understand, "ma'am? We're closed." Well, at least now I knew what day and time it was as I walked through the partially separated doors, one set of which had actually been pushed off the track. "I'll go wait in the car" I said to myself since I was alone. What really sucks is this Petsmart is approximately 2 minutes from my house. Dammit self!!

So, you can expect a lot less thinking from me from now on. No more funny business. I'm all in.

10/4