What Christmas Means To Me….

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You start off thinking you’ve got it all covered.

One small gift for each of the women in the office. So that’s it right? Three gifts.  Go to The Body Shop in the mall and buy three small, $10 body butters in nice holiday packaging.  No need to wrap, slap a card on them and good to go right?

Oh, not so fast!  A dilemma: Another friend whom I did not get a gift gave me a present of a tiny water feature that will sit on my desk to give me tranquility.  To the card she taped a marble, in case I lost my last one (she has no idea just how close she got it).  I was seriously touched.  I think she is great, but I wanted to keep a reign on my gift giving for money purposes and I had a good plan.  How could I not reciprocate at this point when the woman gave me a marble and a fountain of all things?  Now if I give her a gift, will she think I did because she gave me one? She, of course, would be correct.

I just received a text from my friend in the office.  Do I want to put in twenty dollars for a gift card from us in the office for our administration?  Wait a minute I think …where does this stop?

I just want to honor the true meaning of Christmas, gift etiquette.

What the #!*$@ now?

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What to write about? What to write about? Hmmm, I’ll write about PTSD shall I?

Right out of left field it hit me.  Going along minding my own business and then POW! Something went wrong at work and it was my fault. I tell you, it is exhausting trying to be perfect all the time to avoid such blind sides.

I somehow shakily made it to my friend’s office and closed the door in time to burst into a quiet sob. My mind was in chaos.  Simultaneously trying to calm myself and understand what the hell was going on again.

I am usually so stoic and have such a calm exterior that everyone rallied around me thinking it must be something pretty serious.  What could possibly bring her to her knees like this?  I never try to explain it, no one would understand.

I’m six again being screamed at by Sister Ann. I’m eight being screamed at by Sister Sean.  I’m ten being bullied by Josephine and Karen.  I’m…you get the pattern. Except the difference is no one was yelling at me.  No one was even the least bit annoyed or accusatory. I guess all I needed was just a whiff of disapproval.

And then there is my shame.  PTSD is usually associated with war, incest, near death experiences.  What’s my deal?

This is the first time this has happened since I’ve been “well”.  Doubting all of that now. Just how many pharmaceuticals is it going to take?

The Day My Clutch Went Out

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On a way to a meeting today my clutch went out.  I managed to limp my car into a dealership, barely making it.  I was definitely shaken up after a 45 minute drive only able to use 2nd and 5th gear.

I was so elated and relieved to see the man in the service department! I wanted to fall onto the desk and tell him the whole story.  How I had handled it alone, no help from my dad or my husband!  I wanted to tell him what a big deal this was because I have no self confidence or mechanical experience.  Wouldn’t he be interested to also hear that I got stuck at an intersection a ¼ of a mile from here and I used my ingenuity and unusually long and ambipedal big toe to pry the clutch from the floor?  Wouldn’t he listen intently and sympathize maybe even offering me a seat, a coffee or a cold drink?

Instead all he asked was, “Can I have your last name?”

Exposed

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Lately I’ve been writing less than positive posts. While I’m trying to express a different side of myself I feel like they have fallen short of the way I really feel.  I have always had to laugh things off to get through life and as I’ve gotten older it’s the only the thing that has kept me alive.

Everyday life, while medicated and feeling so much better being leveled out, is still a tremendous struggle.  I am who I am.  That will not change.  I still suffer from general anxiety, social anxiety, lack of confidence and all the things left in the wake of living a life of undiagnosed mental illness in a cruel world.

Don’t get me wrong I know I am very funny (wink) and I would never deprive the world of that.

It just helps to reveal one’s real self sometimes a little bit. (Yeah, that was convincing).  I’m obviously still resistant.  I am used to the mask.  I’m used to acting my way through life.  Watching, learning and mimicking other people’s reactions to things.

Right now, writing this and then eventually posting it has me feeling very exposed.

Ramblings

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I tend to ramble just a bit; I’ve been this way all my life, blurting out anything that is on my mind.  I am actually a lot better at using a filter than I used to be so I don’t have as many of these stories as I used to.  It’s one thing doing it with family, but it is totally embarrassing when you start doing it to other random people in your life.

I am very good friends with two of my office co-workers.  The other day we were walking through the halls on some important mission when out of the blue…

Me:        So, do you think I’m too old for a side ponytail?

They both looked at me as if I’d asked them for a ménage trio.

Them:   Why?

Me:        Well, Allison gave me one last night, I liked it, she wears one and she is eleven.  Plus, I don’t want to be matchy matchy with her.

I still haven’t had the nerve to actually go out in public with one yet.  I did and then changed my mind in the car.  That really hurt. Have you ever tried to drag a side ponytail over to the middle again?  You get all those little hairs caught in the hair tie and there’s nothing to be done except pull them and feel the pain.

Rejection for Christmas

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Christmas is approaching.  That’s when the old family hurts and feelings start to poke through the facade. Each year I wonder if it is easier to smile and ignore the past? So far it has been, but this year my skin feels a little thinner.

It begins when I start addressing Christmas cards. There are a few years here and there I haven’t had the mental strength to send them out and until now I haven’t realized why.

I tend to contemplate each relationship as I write the name and address on the envelope. I breeze through the names of my closest family members and friends, but then I inevitably have to write the names of those who have hurt me.  I start remembering events where I felt like an outsider, feeling misunderstood and just being downright mistreated.

And more hurtful than those names I write is the one I don’t, my mother’s.   Oh, my mother is alive and well. Physically that is.  To be kind, she is a little “off” mentally.  I don’t think this apple fell too far from the tree.  The difference is I am well and she refuses to be.  Therefore, with whatever  mental illness she suffers from she thinks she is better off without me.  I miss her. I’ve missed her for decades although it’s been only a year since I’ve seen her.

The biggest hurt was when she stopped sending me birthday cards.  That cut deep.  It’s been years and I still can’t come to terms with it.  We each have our breaking point. That is mine.

During this last year I have been tempted to contact her because, well I still miss her.  The idea will come and I will make a plan to call her.  Then the opportunity arises and I put it off.  Then I put it off again.  Next thing I know a week has gone by. I know why I don’t call, I fear the rejection.

I could go on and on about my mine and my mother’s history together, but I really don’t want to.  I’m tired of it all. Well, exhausted actually, otherwise I would dial her number again.

Skinny Bitch

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My dad told me recently that I am becoming a little cantankerous.  You know, speaking my mind, lashing out.  He thinks it might be because I work in a middle school and have to deal with all kinds of situations and it has caused me to develop an itchy trigger finger.  He may be right about that, but I don’t think so.

I think I’m becoming a skinny bitch.

Skinny bitches are one’s with the attitude because they can fit into a pair of jeans that are at least 20 years younger than they should be wearing.  That may not be the exact definition.

My husband commented that my new jeans are “really low” (low rise).  He can’t get past the fact that I am not wearing 80’s mom jeans.  Though these may be pushing it, I am thrilled I can actually wear them.

I’ve developed a weird body builder quirk.  I’m not by any stretch of the imagination saying that I am a body builder I am just acting like one, I guess.  This is just getting weirder and weirder, maybe it’s the steroids.

If there is someone acting like they are skeptical of my workouts (real or imagined I’m not sure) I’ll ask them to feel my bicep. And then I say, “And I’m not even flexing!”

Oh God, now that I’ve actually written this down I realize how insane I am acting. And yet still surprised!

Confessions of a Mad Woman

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Don’t men drive you crazy sometimes? Whether you are in love with them, living with them, married or not, female or not, don’t they just drive you crazy? As a person married to one for twenty years I will tell you it has been one of the biggest tests in my life to stay with my husband.

The other day I actually sprayed his toothbrush with Windex while I was cleaning the bathroom.  It was completely immature, but it gave me great pleasure.  He had hurt my feelings, I was mad, but I was too proud to say anything so I did something so incredibly passive aggressive it should go down in the books.  Anyway, Windex isn’t that poisonous is it?

I contemplated swishing the toothbrush around in the toilet, but that seemed too clichéd.  On the second pass at the sink I felt a pang of guilt so I entertained the idea of rinsing it under the water, but instead I sprayed it again.

Betrayed by Normalcy

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I don’t feel so upbeat anymore.  It doesn’t feel chemical, it feels more environmental.  I have a lot on my mind right now.

Allison in puberty…puberty or a miniature version of me?  I’m trying not to be ultra sensitive to her mood swings.  Crying, fits of anger.  It feels all too familiar and it is wearing on me. How should I handle it?

Dying friend, do I really have to say more? Sending a funny card once a week feels lame.

John’s got some health problems.  Threats and self help strategies just don’t seem to be making a dent.

Everyday life.

In the old days I would freak out for a few days, contemplate for another few and then act without any thought.  I would get it done.  These days I am so “normal” that I’m drowning in a whirlpool of practicality and cowardice. What the “old” me would do would have been brave and brilliant.  Now I am a dud, dead in the water… a wet blanket.  Feeling betrayed by my life in a different way.

I must knock myself free of the drug addled normalcy I am living.  This just doesn’t get any easier does it?

The Space Between

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“Oh, no.  That’s too bad, I haven’t seen it.”

That is what I will say to my daughter when she notices her rival school’s t-shirt is missing.  She says she doesn’t care if the other kids will make comments or say something. What she doesn’t realize is that I have lived way longer than she has and I know these things will hurt.

It’s almost the same as the “nice rack” moose t-shirt exploiting women’s breasts that was inexplicably lost behind the space between the dryer and the wall until a month ago when it was miraculously found.  By then it was way too small for Tristan to wear anymore.  Darn.  Too bad.

Maybe we’ll find Allison’s t-shirt in the space between the wall and my dresser in a couple of years too.