Life is one of those funny places where you only know that you've made the wrong decision once you're fully committed.
There are moments during when you realize that you're the one at fault. And those are the moments that shake you more than anything. It's a panic that rushes through you. It rises and rises until you're barely holding on to your conviction. You're staring at wood paneling and you're wondering what in the hell you're doing.
And then you think, but I must be right; I've been right before? and the end of the thought trails upward until it reaches your ears and you realize you're asking a question.
Have you been right before? Will you ever really know? Hindsight may start 20/20 but contemplation kills it. It destroys it. The moment - that singular moment - when you realize that there really are two sides to every story will ruin your life. It will change the way you view everything. There is no longer right, but equal (and entirely opposite) reasons for both "right" and "right," because the wrong you thought existed was never real. That's when uncertainly overtakes you.
You see so clearly. You see the future, suddenly, flashing before you. You see the past, much slower. It's all there. And yet, you're nagged by the what if? That is the nagging feeling that drives men out to sea for six months at time, thrilled by the prospect of hitting it big; those are the feelings that draw both gamblers and athletes. They draw cynics and believers alike. The marriage of chance and hope is a truly beautiful and rotten thing, all of it at once. There are moments of sheer wonder, the payoff, the jackpot, the joy. But those are the moments that punctuate the quickly familiar refrain of failure.
Being an optimist requires the ability to feel so deeply that you're allowed to feel untempered joy at the cost of feeling unmitigated pain for seemingly unending periods of time. Being in search of the truth will lead you in circles. It's a terrifying labyrinth of possibilities and yes, choice.
The more I live in this life, the more I realize that black and white cannot exist. It's only just the many shades of gray, all defensible and all too real.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Friday, February 03, 2012
Thursday, February 02, 2012
On Ranting, as usual
oh there's some hardcore liberal bias here, so don't think I'm trying to represent any position but my own and don't be too upset if we disagree - it's bound to happen:
I'm getting myself super worked up about this whole Komen-defunding-Planned-Parenthood deal. It's not a big deal. It doesn't directly affect me. But seriously? I'm never going to participate in, donate to, or eat another Komen-labeled anything. Not that I actively chose their products in the past (I am not the best eater of yogurt nor the biggest fan of pink), but now I'm consciously going to avoid. And perhaps I can flex my nasty letter writing muscles and do some direct complaining. They also spend a ridiculously low amount of their actual funds on research. 20%-ish?
I'm probably going to get breast cancer some day (from what I know about my medical history - which isn't much - my birth mom, biological grandmother, and several of her sisters have all had it/died of it/have it right now). Of course I want a cure, but we're silly to think that cures come from organizations.
The backlash against the Komen foundation has been insane. Donations to Planned Parenthood are way up. If I wasn't broke as shit, I'd be all over that. I decided many years ago that when I finally get enough money to be generous with it, it's not going to my alma maters, it's going to Planned Parenthood, because they are absolute rock stars at what they do. I'm so sick of hearing about how horrible they are.
I hope that young women everywhere are able to continue to access care that their primary care providers may have denied them; I hope that young women of all colors and religions and income levels can continue to access healthcare including cancer screenings, STI-testing and treatment, and birth control, especially when they don't have access to a primary care provider like I do.
Why? Because it's important. The work that Planned Parenthood does isn't just abortions (do I actually need to repeat myself again? Only 3% of their services go to abortions. That's roughly 300,000 abortions per year. But guess what? That's only about a third of the total number of abortions provided in the US. Where is everyone else having those?).
The reason I bring this up is because I was reading a Catholic website (trying to get all sides' opinions) and they had huge charts about how 96.3% of services provided to pregnant women were abortion-related. Okay, I'll take that. Yes, there is a disparity between abortion numbers and adoption numbers. I'd argue that that's pretty consistent with the rest of the US as well. But does this Catholic website take into account the other forms of adoption such as from government agencies (41% of adoptions in 2008), kinship adoptions, foreign adoptions, etc? Probably not.
And how many un-pregnant women and men and people are using Planned Parenthood to access other resources? 3 million people go to Planned Parenthood every year. 3 million is a lot more than 300,000. By providing resources to the community including contraception, Planned Parenthood is helping to ensure that there will be fewer unintended pregnancies and thus fewer abortions as a result.
Here's why I support Planned Parenthood 100% - and this has absolutely nothing to do with the Komen debacle. It'll all blow over. Komen will continue to be the shining pink face of breast cancer walks everywhere and Planned Parenthood will continue to be the source of so much distress for conservatives the uninformed everywhere:
[I'm sort of uncomfortable about posting this story online - to be honest, I think I've posted this before but can't find it in the archives, and at the same time, I'm even more uncomfortable knowing that people perceive Planned Parenthood to be this horrible, evil organization that exists solely to kill babies. So this is why I'm putting this out there.]
I wasn't quite 18 yet, which means I was somewhere between 16 and 17. I wanted birth control. When I asked my pediatrician's nurse practitioner for a prescription (without telling her why I wanted it - Was it heavy periods? Was it hormonal reasons? Did I just want to take hormonal birth control because everyone else was doing it? Was I having sex?), she told me that doing so would put her "between a rock and a hard place."
What she was referring to was my father, who has always been overbearing and inappropriate at the most inconvenient times. As soon as I started high school, he became convinced that I was having all sorts of sex (I wasn't. I didn't kiss a boy until I was almost fifteen) and consequently, had been squawking about it to anyone who would listen and making it nearly impossible for me to date (this, of course, backfired horribly and led to me putting myself in dangerous-ish situations on more than one occasion: sneaking out, hanging out with undesirables, etc).
I was well aware that Colorado law allows minors to consent to a prescription for birth control without obtaining parental consent or having to even notify a parent or guardian about it. When she told me that no matter what I said, she wouldn't write me a prescription for birth control, I was furious. I still am. I never went back to that doctor's office, even though I'd been going since birth.
That's why, even to this day, I do not stand for doctors of any sort denying women information or care based on their own personal beliefs or fears. I also do not believe that doctors and providers (including nurses, etc) should be anything but professional. I had a friend go to her gynecologist and ask for routine STI testing only to be asked, "Why? Have you been exposed?" I told her to immediately find a new doctor. Call it overreacting but I call it ridiculous that you should have to answer any sort of seemingly-accusatory questions. I have doctors who I absolutely adore. They respect me; they don't question me when I say, "Hey, throw an HIV test onto my blood work!" They respect that I'm active about my own health - regardless of whether it's ADHD, STI-testing, the sniffles, the cut on my finger that should have had stitches 16 hours ago....(the last one was a joke...that was me not being proactive and facing the consequences).
I went to Planned Parenthood. I did it after school one day when Mike had practice so I knew I had some time. I was terrified. I was not getting the prescription so that I could have reckless, unprotected sex. I was not pregnant. I was just looking for something that my own doctor was unwilling to give me, but something that I knew I had a legal right to obtain and use.
My experience there was absolutely amazing. The staff was so nice to me. I think they absolutely understood how scared I was (I've never been good at hiding my emotions) and I think they went the extra mile to make sure that I had the most positive experience possible. I got my prescription. I got birth control. And it was in a no-stress, no-judgement, no-pressure situation.
My mom eventually found out that I was on birth control. She was furious. But she wasn't mad that I was on it; she was mad that I had gone alone. She was mad that I was paying for it all by myself. She was just as mad at my doctor's office as I was and she helped me to become a part of the practice that I currently attend (do you attend a doctor's office? visit? reluctantly stop by sometimes?). I think that a lot about that experience helped solidify our relationship. It was a little bit rocky during high school - think ages 15-17. She was open and willing to talk about issues that I'd never realized I could talk to her about. She never judged me or criticized my opinions or decisions. She supported me so much then and continues to do so today. I honestly think that without those frank discussions, we wouldn't have the relationship we do now. It's stronger than it's ever been and I'm so grateful to know that I can call her and tell her anything. She may not agree with it (she'll definitely tell me when she doesn't) but she'll listen. And knowing that she respected me enough back then to know that I was making informed decisions about my own health is something that still makes me incredibly happy.
That's why I love Planned Parenthood. I have only been there maybe twice in my life, but those two times were the most positive experiences I could have had. I'm grateful that they were there for me, and even though I hope my children will never have to go behind my back to get access to care, I hope they're still there, just in case.
I'm getting myself super worked up about this whole Komen-defunding-Planned-Parenthood deal. It's not a big deal. It doesn't directly affect me. But seriously? I'm never going to participate in, donate to, or eat another Komen-labeled anything. Not that I actively chose their products in the past (I am not the best eater of yogurt nor the biggest fan of pink), but now I'm consciously going to avoid. And perhaps I can flex my nasty letter writing muscles and do some direct complaining. They also spend a ridiculously low amount of their actual funds on research. 20%-ish?
I'm probably going to get breast cancer some day (from what I know about my medical history - which isn't much - my birth mom, biological grandmother, and several of her sisters have all had it/died of it/have it right now). Of course I want a cure, but we're silly to think that cures come from organizations.
The backlash against the Komen foundation has been insane. Donations to Planned Parenthood are way up. If I wasn't broke as shit, I'd be all over that. I decided many years ago that when I finally get enough money to be generous with it, it's not going to my alma maters, it's going to Planned Parenthood, because they are absolute rock stars at what they do. I'm so sick of hearing about how horrible they are.
I hope that young women everywhere are able to continue to access care that their primary care providers may have denied them; I hope that young women of all colors and religions and income levels can continue to access healthcare including cancer screenings, STI-testing and treatment, and birth control, especially when they don't have access to a primary care provider like I do.
Why? Because it's important. The work that Planned Parenthood does isn't just abortions (do I actually need to repeat myself again? Only 3% of their services go to abortions. That's roughly 300,000 abortions per year. But guess what? That's only about a third of the total number of abortions provided in the US. Where is everyone else having those?).
The reason I bring this up is because I was reading a Catholic website (trying to get all sides' opinions) and they had huge charts about how 96.3% of services provided to pregnant women were abortion-related. Okay, I'll take that. Yes, there is a disparity between abortion numbers and adoption numbers. I'd argue that that's pretty consistent with the rest of the US as well. But does this Catholic website take into account the other forms of adoption such as from government agencies (41% of adoptions in 2008), kinship adoptions, foreign adoptions, etc? Probably not.
And how many un-pregnant women and men and people are using Planned Parenthood to access other resources? 3 million people go to Planned Parenthood every year. 3 million is a lot more than 300,000. By providing resources to the community including contraception, Planned Parenthood is helping to ensure that there will be fewer unintended pregnancies and thus fewer abortions as a result.
Here's why I support Planned Parenthood 100% - and this has absolutely nothing to do with the Komen debacle. It'll all blow over. Komen will continue to be the shining pink face of breast cancer walks everywhere and Planned Parenthood will continue to be the source of so much distress for
[I'm sort of uncomfortable about posting this story online - to be honest, I think I've posted this before but can't find it in the archives, and at the same time, I'm even more uncomfortable knowing that people perceive Planned Parenthood to be this horrible, evil organization that exists solely to kill babies. So this is why I'm putting this out there.]
I wasn't quite 18 yet, which means I was somewhere between 16 and 17. I wanted birth control. When I asked my pediatrician's nurse practitioner for a prescription (without telling her why I wanted it - Was it heavy periods? Was it hormonal reasons? Did I just want to take hormonal birth control because everyone else was doing it? Was I having sex?), she told me that doing so would put her "between a rock and a hard place."
What she was referring to was my father, who has always been overbearing and inappropriate at the most inconvenient times. As soon as I started high school, he became convinced that I was having all sorts of sex (I wasn't. I didn't kiss a boy until I was almost fifteen) and consequently, had been squawking about it to anyone who would listen and making it nearly impossible for me to date (this, of course, backfired horribly and led to me putting myself in dangerous-ish situations on more than one occasion: sneaking out, hanging out with undesirables, etc).
I was well aware that Colorado law allows minors to consent to a prescription for birth control without obtaining parental consent or having to even notify a parent or guardian about it. When she told me that no matter what I said, she wouldn't write me a prescription for birth control, I was furious. I still am. I never went back to that doctor's office, even though I'd been going since birth.
That's why, even to this day, I do not stand for doctors of any sort denying women information or care based on their own personal beliefs or fears. I also do not believe that doctors and providers (including nurses, etc) should be anything but professional. I had a friend go to her gynecologist and ask for routine STI testing only to be asked, "Why? Have you been exposed?" I told her to immediately find a new doctor. Call it overreacting but I call it ridiculous that you should have to answer any sort of seemingly-accusatory questions. I have doctors who I absolutely adore. They respect me; they don't question me when I say, "Hey, throw an HIV test onto my blood work!" They respect that I'm active about my own health - regardless of whether it's ADHD, STI-testing, the sniffles, the cut on my finger that should have had stitches 16 hours ago....(the last one was a joke...that was me not being proactive and facing the consequences).
I went to Planned Parenthood. I did it after school one day when Mike had practice so I knew I had some time. I was terrified. I was not getting the prescription so that I could have reckless, unprotected sex. I was not pregnant. I was just looking for something that my own doctor was unwilling to give me, but something that I knew I had a legal right to obtain and use.
My experience there was absolutely amazing. The staff was so nice to me. I think they absolutely understood how scared I was (I've never been good at hiding my emotions) and I think they went the extra mile to make sure that I had the most positive experience possible. I got my prescription. I got birth control. And it was in a no-stress, no-judgement, no-pressure situation.
My mom eventually found out that I was on birth control. She was furious. But she wasn't mad that I was on it; she was mad that I had gone alone. She was mad that I was paying for it all by myself. She was just as mad at my doctor's office as I was and she helped me to become a part of the practice that I currently attend (do you attend a doctor's office? visit? reluctantly stop by sometimes?). I think that a lot about that experience helped solidify our relationship. It was a little bit rocky during high school - think ages 15-17. She was open and willing to talk about issues that I'd never realized I could talk to her about. She never judged me or criticized my opinions or decisions. She supported me so much then and continues to do so today. I honestly think that without those frank discussions, we wouldn't have the relationship we do now. It's stronger than it's ever been and I'm so grateful to know that I can call her and tell her anything. She may not agree with it (she'll definitely tell me when she doesn't) but she'll listen. And knowing that she respected me enough back then to know that I was making informed decisions about my own health is something that still makes me incredibly happy.
That's why I love Planned Parenthood. I have only been there maybe twice in my life, but those two times were the most positive experiences I could have had. I'm grateful that they were there for me, and even though I hope my children will never have to go behind my back to get access to care, I hope they're still there, just in case.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
On Remembering
I found it! I found the poem I was looking for!
It's unedited, exactly as it was when I wrote it.
I just absolutely love love love this poem. It's so apathetic. It's everything that seventeen-year old me was. The ending gets me every time. Pause as you read it. Pause and really let the end sink into your soul. (Maybe it won't work for you; I don't know. But just try it.)
I need to remind readers that this poem has absolutely nothing to do with my current romantic partner situation.
Oh man, now I want to find the "Still Life" poem. I just spent like ten minutes digging through my old journal. It's funny how much I've grown, and funnier still how much remains the same. I became friends with a girl who'd gone to Mullen, although she was much older than me, and she became my biggest supporter during those awkward teenage years. She believed in my writing and I'm so grateful for that, because without her positive input, I may not have had the courage to keep doing it. We keep in touch on facebook now, and I don't know that I've ever been able to really tell her how much it meant to me that she read everything I wrote. She's off getting her doctorate and living a wild and beautiful life in Australia, but it's funny how much we are still able to share even if it's just through "likes" and comments.
"Remember"
originally posted January 11, 2006
I remember you.
I remember the first time
you said "I love you."
I had forgotten
until today.
Sitting in the park last night,
on a shadowed log
amidst the winter grass
while she remembered
memories she should’ve never had
I flashed back.
I took a picture of the spot
where I was standing
when it hit me
late that summer night
and I first felt the sensations
roll over me.
but enough
I'd like to leave it there.
Later, not long forgotten
we were side by side
tangled in a sweet release
and you kissed my forehead
in that way
that you knew drove me crazy
and you whispered it.
I tensed
as silence filled the room
what was I to say
to someone I didn't love?
I sighed
and kissed your hand
and rolled over
and let you hold me
until it was over
and I didn't have to say
anything anymore.
It's unedited, exactly as it was when I wrote it.
I just absolutely love love love this poem. It's so apathetic. It's everything that seventeen-year old me was. The ending gets me every time. Pause as you read it. Pause and really let the end sink into your soul. (Maybe it won't work for you; I don't know. But just try it.)
I need to remind readers that this poem has absolutely nothing to do with my current romantic partner situation.
Oh man, now I want to find the "Still Life" poem. I just spent like ten minutes digging through my old journal. It's funny how much I've grown, and funnier still how much remains the same. I became friends with a girl who'd gone to Mullen, although she was much older than me, and she became my biggest supporter during those awkward teenage years. She believed in my writing and I'm so grateful for that, because without her positive input, I may not have had the courage to keep doing it. We keep in touch on facebook now, and I don't know that I've ever been able to really tell her how much it meant to me that she read everything I wrote. She's off getting her doctorate and living a wild and beautiful life in Australia, but it's funny how much we are still able to share even if it's just through "likes" and comments.
"Remember"
originally posted January 11, 2006
I remember you.
I remember the first time
you said "I love you."
I had forgotten
until today.
Sitting in the park last night,
on a shadowed log
amidst the winter grass
while she remembered
memories she should’ve never had
I flashed back.
I took a picture of the spot
where I was standing
when it hit me
late that summer night
and I first felt the sensations
roll over me.
but enough
I'd like to leave it there.
Later, not long forgotten
we were side by side
tangled in a sweet release
and you kissed my forehead
in that way
that you knew drove me crazy
and you whispered it.
I tensed
as silence filled the room
what was I to say
to someone I didn't love?
I sighed
and kissed your hand
and rolled over
and let you hold me
until it was over
and I didn't have to say
anything anymore.
On twitter, Jell-O eggs, and Easter
I swear I'll stop blogging in ten minutes, but in light of recent weird twitter postings, I have to tell you a story:
So this morning, something monumental happened (he loves me!) and of course, I panicked and got weird. While I was being weird, I was reminded of a poem that I wrote in high school about this very situation (funny enough, I acted the exact same way then). I tried to google it to find it and instead, wound up with one result.
Of course I clicked on it.
Apparently, the University of Iowa spent some time logging tweets about airport security during the first quarter of 2010. I made it into their files. Hilariously enough, my tweet from March 30, 2010 reads:
Every year my Aunt Jan makes Jell-O eggs for Easter. They're my favorite. They're weird and slimy but so cute and who doesn't love Jell-O? (The evidence is mounting that I'm an 80-year old in a 23-year old body.)
I was flying back home to Chicago with my bag of leftover Jell-O eggs. Of course I was going to take them home with me...waste them, are you kidding? This was right during the implementation of the liquid/gels prohibition and of course, the TSA man stops my bag of eggs.
An argument about the matter state of Jell-O ensued, with him claiming that they count as a gel and me claiming that they're a solid. (Technically, he may have been right.) Finally, I made him feel them because they were still cold from the refrigerator. My logic? No idea.
Then, I told him I would eat the entire bag right there at the checkpoint. (I'm always this sassy [antagonistic? obnoxious?] at 6 in the morning, trust me. One time, my mom got a thumbs up from a random because I told a dude - who would not shut up about how he got to carry a gun because he was with the sheriff's office - to please keep it down in the waiting area. Complete with bring-it-down silencing hand motion.)
He let me through and when I got back to Chicago, I'm 80% sure that the eggs had gotten overheated during their ordeal and were back to a sticky-goo state and therefore inedible. Bummer. (No one tell Aunt Jan! There's still a 20% chance I enjoyed them!)
So this morning, something monumental happened (he loves me!) and of course, I panicked and got weird. While I was being weird, I was reminded of a poem that I wrote in high school about this very situation (funny enough, I acted the exact same way then). I tried to google it to find it and instead, wound up with one result.
Of course I clicked on it.
Apparently, the University of Iowa spent some time logging tweets about airport security during the first quarter of 2010. I made it into their files. Hilariously enough, my tweet from March 30, 2010 reads:
11314516444 KatieMaryBarry 3/30/2010 10:49 AM My first year not going home to see the family. On the plus side, I don't have to try to get Jell-O eggs through airport security. #EasterWhy does this make me laugh?
Every year my Aunt Jan makes Jell-O eggs for Easter. They're my favorite. They're weird and slimy but so cute and who doesn't love Jell-O? (The evidence is mounting that I'm an 80-year old in a 23-year old body.)
I was flying back home to Chicago with my bag of leftover Jell-O eggs. Of course I was going to take them home with me...waste them, are you kidding? This was right during the implementation of the liquid/gels prohibition and of course, the TSA man stops my bag of eggs.
An argument about the matter state of Jell-O ensued, with him claiming that they count as a gel and me claiming that they're a solid. (Technically, he may have been right.) Finally, I made him feel them because they were still cold from the refrigerator. My logic? No idea.
Then, I told him I would eat the entire bag right there at the checkpoint. (I'm always this sassy [antagonistic? obnoxious?] at 6 in the morning, trust me. One time, my mom got a thumbs up from a random because I told a dude - who would not shut up about how he got to carry a gun because he was with the sheriff's office - to please keep it down in the waiting area. Complete with bring-it-down silencing hand motion.)
He let me through and when I got back to Chicago, I'm 80% sure that the eggs had gotten overheated during their ordeal and were back to a sticky-goo state and therefore inedible. Bummer. (No one tell Aunt Jan! There's still a 20% chance I enjoyed them!)
On Being Wrong (and admitting it, ugh)
The other night, I made false claims as to Colorado's status on the list of most STI infected states in the US. (I was absolutely bullshitting, for the record, although I think that one of my co-workers - or somebody?, in an attempt to scare me into post-collegiate celibacy, may have planted a statistical seed in my mind at some point that obviously blossomed into anti-fact.)
I double checked because I don't like being wrong.
Turns out, it's not Colorado at all. We're not even in the top ten. It's basically all of the South. And then New York and Illinois rounding out the top 10. (Get it, Chicago, and Joliet, and Urbana-Champaign. But mostly Towanda.)
Anyway. I apologize for spouting out untruths and have to clarify them because otherwise, my catchphrase "I'm not wrong" carries less weight.
(Ha, this is exactly like when I told Emily that we're probably selling guns to Iran. Which, in all fairness, we probably are. Although we're probably selling them through untraceable third-parties on the black market. I was just leaping across the middlemen to draw broad conclusions and left out the important middlemen parts. She looked at me like I was some sort of horrible anti-patriot. Needless to say, awkward situation ensued and I've avoided spouting out my beliefs on gun running ever since. Until now.)
In other "being wrong" news: I was talking to Tobias last night about my failure at the grad school thing. And basically, he reminded me that I'm an idiot (he didn't actually call me an idiot) for only applying to one place [I was only thinking tuition cost] and then told me that he applied to more than 12 places before being accepted. He also reminded me that there are plenty of people actually working in the field who have super legit qualifications and are vying for the same spots. This made me feel better, although I didn't admit it to him. "There's no way I'm going to make you happy today, is there?" he asked. I shook my head, determined to be as difficult as possible.
On the plus side, it looks like my freelance job came through! I'm about to add Wordpress to my list of skills, although I'm hoping that I can convince her to go another direction. I'm excited - this is going to be a challenging (and hopefully incredibly rewarding) project!
I double checked because I don't like being wrong.
Turns out, it's not Colorado at all. We're not even in the top ten. It's basically all of the South. And then New York and Illinois rounding out the top 10. (Get it, Chicago, and Joliet, and Urbana-Champaign. But mostly Towanda.)
Anyway. I apologize for spouting out untruths and have to clarify them because otherwise, my catchphrase "I'm not wrong" carries less weight.
(Ha, this is exactly like when I told Emily that we're probably selling guns to Iran. Which, in all fairness, we probably are. Although we're probably selling them through untraceable third-parties on the black market. I was just leaping across the middlemen to draw broad conclusions and left out the important middlemen parts. She looked at me like I was some sort of horrible anti-patriot. Needless to say, awkward situation ensued and I've avoided spouting out my beliefs on gun running ever since. Until now.)
In other "being wrong" news: I was talking to Tobias last night about my failure at the grad school thing. And basically, he reminded me that I'm an idiot (he didn't actually call me an idiot) for only applying to one place [I was only thinking tuition cost] and then told me that he applied to more than 12 places before being accepted. He also reminded me that there are plenty of people actually working in the field who have super legit qualifications and are vying for the same spots. This made me feel better, although I didn't admit it to him. "There's no way I'm going to make you happy today, is there?" he asked. I shook my head, determined to be as difficult as possible.
On the plus side, it looks like my freelance job came through! I'm about to add Wordpress to my list of skills, although I'm hoping that I can convince her to go another direction. I'm excited - this is going to be a challenging (and hopefully incredibly rewarding) project!
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
On Friendship
Friendship is a strange and beautiful thing.
It comes and goes in waves of necessity; there's no stopping it. You are, for that singular moment - or perhaps many moments - engulfed by the overwhelming nature of it all. And then it slowly recedes, softly, slowly at first, before there's nothing but a whisper, a soft lapping at your toes. But when you least expect (or by now you should see the patterns), it comes over you again. Quickly. Sweeping over your head without warning, leaving you breathless.
And it goes on like this.
A calculated tide.
A beating heart.
A deep breath, a long sigh.
That's what love is.
True friendship is love.
Last week, after an accidental evening at the PS Lounge, Jacob and I walked through the park. I was overflowing with respect, with gratitude, with contentment, with love. Some of my favorite times are my walks with him. We find ourselves in City Park after dark, wandering, staying close to the edge. I never expected to know him. I certainly never expected to be able to call him one of my closest friends. But he is and has been. It was instantaneous. It's as though he's been a part of my life forever. And I would like to have him in my life forever. I value his honesty, his opinions, his thoughtfulness, his vision.
Katie is the same way. I met her my first day of high school. I remember thinking, "One of the cool kids just said hi to me!" I had no idea that I had just met my other. We've been through ups and downs (more ups than downs, obviously), but there is no one that I would rather have near me than her. Last Friday, she came over and it was like all the stress was melting away from me. It's unconditional. It's not difficult. I can tell her anything; confide my deepest secrets, hopes, and dreams. She will still love me. And I will still love her. I still get those butterflies sometimes, the kind you feel when you've got a new crush (do people still get those feelings?). I will never marry someone who doesn't make me feel the same way. She's funny and beautiful and so incredibly smart. I love her.
Heidi and I had dinner last night. After sushi and sake and some sort of delicious pineapple dessert creation, I felt sated. Her presence alone was enough to lift me out of the funk. It's funny to me how intertwined life can become. I was sixteen and working at Dairy Queen. We were sent out to work another store when they went out for the day and I was carpooling with this gorgeous blond college girl (talk about intimidation!). Then it happened: we were in the car and a man cut us off. All of the windows were down, and without even thinking, both of us reacted the same way. We screamed a choice expletive at him and flipped him the double bird. Looking at each other, shocked, we both started laughing. And we've been friends ever since. She told me last night that she will love me, flaws and all, forever. God, doesn't that just feel great?
I was talking to Kevin last night about a situation that has recently developed. Someone who I've been friends with for a long time said something that really offended me. And suddenly, I was done. My tolerance is quite high for these things. You can push me pretty far before I break, but once I'm broken, may someone have mercy on your soul because my anger can be quite a terrifying thing. I stopped trying to mend our friendship and started analyzing it. I realized that it was not a friendship built on mutual trust and love, and was instead built on passive aggressive behavior and my various attempts to deal with that behavior, but my underlying inability to tell her the truth about her behavior and assumptions. As I've concluded, I've realized that I'm not angry. I'm not mad. I'm just frustrated. And all I need for that friendship to begin again is an apology and an admission.
I told him that no matter what happens to a friendship, I need closure. I would much prefer to have a friendship die of natural causes than a friendship that ends in anger. Tension stresses me out. It happens, of course. It's a part of life. But I would like to minimize it as much as possible. I very much dislike having people hate me/dislike me after really knowing me. I find that a lot of it stems from misinformation and untruths. That's really how conflict begins and grows, anyway. I could care less about people who don't know me. If you don't really know me, you can't really love me.
I'm very excited: my roommate in college and I did not end on the best of terms. But time has passed. We've re-friended each other on facebook (monumental, of course) and are planning to meet for a drink when I'm in Chicago. I'm thrilled. I can't wait to pick up and continue. It may never be the friendship that it once was, but it can still be what it needs to be. It can still be good.
It comes and goes in waves of necessity; there's no stopping it. You are, for that singular moment - or perhaps many moments - engulfed by the overwhelming nature of it all. And then it slowly recedes, softly, slowly at first, before there's nothing but a whisper, a soft lapping at your toes. But when you least expect (or by now you should see the patterns), it comes over you again. Quickly. Sweeping over your head without warning, leaving you breathless.
And it goes on like this.
A calculated tide.
A beating heart.
A deep breath, a long sigh.
That's what love is.
True friendship is love.
Last week, after an accidental evening at the PS Lounge, Jacob and I walked through the park. I was overflowing with respect, with gratitude, with contentment, with love. Some of my favorite times are my walks with him. We find ourselves in City Park after dark, wandering, staying close to the edge. I never expected to know him. I certainly never expected to be able to call him one of my closest friends. But he is and has been. It was instantaneous. It's as though he's been a part of my life forever. And I would like to have him in my life forever. I value his honesty, his opinions, his thoughtfulness, his vision.
Katie is the same way. I met her my first day of high school. I remember thinking, "One of the cool kids just said hi to me!" I had no idea that I had just met my other. We've been through ups and downs (more ups than downs, obviously), but there is no one that I would rather have near me than her. Last Friday, she came over and it was like all the stress was melting away from me. It's unconditional. It's not difficult. I can tell her anything; confide my deepest secrets, hopes, and dreams. She will still love me. And I will still love her. I still get those butterflies sometimes, the kind you feel when you've got a new crush (do people still get those feelings?). I will never marry someone who doesn't make me feel the same way. She's funny and beautiful and so incredibly smart. I love her.
Heidi and I had dinner last night. After sushi and sake and some sort of delicious pineapple dessert creation, I felt sated. Her presence alone was enough to lift me out of the funk. It's funny to me how intertwined life can become. I was sixteen and working at Dairy Queen. We were sent out to work another store when they went out for the day and I was carpooling with this gorgeous blond college girl (talk about intimidation!). Then it happened: we were in the car and a man cut us off. All of the windows were down, and without even thinking, both of us reacted the same way. We screamed a choice expletive at him and flipped him the double bird. Looking at each other, shocked, we both started laughing. And we've been friends ever since. She told me last night that she will love me, flaws and all, forever. God, doesn't that just feel great?
I was talking to Kevin last night about a situation that has recently developed. Someone who I've been friends with for a long time said something that really offended me. And suddenly, I was done. My tolerance is quite high for these things. You can push me pretty far before I break, but once I'm broken, may someone have mercy on your soul because my anger can be quite a terrifying thing. I stopped trying to mend our friendship and started analyzing it. I realized that it was not a friendship built on mutual trust and love, and was instead built on passive aggressive behavior and my various attempts to deal with that behavior, but my underlying inability to tell her the truth about her behavior and assumptions. As I've concluded, I've realized that I'm not angry. I'm not mad. I'm just frustrated. And all I need for that friendship to begin again is an apology and an admission.
I told him that no matter what happens to a friendship, I need closure. I would much prefer to have a friendship die of natural causes than a friendship that ends in anger. Tension stresses me out. It happens, of course. It's a part of life. But I would like to minimize it as much as possible. I very much dislike having people hate me/dislike me after really knowing me. I find that a lot of it stems from misinformation and untruths. That's really how conflict begins and grows, anyway. I could care less about people who don't know me. If you don't really know me, you can't really love me.
I'm very excited: my roommate in college and I did not end on the best of terms. But time has passed. We've re-friended each other on facebook (monumental, of course) and are planning to meet for a drink when I'm in Chicago. I'm thrilled. I can't wait to pick up and continue. It may never be the friendship that it once was, but it can still be what it needs to be. It can still be good.
Monday, January 30, 2012
On Future Plans
What do I do when things get weird? Well, there are a few responses, but most of them include a serious increase in wild adventures and questionable decisions.
I always think of Mike whenever these things happen. He'd tell me one of two things (they both come from our favorite movies):
-When life gives you lemons, say "Fuck the Lemons!" and bail.
-or... Rule #72: No excuses, play like a champion.
I have a feeling this is one of those Rule #72 moments.
So, in keeping with those traditions of panic and drastic life-altering adventures, I made plane reservations. Be glad that I can't afford tickets to Kenya; my roommate from South Africa, Margaret, is turning 50 this year and spending it doing work with women there. She invited me along! Perhaps I'll start pinching pennies and try to make the trip out there before she leaves her year-long post.
I'm going to Chicago in February to spend a weekend with my old friends. Swisher will have just had ACL surgery, so he'll be needing some care. (Not that I'm going to be proficient in providing any sort of care. I'm more of an errand-runner.) I haven't seen Anne's face since I was out there in July. And I would love to be able to snuggle with Maddie and Patrick. (Patrick remains my all-time-number-one-wingman for the incident of the Irish and the whiskey. I will love him until I die.)
The best one, though?
March. New York City. The Katies.
Katie has an interview out there and wanted someone to go along. So I am lucky enough to be her traveling companion. I am beyond thrilled. I am so grateful for this opportunity. I can't even begin to tell you how bright this spot is in my otherwise complicated life-situation. We are going to spend four days being wonderful and wild all over New York. I dug around in my purse for my thank-you notes to send to her father, who graciously picked up my plane tickets, but found them to be covered in blush and the envelopes unusable. So I still sent him one - minus the blush - (in my excitement, I just want to say "Thank-You!" right away!) but included a note apologizing for the janky nature of the packaging (regular envelopes, not the cute ones). He'll understand.
There are still adventures to be had. Life isn't over yet. It never is. One thing that I do love about my workplace is the support. We're mostly women, and since I'm the baby, I get the coddling that I sometimes really need. Today, I needed it. My lady boss, who I respect like nobody else, told me that I was going to be fine and that life is just one set of ups and downs after another. I realize that you can hear that said twenty times, but for some reason, I'm always ready to listen to her advice. So I'm letting it stick. This is just a down. There will be other ups.
I always think of Mike whenever these things happen. He'd tell me one of two things (they both come from our favorite movies):
-When life gives you lemons, say "Fuck the Lemons!" and bail.
-or... Rule #72: No excuses, play like a champion.
I have a feeling this is one of those Rule #72 moments.
So, in keeping with those traditions of panic and drastic life-altering adventures, I made plane reservations. Be glad that I can't afford tickets to Kenya; my roommate from South Africa, Margaret, is turning 50 this year and spending it doing work with women there. She invited me along! Perhaps I'll start pinching pennies and try to make the trip out there before she leaves her year-long post.
I'm going to Chicago in February to spend a weekend with my old friends. Swisher will have just had ACL surgery, so he'll be needing some care. (Not that I'm going to be proficient in providing any sort of care. I'm more of an errand-runner.) I haven't seen Anne's face since I was out there in July. And I would love to be able to snuggle with Maddie and Patrick. (Patrick remains my all-time-number-one-wingman for the incident of the Irish and the whiskey. I will love him until I die.)
The best one, though?
March. New York City. The Katies.
Katie has an interview out there and wanted someone to go along. So I am lucky enough to be her traveling companion. I am beyond thrilled. I am so grateful for this opportunity. I can't even begin to tell you how bright this spot is in my otherwise complicated life-situation. We are going to spend four days being wonderful and wild all over New York. I dug around in my purse for my thank-you notes to send to her father, who graciously picked up my plane tickets, but found them to be covered in blush and the envelopes unusable. So I still sent him one - minus the blush - (in my excitement, I just want to say "Thank-You!" right away!) but included a note apologizing for the janky nature of the packaging (regular envelopes, not the cute ones). He'll understand.
There are still adventures to be had. Life isn't over yet. It never is. One thing that I do love about my workplace is the support. We're mostly women, and since I'm the baby, I get the coddling that I sometimes really need. Today, I needed it. My lady boss, who I respect like nobody else, told me that I was going to be fine and that life is just one set of ups and downs after another. I realize that you can hear that said twenty times, but for some reason, I'm always ready to listen to her advice. So I'm letting it stick. This is just a down. There will be other ups.
On Upward Mobility, at 23.
[this is a really pathetic post. If you're not in the mood for serious self-pity, please don't read any further...]
It has been a rough few days. Right now, I feel like the part of me that feels anything but that strange apathetic misery has disappeared.
I've been prone to bouts of tears. They come at random times.
Last night, Kevin brought home Chinese food (I'd been camping out on his couch, feeling sorry for myself and watching Mission Impossible) and I cried. So that was awkward. For a man who has no idea how to deal with the waves of feminine emotions, it might have been too much to handle.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked.
Well. About that.
But let's rewind.
5pm Friday.
I was seriously excited to see Katie, who was in town for the weekend. We were going to meet up, grab drinks, and meet up with her/our friend Mark after he got off work.
I'm driving home. 6th and Colorado (I always get held up at the light.) One of my Gmail accounts dings. Mail. I open it.
UCD rejects me swiftly, before the light changes.
I catch my breath. Humiliation sinks in. Shame.
I had considered many scenarios. Many. None of them included being rejected. Flippantly, I'd been saying that if I didn't get into grad school, I'd have no idea what to do with my life. But those statements were made with the underlying assumption that I'd get in.
What?!?!? The email said that while they couldn't tell me why, blah blah blah, something about recommendation letters. I may have ignored one of their requirements that I have two letters of recommendation from former professors. I had one. It was a beautiful letter, but I neglected to get the second, and instead used a family that I babysit for.
Idiotic move, in hindsight.
But regardless of my disregard for the stated process, I am still not good enough for UCD. So, wow.
Of course, I handled it incredibly maturely and proceeded to get absolutely, ridiculously drunk. Classy, I know. Sloppy. And to make matters so much worse, I wore heels.
Now, if you'll remember the incident in Chicago in mid-2010...the one where upon being denied entry to a club due to my status as a "liability", I told the bouncer that I wasn't drunk, I just had double-jointed ankles that prevented me from walking straight. (I actually do have double-jointed ankles, for the record. Should probably stay away from heels any time my BAC is above .08.) It was basically like that.
I'm now a walking failure. Just completely lost. Doomed to pull a tiny salary for the rest of my life. I'm so upset. I can't even tell you the last time I felt this lack of optimism. (Actually, I can. The last time this happened, I got a cat. So about two years ago. But don't worry, I have enough cats [one is always enough cats] and I don't have the cash for anything wild.)
I know that life is a funny place.
I get that.
But watching everyone else around me find contentment and success professionally, personally, romantically, academically...it's all just too much.
I'm just in a position in my life where nothing is going right. When Heidi Klum and Seal announced their divorce last week, I was uncharacteristically shaken. If they can't do it, who can? My own relationship is shaky, at best. It's not meeting my needs, and it's frustrating. I so badly want it to work. I don't think he's willing to meet me halfway. I don't think he quite understands what I need and I'm not sure how to tell him. My job is fine. I love my company, I really do. But it's hard to see a future where I still only pull $1800 month after taxes. It's hard to make a life like that. I want to own a home. My future is uncertain. I hate that uncertainty. That's the worst part.
And don't start with the "but you're young" bullshit. I'm almost 24. I get that I'm young. But when you were 24, did that seem so young? No. It's that precarious time where the shedding of our adolescent predilections is finalized and our adulthood settles in. I was out with a friend and he started in with the "you're young" business. Well, I'm not young enough that you can't take me home with you, so don't patronize me. I can and will play ball on your level. You just need to realize that your level is the same as everybody else's.
I get that I'm foolish and full of thoughts. But I don't think that those stem from my youth. I think that some of us are eternally doomed to steep in our emotions, in our thoughts, in our heads. There are plenty of people at all ages who are just as lost as I am right now. And there are plenty of people at all ages who will never have the qualities that I have. At my core, I am a beautiful person. I know that I'm fiercely intelligent. I'm open to new experiences; I'm polite (situationally, of course); I'm beautiful; I'm funny; I'm kind-hearted; I'm sarcastic; I'm an excellent maker of French toast; yes, I'm hyper-aware of my emotions - it's the greatest gift and ultimate worst curse. I'm constantly growing and changing, becoming more and more the person that I want to be. But at my core, I'll always be a little wild. And I like that.
I've been making a list of things that I can be instead of a therapist, because the door just got slammed hard on that one. But I won't list them here, because they're basically the primetime lineup for A&E and History channel: logger, pawn shop owner, swamp person, etc. (I'm way too much of a girl to be a swamp person, just for the record. And I refuse to eat squirrel.)
And please don't think that I'm not grateful. I may be wallowing (I need a few days to really embrace the depths of the sadness before I can kick my way out), but I'm still aware of the blessings in my life. Sort of. Mostly. Maybe.
It has been a rough few days. Right now, I feel like the part of me that feels anything but that strange apathetic misery has disappeared.
I've been prone to bouts of tears. They come at random times.
Last night, Kevin brought home Chinese food (I'd been camping out on his couch, feeling sorry for myself and watching Mission Impossible) and I cried. So that was awkward. For a man who has no idea how to deal with the waves of feminine emotions, it might have been too much to handle.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked.
Well. About that.
But let's rewind.
5pm Friday.
I was seriously excited to see Katie, who was in town for the weekend. We were going to meet up, grab drinks, and meet up with her/our friend Mark after he got off work.
I'm driving home. 6th and Colorado (I always get held up at the light.) One of my Gmail accounts dings. Mail. I open it.
UCD rejects me swiftly, before the light changes.
I catch my breath. Humiliation sinks in. Shame.
I had considered many scenarios. Many. None of them included being rejected. Flippantly, I'd been saying that if I didn't get into grad school, I'd have no idea what to do with my life. But those statements were made with the underlying assumption that I'd get in.
What?!?!? The email said that while they couldn't tell me why, blah blah blah, something about recommendation letters. I may have ignored one of their requirements that I have two letters of recommendation from former professors. I had one. It was a beautiful letter, but I neglected to get the second, and instead used a family that I babysit for.
Idiotic move, in hindsight.
But regardless of my disregard for the stated process, I am still not good enough for UCD. So, wow.
Of course, I handled it incredibly maturely and proceeded to get absolutely, ridiculously drunk. Classy, I know. Sloppy. And to make matters so much worse, I wore heels.
Now, if you'll remember the incident in Chicago in mid-2010...the one where upon being denied entry to a club due to my status as a "liability", I told the bouncer that I wasn't drunk, I just had double-jointed ankles that prevented me from walking straight. (I actually do have double-jointed ankles, for the record. Should probably stay away from heels any time my BAC is above .08.) It was basically like that.
I'm now a walking failure. Just completely lost. Doomed to pull a tiny salary for the rest of my life. I'm so upset. I can't even tell you the last time I felt this lack of optimism. (Actually, I can. The last time this happened, I got a cat. So about two years ago. But don't worry, I have enough cats [one is always enough cats] and I don't have the cash for anything wild.)
I know that life is a funny place.
I get that.
But watching everyone else around me find contentment and success professionally, personally, romantically, academically...it's all just too much.
I'm just in a position in my life where nothing is going right. When Heidi Klum and Seal announced their divorce last week, I was uncharacteristically shaken. If they can't do it, who can? My own relationship is shaky, at best. It's not meeting my needs, and it's frustrating. I so badly want it to work. I don't think he's willing to meet me halfway. I don't think he quite understands what I need and I'm not sure how to tell him. My job is fine. I love my company, I really do. But it's hard to see a future where I still only pull $1800 month after taxes. It's hard to make a life like that. I want to own a home. My future is uncertain. I hate that uncertainty. That's the worst part.
And don't start with the "but you're young" bullshit. I'm almost 24. I get that I'm young. But when you were 24, did that seem so young? No. It's that precarious time where the shedding of our adolescent predilections is finalized and our adulthood settles in. I was out with a friend and he started in with the "you're young" business. Well, I'm not young enough that you can't take me home with you, so don't patronize me. I can and will play ball on your level. You just need to realize that your level is the same as everybody else's.
I get that I'm foolish and full of thoughts. But I don't think that those stem from my youth. I think that some of us are eternally doomed to steep in our emotions, in our thoughts, in our heads. There are plenty of people at all ages who are just as lost as I am right now. And there are plenty of people at all ages who will never have the qualities that I have. At my core, I am a beautiful person. I know that I'm fiercely intelligent. I'm open to new experiences; I'm polite (situationally, of course); I'm beautiful; I'm funny; I'm kind-hearted; I'm sarcastic; I'm an excellent maker of French toast; yes, I'm hyper-aware of my emotions - it's the greatest gift and ultimate worst curse. I'm constantly growing and changing, becoming more and more the person that I want to be. But at my core, I'll always be a little wild. And I like that.
I've been making a list of things that I can be instead of a therapist, because the door just got slammed hard on that one. But I won't list them here, because they're basically the primetime lineup for A&E and History channel: logger, pawn shop owner, swamp person, etc. (I'm way too much of a girl to be a swamp person, just for the record. And I refuse to eat squirrel.)
And please don't think that I'm not grateful. I may be wallowing (I need a few days to really embrace the depths of the sadness before I can kick my way out), but I'm still aware of the blessings in my life. Sort of. Mostly. Maybe.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Down
Some unexpected developments.
The life I am in the process of building has shattered yet again.
The pieces are scattered.
Not thinking.
Not processing.
Not yet.
Tomorrow.
Until then, my dreams are laid away.
Let's just be a little wild, just for tonight.
No time to think of consequences.
Push forward.
Find hope.
Smile.
It could be worse....
The life I am in the process of building has shattered yet again.
The pieces are scattered.
Not thinking.
Not processing.
Not yet.
Tomorrow.
Until then, my dreams are laid away.
Let's just be a little wild, just for tonight.
No time to think of consequences.
Push forward.
Find hope.
Smile.
It could be worse....
On Mr. Beast in the Morning
I'm way too busy at work right now to even think about posting something legitimate. But I've been having some serious thoughts, so be excited.
Anyway, for your viewing pleasure, my son Carlos.
Dear lord, I love him. February 10th will mark our two-year adoption anniversary!
Anyway, for your viewing pleasure, my son Carlos.
Dear lord, I love him. February 10th will mark our two-year adoption anniversary!
Thursday, January 26, 2012
On Skinny
Perhaps you've noticed that I'm looking sort of bony these days.
I'm usually a pretty slender person. Solid, but slender.
I started dropping weight and didn't even notice. Of course, there were signs: The funeral back in December. My black dress that normally looks stunning on me just hung there, a sad sack of cloth on a frame. The fact that my pants weren't fitting - I thought it was just cheap detergent. It really hit me when I went to buy new pants. I grabbed my usual size and put them on. Nope, no way. The pants were hanging off me. Grabbed a smaller size. Put those on. Nope. So here I am, ten pounds lighter than my normal, wearing tiny pants that are way smaller than anything I've ever worn and rocking a fiercely sharp clavicle, while mourning the loss of my South Africa boobs. (I ate so much custard to grow them!)
Now before you cry "eating disorder!", let me explain.
I'm still within what the CDC considers a healthy weight range. [That is totally stretching the truth. My body mass index (BMI) is hovering at around 18.5, the very bottom edge of "healthy." But it still counts!] I went in last week and my doctor told me not to lose any more weight. (As I type this, there is a quarter pounder in my hand. Gross, but effective.)
So why all of this weight loss?
In September, I had my yearly performance review at work. My only negative was "focus," but in our meeting, my boss jokingly told me that he was sure that the only thing that would ever fix that was medication. But a larger raise was out of the question based on the lack of focus affecting my work. This really hit home for me, obviously. (My boss in high school used to tell me that I had the attention span of a golden retriever, so this "focus" issue is not a new thing.)
I decided to talk to my doctor about it. It was an oddly confrontational meeting. I underwent two horrible days of testing with a psychologist who looks exactly like Tobias Funke from Arrested Development. When I see him, it's seriously very hard for me not to throw out Tobias quotes.
The testing was lame, but the psychologist is hilarious and amazing. As it turns out, I have zero learning disabilities (they include that in testing to rule everything out), am at or slightly above average at math (this is the scariest part of that - if I'm average, how bad can it get?), have insanely awesome phonemic awareness, and am a classic case of combined-type ADHD.
The ADHD diagnosis did not come as a shock, although I'm now wondering how I ever managed to get anything accomplished before.
So we began the time-honored tradition of messing around with medication. Let me tell you a few things: Ritalin is the scariest thing ever. Probably worse than meth. Actually, no. I just did a quick search for meth billboards and they're very clear that meth is so much scarier than Ritalin. Sort of. Anyway, I took it for like three weeks, I think. Horrid. My resting heart rate was 120 beats per minute. I was super cracked out and jumpy. All very attractive qualities, I assure you.
So we switched. I'm very happy with my new meds, but I am learning that I seriously hate dealing with UnitedHealthcare more than anything. They're a bunch of dicks who sit in a room laughing about the problems of the people who pay them insane amounts of money only to have nothing covered. They've denied my coverage for my meds because I'm over 18, because they don't want me to get generic, and so on down their list of excuses. So I'm paying out of pocket. And silently cursing them while I wait to re-file my claim.
The side effects of the new meds are relatively few, except for the pesky eating problem. It hurts me to eat. I have little to no interest in food. So I've been trying to creative about getting calories. I'm working on it. I spoke to a friend who was also late-in-life (ha) diagnosed with ADHD and she said that after a little while, it'll be easier. It's starting to be a little bit better. Last night, I was starving. All I wanted was Indian food. So I went and got some and it was perfect. (The leftovers are languishing in the backseat of my car. Gross. I should probably do something about that.)
The benefits far outweigh the negatives. I am so much more productive and focused at work. It feels good. I'm working harder and accomplishing tasks. Also, I'm making lists. Legitimate, color-coded, categorized lists. It's crazy and awesome. I keep a calender now. I'm still disorganized as all hell, but we're working on that. Baby steps
I'm usually a pretty slender person. Solid, but slender.
I started dropping weight and didn't even notice. Of course, there were signs: The funeral back in December. My black dress that normally looks stunning on me just hung there, a sad sack of cloth on a frame. The fact that my pants weren't fitting - I thought it was just cheap detergent. It really hit me when I went to buy new pants. I grabbed my usual size and put them on. Nope, no way. The pants were hanging off me. Grabbed a smaller size. Put those on. Nope. So here I am, ten pounds lighter than my normal, wearing tiny pants that are way smaller than anything I've ever worn and rocking a fiercely sharp clavicle, while mourning the loss of my South Africa boobs. (I ate so much custard to grow them!)
Now before you cry "eating disorder!", let me explain.
I'm still within what the CDC considers a healthy weight range. [That is totally stretching the truth. My body mass index (BMI) is hovering at around 18.5, the very bottom edge of "healthy." But it still counts!] I went in last week and my doctor told me not to lose any more weight. (As I type this, there is a quarter pounder in my hand. Gross, but effective.)
So why all of this weight loss?
In September, I had my yearly performance review at work. My only negative was "focus," but in our meeting, my boss jokingly told me that he was sure that the only thing that would ever fix that was medication. But a larger raise was out of the question based on the lack of focus affecting my work. This really hit home for me, obviously. (My boss in high school used to tell me that I had the attention span of a golden retriever, so this "focus" issue is not a new thing.)
I decided to talk to my doctor about it. It was an oddly confrontational meeting. I underwent two horrible days of testing with a psychologist who looks exactly like Tobias Funke from Arrested Development. When I see him, it's seriously very hard for me not to throw out Tobias quotes.
The testing was lame, but the psychologist is hilarious and amazing. As it turns out, I have zero learning disabilities (they include that in testing to rule everything out), am at or slightly above average at math (this is the scariest part of that - if I'm average, how bad can it get?), have insanely awesome phonemic awareness, and am a classic case of combined-type ADHD.
The ADHD diagnosis did not come as a shock, although I'm now wondering how I ever managed to get anything accomplished before.
So we began the time-honored tradition of messing around with medication. Let me tell you a few things: Ritalin is the scariest thing ever. Probably worse than meth. Actually, no. I just did a quick search for meth billboards and they're very clear that meth is so much scarier than Ritalin. Sort of. Anyway, I took it for like three weeks, I think. Horrid. My resting heart rate was 120 beats per minute. I was super cracked out and jumpy. All very attractive qualities, I assure you.
So we switched. I'm very happy with my new meds, but I am learning that I seriously hate dealing with UnitedHealthcare more than anything. They're a bunch of dicks who sit in a room laughing about the problems of the people who pay them insane amounts of money only to have nothing covered. They've denied my coverage for my meds because I'm over 18, because they don't want me to get generic, and so on down their list of excuses. So I'm paying out of pocket. And silently cursing them while I wait to re-file my claim.
The side effects of the new meds are relatively few, except for the pesky eating problem. It hurts me to eat. I have little to no interest in food. So I've been trying to creative about getting calories. I'm working on it. I spoke to a friend who was also late-in-life (ha) diagnosed with ADHD and she said that after a little while, it'll be easier. It's starting to be a little bit better. Last night, I was starving. All I wanted was Indian food. So I went and got some and it was perfect. (The leftovers are languishing in the backseat of my car. Gross. I should probably do something about that.)
The benefits far outweigh the negatives. I am so much more productive and focused at work. It feels good. I'm working harder and accomplishing tasks. Also, I'm making lists. Legitimate, color-coded, categorized lists. It's crazy and awesome. I keep a calender now. I'm still disorganized as all hell, but we're working on that. Baby steps
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| Source for this image linked here |
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
On Tuesday
There are those moments when everything is sailing along and then all of sudden, it's like the entire world begins to crumble, just enough to knock you off balance but not enough to really count as a legitimate disaster.
That's where we're at right now.
Work is the busiest that it's ever been. I've got pressing projects and deadlines looming over my shoulders, and simply not enough time to get anything and everything done.
Life is the same. I'm struggling to find the contentment that settled over everything at the beginning of the year. I want to re-engage it and channel my nervous energy into something productive, but I'm currently unable to get a handle on anything. And so I'm panicky, anxious, stressed, and edgy. I'm quite a joy to be around these days.
I'm hoping that a good dose of trivia tonight and some serious Jacob time tomorrow evening will produce a semblance of calm that will propel me through the week.
That's where we're at right now.
Work is the busiest that it's ever been. I've got pressing projects and deadlines looming over my shoulders, and simply not enough time to get anything and everything done.
Life is the same. I'm struggling to find the contentment that settled over everything at the beginning of the year. I want to re-engage it and channel my nervous energy into something productive, but I'm currently unable to get a handle on anything. And so I'm panicky, anxious, stressed, and edgy. I'm quite a joy to be around these days.
I'm hoping that a good dose of trivia tonight and some serious Jacob time tomorrow evening will produce a semblance of calm that will propel me through the week.
Monday, January 23, 2012
On Math.
I'm admittedly not the biggest fan of the Huffington Post, but you know, they're not all bad. Anyway, saw this article this morning.
I've been bad at math since about fourth grade. "Bad" is relative: on recent intelligence tests (I'll explain in a blog post soon), even my weaknesses measure at or above average. So "bad" at math isn't really that bad. But I'm still not great. However, finding out that I might be genetically inclined not to understand fractals and long division makes the grieving process (for my future as a geneticist or forensic scientist) much easier. Okay, so there's not really any proof of the gender gap, but I'm going to run with it: Damn you, double-X chromosomes and breasts! (Hah, mark this as the first time they've actually gotten in my way.)
I've been bad at math since about fourth grade. "Bad" is relative: on recent intelligence tests (I'll explain in a blog post soon), even my weaknesses measure at or above average. So "bad" at math isn't really that bad. But I'm still not great. However, finding out that I might be genetically inclined not to understand fractals and long division makes the grieving process (for my future as a geneticist or forensic scientist) much easier. Okay, so there's not really any proof of the gender gap, but I'm going to run with it: Damn you, double-X chromosomes and breasts! (Hah, mark this as the first time they've actually gotten in my way.)
Math Gender Gap Not Result of Girls' Low Self-Esteem, Researchers Say
First Posted: 1/19/12 09:47 AM ET Updated: 1/19/12 09:48 AM ET
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Are girls bad at math? From a talking Barbie doll saying "Math class is tough" to Larry Summers, the ex-President of Harvard University, speaking on the "different availability of aptitude," it's an issue that's seen plenty of controversy. As one of the most sensitive topics in education today, there's plenty of research on it, and even a body of research on the research.
A study to be published in Review of General Psychology, falls into the latter category. Its authors, David Geary of the University of Missouri and Giljsbert Stoet of the University of Leeds, find that if a gender gap in math test scores exists, it isn't a manifestation of the so-called "stereotype threat" theory, as many researchers seem to believe.
According to that theory, girls tend to perform worse on tests after they've been told they'll do poorly. Geary and Stoet found that past studies relying on the theory were flawed and lacking real evidence. This suggests that if girls are scoring worse than boys on standardized math tests, it's not because of their low self esteem.
According to that theory, girls tend to perform worse on tests after they've been told they'll do poorly. Geary and Stoet found that past studies relying on the theory were flawed and lacking real evidence. This suggests that if girls are scoring worse than boys on standardized math tests, it's not because of their low self esteem.
In other words, don't blame ditzy Barbie.
The new finding suggests that it might make sense to scale back social programs designed to counter the stereotype threat. As Geary noted:
“The stereotype theory really was adopted by psychologists and policy makers around the world as the final word, with the idea that eliminating the stereotype could eliminate the gender gap...However, even with many programs established to address the issue, the problem continued. We now believe the wrong problem is being addressed.”
Geary and Stoat make no contention about the gender gap itself. Their study makes a strong case for ruling out a self esteem-based explanation of the gender gap, but an increasing number of scientists believe the gender gap is illusory in the first place.
Recent years have brought mounting evidence against the idea that, other things being equal, women are worse at math than men. A 2011 study published in Psychological Bulletin found evidence of gender gaps in various countries, but noted that in some countries, such as Jordan and Bahrain, girls had the edge.
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