Camp Swanky, fall of 2007. That was my apartment in Chicago where I lived before I moved back in with my mom after my separation from Craig. I was a full-blown alcoholic, trying to keep up with Luke, insane and not working, bipolar and unmedicated, and just getting back into the dating scene after breaking up with my ex-boyfriend Art, another alcoholic, ending a toxic summer romance where we nearly drank ourselves to death and I behaved really badly.
Suffice it to say I was looking for love in ALL the wrong places, and ended up one, two, or three-night standing with a rogue's gallery of strange guys who took advantage of my perpetually inebriated state. There were a lot of them. I don't even remember all of their names. One I do remember, whose name escapes me, had a one-night stand with me during which I drove in blinding fog to meet him at a bar, then cracked the tail light of my car pulling out of his driveway and hitting a tree (drunkenly). He couldn't drive because he walked with a cane after some accident he'd been in, and was a general asshole, and thus another mark on the car of my adventures that to date, still hasn't been repaired. Never saw the guy again.
By December of 2007, I was settling down a little, and started dating two men at the same time, Martin and Chris. Martin was 47 at the time, the oldest gent I'd dated, just moved back to Chicago from out East and had no job. He was very tall and thin, looked older than he was, and had insulin-dependent diabetes. He was nuts about me from day one. I was not all that into him, though he was really a very, very nice guy. He'd take the train to the station near my house and walk to my apartment, as I was too lazy (or drunk usually) to go pick him up all the way in East Rogers Park, by the lake. We'd been on 3 or 4 dates and he thought we were "in a relationship," though I was seeing Chris at the same time. Martin liked to email me. A lot. I would typically email him back, more often and as opposed to seeing him in person. Martin continued to email me through early January, when he said that he was getting sick, unsure of what was wrong with him and too destitute to get himself to a doctor. And I sat idly by. I was wrapped up in Luke and frankly, Chris, and the last email he wrote me was him asking me if I could come take care of him around the time of my son's birthday, to which I said no. I remember a line in his email that said something to the effect of "Annie, I'm sick, really sick." I did respond, saying I was sorry he wasn't well but that I was busy with all things Luke and didn't have time to see him. About 2 weeks later, I checked in on him via email, only to hear from his sister a few days later, saying that Martin had died right around Luke's birthday in mid-January. So that's why he wasn't responding to my emails! He was DEAD. In hindsight, I feel enormously guilty about not having done something about his illness and letting him die alone in his apartment. This egocentric, free-wheelin' alcoholic had bigger fish to fry. Had Martin survived and I actually had given him a chance, I wonder what kind of relationship we'd have ultimately had. Maybe I would've ditched Chris. We'll never know.
Chris just seemed the more logical person to date. He was charming, intellectual, funny, successful and actually had a car he had a license to drive. At the beginning of our relationship, which would last 3 1/2 years and turn majorly abusive and ugly, we had a great time together. We chatted online for a few weeks before meeting in person, and our first "date" was right before Christmas of 2007. I was so comfortable with him that instead of meeting in a public place, I invited him over to my apartment to spend the night (we'd already negotiated that it was likely we would get busy upon meeting one another, so he came prepared). Not the smartest thing to do with a stranger in hindsight, but I trusted him right away. He was like the oldest, bestest friend I'd always had but just never met until that time. The night we got together, temperatures were in the 60's during that December day, turning violently colder with winds in excess of 80 mph by late night. Trees and power lines were falling down everywhere. Our meeting accompanied a literal force of nature. I remember not wanting him to leave the next day, him not wanting to overstay his welcome, and us pouring through my CD collection in the office and just generally having a great time in one another's company. Those days, I still have fond memories of, even today. It's a shame it had to get so ugly and sick in the end, seeing as this was the guy I finally thought I was destined to be with forever. The love of my life. My ultimate soulmate, though that would prove to be very wrong.
In his defense, Chris didn't know what he was getting himself involved with. My future looked, on paper, promising, at the time. Chris thought his new friend was a budding firefighter. I'd taken the Chicago Firefighter exam in 2006, aced the written and by fall of 2007,won the veritable lottery by being the first of the candidates called up to test further for the job. I had every intention of passing the physical agility test and the firefighters I knew were all confident I'd soon be among them on the job. Never mind that I quit working out months prior to that and was in shitty shape at best, and drinking all the time, and had put on 25 lbs. I told myself I wouldn't drink the day before the physical agility test. Promised myself that. But my nerves got the best of me, and I showed up to the test the following morning with a wicked hangover. Performed all the required tests, though too slowly to pass the test. Being female didn't work in my favor, either, and it was a HARD physical test. I'm still proud of myself for finishing the test as best I could, but it was not meant to be for me to be a firefighter, and I was notified a few weeks later that I'd failed the test and was no longer being considered for the job. Even if I *had* made it, I surely would've flunked out of the academy if I continued to drink at the pace I was feebly sustaining. God had other plans for me, just like he had for Martin.
I like to say I live my life with no regrets. Had all those experiences not happened to me, I wouldn't be where I am today, which is a stable, most-times good place, even with the residual mental and physical toll my relationship with Chris ultimately placed on me. Had that all not worked out, I wouldn't be in a safe, (usually) sane place, working a job I love (yesterday notwithstanding), studying for a doctorate in psychology, and a hell of a mom to my son. I wouldn't have all the positive influences in my life--friends and family, cheering me on and keeping me afloat. I might have died from alcoholism. Chris likes to take credit for having saved my life, though that's simply not true. *I* made the decision to get well and press forward. I'm fiercely proud of the progress I've made since the fall of 2007, when I was rotting away, inside and out.
Chris' favorite band is Steely Dan. All things considered, I'm never going back to my old school...
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Apologies in Advance. That's the 3:10 to Yuma.
If you emailed me today and I didn't respond, it's because you're not my ex-husband or my BFF. Those two lucky (?) people were graced with correspondence from me today, which started at 5am, during a period of time where nothing creative was accomplished, which was frustrating. I like to write in the morning. Writing at night after a draining day that wasn't quite "Jesus Shootin' Heroin" but was more like "Jesus Abusing His Xanax and having 3 gin and tonics" is an accurate description of my brain after 10pm.
Though I did compose a wicked text to That Guy Who Never Texts Me Back about a song we heard on the way home from De Kalb. It read, "My favorite music moment on our ride home had to be the classic about a May-September romance thinly veiled as an attempt by the older guy to pry her into bed with promises of tequila and cocaine by a band named after a dildo in 'Naked Lunch.' A more perfect soundtrack doesn't exist. And if you were paying any attention to the sardonic irony of that and can tell me what song it was, I will give you half the royalties off my first book. XO"
Let's see what just about ANYBODY would do receiving a text like that.
And if any of you can name the song, you will likewise be rewarded, so feel free to comment and guess if you're so inclined.
Work was frustrating today, to the point where I called it a draw at 5:54 pm and clocked out before my 6pm quitting time. I was also expecting a phone call, so that hastened my exit. My so-called superior drove me nuts today. She's been working for the practice for 25 years, and is very good at task-oriented work. Give her something to accomplish and she'll see the project through. Give her a group of diverse females to manage and she's an illogical trainwreck. She tries, but continually fails. It doesn't help that she's chronically intimidated by my personality, particularly when I (and it's easy to) outwit her and use words she doesn't understand.
Today was her utopian idea of How To Be in Two Places At One Time. When you take a patient in to an exam room to take his/her vitals, you have to leave the front office, where the phones are ringing off the hook. It cannot be avoided. My impression of the priority of the job is to keep the doctors moving with patients in the rooms to examine, and flow the patients in and out of the office. People on the phone come secondary to that. I was chastised out loud today for letting the phones ring while I was doing rooms. She said she could see the phone lines blinking in her office. We are short-staffed, with only 2 girls up front several days a week. We have a lot of shit to do and it's immense pressure. I raised the question, "If you saw the phone lines all blinking from your office, why didn't you come up front and help answer them?" to which I got no answer. That's what a good leader should do. I also mentioned that I *do* answer the phone when I return from the exam room, after she came up with another lame ass idea that would interrupt patient flow through the office. Seriously, am I the only one who sees what a huge clusterfuck this all is?
There's some special lunch cruise on Lake Michigan that is a ladies' company outing on Saturday, which I bowed out of, citing taking care of my son as an excuse. He's chief among the reasons I'm not going, but what's also significant is that everyone will be drinking, and it's an uncomfortable place for me to be. My so-called superior suggested I leave Luke home alone for 4 hours and come along. Not bloody likely. It may boost morale in the workplace, but no thanks.
I take 3 15-minute breaks throughout the work day, during which I chain smoke and during the 2nd break, eat an apple. There's a little hiding spot at which I sit down and smoke/text/Tweet that's out of sight to the security guards who like to come and bust you for smoking on the hospital property. That's my little sanctuary.
It never fails that when I'm eating the apple, walking back into my office, someone getting on the elevator with me comments about the apple I'm eating. Is it really that rude to eat in public? That's my lunch, yo, sorry. Today's commentary was "Is that a honey crisp apple?" and I said, my mouth half-full, "No, it's a Fuji." listened to a diatribe about apple picking season before bidding this couple farewell on the 2nd floor. Ok, what WAS tacky? I finished the apple in the bathroom stall while taking a wizz, and thew the core into the sanitary napkin garbage container. Hell, I was multitasking.
During break #1 today, I thought about the Flaming Lips' new song "I'm Working at NASA on Acid." They pose the question if insects feel pain when they die in the song. The sanctuary on which I sit and smoke, when it's warm enough out, is littered with giant red ants that freak me out. Today, I started smushing one of the ants with my shoe, watching him writhe in agony trying to revive his legs. At a certain point, I thought he blew away in the breeze, but alas, the little motherfucker survived and was walking again. So I stepped on him again, finally killing him. Then I felt guilty and thought about his pain. "That had to hurt," I thought to myself. In hindsight, that wasn't cool of me to do, I suppose.
My son, the ultimate pacifist, never kills insects. He takes a plastic cup and a piece of paper, catches the insect,and sets it free outside. He believed, when I asked him, that insects do feel pain when they're killed and that we shouldn't kill them. I have to admit I sort of admire that trait in him. If Craig is right, apparently Luke has no problem killing people but ants are King.
But I digress.
ADDENDUM, 6:49 am, THE NEXT MORNING: NO MORE WRITING AFTER 10pm. THAT BLOG SUCKED. --AM
Though I did compose a wicked text to That Guy Who Never Texts Me Back about a song we heard on the way home from De Kalb. It read, "My favorite music moment on our ride home had to be the classic about a May-September romance thinly veiled as an attempt by the older guy to pry her into bed with promises of tequila and cocaine by a band named after a dildo in 'Naked Lunch.' A more perfect soundtrack doesn't exist. And if you were paying any attention to the sardonic irony of that and can tell me what song it was, I will give you half the royalties off my first book. XO"
Let's see what just about ANYBODY would do receiving a text like that.
And if any of you can name the song, you will likewise be rewarded, so feel free to comment and guess if you're so inclined.
Work was frustrating today, to the point where I called it a draw at 5:54 pm and clocked out before my 6pm quitting time. I was also expecting a phone call, so that hastened my exit. My so-called superior drove me nuts today. She's been working for the practice for 25 years, and is very good at task-oriented work. Give her something to accomplish and she'll see the project through. Give her a group of diverse females to manage and she's an illogical trainwreck. She tries, but continually fails. It doesn't help that she's chronically intimidated by my personality, particularly when I (and it's easy to) outwit her and use words she doesn't understand.
Today was her utopian idea of How To Be in Two Places At One Time. When you take a patient in to an exam room to take his/her vitals, you have to leave the front office, where the phones are ringing off the hook. It cannot be avoided. My impression of the priority of the job is to keep the doctors moving with patients in the rooms to examine, and flow the patients in and out of the office. People on the phone come secondary to that. I was chastised out loud today for letting the phones ring while I was doing rooms. She said she could see the phone lines blinking in her office. We are short-staffed, with only 2 girls up front several days a week. We have a lot of shit to do and it's immense pressure. I raised the question, "If you saw the phone lines all blinking from your office, why didn't you come up front and help answer them?" to which I got no answer. That's what a good leader should do. I also mentioned that I *do* answer the phone when I return from the exam room, after she came up with another lame ass idea that would interrupt patient flow through the office. Seriously, am I the only one who sees what a huge clusterfuck this all is?
There's some special lunch cruise on Lake Michigan that is a ladies' company outing on Saturday, which I bowed out of, citing taking care of my son as an excuse. He's chief among the reasons I'm not going, but what's also significant is that everyone will be drinking, and it's an uncomfortable place for me to be. My so-called superior suggested I leave Luke home alone for 4 hours and come along. Not bloody likely. It may boost morale in the workplace, but no thanks.
I take 3 15-minute breaks throughout the work day, during which I chain smoke and during the 2nd break, eat an apple. There's a little hiding spot at which I sit down and smoke/text/Tweet that's out of sight to the security guards who like to come and bust you for smoking on the hospital property. That's my little sanctuary.
It never fails that when I'm eating the apple, walking back into my office, someone getting on the elevator with me comments about the apple I'm eating. Is it really that rude to eat in public? That's my lunch, yo, sorry. Today's commentary was "Is that a honey crisp apple?" and I said, my mouth half-full, "No, it's a Fuji." listened to a diatribe about apple picking season before bidding this couple farewell on the 2nd floor. Ok, what WAS tacky? I finished the apple in the bathroom stall while taking a wizz, and thew the core into the sanitary napkin garbage container. Hell, I was multitasking.
During break #1 today, I thought about the Flaming Lips' new song "I'm Working at NASA on Acid." They pose the question if insects feel pain when they die in the song. The sanctuary on which I sit and smoke, when it's warm enough out, is littered with giant red ants that freak me out. Today, I started smushing one of the ants with my shoe, watching him writhe in agony trying to revive his legs. At a certain point, I thought he blew away in the breeze, but alas, the little motherfucker survived and was walking again. So I stepped on him again, finally killing him. Then I felt guilty and thought about his pain. "That had to hurt," I thought to myself. In hindsight, that wasn't cool of me to do, I suppose.
My son, the ultimate pacifist, never kills insects. He takes a plastic cup and a piece of paper, catches the insect,and sets it free outside. He believed, when I asked him, that insects do feel pain when they're killed and that we shouldn't kill them. I have to admit I sort of admire that trait in him. If Craig is right, apparently Luke has no problem killing people but ants are King.
But I digress.
ADDENDUM, 6:49 am, THE NEXT MORNING: NO MORE WRITING AFTER 10pm. THAT BLOG SUCKED. --AM
A Quote I Live. Over and Over and Over Again.
“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”
~Neil Gaiman
~Neil Gaiman
Sunday, September 11, 2011
"Mighty To Save": St Paul Contemporary Praise Band, 9/11/11
A little clip of what my band did today. Ignore the noise of the planes flying o'er.
As Much as I Remember about 9/11/01. Ten Years After.
Listening to some Rush this morning to ready me for the picnic gig this morning. Neil Peart, one of my greatest inspirations. It's a National Day of Remembrance, supposedly somber, but for me, it will be mostly a rejoice. Playing the outdoor service with my band, my brother at my side, followed by some typical Lutheran BBQ fun (?). (Did I mention there's bingo? Yeah, I'll be gone by then.) My hand held out well after last night's service, not numbing much at all until a song that's a sustained pattern with the right hand hitting the hi hat for 3 minutes solid, which taxes my injury.
Broke down the gear last night after church, moved it to the room in the school where we'll take it outside and assemble it on the church yard. Got my real cymbals out of the storage room, and was amazed that my guitarist told me I could start using my cymbals in the sanctuary to augment my electronic kit, when he said a few months ago that I couldn't. (They sound so much better than the rubber cymbals.) Started rat-a-tat-tatting on my Rogers Dynasonic snare with my fingers and excitement about the picnic gig poured through me.
Today's service is identical to the one last night, save for the addition of the bell and adult choirs. The sermon for the weekend is based on Ecclesiastes 3:1-15, or as we in the rock music world know it as, The Byrds' "Turn, Turn, Turn." ("To everything, there is a season...") We're remembering September 11, 2001 this weekend, praying for the continued safety of our country, our leaders, and to keep the motherfucking terrorists away.
What's with the heightened terror alert on the country this weekend? Is Al Qeada really that stupid that they'd strike us twice when we're most expecting it? Sheesh. If they ever WERE ballsy enough to strike us again, or any terrorists for that matter, they'd do it when we least expect it. I don't trust national security and their team of terrorist finders. I can't even get on an airplane with my medication bag without facing chaotic scrutiny. And I'm a white suburban mom. Dudes, you're looking in the wrong places. Anyway...
(Just switched from Rush to Sebadoh's "Magnet's Coil." Always a good stress reliever. I think every politician and worried American should listen to this song today:)
In 2001, I woke up early in the morning to a phone call from the school where I was teaching asking me to substitute on 9/11. I told the department that I couldn't because my husband had to work 1st shift, which turned out to be wrong. He was, in actuality, working 3-11:30 that night. So I stayed home with Craig, Luke waking up around 7am. He was a year and a half old at the time, a scampering toddler.
I have no recollection as to what made us turn on the television to see what was unfolding around the country, but we watched as the second plane hit the Twin Towers. At that point, I called my mom, who was already at work, and told her what was happening. For some reason, feeling safer, the 3 of us (Craig, Luke and myself) sat huddled together on the living room floor. We could still hear planes from O'Hare in Chicago swooshing over our house, shell shocked. I remember asking Craig, "Is this the end of the world?" He said, as we held out child tightly, "I don't know." Then the Pentagon got hit, then Pennsylvania. I kept calling my mom, telling her "Another plane crashed." I was in shock.
Soon thereafter, they declared the country a no-fly zone, and in a matter of a couple of hours, it was silent over our house. Normally, we hear the jets overhead every minute and a half, as we live in a suburb about 10 minutes away from O'Hare airport. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, and quiet as a dead cemetery outside.
I didn't want Craig to go to work that afternoon, but he couldn't stay home with me. So after he left, I took Luke for a walk in his stroller to my aunt and uncle's house, who lived within walking distance of our house at the time. The walk over there was silent and creepy. We all sat out on their patio for a couple of hours, playing with Luke, seeing military helicopters and planes (with strikingly loud engines) flying overhead, heading east towards downtown.
Decided to have my mom and my grandma over for dinner as a distraction and to band together. When Luke was a wee one, this was a regular occurrence since Craig alternated his work schedule from 1st to 2nd shift a lot and I was left alone with the baby a lot. I cooked and tried to relax with some wine (this was a few years before I became an alcoholic). We were all comforted to be together, sharing tears and shock and disbelief while trying not to let Luke notice how unsettled we were. I guess we gave Luke a bath and we all assisted in putting him to bed before the Grandmas left, and I waited for Craig to come home, still in shock, still watching the aftermath on television.
Later, I found out that one of my oldest friends from childhood, Heidi, lost her husband Jeffrey, in the Twin Towers crash. That was as close to the situation as I was personally affected.
That's as much as I remember about 2001. Don't ask me what happened September 12, 2001. People went back to work. Eventually, planes started flying to O'Hare again. Life went on, albeit differently.
"There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven ~
2 A time to give birth, and a time to die; A time to plant, and a time to uproot what is planted.
3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; A time to tear down, and a time to build up.
4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to mourn, and a time to dance.
5 A time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones; A time to embrace, and a time to shun embracing.
6 A time to search, and a time to give up as lost; A time to keep, and a time to throw away.
7 A time to tear apart, and a time to sew together; A time to be silent, and a time to speak.
8 A time to love, and a time to hate; A time for war, and a time for peace.
9 What profit is there to the worker from that in which he toils? 10 I have seen the task which God has given the sons of men with which to occupy themselves. 11 He has made everything appropriate in its time. He has also set eternity in their heart, yet so that man will not find out the work which God has done from the beginning even to the end. 12 I know that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and to do good in one's lifetime; 13 moreover, that every man who eats and drinks sees good in all his labor, it is the gift of God. 14 I know that everything God does will remain forever; there is nothing to add to it and there is nothing to take from it, for God has so worked that men should fear Him. 15 That which is has been already, and that which will be has already been, for God seeks what has passed by."
Time to go set up the band equipment for the morning. It's another bright, sunny, and hopefully turning-warmer day. I get to play, I get to see my son, I get fellowship with both my church and biological family, and I think it'll be a good day.
(Wow, don't follow up Rush and Sebadoh with The Smiths when you're trying to think positively. Just my two cents' worth.)
Broke down the gear last night after church, moved it to the room in the school where we'll take it outside and assemble it on the church yard. Got my real cymbals out of the storage room, and was amazed that my guitarist told me I could start using my cymbals in the sanctuary to augment my electronic kit, when he said a few months ago that I couldn't. (They sound so much better than the rubber cymbals.) Started rat-a-tat-tatting on my Rogers Dynasonic snare with my fingers and excitement about the picnic gig poured through me.
Today's service is identical to the one last night, save for the addition of the bell and adult choirs. The sermon for the weekend is based on Ecclesiastes 3:1-15, or as we in the rock music world know it as, The Byrds' "Turn, Turn, Turn." ("To everything, there is a season...") We're remembering September 11, 2001 this weekend, praying for the continued safety of our country, our leaders, and to keep the motherfucking terrorists away.
What's with the heightened terror alert on the country this weekend? Is Al Qeada really that stupid that they'd strike us twice when we're most expecting it? Sheesh. If they ever WERE ballsy enough to strike us again, or any terrorists for that matter, they'd do it when we least expect it. I don't trust national security and their team of terrorist finders. I can't even get on an airplane with my medication bag without facing chaotic scrutiny. And I'm a white suburban mom. Dudes, you're looking in the wrong places. Anyway...
(Just switched from Rush to Sebadoh's "Magnet's Coil." Always a good stress reliever. I think every politician and worried American should listen to this song today:)
In 2001, I woke up early in the morning to a phone call from the school where I was teaching asking me to substitute on 9/11. I told the department that I couldn't because my husband had to work 1st shift, which turned out to be wrong. He was, in actuality, working 3-11:30 that night. So I stayed home with Craig, Luke waking up around 7am. He was a year and a half old at the time, a scampering toddler.
I have no recollection as to what made us turn on the television to see what was unfolding around the country, but we watched as the second plane hit the Twin Towers. At that point, I called my mom, who was already at work, and told her what was happening. For some reason, feeling safer, the 3 of us (Craig, Luke and myself) sat huddled together on the living room floor. We could still hear planes from O'Hare in Chicago swooshing over our house, shell shocked. I remember asking Craig, "Is this the end of the world?" He said, as we held out child tightly, "I don't know." Then the Pentagon got hit, then Pennsylvania. I kept calling my mom, telling her "Another plane crashed." I was in shock.
Soon thereafter, they declared the country a no-fly zone, and in a matter of a couple of hours, it was silent over our house. Normally, we hear the jets overhead every minute and a half, as we live in a suburb about 10 minutes away from O'Hare airport. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, and quiet as a dead cemetery outside.
I didn't want Craig to go to work that afternoon, but he couldn't stay home with me. So after he left, I took Luke for a walk in his stroller to my aunt and uncle's house, who lived within walking distance of our house at the time. The walk over there was silent and creepy. We all sat out on their patio for a couple of hours, playing with Luke, seeing military helicopters and planes (with strikingly loud engines) flying overhead, heading east towards downtown.
Decided to have my mom and my grandma over for dinner as a distraction and to band together. When Luke was a wee one, this was a regular occurrence since Craig alternated his work schedule from 1st to 2nd shift a lot and I was left alone with the baby a lot. I cooked and tried to relax with some wine (this was a few years before I became an alcoholic). We were all comforted to be together, sharing tears and shock and disbelief while trying not to let Luke notice how unsettled we were. I guess we gave Luke a bath and we all assisted in putting him to bed before the Grandmas left, and I waited for Craig to come home, still in shock, still watching the aftermath on television.
Later, I found out that one of my oldest friends from childhood, Heidi, lost her husband Jeffrey, in the Twin Towers crash. That was as close to the situation as I was personally affected.
That's as much as I remember about 2001. Don't ask me what happened September 12, 2001. People went back to work. Eventually, planes started flying to O'Hare again. Life went on, albeit differently.
"There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven ~
2 A time to give birth, and a time to die; A time to plant, and a time to uproot what is planted.
3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; A time to tear down, and a time to build up.
4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to mourn, and a time to dance.
5 A time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones; A time to embrace, and a time to shun embracing.
6 A time to search, and a time to give up as lost; A time to keep, and a time to throw away.
7 A time to tear apart, and a time to sew together; A time to be silent, and a time to speak.
8 A time to love, and a time to hate; A time for war, and a time for peace.
9 What profit is there to the worker from that in which he toils? 10 I have seen the task which God has given the sons of men with which to occupy themselves. 11 He has made everything appropriate in its time. He has also set eternity in their heart, yet so that man will not find out the work which God has done from the beginning even to the end. 12 I know that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and to do good in one's lifetime; 13 moreover, that every man who eats and drinks sees good in all his labor, it is the gift of God. 14 I know that everything God does will remain forever; there is nothing to add to it and there is nothing to take from it, for God has so worked that men should fear Him. 15 That which is has been already, and that which will be has already been, for God seeks what has passed by."
Time to go set up the band equipment for the morning. It's another bright, sunny, and hopefully turning-warmer day. I get to play, I get to see my son, I get fellowship with both my church and biological family, and I think it'll be a good day.
(Wow, don't follow up Rush and Sebadoh with The Smiths when you're trying to think positively. Just my two cents' worth.)
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Quietly Perusing My State of Affairs, With Nothing Apparently Wrong.
My internal clock is ready to go to work this Saturday morning. I awakened groggily at 5:45 am, couldn't get back to sleep, and had KISS' version of The Stones' "2000 Man" stuck in my head already. Highly atypically, I stayed up until 1am on the phone with my BFF. I desperately need the rest, for it shall be a long, long day, but twas not to be. (A nap before band? Let's try that.) So I made the pot of tea, had a smoke and texted TOC an update on my hand. Followed that by Facebooking a friend in England who I knew was up and having lunch, exchanging pleasantries. I'm yawning uncontrollably. With a gentle overturning between courage and will, peppered with sheer exhaustion, I pressed forward and decided to start writing. The following is another non-linear strand of what's in my brain. (Because I hate when bloggers title their pieces "Random Thoughts." How unoriginal!)
Contrary to mornings when I have to work, this morning, I'm choosing a light iTunes mix. The tea is waking me up, and I'm more serene and chilled out than manic and hurried. I don't have to be anywhere today until 4:30 pm, aside from picking up my heart meds at the pharmacy at some juncture. Michael Nesmith is a genius wordsmith and the light country-laden rock rhythms are melding well with my mood.
Practice went very well last night. I was on my game and the band said they couldn't tell that there was anything wrong with my hand, apart from me (as usual) playing too fast. This timekeeper is a nervous-norvous. I'm sorry, but you try coming up with a beat to "God Bless Our Native Land" with your band a full choir backing you up.I was playing it in like 2/2 time, and it was sucking. "I don't like that beat, try a 4/4," my guitarist said. It's a hymn. Hymns drag. I dragged along with it. Maybe I'll leave that one up to Steven tomorrow at the picnic. The picnic will prove to be a great advertisement of the music ministry at the church, for the bell choir, the adult choir and the contemporary band are all leading the service.
Steven is worried about dew getting on the Rogers kit on the church lawn early tomorrow morning. Having just sat on the patio chair in a spray of dew whilst smoking, getting my ass wet, I thought about how little control over the dew I have. Bob, my guitarist, said he'd consider asking the custodian to put my drums on a riser from the gym. A good idea, to stable the kit away from the bumpy grass on the church lawn. It'd also improve my acoustics. The only downside is that it'll force me more in front of the congregation, when I'm used to shyly hiding behind my kit and music stand. Just for that, I think I'll wear Peter Criss Catman makeup to church tomorrow and get a gaggle of tattoos overnight.
Rehearsing with the adult choir last night was sort of a clusterfuck. They weren't familiar with the song they're performing with us, and it was difficult for the choir director to get them in a formation that optimized their vocals combined with our 3 singers. Thus, I had to play the song 4 times in a row on my congas, which wore me out. The residual 2.5 hours of practicing with my band numbed my whole right arm by the end of the evening, so afraid of taxing myself, I called it quits for the night. It's much better this morning, and I'm cautiously optimistic about the rest of the weekend.
It was eerie in the sanctuary last night, as the church was set up for a funeral in the morning. The pall was laid out meticulously across a pew, the banner was up near the altar, and the funeral service bulletins were at the entrance. I couldn't figure out why, in the liturgy for the service, they had the deceased's name in bold, capital letters. It was something like, and I'm making this up, but with emphasis, "Lord, let your servant DON come to his Heavenly home..." Every time it mentioned DON, it was bold. Like you're gonna forget whose funeral you're at? I took a look at the hymns DON was having played at his funeral and it was the bland cacophony of oldies but goodies that, if anyone plays at my memorial service when I die, I'll come down from Heaven and strangle everyone involved. I'm putting this in my last will and testament as one I want sung exuberantly:
If all aforementioned parties involved want to tie themselves up to crosses in loin clothes to sing it with vigor, all the better. (That given, my funeral better not happen for a really long, fucking time. And when they finally end the memorial and spread my ashes, I want someone to play Nazareth's "Hair of the Dog.")
My dear old friend from Knox, Allen Doderlein, is marrying his partner, Jeff Bouthiette, today in Massachusetts. Mazel tov and two snaps around the globe to both of them. My favorite Allen memory? Him staying with me overnight at my apartment downtown on our Chicago Arts Semester at Knox after seeing "Natural Born Killers" and it freaking me the hell out. Allen's one of those guys who would make a perfect boyfriend, and he found the perfect guy for him. Love is love is love. If you don't support gay marriage, don't fucking get one.
From the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod on Facebook this morning: This looks really fucking interesting, NOT: "It’s been nearly 200 years since the first president of the LCMS was born! Celebrate the bicentennial of the Rev. Dr. C.F.W. Walther by touring significant Lutheran sites in St. Louis and Perry County, Mo. Attend a church service where Walther preached. See where he and his wife are buried. Visit Saxon Lutheran immigrants’ original homestead. Read more here: www.lcms.org/walther200." Significant Lutheran sites. Only if a fucking potluck is involved. There are a lot of things this anarchist wants to see before she departs this mortal coil. The burial site of my uber-conservative denomination president is not high on the priority list. Italy is, however.
I've moved onto a lot of quiet Neil Young from the Michael Nesmith this morning. Chills listening to "Old Man." Naturally, it reminds me of my father. I AM a lot like him. "Heart of Gold" reminds me of TOC, because we once had a discussion about it, and spookily, he heard it on the radio as soon as he got in the car on his way home (and get this! Texted me about it! Shock of shocks!) But what struck me was the honesty of "The Needle and the Damage Done." Such a truism:
"I've seen the needle
and the damage done
A little part of it in everyone
But every junkie's
like a settin' sun."
NOT having a junkie/addict mentality seems so foreign to me. I even hoard my nausea medications. It's been an uphill battle learning how to live without the numbing powers of drugs and alcohol. Though I've been technically clean for 12 years, I still use narcotics when I need to, for pain in my gut, though admittedly, I've pulled shit like taking 4 when I should take 2, because 2 block the pain receptors. Four make me feel warm, fuzzy, friendly, cuddly, painless and amazing. I haven't done that in a long ass time, though. I feel like telling people, "If you had one ounce of the insane pleasure you derive from one dose or 6 drinks, you'd recklessly abandon all of your senses." My former heroin-addicted compadre said that taking a shot of heroin is like the feeling you get from a Vicodin times twenty." That said, if I ever tried heroin, I'd surely die. It's something you get addicted to immediately. I've seen it almost destroy my friend. His last dose was in 2001, and he's still suffering the repercussions of his addiction, like his perpetual teeth-falling-out problems. Like me, he became addicted to alcohol after he got over narcotics. We're both keeping each other sober a little bit at a time with positive reinforcements and harsh criticisms, by the grace of the universe, today.
I listened to this song by Bob Seger's "Main Street" this morning, which is one of his favorites. This clip of him lip synching always brings a smile to my face. Him videoing himself whilst driving is nuttier than TOC, the other night, writing himself a note, changing lanes, and watching the road all while going 70 mph, with a pen that wouldn't work. Enjoy this clip. It's short.
Well, I was grateful for the extended morning peace. My mom's still not up. Later, taters!
Contrary to mornings when I have to work, this morning, I'm choosing a light iTunes mix. The tea is waking me up, and I'm more serene and chilled out than manic and hurried. I don't have to be anywhere today until 4:30 pm, aside from picking up my heart meds at the pharmacy at some juncture. Michael Nesmith is a genius wordsmith and the light country-laden rock rhythms are melding well with my mood.
Practice went very well last night. I was on my game and the band said they couldn't tell that there was anything wrong with my hand, apart from me (as usual) playing too fast. This timekeeper is a nervous-norvous. I'm sorry, but you try coming up with a beat to "God Bless Our Native Land" with your band a full choir backing you up.I was playing it in like 2/2 time, and it was sucking. "I don't like that beat, try a 4/4," my guitarist said. It's a hymn. Hymns drag. I dragged along with it. Maybe I'll leave that one up to Steven tomorrow at the picnic. The picnic will prove to be a great advertisement of the music ministry at the church, for the bell choir, the adult choir and the contemporary band are all leading the service.
Steven is worried about dew getting on the Rogers kit on the church lawn early tomorrow morning. Having just sat on the patio chair in a spray of dew whilst smoking, getting my ass wet, I thought about how little control over the dew I have. Bob, my guitarist, said he'd consider asking the custodian to put my drums on a riser from the gym. A good idea, to stable the kit away from the bumpy grass on the church lawn. It'd also improve my acoustics. The only downside is that it'll force me more in front of the congregation, when I'm used to shyly hiding behind my kit and music stand. Just for that, I think I'll wear Peter Criss Catman makeup to church tomorrow and get a gaggle of tattoos overnight.
Rehearsing with the adult choir last night was sort of a clusterfuck. They weren't familiar with the song they're performing with us, and it was difficult for the choir director to get them in a formation that optimized their vocals combined with our 3 singers. Thus, I had to play the song 4 times in a row on my congas, which wore me out. The residual 2.5 hours of practicing with my band numbed my whole right arm by the end of the evening, so afraid of taxing myself, I called it quits for the night. It's much better this morning, and I'm cautiously optimistic about the rest of the weekend.
It was eerie in the sanctuary last night, as the church was set up for a funeral in the morning. The pall was laid out meticulously across a pew, the banner was up near the altar, and the funeral service bulletins were at the entrance. I couldn't figure out why, in the liturgy for the service, they had the deceased's name in bold, capital letters. It was something like, and I'm making this up, but with emphasis, "Lord, let your servant DON come to his Heavenly home..." Every time it mentioned DON, it was bold. Like you're gonna forget whose funeral you're at? I took a look at the hymns DON was having played at his funeral and it was the bland cacophony of oldies but goodies that, if anyone plays at my memorial service when I die, I'll come down from Heaven and strangle everyone involved. I'm putting this in my last will and testament as one I want sung exuberantly:
If all aforementioned parties involved want to tie themselves up to crosses in loin clothes to sing it with vigor, all the better. (That given, my funeral better not happen for a really long, fucking time. And when they finally end the memorial and spread my ashes, I want someone to play Nazareth's "Hair of the Dog.")
My dear old friend from Knox, Allen Doderlein, is marrying his partner, Jeff Bouthiette, today in Massachusetts. Mazel tov and two snaps around the globe to both of them. My favorite Allen memory? Him staying with me overnight at my apartment downtown on our Chicago Arts Semester at Knox after seeing "Natural Born Killers" and it freaking me the hell out. Allen's one of those guys who would make a perfect boyfriend, and he found the perfect guy for him. Love is love is love. If you don't support gay marriage, don't fucking get one.
From the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod on Facebook this morning: This looks really fucking interesting, NOT: "It’s been nearly 200 years since the first president of the LCMS was born! Celebrate the bicentennial of the Rev. Dr. C.F.W. Walther by touring significant Lutheran sites in St. Louis and Perry County, Mo. Attend a church service where Walther preached. See where he and his wife are buried. Visit Saxon Lutheran immigrants’ original homestead. Read more here: www.lcms.org/walther200." Significant Lutheran sites. Only if a fucking potluck is involved. There are a lot of things this anarchist wants to see before she departs this mortal coil. The burial site of my uber-conservative denomination president is not high on the priority list. Italy is, however.
I've moved onto a lot of quiet Neil Young from the Michael Nesmith this morning. Chills listening to "Old Man." Naturally, it reminds me of my father. I AM a lot like him. "Heart of Gold" reminds me of TOC, because we once had a discussion about it, and spookily, he heard it on the radio as soon as he got in the car on his way home (and get this! Texted me about it! Shock of shocks!) But what struck me was the honesty of "The Needle and the Damage Done." Such a truism:
"I've seen the needle
and the damage done
A little part of it in everyone
But every junkie's
like a settin' sun."
NOT having a junkie/addict mentality seems so foreign to me. I even hoard my nausea medications. It's been an uphill battle learning how to live without the numbing powers of drugs and alcohol. Though I've been technically clean for 12 years, I still use narcotics when I need to, for pain in my gut, though admittedly, I've pulled shit like taking 4 when I should take 2, because 2 block the pain receptors. Four make me feel warm, fuzzy, friendly, cuddly, painless and amazing. I haven't done that in a long ass time, though. I feel like telling people, "If you had one ounce of the insane pleasure you derive from one dose or 6 drinks, you'd recklessly abandon all of your senses." My former heroin-addicted compadre said that taking a shot of heroin is like the feeling you get from a Vicodin times twenty." That said, if I ever tried heroin, I'd surely die. It's something you get addicted to immediately. I've seen it almost destroy my friend. His last dose was in 2001, and he's still suffering the repercussions of his addiction, like his perpetual teeth-falling-out problems. Like me, he became addicted to alcohol after he got over narcotics. We're both keeping each other sober a little bit at a time with positive reinforcements and harsh criticisms, by the grace of the universe, today.
I listened to this song by Bob Seger's "Main Street" this morning, which is one of his favorites. This clip of him lip synching always brings a smile to my face. Him videoing himself whilst driving is nuttier than TOC, the other night, writing himself a note, changing lanes, and watching the road all while going 70 mph, with a pen that wouldn't work. Enjoy this clip. It's short.
Well, I was grateful for the extended morning peace. My mom's still not up. Later, taters!
Friday, September 9, 2011
From Forlorn Frequencies
The clouds to the north look ominous. It rained sporadically last night during my ride home from De Kalb, though my drums didn't get wet (thank you, sweet, succulent Jesus). I love that vintage Rogers kit more than my brother appreciates, and we argue back and forth about who gets custody of it worse than my ex-husband and I about Luke, and it's worth a veritable fortune. We got her home safely, that's all that matters. She'll rock it out on Sunday. My hand worked last night playing some crappy music in front of TOC and my critical brother, who out-drummed me by a mile, mildly embarrassing me, but what the fuck ever. Steve rearranged the kit so I was unfamiliar with what was where, and I had a song to play in mind, but I fucked it up. I told TOC I'm much better playing WITH my band, and that he'd just have to come and see me for me to prove it.
I was so proud of Luke yesterday morning. He had about 1,000 things to accomplish before we headed off to school, including packing for Daddy's for the weekend, finding his lunch bag so I could make his lunch, finding his black hoodie, sprucing up his hair for picture day (I made him look rockin'), eating breakfast, filling out his lunch menu for the next 2 weeks, brushing his teeth, getting his Scout uniform together and the extra underwear his father asked me to send along (Jesus, Craig. A sock/underwear shortage at your house? Go out and buy a couple of packages on your own, you moron!) Leaving the house, he had to carry all of this stuff, with my help, including his giant posterboard project all about himself that we worked on for 3 days. Got him off to school on time, listened to "Rock n Roll All Nite" by KISS to rev up our morning, and bid him farewell until Sunday. Came home to get ready for work, only to find the Scout uniform and underwear on his bed. Crap. Arranged for Grandma B (the nuttier of the two) to pick it up after school. Meh, it all worked out in the end.
You have no idea how much I worry about screwing up my kid. He's got bipolar,depression and addiction on my side, and depression on Dad's side. He looks like Craig but his personality is exactly like mine, which has both good and bad points. Despite losing 30 lbs, he still has a complex about his weight and thinks he's ugly, when objectively he's very cute. He likes guns. A lot. Craig said he has exhibited the ideology of killing people, though he's never expressed that to me. My opinion is that he's a relatively typical 11-year old boy in that regard, but Craig is alarmed. He suggested a psych evaluation. Luke is used to psychology enough where I don't think he'd be spooked by an appointment with a shrink, so I'll give heed to his father's advice and look into it. For now, he's deathly afraid of alcohol and drugs, thank God. He appreciates my crazy and lives with it, sensitive (most times) to my fragile personality, though prone to calling me out when I am cranky. I love and adore that child fiercely, and want him to grow up to be a mentally healthy, well-adjusted man. A Machiavellian task, for sure. We'll leave it up to God, I guess.
(Whoa, I better smoke again. It's getting windy.)
I was on Estazolam by 9am yesterday, my nerves were so frazzled already. The morning with Luke + the notion of a dauntingly busy work day + the trip with TOC had me violently shaking my legs at my desk and tapping out drum beats with my fingers on my desk (how annoying to my co-workers must THAT have been?). At least I was relegated to answering the phones (which are nuts) and taking the patients into the exam rooms to take their vitals, so I didn't have to work the frantic front desk, which gives me epic anxiety attacks that my supervisor, in her unique simpleton way, doesn't grasp. Hello reasonable accommodation for the disabled!
My best patient was a sweet older woman who came in for a Coumadin check and said she was there for a "prick test." I told her, "That's the story of my life, sister." The Prick Test. (The title of my upcoming memoir.) Apologies to my other patients suffering from fall allergies. I cleaned out the Claritin from the sample closet. I can't sneeze anymore and this perpetual nose-running is torture. Go buy your own, I'm on Public Aid!
Followed Estazolam #1 with #2 at noon, then #3 at 4pm, and I was functional and on top of my game, but still shaky and nervous. I'm not sure why. I'm instructed to use them twice a day, but whatever. I take 2mg at bedtime, which I did in the car at 9pm and was ready to end my day at 10:30pm when I got home from De Kalb.
The ride with TOC was a lot of fun. We enjoy one another's company very much. He certainly is a little chatterbox, as am I. I don't know if some of that is nerve-generated or if we really just want to pack a lot of conversation into the precious alone time with which we are favored. The range of subjects we talk about is vast and all very interesting, and we typically don't talk about work. We like to talk about music, socio-political dogmas, fun shit we do, and me being a junkie. Personality-wise, we're quite similar with likened senses of humor. One of the things I love the most about him is his genuine laugh, which always makes me smile when I hear it, whether it's overheard in the office or when we're together. The clouds let up and we saw some blinding but beautiful sun the closer we edged to corn country.
He had me look at a picture book his friend made him whose family went with he and his family to Michigan this summer. It was admittedly lovely, looked like a lot of fun, and his daughters are all very beautiful girls. Still, I found the photos a tad unsettling. He didn't, as usual, say anything about his wife, who still remains a nameless figure in our conversations (he always refers to her as "she" or "her" or at best, "my wife"). I know literally nothing about their personal relationship, other than he says she doesn't mind him having female friends. [Raises eyebrows] He has told me nothing about what SHE knows about ME and how I fit into his life, and I can't muster the balls to broach the subject.
I also chickened out calling him out on a lot of the bullshit he fed me when we met at a bar a while back to talk about our relationship, when I laid a bunch of heavy shit on the table and he refused to look at me or respond to me and sat nervously playing with a drinking straw. I believe his complicated attraction to me and the draw of my uniqueness causes him a lot of internal conflict sometimes. Among the issues that are still unresolved...I so wanted to say, at the bar, when he accused ME of being the one who initiates and enjoys our physical affection with one another, that that was a total projection cop-out. He said he's "really not the affectionate type," while persisting to say with regularity "Hug me." I say it too, admittedly, but it's a two way street, snookums. The fact remains...he kissed me a while ago. On the lips. Briefly. Being a guy, he'd probably reckon it away as me looking up at him with my puppy dog eyes, and it being what I wanted him to do, but come on. That took balls.
I have a lot of male friends that I kiss and hug a lot. Some are married, some are not. I've shared beds with men I'm not in romantic relationships with, with no impropriety involved. Love equals affection. I'm particularly close to another married man, physically and emotionally, who TOC has met. He's very interested in this man, which is not surprising, because he's an amazing human being and like my twin. He's been one of my best friends for years. HIS wife knows about our relationship and she respects my role in his life and I hers, though it's a bit difficult when she calls me his "girlfriend." Whatever you want to label it, babe, it is what it is. I've been fortunate, through my life experience, to help him and show him love in ways that she cannot, through no fault of her own.
I love TOC and he loves me. I'm a big believer in showing it if you feel it and I'm just a huggy bear. True, there is a line that cannot be crossed, but we're nowhere near that at this juncture. Alas, another nerve-wracking conversation for another day. I told him he has to spend time with me in early October when my mom is going on vacation and Luke will be gone for like 5 days because I have to work. I'm also employing a lot of girlfriend time into this span, but I want TOC to take me out. So we'll save that rant. I'll bring him a drinking straw to maneuver with his fiddlesticks just for good measure. He said "Hug me" when we parted last night, so I did, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, thanking him for helping me out, and told him as usual that I loved him. Goodnight.
TOC really liked my brother, who is just a mensch. He had dinner from Panera waiting for us when we got to his house, refused me paying for it, and we got to catch up for a while, TOC chatting Steve's head off, because he's just a friendly dude. So is Steve. My brother totally lucked out in the Miklasz gene pool. He's never been addicted to anything, he's not mentally ill, he plays drums like a machine, and is stable and generally happy, though he has his human moments. He's a good husband, a good dad, a good Christian and just generally a swell guy. We're alike in a lot of ways, and totally different in others. I love him to death.
My brother raised the same question to TOC that my other friend did, which was a more polite way of saying,"Who is this guy to you?" Steve said, "So you guys work together?" and we said yes. I said, "And he's also my cardiologist." TOC said he's also my mom's cardiologist and that he's taking care of our family. I said, "We work together, he's my cardiologist and my friend." I deliberately left out the Tatus/father figure component of our relationship out of respect to how my brother feels about our biological father. I'm not sure Steve would understand. Hell, I'll ask him on Sunday when I see him again when I drum.
Separately, if our mother threatens to throw me into rehab for my anorexia one more time, I'll shoot myself. I have what the doctors label as "conditional" or "situational" anorexia, not a full-blown eating disorder like she thinks I have. I eat very little, because eating hurts. It causes me epigastric pain. My bowels are a mess. Still, I managed to eat an entire salad and an apple for dinner at my brother's house last night, and my brother and TOC both praised me for eating as much as I did. My mom fails to understand that positive reinforcement for when I DO eat is much more constructive than talking about my son standing over my grave when I die of starvation. I can't seem to crack the 115 lb. mark. Back down to 112. My mom says my abusive ex-boyfriend is gone, and I should "get over" my anorexia. True, but she doesn't understand the results of PTSD and it's residual toll on the body. That facet of my mental illness lodged itself in my GI tract physically,and the specialists don't know quite what to do about it yet. I keep plugging along without starving, and apart from having to continually buy smaller clothing and being freezing cold all the time, I'm not in THAT bad of shape. I told my mom that threatening me is futile. She said, "I'm not threatening you. I'm threatening you." Yeah, makes perfect sense. I'm sorry, but I wear heroin chic without the heroin and still manage to look cute enough. Deal.
I fully realize this blog post is a non-linear, almost pre-medicated bipolar strand of nonsense. I just have a lot on my plate and mind. Off for another relaxing acupuncture.
I was so proud of Luke yesterday morning. He had about 1,000 things to accomplish before we headed off to school, including packing for Daddy's for the weekend, finding his lunch bag so I could make his lunch, finding his black hoodie, sprucing up his hair for picture day (I made him look rockin'), eating breakfast, filling out his lunch menu for the next 2 weeks, brushing his teeth, getting his Scout uniform together and the extra underwear his father asked me to send along (Jesus, Craig. A sock/underwear shortage at your house? Go out and buy a couple of packages on your own, you moron!) Leaving the house, he had to carry all of this stuff, with my help, including his giant posterboard project all about himself that we worked on for 3 days. Got him off to school on time, listened to "Rock n Roll All Nite" by KISS to rev up our morning, and bid him farewell until Sunday. Came home to get ready for work, only to find the Scout uniform and underwear on his bed. Crap. Arranged for Grandma B (the nuttier of the two) to pick it up after school. Meh, it all worked out in the end.
You have no idea how much I worry about screwing up my kid. He's got bipolar,depression and addiction on my side, and depression on Dad's side. He looks like Craig but his personality is exactly like mine, which has both good and bad points. Despite losing 30 lbs, he still has a complex about his weight and thinks he's ugly, when objectively he's very cute. He likes guns. A lot. Craig said he has exhibited the ideology of killing people, though he's never expressed that to me. My opinion is that he's a relatively typical 11-year old boy in that regard, but Craig is alarmed. He suggested a psych evaluation. Luke is used to psychology enough where I don't think he'd be spooked by an appointment with a shrink, so I'll give heed to his father's advice and look into it. For now, he's deathly afraid of alcohol and drugs, thank God. He appreciates my crazy and lives with it, sensitive (most times) to my fragile personality, though prone to calling me out when I am cranky. I love and adore that child fiercely, and want him to grow up to be a mentally healthy, well-adjusted man. A Machiavellian task, for sure. We'll leave it up to God, I guess.
(Whoa, I better smoke again. It's getting windy.)
I was on Estazolam by 9am yesterday, my nerves were so frazzled already. The morning with Luke + the notion of a dauntingly busy work day + the trip with TOC had me violently shaking my legs at my desk and tapping out drum beats with my fingers on my desk (how annoying to my co-workers must THAT have been?). At least I was relegated to answering the phones (which are nuts) and taking the patients into the exam rooms to take their vitals, so I didn't have to work the frantic front desk, which gives me epic anxiety attacks that my supervisor, in her unique simpleton way, doesn't grasp. Hello reasonable accommodation for the disabled!
My best patient was a sweet older woman who came in for a Coumadin check and said she was there for a "prick test." I told her, "That's the story of my life, sister." The Prick Test. (The title of my upcoming memoir.) Apologies to my other patients suffering from fall allergies. I cleaned out the Claritin from the sample closet. I can't sneeze anymore and this perpetual nose-running is torture. Go buy your own, I'm on Public Aid!
Followed Estazolam #1 with #2 at noon, then #3 at 4pm, and I was functional and on top of my game, but still shaky and nervous. I'm not sure why. I'm instructed to use them twice a day, but whatever. I take 2mg at bedtime, which I did in the car at 9pm and was ready to end my day at 10:30pm when I got home from De Kalb.
The ride with TOC was a lot of fun. We enjoy one another's company very much. He certainly is a little chatterbox, as am I. I don't know if some of that is nerve-generated or if we really just want to pack a lot of conversation into the precious alone time with which we are favored. The range of subjects we talk about is vast and all very interesting, and we typically don't talk about work. We like to talk about music, socio-political dogmas, fun shit we do, and me being a junkie. Personality-wise, we're quite similar with likened senses of humor. One of the things I love the most about him is his genuine laugh, which always makes me smile when I hear it, whether it's overheard in the office or when we're together. The clouds let up and we saw some blinding but beautiful sun the closer we edged to corn country.
He had me look at a picture book his friend made him whose family went with he and his family to Michigan this summer. It was admittedly lovely, looked like a lot of fun, and his daughters are all very beautiful girls. Still, I found the photos a tad unsettling. He didn't, as usual, say anything about his wife, who still remains a nameless figure in our conversations (he always refers to her as "she" or "her" or at best, "my wife"). I know literally nothing about their personal relationship, other than he says she doesn't mind him having female friends. [Raises eyebrows] He has told me nothing about what SHE knows about ME and how I fit into his life, and I can't muster the balls to broach the subject.
I also chickened out calling him out on a lot of the bullshit he fed me when we met at a bar a while back to talk about our relationship, when I laid a bunch of heavy shit on the table and he refused to look at me or respond to me and sat nervously playing with a drinking straw. I believe his complicated attraction to me and the draw of my uniqueness causes him a lot of internal conflict sometimes. Among the issues that are still unresolved...I so wanted to say, at the bar, when he accused ME of being the one who initiates and enjoys our physical affection with one another, that that was a total projection cop-out. He said he's "really not the affectionate type," while persisting to say with regularity "Hug me." I say it too, admittedly, but it's a two way street, snookums. The fact remains...he kissed me a while ago. On the lips. Briefly. Being a guy, he'd probably reckon it away as me looking up at him with my puppy dog eyes, and it being what I wanted him to do, but come on. That took balls.
I have a lot of male friends that I kiss and hug a lot. Some are married, some are not. I've shared beds with men I'm not in romantic relationships with, with no impropriety involved. Love equals affection. I'm particularly close to another married man, physically and emotionally, who TOC has met. He's very interested in this man, which is not surprising, because he's an amazing human being and like my twin. He's been one of my best friends for years. HIS wife knows about our relationship and she respects my role in his life and I hers, though it's a bit difficult when she calls me his "girlfriend." Whatever you want to label it, babe, it is what it is. I've been fortunate, through my life experience, to help him and show him love in ways that she cannot, through no fault of her own.
I love TOC and he loves me. I'm a big believer in showing it if you feel it and I'm just a huggy bear. True, there is a line that cannot be crossed, but we're nowhere near that at this juncture. Alas, another nerve-wracking conversation for another day. I told him he has to spend time with me in early October when my mom is going on vacation and Luke will be gone for like 5 days because I have to work. I'm also employing a lot of girlfriend time into this span, but I want TOC to take me out. So we'll save that rant. I'll bring him a drinking straw to maneuver with his fiddlesticks just for good measure. He said "Hug me" when we parted last night, so I did, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, thanking him for helping me out, and told him as usual that I loved him. Goodnight.
TOC really liked my brother, who is just a mensch. He had dinner from Panera waiting for us when we got to his house, refused me paying for it, and we got to catch up for a while, TOC chatting Steve's head off, because he's just a friendly dude. So is Steve. My brother totally lucked out in the Miklasz gene pool. He's never been addicted to anything, he's not mentally ill, he plays drums like a machine, and is stable and generally happy, though he has his human moments. He's a good husband, a good dad, a good Christian and just generally a swell guy. We're alike in a lot of ways, and totally different in others. I love him to death.
My brother raised the same question to TOC that my other friend did, which was a more polite way of saying,"Who is this guy to you?" Steve said, "So you guys work together?" and we said yes. I said, "And he's also my cardiologist." TOC said he's also my mom's cardiologist and that he's taking care of our family. I said, "We work together, he's my cardiologist and my friend." I deliberately left out the Tatus/father figure component of our relationship out of respect to how my brother feels about our biological father. I'm not sure Steve would understand. Hell, I'll ask him on Sunday when I see him again when I drum.
Separately, if our mother threatens to throw me into rehab for my anorexia one more time, I'll shoot myself. I have what the doctors label as "conditional" or "situational" anorexia, not a full-blown eating disorder like she thinks I have. I eat very little, because eating hurts. It causes me epigastric pain. My bowels are a mess. Still, I managed to eat an entire salad and an apple for dinner at my brother's house last night, and my brother and TOC both praised me for eating as much as I did. My mom fails to understand that positive reinforcement for when I DO eat is much more constructive than talking about my son standing over my grave when I die of starvation. I can't seem to crack the 115 lb. mark. Back down to 112. My mom says my abusive ex-boyfriend is gone, and I should "get over" my anorexia. True, but she doesn't understand the results of PTSD and it's residual toll on the body. That facet of my mental illness lodged itself in my GI tract physically,and the specialists don't know quite what to do about it yet. I keep plugging along without starving, and apart from having to continually buy smaller clothing and being freezing cold all the time, I'm not in THAT bad of shape. I told my mom that threatening me is futile. She said, "I'm not threatening you. I'm threatening you." Yeah, makes perfect sense. I'm sorry, but I wear heroin chic without the heroin and still manage to look cute enough. Deal.
I fully realize this blog post is a non-linear, almost pre-medicated bipolar strand of nonsense. I just have a lot on my plate and mind. Off for another relaxing acupuncture.
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