HomeSlice

Our first house was in the city.  It had a beautiful albeit tiny backyard.  This view is from from the deck looking out toward the garage. 

On my way to meet Bradley for coffee at my all-time favorite coffee+free wireless spot in Richmond, I swung by the old house (built in 1934).  The house looks much the same with upgraded window treatments and a freshly washed front porch.  I realize time makes one nostalgic, but if I could suddenly be 28 again (and 118 pounds!), living childless in that house, I would - for a couple of weeks.  Just as the house I reside in has become a symbol of the things I would like to fix, our first house on W. 45th Street symbolizes a time in my life when I actually felt settled and in control.

When I first met co-worker and future friend Bill at Witt Mares, we connected when we realized we were both real estate nerds.  I’m the type of person that could spend my weekends going through open houses in the city and dreaming.  I love architecture and originality.  I love looking for the little hidden details in older houses.  My favorite part of Laura’s house is the little tiny door between the living room and master bedroom where the phone used to be.  He pointed me to new areas of the city I wasn’t aware of, and even today, I’ll browse the real estate websites in my favorite zip codes. 

Being at Crossroads was another reminder of why I love the area so much.  The place was packed, even at 10.30 on a Wednesday morning.  Most of the customers knew each other - and most called the staff by their first names. It’s dog friendly which works well for the neighborhood, since it seems to be a prerequisite that you own some form of canine to live there.  It has an earthy, unpretentious air.  Even the Target near my current house is snooty. 

I felt a sense of community living there.  Neighbors were friendly and watched out for you, but without stalking you (mostly).  There was no pretention - but that might have been because the houses around us weren’t exactly pricey.  I miss that community.  Staying at Laura’s reminded me of that, and is probably one of the reasons I felt immediately comfortable in her home.  Instead of talking about someone’s new size 0 jeans or the cashmere wrap they picked up “for a STEAL!”, we talked about local politics or the economy or the amazing amount of leaves those big hundred year old oaks dropped in the fall. 

Nothing’s perfect, but I’ve always loved Richmond’s warty city center. I love the mixture of grime and history, white and black, safe and dangerous, beautiful and decaying.  Out in the suburbs, everything is bleached and sterilized and served up in prepackaged designer cups. 

Sitting at an outdoor table while Bradley slowly killed himself with cancer sticks cigarettes, I people-watched and missed my old neighborhood, as they say in the South, somethin’ fierce. 

I’ve always heard “Bad things happen in threes.”  If this is the case, I’m home free, baby, because I have paid my dues.  If it’s not the case, please don’t enlighten me.  Positive thinking breeds positive results. 

Thanks for all of you who commented, emailed, DM’d me through Twitter and generally reached out after my last posting.  I know I’m a great big sobbing embarrassment to parts of my family and sharing it with “the world” (as if everyone in the universe reads here - if so, I’d be making so much from ad revenue I could retire) was hard for them to swallow.  I appreciate their restraint in not lecturing me about it.  Some of the most poignant comments were sent in notes, privately.  People came out of the woodwork to either share their own stories and their own experiences with behavioral health issues (i.e. going crazy!) or family members or the old-fashioned version, the “nervous breakdown”.  When I started to read the comments and emails, I knew I had made the right decision to share it.  And I’m probably not done sharing it.  So much happened there in 4+ days - it will take a while for it to come out.  Someone laughingly asked if it was like Girl, Interrupted.  Unfortunately, no one as hot as Angelina Jolie was roaming the hallways and there were no straightjackets or shock treatments.  I did occasionally long for a lobotomy.  I’ll admit I longed for one again today, albeit briefly. 

Life on the outside has returned to normal - mostly.  I worked this morning, did laundry, cleaned the downstairs, worked out.  I started returning the 42,000 emails and calls I got.  I’m hoping that my friends are patient with me because I am easily overwhelmed and I get tired of talking about my crap all of the time.  I’d much rather hear other people’s sad stories than my own right now. 

We start marriage counseling very soon and I’m seriously considering just giving up the whole separation and living together while we try to work through our issues.  It’s super hard on both Mike and I and frankly at this point, I’m willing to try just about anything.  Being away from the kids at night and in the mornings has made me feel even more detached and I don’t like it.  Friends of Mike’s reached out to him and told them about their marital issues last year; counseling helped them immensely and they still attend every once in a while to keep the lines of communication open.  Somewhere along the way we really stopped talking to each other, and we let life get in the way.  Distracted by work, children, obligations, financial worries, business problems, insurance, housework, a yard that never stops growing . . . it is easy to just push all the ugly things back into a dark corner and forget about them.  Over the years those ugly things were watered with Miracle-Gro and got bigger and bigger until one day they sprouted 18,203 legs and crashed through the door.  By the time they did, I felt it was too late.

I’m not sure it is too late.  I’m keeping an open mind.  I’m dealing.  I’ve had some incredibly self-esteem-destroying moments over the last few months.  I’ve lost a ton; I’ve gained a lot more.  It constantly amazes me that blogging opens so many doors.  @Snarketta - I’m looking at you.  People will help you in the strangest ways when you are weak enough - or strong enough, depending on how you look at it - to ask for help. 

I hurt a friend’s feelings on Twitter the other day.  I’ve apologized, but I’m doing it here as well.  Sometimes when I’m tired and beaten down I say things without thinking.  That was one of those times.  I could argue my point and say all the reasons I had every right to say what I said, but I never meant to hurt their feelings and I don’t like being mean.  Getting out of the hospital, I was confronted with more stress I wasn’t expecting and I just reacted.  This particular friend has tried to be there for me, even though I’m really a very difficult person to be around these days.  It’s another friendship that has gone down in the collateral damage of my personal bombing campaign.  Eventually I will stop hurting people on a daily basis when I figure out how to balance my needs against the needs of others.  I feel like an accident victim learning to walk again.  I fall a lot. 

On a happier note, I was able to repair another friendship yesterday. It’s one that is very important to me and I’m glad we were able to talk things out and make some progress.  I’m still not batting 100% on anything, including being a mom, but I’m making headway.  Maybe soon I’ll have an uplifting light-hearted rainbow and unicorns post to share with you.  In the meantime, I’ll point you to the review page where you can win some saucy stuff. 

Hey, internets.  I’ve missed you.  Being without any kind of connection to this part of my life was difficult, to say the least.  I did a ton of writing while I was on “vacation” but I had to do it by hand.  Man, has my handwriting deteriorated.  I could barely read it and my hand kept cramping up whenever I wrote for too long.  I would have sold my soul for a computer while I was gone.

When I finally reconnected today, I had 283 messages, a ton of voice mails, and 12 orders to process.  Thankfully I was able to do a lot of yoga breathing and only freaked out when I realized Mike had tried to “fix” the wireless and actually ended up connecting it incorrectly.  It took about an hour and a phone call to Verizon, but I’m online again and halfway caught up. 

This post is not going to be pretty.  I’ve spent a lot of time deciding whether I was going to write about where I’ve been since Wednesday, and in the end, I’m doing what I always do.  I’m accepting who I am and where I’ve been and if you want to ride this train with me, there will be ups and downs.  I went through, and am currently going through, the lowest point of my life, hands-down.  The blogs I read are other writers who can be honest and raw and brutal with their lives. It appeals to me, and has helped me immensely when I’ve gone through my own trials and tribulations as a wife, a woman, a mother, a daughter, a business owner, a friend, and a writer.  I wear a lot of hats - and this hat I’m wearing right now is not something to be ashamed off.  So much stigma surrounds mental health and depression.  Here, within the confines of the borders on my blog, I’m creating a bubble where it is perfectly safe to discuss what I’ve been through.  If a future employer or random person from my past stumbles on this post and thinks, “Holy batshit this girl is crazy!” then so be it. 

Wednesday was, um, a pretty bad day for me.  Some of my friends who know where I’ve been have asked what happened.  To the best of my ability to explain how this happened, these are the factors that lead up to Wednesday:

1.  I hadn’t been sleeping well in about 4 weeks (averaging 3-5 hours a night)
2.  I had separated from my husband and was going back and forth between two houses, all the while trying to keep up with the normal household duties I have. 
3.  I had a lot of stress and despair over a couple of relationships in my life and I was hurting pretty badly. 
4.  I was trying to pretend to EVERYONE, even my closest friends, that all was a-okay and I was fine and strong and clear.  With the exception of one person (hi Susan!), I didn’t let anyone know how hellishly bad I was feeling.
5.  Wearing a mask 24/7 takes a lot out of person.
6.  I was expending energy on things that weren’t giving any energy back to me.  Think black hole. 
7.  I wasn’t eating very much.
8.  I was trying to figure out my financial future, and it looked very grim. 

So back to Wednesday.  I had a realtor come to the house and give me a comparative market analysis on our house.  She looked grim when I came to the door, so I knew it wasn’t going to be good.  Because she is a friend of mine, she told me she cut commissions to the core (1.5%) and still had no good news.  We bought our house at the peak of the market and proceeded to renovate and redo a bunch of stuff.  We still had an equity line from our old house that we rolled over.  The short version of the long story is that we are upside down on our mortgage.  The house is worth $100K less today than it was when we bought it.  Yay us! 

Some other factors on Wednesday that will remain private happened right after the enlightening discussion with the realtor.  I literally felt like that last vestige of hope I had was stripped away.  I was thinking that if Mike and I stayed separated, we could sell the house and both of us would end up with a small nest egg and we could start over.  Even if we stayed together, I wanted to get rid of this house - it’s come to represent a lot of things that I feel are wrong and fake about my life.  I’m not stupid enough to think that it’s the house’s fault - it’s just brick and mortar and light fixtures - but it’s symbolic. 

I held it together while I picked up Lily from the bus. I smiled and waved and did my Robo-Mom impression.  I made snacks and got juice out of the fridge.  I changed a load of laundry and folded some.  I even ironed.  Then I just felt everything fall apart.  I literally stood up from the ironing board and felt as though my insides were falling out.  I sent the girls downstairs and put on the electronic babysitter (tv).  I started crying.  I called Mike at work.  I told him to come home, that I couldn’t take care of the kids.  I went upstairs and I got in bed.  I had my second panic attack in two weeks.  My heart was pounding, my face was tingling, and I couldn’t breathe.  By the time Mike got home, I had totally lost it.  I couldn’t form a sentence and I was trying to call my therapist and talk to him at the same time.  Somewhere in those two conversations, the therapist suggested going to St. Mary’s since they have a mental health unit.  We dropped the kids with a neighbor, called my parents to come up, and left for the hospital. 

Thankfully I have a few good friends in Richmond. I was able to text them on the way to the hospital and all of them immediately went into action mode, sending emails, canceling things, helping me with my website, telling me not to worry, sending love, just virtually holding my hand. 

I find myself unable to really talk about St. Mary’s and the time I spent there.  It truly was the darkest time of my life.  When one of the docs asked me if I was suicidal, I think I responded something to the effect of ‘No, but I don’t want to be here in this body anymore.  I can’t take one more piece of bad news.  I thought I was strong but I think I’ve broken and I don’t know how to survive this.” 

During a blood draw, I passed out and had some sort of seizure and kicked over a table and bumped my head.  When I came to, I was only conscious for another minute before I passed out again.  When I woke up the second time, I was in a bed and I was literally sweating ice.  I was shivering and nauseous and panicking because I had no idea where I was.  There were no beds available for me at St. Mary’s, so I was transferred elsewhere.  By the time I got through intake and was screened and searched by a nurse, it was 4 am. 

Thursday was a haze.  I looked like a b-grade zombie actor trying to function.  I kept thinking I was going to wake up from my nightmare.  When I realized I wasn’t allowed to have hairspray in my room (I might hurt myself with the aerosol nozzle), I knew where I was and the reality hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was ashamed, embarrassed, scared as hell, needy, isolated - you name it.  Unfortunately the first person I came into contact with was not very affectionately nicknamed “Bible Lady” on the ward - she got messages from God in her ears and by laying on floors and predicted things like the Lions winning the Superbowl this year based on God’s word.  She also said I was going to end up married to another guy on the ward and that another guy was going to become a professional boxer and be trained by George Foreman.  My first experience was waiting in line for vital signs while she sang “Amazing Grace” at full volume.  This was at 6 AM, and I had no caffeine in my system.  I thought that if I wasn’t crazy before, any more time around her would make it so. 

Then I met a couple of other people who made a huge difference in my stay.  I attended every group session, every group meeting, every activity, and I wrote like my hand was on fire.  I wrote letters to my daughters. I wrote one to Mike.  I wrote one to a close friend of mine.  I wrote to myself.  I forced myself to talk to people.  My medication, which had been at a literal pediatric dose, was doubled.  I learned ways to manage my panic and anxiety attacks.  And while I was there, I realized I was about to lose another friend in this whole process.  I could feel it coming, and I used some of my time there to deal with the sadness I felt.  Some people in my life can hang with me right now and just comfort me by being there.  Others can’t, and I respect the honesty it takes to admit that I am too much for them to handle.  At least I have no illusions about where I stand, and clarity is half the battle.

I got a chance to sleep a little bit.  When I met Chris and Amanda, both suffering from severe depression and some other stuff, I had my unit buddies.  We ate together.  I learned how to play Spades.  I had long conversations with Chris about what it’s like to raise kids alone (he’s only 29, and his wife died 4 years ago).  Amanda and I talked about our children and we shared the stories of how we ended up together.  We were an unlikely bunch from various backgrounds, but Chris said, “Hey, just because we’re in here doesn’t mean we’re crazy.”  That single statement sustained me.  I was there to get better for my children. I was there to learn how to cope better.  I was going to have to make some painful cuts in my life, and I needed to build up as much strength as possible in order to do so. 

People who give up and off themselves are the biggest cowards alive.  It’s such a cop out and it leaves the rest of the world to pick up your mess and your pieces.  I knew that I was hitting the wall, and I knew that I had to take drastic steps to get better. 

I will be honest and say that coming home today has been hard.  Dealing with the pile of work on my desk, a friend breaking plans with me, seeing how Mike looks, being hugged by my children and feeling the guilt of being gone wash over me - it was all a bit much.  I used some of the tools I learned in the hospital but I’m taking it minute by minute.  As usual, a bunch of people stepped up today and are there for me.  I’m having coffee with TCG, Bradley said I inspired him to do something major, and Dan has been listening to my litany for weeks now.  I made a difference to Chris and Amanda in the hospital, especially when Amanda got some bad news.  I made people laugh, which makes me feel better.  I realized what a great mom I was and how much better I could be if I only would focus.  I told myself the rest would work out, and it surely will. It’s just never the way you think it’s supposed to.

So that’s where I’ve been.  Can’t wait to take a shower and shave.  I look like Chewbacca, but the idea of shaving in front of a nurse held no appeal for me.  I’m mostly glad to be back. You can only hide out in the ward for so long before you try out the new legs you’ve grown while inside, and take the first few steps. 

I was sitting on Laura’s couch this morning, narrowly holding it together.  I was really just waiting for her to leave so I could cry my eyes out (I’m an ugly cryer - a lot of sobbing and moaning and gasping, so I like to do it privately).  I think she could sense I was about to have a meltdown, but instead of leaving she gave me a big long hug.  This of course is physical sign language for “immediately start sobbing on the hugger’s freshly pressed shirt”, so I obliged. 

Aside from the unconditional love I get from my children and a few good friends, the parts of my life that make me feel good right about now are kind of slim.  Walks in the sunshine, sleeping with Thora, talking about writing with other nerds, hugging my girls in the morning, a very small handful of friends locally and on the internet, blaming the fact that I’m not on WordPress for all of my life’s problems - those are still the things that sustain me.  There are a few other things that sustain me as well.  I realized today that although I can rely on people to help me get through this, and I can accept help when it is offered, no one can be my bandage or my security blanket.  No one can be there 100% of the time for me and it’s unfair to ask that.  I really do need to go through this alone.  That doesn’t mean I can’t lean, but I can’t ask others to carry me through this, no matter how safe that might make me feel. 

I only have a couple of pacifiers left in my life.  Thankfully my usual stand-in, my anorexa-bulim-ieatwhateveriwant hasn’t come back to haunt me.  The drug of choice these days is somewhat different.  It involves a lot of running myself into the ground, staying so ridiculously busy I don’t have the time to sit with my grief and get through it.  When I lived in Raleigh and was trying to shake off a bad relationship, I’d take Delilah to a park about 25 minutes away from my house.  I was heavy into recovering from ye olde eating disorder and connecting with nature was the #1 way I survived those days.  I’d let Delilah off the leash and she’d run herself into the ground.  I’d sit by the abnormally warm lake water (it was next to a nuclear power reactor - nothing says “back to nature” like nuclear power) and write and think and listen to the silence. 

I need to spend more time doing things like that, and less time running ragged.  I’m neglecting my businesses and I’m okay with it.  At this point, financial ruin is #183 on my long list of #183 worries.  I’m more concerned about reconnecting with my kids and hugging them a lot and letting them know that it’s all going to be fine, eventually. It’s the process, the road, the journey to fine that kind of sucks right now. 

Laura reminded me today that emotions are just chemicals.  They come and they go.  When I feel like the world is taking a giant crap on my head, I replay our conversation about emotions and become fully aware that happiness, sadness, despair and elation are all fleeting.  It’s the calmness or contentedness I miss so badly.  My 20s were fraught with so much emotion and destruction that becoming a person who calmly walked through life was like being reborn.  I miss that sense of calm and security.  Unfortunately, no one else can give that gift to me - I have to find my own way through it, and there are no shortcuts through the grieving process. 

It’s pretty indicative of how low I am that the thought of spending 2 1/2 days straight with my kids without help from Mike scares the crap out of me.  Can I keep up my Robo-Mom facade all weekend?  Can I be strong and calm and uncranky for them for that extended period of time?  I’m pretty sure I can but it’s going to be hard.  Usually I have about a 3 hour window of normality.  After that I start to fray at the edges and it’s not pretty (see ugly crying reference above).  To celebrate my current state in life and to remind myself that I am still a funny, loveable person capable of being enjoyed, I’m hosting a party after the kids go to bed on Saturday night.  I’m only providing food and charcoal - everyone else has to bring their libation of choice.  If you want to come, send me a note and I’ll give you the details. 

On really bad days, I wish for a lobotomy so I can just do what everyone else wants me to do.  On good days, I know that I will make it and things will be better - for all of us. 

Tonight, we kicked off the first formal meeting of the world-famous Write Club RVA.  The hashtag has changed yet again - it’s the title of this post.  I’m tired and going through personal hell, so forgive me if I screw it up occasionally.  Some high points:

1.  We decided to meet every other week on Mondays.  Next meeting:  October 5, 7 pm, not sure where yet. 
2.  The only rule of Write Club is that you don’t talk about Write Club.  You write about Write Club.  No, not really.
3.  The purpose of Write Club is to get writers motivated to write.  Fiction, non-fiction, articles, whatever.
4.  I’ve purchased the domain http://www.writeclubrva.com.  Once I figure out how to do it, I will set up a communal blog.  Anyone who is a member of Write Club will receive login credentials.  Free free to post away. If you want critiques or feedback, state it in your post and open the comments. If you don’t, then don’t open the comments.
5. Anything goes.  The only requirement is that you are in the Richmond metro area and you can occasionally make it to a physical, real-life meeting.
6.  We’ll probably do something in November (NaBloPoMo) to challenge ourselves.
7.  We’ll talk occasionally about writing opportunities for money.  Ad networks, revenues, affiliate programs - come prepared to be educated.  Or just come and hope for education.

If you wish to attend, please let me know prior to the meeting.  My twitter handle is @homesliceva.  I will always use the hashtag when referencing the event. 

Thanks to @jasonkenney (he has a sweet, sweet ass, according to his Richmond Wikipedia entry) and @TheCheckoutGirl (my favorite dewy tomato) for all the advice and input and for just freakin’ showing up. 

EDITED TO ADD:  hashtag change.  Use #rvawriteclub. 

For those writers in #RVA (Richmond), I’m starting a writing group that will potentially meet 1-2 times per month or as often as we can all squeeze it in.  @Jason Kenney wanted to call it “Write Club”, which immediately brings to mind a bunch of boys making soap, hitting each other and taking down “The Man”.  It also invokes multiple personality disorders, but I’m ignoring that part. I don’t think we’ll be making soap or punching each other in fight clubs, but I do envision channeling some of my college writing classes were a small group got together, discussed some topics or blocks, wrote like hell between meetings, then tore each other up (gently of course) the following meeting.  My writing prowess grew exponentially, especially when others were picking it apart or suggesting ways I could be better. 

Now that we are adults, I’d like to add a section in Write Club about how to make some damn money via the written word.  It’s not as romantic as starving on the streets of Paris while writing about it, but mommy’s got a mortgage to pay and a timing belt to replace.

If you’re in the greater Richmond area, add hashtag #writeclub to your twitter search and keep up with the happenings.  If you don’t have a twitter account, use the contact form on this here blog to get in touch and I’ll email you the deets. 

Thanks to everyone who delurked or sent me emails or texts after reading my post, especially my extended family (Sally and Aunt Paula and Anja, I’m looking at you).  It was more helpful than you can imagine to have support from all corners of the world. 

Although I probably freaked out a few members of my family with the entry, the only person’s opinion who mattered is Mike, and he was fine with it.  In fact, in an hour he’s heading over to his sisters to discuss the situation.  For a guy who isn’t open about anything with hardly anyone, it’s a big step for him and I’m proud of him.  Being honest about what’s happening means that now his friends and family can support him, and he needs it. 

This weekend was a first for us.  We both got the girls ready Saturday morning and went to Lily’s soccer game.  I spent most of the time wandering around after Arden, trying to keep her entertained, but I did get to snap a few pictures of Lily both when she was looking and when she wasn’t: 

Arden was pretty cranky when I said “no” to her request to wander across a very busy road to pick flowers. I know, I’m unreasonable:

After the game, I took a quick shower and headed out after kissing the girls goodbye and feeling very sad about it.  Thankfully, distraction was to be had at The Daily Grind.  I’d never been there before but loved the locally-owned coffee and teahouse and apparently the food was pretty good, or so Dan told me.  Dan was nice enough to sit down and talk with me about his own experiences with separation (not his, but his parents), and the things he felt they did right and wrong.  We ran into world-famous (okay, Short Pump famous) @trevordickerson and I managed not to squeal like the girls in the gym did when I saw him.  Dan’s one of the people who has really stepped up in the friend category.  He’s patient, understanding and always knows what the weather is going to be like.  Those are three very important qualities in a friend.

After Dan went on his merry way, I decided that instead of getting a bunch of work done, I would spend money I shouldn’t on a pedicure and an eyebrow wax.  I’m so glad I did, because it was heavenly to sit alone and do nothing for an hour besides watch the twitterverse on my iPhone and stare into space.  In a moment that made me believe there IS a god, the woman working on my hedges eyebrows spoke no English, so there was no pressure to converse.  Frankly, I couldn’t have even if I’d been forced by societal norms to do so.  The best I could do was grunt and drool slightly. 

She buffed, scrubbed, exfoliated, scraped, and picked at my legs and feet until they were in good shape, then sent me on my way.  If you need evidence of just how out of it I am, I forgot to eat lunch.  I am a person that does not, under any circumstances, forget to eat.  I headed back to the city to spend some time with Laura’s dog, as she was out of town and Gracie needed some attention. 

I managed to crank out a bit of work, catch up with Julie in Colorado, and take out the trash.  I had intended to clean Laura’s house, but I ran out of time.  Too many emails and too much work from Bradley to do on my site.  I’m also having breakfast on Monday with a mom who wants to start a Quickbooks consulting business, so I put together a little questionnaire and Marketing Plan Lite to share with her.  So many people helped me when I started that it’s always nice to return the goodness. 

Late in the evening I saw “Extract” with another friend who has stepped up to the plate and dealt with my drama-filled life with a lot of grace and understanding.  It was funnier than expected, and a little more disturbing than expected as well.  I think movies about weird dysfunctional marriages should not be high on my list right now, but I really didn’t get that as a theme from the previews.  I still had a good time. Jason Bateman was good in it, though if guys really are like the way they are portrayed in the movie, I’ll be jumping the fence and going all-girl. 

In a Twilight-Zone moment, as we left the theatre, we noticed it was ominously quiet. Why? We have no idea.  Normally Short Pump is mobbed with hormonal teens smoking clove cigarettes and loitering.  Not last night. It was dead. Very little traffic, hardly a tween in sight.  Still don’t know what was going on - possibly a black hole that sucked anyone under the age of 16 into it? 

Despite drinking Republic of Tea’s “Surrender to Sleep” tea blend (containing lavender, chamomile, red berries of some kind and a lot of good-smelling other stuff), and not getting much sleep the night before, I still couldn’t sleep.  This insomnia crap is so weird for me. I hate not sleeping and I hate being crazy the day after I don’t sleep.  For now, I guess I’m going to have to accept that I need the help of drugs and take them before I attempt to sleep again.  Last week when I had gone 5 days in a row with less than 4 hours a night, I completely flipped my lid and had a panic attack in the middle of the world’s grossest Food Lion.  Unfortunately the kids were with me and I almost had to have Mike come pick me up because I wasn’t sure I could drive.  I have never had a panic attack before, so I just assumed I was dying.  Nope, not dying, but I sure felt like it. 

This is where putting the kids first comes into play.  No more panic attacks, ever - but if I must, I have to make sure to lose my crap when the kids aren’t around.  I know the warning signs now and I also know that not sleeping for extended periods of time is a major culprit.  If it means raiding Mike’s Valium stash, then so be it. 

I came home this morning and Mike promptly left, so it’s our first weekend of “kid-share”.  So far it’s going okay and the girls seem to be taking it in stride.  The whole idea of surviving another week of going back and forth is overwhelming to me at the moment, so I’m not thinking about it.  For a while I was taking it one day at a time - today, I’m taking it one hour at a time.  If the laundry seems overwhelming, I stop for a bit and do something else.  I have a paid writing gig due in the morning, but can’t even begin to think about writing it, so I’m assuming I will get to it later tonight.  Or very early tomorrow morning. 

I’m mostly grateful that this weekend was as good as it could have been and for the first time in nearly 4 weeks, I didn’t spend it curled up in a ball or playing dead.  That’s progress.  Small progress, but progress nonetheless. 

First, the good news and the easy news.  I’m down 31 pounds - broke my first MAJOR milestone.  I’d like to lose another 15, but at least I can live with myself now.  I also got a haircut today. I desperately needed one - it’s been since June.

Second, the not good and not easy news.  Richmond’s a very small town, and some membes of my family have very large mouths.  That’s okay, we’re a bunch of height-challenged emotional Mexicans - what can you expect?

(Note to my mother:  Stop reading here.  Seriously.  Close the browser and step away from the computer.)

(takes break to allow mother time to stop reading)

Okay.  Blogging is a weird thing.  You develop an online persona, but it’s never truly who you are.  With blogging you choose what and when to expose, and you can make things look pretty or ugly depending on the way you shine your literary light.  During coffee with The Checkout Girl earlier this week, we were discussing the dreaded Mommy Blog and how someone she knew who was fairly famous was going through a divorce.  Unfortunately this person makes money giving parenting advice, so she was feeling like her life was over.  Or something like that.  We were talking about how refreshing it would be if people would just come clean about their realities.  If you’re divorcing, just say it.  No one expects us to be perfect.  Well, maybe some do, but we can just ignore those people.

Because I have had such trauma in my head over the past few months, and because I have to self-censor here to protect the innocent, I’ve been really feeling neglectful of this blog.  I’m holding up a Photoshopped version of my life right now because that is what is expected of me and that is what certain others are comfortable with. 

Again, if you are becoming uncomfortable, stop reading and go to your happy place.

Obviously I am not going to discuss the deep and dark specifics of my issues.  This isn’t because I’m embarassed of them, but it’s because my drama involves someone else (my husband) and I can’t tell those stories.  For every inch that I am open, he is a closed door. 

That being said, I’m just going to cut down on the speculative emails I’ve been getting today and say that yes, Mike and I have separated.  It is not a bad thing. It is not a negative thing. It does not mean we are getting the big D. It means that he and I have some stuff to work on individually, and we are both working very hard on that.  The space gives us the chance to do that without feeling like we are walking on eggshells all the time.  It allows us to both focus all available energies on our children, and that’s really the most important thing right now. 

Marital problems are a big no-no in our family.  That doesn’t mean our family has none, it just means that they aren’t discussed and no one divorces.  Stay married and be miserable, dammit!  That’s just how we roll.  Even though most of us are non-practicing Catholics, Catholicism has a way of seeping into your bones at a young age.  It’s hard to forget those lessons beaten into us during our tender years. 

I’ve just found that I’m already so very tired of being asked, “Does so and so know?  Oh my god, what about the holidays??? Who will go where?  And so and so wants to come up, whatever shall we tell her,” complete with hand-wringing.  It just seems so much easier to tell my family and friends:  yes, we are separated, no we are not getting a divorce tomorow, yes the kids are fine, no we don’t hate each other, and let it go at that.  It is private, between Mike and me - but I’m not going to pretend the reality of the situation does not exist.  Is it serious?  Yes.  Is it sad?  Yes.  Are we surviving?  Yes. 

The great thing about my husband (and myself - hell, I might as well give myself some kudos while I’m writing this):  his primary concern is our children.  We are doing everything we can, at great personal cost, to keep their lives stable and as comfortable and normal as possible.  Although we’re doing it in a fairly non-traditional way, we’re doing what works best for our family as a whole and trying to put our individual needs and wants aside.  Those of you with opinions on the details or the hows or whys will just have to be satisfied knowing that we have discussed everything and are a united front.  We always have been. 

It’s been a simulatenously amazing and sobering experience to realize that some of my friends are going to be there for us and some are not.  People I didn’t think gave two craps about me have come out of the woodwork.  Others that I thought would support me no matter what have not supported me.  In a few cases, my perception tells me that a back has been turned on me.  Family members I thought would be judgmental have shared their own stories with me.  Other family members have freaked out on me.  It’s like living in Bizarro Cristina World where everything is upside down.  I realize that when you admit you are having marital problems, many people with their own panic because it makes them insecure or afraid.  I remember when a close friend told me she was divorcing. I felt personally threatened. I went home and clung to Mike and said, “God I hope that never happens to us.”  Thankfully I was still able to support my friend, even though it scared and saddened me.  Not everyone is able to do that right now, and I am trying to forgive and understand. 

So there you go.  This post negates the need to put unicorns and rainbows up daily, which is good, because all of the graphics I could find were getting progressively more disturbing. 

At the end of the day, this is my blog.  It is my space.  If you are uncomfortable with what I’m sharing, please do yourself a favor and don’t read it.  You can be assured I won’t be sharing any more than this in terms of details, but I will be free, in my own space, to say that I am having a bad day, or that I am doing better, or that I am concerned for myself or for Mike.  Otherwise, this entire blog becomes a big fat lie and a huge waste of my time. 

From The Daily Shite:

I spent some time last night at Refresh Richmond.  You can read all about what RR is by clicking the link.  I’ve wanted to go to the meetings for a while, but now that I am trying to get some freelance writing/marketing work, I have to get out and network again.  It was good to see some nerds I haven’t seen in a while, like Phil.  I met my new BFF Carrie Fleck, talked writing (and how blogs can get you fired) with @leashal, made obnoxious jokes with Bradley Robb and tried to listen to Wren and Mr. Sterling’s snarky commentary afterward at Legends. 

My favorite tweet of the night was my own. Sorry but it was.  Here it is:  Fav phrase from #refreshrva: minify. In a sentence: “I’d like to minify my ass.” I still don’t know if “minify” is a word, but it’s now going to be used in my daily vocabulary.  My second favorite tweet came from Bradley:  “I am waiting for someone to yell “You lie!” at #RefreshRVA”

Aside from all the techno-speak, I realized that had I grown up now, I would have been cool.  Sometime in the 2000s, being nerdy became cool. I missed my window of opportunity to be cool, apparently, and now I’m not geeky enough to really be cool anyway.  I’m a geek wannabe. 

Becoming more focused on work is important right now, but I realized how out of practice I was when I was driving Carrie back to her office and I literally felt like I was going to fall asleep at the wheel.  Even though the economy is terrible, I feel more positive today about my ability to get back into some paying gigs.  Lots of my friends are freelancing - some of them are even making money writing *gasp* creatively.  I’ve always wanted to write - in fact, I’ve been writing - I just rarely get paid for it. 

Some pictures from last night, and also from Laura’s very cool house:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/cdelbueno/sets/72157622236670657/

And since I can’t really talk about anything else in my life right now, here’s the rainbow and unicon picture of the day:

That’s all this blog is going to be about for now. I hope you like rainbows, because you’re going to be seeing a lot of them. 

By the way, I wanted to find a cool geeky image of a rainbow.  Instead I found this one. Hopefully you find it as entirely disturbing as I do.  It’s a unicorn peeing a rainbow.  And that, my friends, is what I’m all about. 

I was supposed to actually read the manual on my camera this weekend, more than a year after I bought it.  After I absorbed all the pertinent details, I was going to attempt to take pictures without the automatic settings.  I ended up saying “meh” to that idea and instead spent my Saturday engrossed in various conversations and watching mostly naked girls and a drag queen prance around. 

Today, though, after suffering through a gross hangover and a pile of laundry, I did get around to playing with my camera.  Most of the pictures are really bad, but a few are funny.  I was playing with the macro setting on the camera:

I played with some of the aperture settings as well because the light in my room was great at the time:

Interestingly, everything on my nightstand equals the basic things I need: some books, a journal, a candle, lighter and some catalogs (this one has thinkgeek.com in it). 

I liked how this one turned out as well:

I had to buy new lampshades because I, ummm, didn’t read the wattage requirements on the old ones and let’s just say that one of them sort of melted.  I love the way this one looked in the muted light and I was amazed at how the imperfections in the fabric show up so clearly.  Gives it character. 

You can see the whole goofy set here. 

As per usual, a bunch of #hashbrownnetworkers and twitter geeks descended on Richmond’s Canal Club to support our very own local burlesque show, Richmond Varietease.  I must say Miss Magnolia was in rare form last night (not that she isn’t always in rare form).  Some highlights of the evening: 

1.  Miss Magnolia’s impression of a skanky woman on Cops with only two pink acrylic fingernails and a baby as a drink coaster.
2.  Miss Magnolia’s reverse motorboat on the back of a friend’s head (sitting right next to me). 
3.  Seeing @rvafashionista pick up an apple on stage with her throat only and win some bubble gum for her trouble. 
4.  Sitting next to Laura, and hearing my favorite quote of the night:  “Holly can spend some money on a go-go dancer.”
5.  Having Miss Dolli show us what an “assle” is while performing to an acoustic odd version of “Baby Got Back”.  Note: it’s not a tassle, but it’s close. 
6.  Miss Magnolia’s “Vigantic - my big big love” song at the end of the show.  Un-freakin’-belieavable. 

In all seriousness, I think one of the main reasons I love the show and burlesque in general is that the idea of “bodily perfection” goes right out the window.  Each of the performers are uber-comfy in their skin (obviously), but it’s really remarkable for someone like me to watch it.  Seriously, it would be hard to imagine myself up there unless I looked like Kate Beckinsale (i.e. no cellulite, body fat, stretch marks, moles, scars, etc).  To watch these women perform with the self-confidence they have, not to mention the joy in doing what they want to be doing, it’s really quite inspiring. 

And yes, go ahead and laugh at me for being inspired by a burlesque show.  That’s fine. I can take it. 

Best of all, a good friend of mine met someone last night and love was in the air.  I hope that love continues to flow his way as he certainly deserves it. 

* * * * * * * * *

For those of you who tweeted at me or sent me emails or posted comments on the blog about the therapy post, a big gooey thank you is being sent your way.  My family cringes when I tell “too much” and I get that.  I’ve been on the other side of the fence where so many women who were braver than me wrote publicly about their struggles. I read those struggles and I related.  Those public admissions of trauma or pain or mistakes helped me get right with my own, so I don’t mind sharing in the hopes that it’s doing it for someone out there too.  It’s pay it forward in reverse I guess. 

To answer the questions I got about the therapy post, yes, it helped.  I got lucky since shopping for a therapist has about the same success rate that shopping for jeans has for me - it usually takes multiple tries and a lot of tears and cursing.  I liked her right off the bat, felt entirely comfortable, and spent the entire hour using up a box of Kleenex and snorting my way through a discussion.  She’s razor sharp and asked questions that cut right to the core of all the questions I don’t want to answer, and I respected her for that.  I respected her for not telling me that everything would be okay, or by diminishing the amount of inner turmoil I’m feeling.  She gave me some very specific recommendations of things I could do right away to a.) sleep at night and b.) feel less awful during the day, so I immediately implemented her ideas and began to feel a little better. 

One of the suggestions she gave was very helpful to me and can be used in a lot of situations, so I’m sharing it with you.  I’m an iPhone geek and it’s rarely out of my reach.  A main problem over the past few months is that I wake up frequently and my brain kicks into overdrive.  At night, the thoughts come fast and furious and they eventually spiral down into some ridiculous future that will never happen but depresses me nonetheless.  She suggested that I put together a playlist of music/sounds that relaxes me and to focus entirely on the music.  Now when I wake up, I reach for my phone, plug in the headphones and force my brain to focus on lyrics and bridges and notes instead of the craziness that is my night brain.  So far, so good.  Eventually I might be sleeping through the night again. 

I’ve got some tough decisions to make in the coming weeks.  Thankfully I am graced with amazing friends who tell me things I don’t want to hear, even though I know they are right.  I am sorting through the advice and trying to decide what the best thing for me is at the moment and for the long-term.  I’m slowly coming to grips with the sacrifices I’ve made in the past, and how they affect me today.  I’m also planning for many more sacrifices in the future, but this time I’m going to be well aware of what I’m doing when I walk through that door. 

My first foray into therapy was way back in 1990/1991.  I was at University of Michigan, surrounded by people with PhDs and professional certifications and Birkenstocks.  It seemed natural, almost compulsory, that I end up in therapy while living in Ann Arbor. I was taking a class on Freudian-inspired literature.  I was somewhat morose. I spent more time in coffee houses than bars, and I had lots of dysfunctional relationships.  Bring on the therapy!

I got lucky, though. I ended up with Rachel, and she dutifully listened to my privileged white-girl rants about my life, relationship and parents.  Oh, poor me, living in an apartment paid for by my parents, attending great school on their dime, and taking classes called (I kid you not) “Math for Poets”.  (side note: that class *may* be explanation for my inability to solve simple equations)

In all seriousness, I was involved in very bizarre and long-standing relationship with a guy.  It was fraught with drama, late-night phone calls and lies.  Lots of lies.  Mix in my weight at the time (a hefty 98 pounds) and too much time spent with head in books and you had a girl in need of head-shrinking. 

Those early day of therapy were heady to say the least.  We criss-crossed my childhood, the origins of my food weirdness, and dissected my relationship with aforementioned dude in minute detail.  I told her things I had never even told myself, then analyzed them with her.  I wrote incessantly.  I was journaling an average of 10 pages a day.  The proverbial crap was pouring out of me, and I felt free.  She thought I had clinical depression.  I got free medical treatment at U of M’s hospital and began my long love affair with Zoloft sometime in 1991.  Between Rachel and the medication, my life literally changed.  I didn’t end my relationship with the guy for another 7 years, but I was able to call it what it was, and I was no longer able to delude myself into thinking it was something else.  I stopped abusing food and my body.  I cut unhealthy people out of my life.  I took my medication dutifully.  I tried to be a better person.  I started dating a normal guy (i.e., one without another girlfriend) and generally spent a very happy senior year living the life in Ann Arbor.  Political protests - the annual Hash Bash - the Objectivists study group - lunches spoken entirely in German - Women’s Literature studies - oh my god what a huge nerd I was. 

After graduation, I took a road trip with the normal boyfriend.  When I came back, I got a job and stopped therapy. I wasn’t on my parent’s insurance (or dime) anymore and couldn’t afford luxuries like therapy when I was making $16,800 a year. 

Therapy and I have met up since then.  When my friendly eating issues came back with a vengeance, I was smart enough to go back.  When Mike and I got engaged and I was nearly having a nervous breakdown over wedding and financial pressures, we both went for premarital counseling.  I’m a big fan of counseling.  Nothing makes you be honest about how imperfect you are than someone else holding up the world’s most truthful mirror. 

Today at 1 PM I’m about to revisit the whole head-shrinking phenomenom.  My awesome neighbor (and friend) offered to watch Arden for me while I go. 

About three years ago, I went through a difficult time.  I didn’t talk to anyone about it.  I went silent but continued to smile.  I told myself things like, “There is nothing wrong. You are spoiled.  Deal with it.  Snap out of it.”  I repeated these things for about a year before the “affirmations” worked and I stopped thinking about it.  This year, those same thoughts resurfaced and I have to deal with them.  When it happened this time, I knew I had to talk to someone who could help me sort through the mess that is my head right now.  Since I am a mom and a wife, I can’t just run away to a quiet place and collect myself.  The good thing about that is I can’t hide.  You can’t stay in bed all day when your kids need to be fed and loved and driven places.  And when you live with someone, you can only go so long before all the unsaid things hang in the air between you like cobwebs and you absolutely must clear them away. 

I know that I need to go.  I believe in the power of self-awareness.  But I’m scared crapless as well. I really don’t want to deal with a lot of this.  I don’t want to look, I don’t want to feel, and I’m afraid of what is lurking below.  The fear isn’t going to stop me, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.  I am looking forward to gaining clarity, no matter how difficult that clarity is going to be. 

It’s 7.30 am and already one of my kids is off to school.  Arden’s preschool doesn’t begin until next week (curse you, Y!), but Lily officially became a first grader when she yawned and told me she wanted to stay asleep this morning.  The great thing about having a first grader is I didn’t cry!  Next year when Arden joins Lily on the front porch for a picture, well, no guarantees then.

Pictures from the morning: