We survived, which is about all that could be expected.  The kids on the other hand stayed blissfully unaware (I think) of the tension and weirdness, and spent a lot of time screaming Santa’s name, gorging on sugar, running through the house and driving everyone nuts with the strange grunting noises their new Zhu Zhu Pets make.  Thanks a lot, Santa! 

Despite there being only 4 adults and 2 very small children, my mother made enough food to feed the entire neighborhood.  She can’t help it.  After years of cooking for large groups of family and friends, she doesn’t know any other way.  Mike got me a Kindle, which simultaneously thrilled me and made me feel horribly guilty.  We weren’t supposed to be exchanging gifts.  I kept up my end of the bargain; he ignored his.  I did get the customary lump of coal in my stocking (and seriously, there is no double entendre there), but this year I probably deserved it. 

Mike and the girls spent about equal time with his family and mine.  They loved being with their cousins ad they loved the attention they got from my parents.  The family spoiled them rotten which was good because we cut way back on gifts this year.  Santa also seemed to be on a budget, that jolly old cheapskate. Lily only complained once about not receiving the Nintendo DS-I she requested while on the lap of Short Pump Santa; I suggested that girls under age 8 weren’t allowed those because Santa thought they were too young. She blew my carefully crafted scenario out of the water by stating, “Mom, half the girls in my class have them and most got them for Christmas LAST year, which would mean they were only 6.”  Duh, Mom!  Idiot. 

Unfortunately right after Christmas Mike got some bad news which isn’t fit for public consumption.  He’d already been having a hard time with the holidays; this about pushed him over the edge.  We talked a bit tonight about the things we can both control and the things we can’t.  It was one of the most frank conversations we’ve had since this whole mess began and although it was unpleasant, we both were being honest and we were both calm.  I’m grateful for those two things. 

It seems anti-holiday to feel so sad this year.  It’s cliche to state the obvious:  holidays are hard unless everything in your life is perfect.  Each year I’m reminded that I don’t get to see my brother and niece; that my other brother and sister-in-law are really far away; that my sister is also really far away (just not as far away as Hawaii).  There is always a tinge of sadness around the holidays, because the days of being able to get everyone together just doesn’t happen anymore.  We all have our own lives and responsibilities, but I miss my family.  Add to this the faux separation Mike and I have been living and the looming “real” separation, work and financial issues, and general all-around sadness over our lives and you have one dark Christmas.  I managed to squash all my crap down inside and covered it with a layer of mocha brownies.  Mike didn’t fare as well, so we lived in alternate universes for the duration.  I am usually the world’s worst PollyAna.  I did a great job this time.  When I focused on the joy in my children, it was easier.  When my dad thanked the surgeon who fixed his aneurysm and allowed him to live yet another year, it made it much better too (he’s usually cursing the surgeon for keeping him on this earth).  I took a couple of long baths, a nap on Christmas day, and ate my weight in food.  I attempted to care for myself insomuch as I could.

On a happier note, I got some great pictures over Christmas Eve and Day.  My dad really liked Gracie and found the sweet spot on her back to scratch.  After that, she couldn’t get enough of him and he of her, unless she breathed on him.  I would say that Gracie’s breath is almost as horrific as Delilah’s, and that’s saying a lot.  Thankfully we are all used to dealing with dog breath and we managed just fine. 

I was very glad to see Gracie getting used to the kids.  She rarely barks at them and only freaks out if they accidentally run in her general direction or screech in her ears.  Even then, she only seems partially interested in eating them, and then, only to shut them up.  Because she was up for so many hours, and she is used to sleeping 22 of 24 hours a day, she fell asleep on Christmas night and was completely sacked out on the couch.  Mike was sitting on the floor, and leaned over the give her a kiss on the head.  He scared the hell out of her, and she reacted by snapping.  Unfortunately his eyebrow and forehead got the brunt of it.  Man, facial lacerations bleed profusely (side note:  I didn’t pass out!).  He has a small cut in his eyebrow and a puncture wound on his forehead.  He looks like he was in a bar fight but with less bruising.  He never blamed Gracie or got mad at her - it was totally his fault, just like when Sara’s dog Parker bit me.  It’s hard remembering that not all dogs are as dopey and dense as Thora, who would probably lick a rabid raccoon instead of attacking it.  Gracie had serious doggie guilt after and spent close to an hour with her head on Mike’s lap, licking his face whenever he let her. 

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate, and Happy Festivus for the restovus.  I’m frankly glad it’s over.  One more major holidayic hurdle and we’re home free til Valentine’s Day. 

I get a ton of music from a friend who has better taste than me, and always has something new to share.  Hello Bishop Allen.  I’ve always been drawn to bands with smart lyrics.  If you can’t string a sentence together, it matters not to me how good the background noise is.  Whoever these nerds are, I love the lyricist.  My favorite song so far: 

The News From Your Bed

You were saving the date
But you woke up too late
Pulled the covers down over your head
You haven’t left your front door
For a week maybe more
Tell me, hey, what’s the news from your bed
You know your face is all covered with your birthday cake
That you’re eating in the kitchen at home
Another banner year, a splendid day
Another inch or two that you’ve grown
But it’s hard to celebrate on your own

There’s a mouse in cupboard that nibbles your crumbs
And you talk to him every night
You say, “Hey, Mr. Whiskers, I’m bored and I’m numb
You can stay if you just treat me right.”
Just last year you were fortunate baby
And your friends circled around you in droves
Are they thinking of you? Maybe just maybe
But not a one has bothered to phone
Tell me where oh where did they go

Called a car an hour ago
You’re gonna take yourself out
Despite the cold and snow
Did they forget about you
Are they in on it too?
You’re sitting looking in the mirror
At your dancing shoes

When your family calls you make nice to them all
And assure them you’re fine and you’re great
Then you cry in the bath, cry so hard that you laugh
Then you watch television til late
Who do you need? Nobody.
You’re lucky nobody’s around
I can pour my own drinks
No thanks, Mister. Go on, and get out of town
And you’re gorgeous in your evening gown.

This song sums up the last few months of my life, only I don’t have the luxury of hiding under the covers nor will Weight Watchers condone birthday cake in the middle of the night (or really, anytime).  It’s a quirky song, not depressing in the slightest, and as I listened to it while sweating profusely on the elliptical, I started laughing.  My life is pretty funny right now, and my humor is the backbone of everything I do.  Laughter gets me through it.  Laughing at myself makes me fly over the obstacles.  It’s also flat out good for the soul.

Writing is also good for my soul.  During NaNoWriMo, I wrote about some things I haven’t dared think about, let alone write about, in many years.  While NaNoWriMo was going on, I was primarily focused on reaching 50,000 words.  I’m very competitive when it comes to writing, but only against myself.  I have many things to catch up on, but before I forget, or it becomes completely worthless, here are my thoughts on being a NaNoWriMo virgin and reaching the goal.

1.  Follow the bars.  Nano’s site gives a helpful day-to-day breakdown of words.  If you aren’t sticking with the goal (around 1667 words per day, though I always rounded up to 2000), you’re going to get behind and it may be impossible to catch up.

2.  Utilize writing buddies, if it works for you.  I had a few people consistently writing with me.  We would take breaks every once in a while, or exchange humorous stories.  It was helpful to have people around me doing the same thing, and listening to their fingers on their respective keyboards.  The only exception was weeding out the NaNos who really had no intention of finishing, and were not motivated.  Making a social club out of writing is fine, but I was in a totally different place with NaNo.  Breaks were fine; long conversations were not.

3.  Schedule, schedule, schedule.  I’m a pretty busy person, although Bradley likes to say that I just sit around all day, being awesome.  Between the online businesses, therapy, job searching, child-chauffeuring and general life stresses, I absolutely had to schedule my writing.  It required a lot of self-discipline, headphones and an area that was conducive to writing, but the only reason I hit my goal was sticking to the schedule.  Friends can attest to being kicked out of my house at a specific hour because I “had to write”. 

4. Speaking of music, find whatever you need to help you write.  In my case, it’s music, but it has to be a specific kind of music.  It needs to be very familiar so I don’t try to listen to it intently; no dirge and depression, but no sugar pop either.  Some need complete silence; some need white noise.  For me, I cannot write without music.  Well, I can, but the words are worse than usual. 

5.  Outline.  All my nerds from WriteClubRVAwill tell you that I bitched and moaned about outlines for at least two weeks.  It was harder to write the outline than the novel.  I hated every minute of outlining.  Even though I did finally do something you could call an outline, it was half-assed at best.  My writing mentors shook their long fingers at me and told me I needed to do this since all I’ve ever written in the past were short stories.  I also write from the gut - planning is something murder mystery writers do.  My characters aren’t all that complex.  However, they were right.  Without the outline, I would have never made it.  I never had to think about what was next in the novel because it was planned for me.  I simply finished one chapter, looked at my outline, and went merrily on. 

6.  Write without editing or looking back.  This was a tough one for me because I’m a narcissist and love looking at what I’ve written right after I’ve written it.  Then the love turns to despair and I begin chopping and rewriting.  There is no time in 30 days and 50,000 words to start editing.  December, January . . .the rest of your life - that’s when you edit.  During NaNo you write.  Period.  I threatened one of my writing buddies:  “If you can’t stop editing, write one page, email it to me, and delete it.  At the end of the month, I’ll give you your pages back.”  This was after she deleted a huge chunk of her novel because she was frustrated.  Thou shalt not delete or edit. 

7.  Get support.  Write Club was invaluable to me.  Writing buddies are good, but having writers better than me (and much more prolific) proved invaluable.  Just like the insistence that I write an outline, advice was given and I was open enough to take most of it.  I am by my very nature a hyper-critical analyzer of myself.  My writing is one area of exception.  I keep reminding myself that simply because I love to write doesn’t mean I’m good or that many millions of others aren’t better.  There are some amazing writers in Write Club; I’m fortunate to have them around me. 

That’s about it.  Now, I just need to finish my novel (one chapter left), edit the hell out of it (and the crap), then allow specific others to read it (scary!). 

(non-sequitur)

I know most of you could give two burps about my writing stuff, but it’s easier than talking about, you know, the big elephant in the room. 

Mike’s been riding the roller coaster with me.  As much as many have judged me about not taking my vows seriously or working hard enough, I actually have 50% of that equation in the bag.  Marriage for me was not something I entered into lightly.  I took it very seriously.  I got married later in life.  It wasn’t a rash judgment.  We dated for 2 years.  I’d had plenty of experience with both “good” and “bad” relationships.  (note:  classifying relationships as good and bad is something I’m trying not to do anymore.  Every relationship I had, or every man I loved, had good and bad within.  Even in my most destructive relationships, there were things I learned or things about the other person that were truly fantastic.)

The part about “not working hard enough” may be somewhat true.  However, unless you have walked in my shoes, you can’t really understand what it feels like to be completely detached from someone yet told to act like everything is fine.  Honestly, there were things I thought about my marriage that didn’t seem fixable in any universe, so I felt that flogging Mike with a list of perceived shortcomings was both unnecessary and cruel.  I say “perceived shortcomings” because though they are things that I’m not sure I can deal with, they may be things that another woman or wife would have no issue with. 

I have been very upfront with my therapist, the marriage counselor, and Mike about how I feel.  I also knew that if there was a chance of saving the marriage, I had to get over my detachment and do what Laura used to say back when I first started my business.  I had to act “as if”.  Sometimes the simple act of “as if” can make things real again.  Staying upstairs and pretending to be separated wasn’t working.  Signing a lease on an apartment and not getting the job I thought I would was not working.  I had to attempt “as if”, and I had to actually work.  This means doing things that are uncomfortable to me.  Things like having dinner as a family are so familiar that I don’t think twice about them.  Other things, like setting up a date night, seem as extreme as a hike in the arctic circle.  I have shared more in the last week of marriage counseling than I have in months.  I am doing my part.  I am trying very hard.

I’m also incredibly lucky to have the therapist I do.  She sees right through my bullshit and calls me on it almost as quickly as it leaves my mouth.  She does it in a very nice way - but she still does it.  I trust her implicitly and I know that she will tell me when she thinks I’m making unhealthy or rash decisions. 

So, we’re working on things.  The apartment is on hold until we can dig out the financial hole we are in or until I get a job or both.  It’s hard to accept that I have to wait for a real separation, but that’s the reality of the situation and I need to face it.  Some days are better than others. 

One amazing thing that has come out of the last two months:  I am finally on medication that, for the moment, is working wonders.  Even though I have ups and downs, they are nothing compared to the crippling lows and frightening highs I used to have.  I admit to missing the fantastic beautiful colors of my soaring days.  I’m willing to give them up when I realize I’ve been “fine” for more than a month now.  I feel normal, or at least what I think normal should be.  I don’t freak out, I’m not mad or irritated all the time, I’m more patient, I don’t think about dying or erasing my existence.  I have remorse but it no longer consumes me.  I still have my humor and occasionally I am still fun to be around.  I still go out, interact with others, have conversations. 

If I’m grateful for anything, it’s that this whole thing has brought me to my knees.  The view from down there was frightening but because I survived, my payback is stability.  It’s never felt so good, even against the backdrop of a very bleak present.

I’m reading a book my therapist recommended. It’s by Lynette Triere with Richard Peacock and it’s called “Learning to Leave”.  It sounds more negative than it really is - it’s really an explanation of what women go through during a separation, divorce or reconciliation.  These two paragraphs really struck a chord with me:

...for many couples, it is not a question of finding new solutions to a building list of conflicts.  With some women and men, there is a fundamental difference in life goals, ways of communicating, belief systems, rhythms of living, temperment, and concepts of pleasure.  Faced with such basic incompatibility, women are now breaking out of their more common conservative roles and have become more frequently the initiators of divorce. 

But this realization is usually not an immediate one and the decision to leave is rarely hasty.  The very idea of divorce is so radical that some women refuse to even consider it at first.  In fact, stages of awareness can be outlined in the average movement of a woman toward leaving a relationship.  First, many women report that they only “subconsciously” felt the stirrings to leave, that these feelings would never be articulated even to themselves.  A surprising number have said that they harbored the secret for five years or longer before moving to the next stage of privately but deliberately thinking about leaving.  These thoughts might take the form of fantasy, the dream of living in another place alone or with another person, the desire to break out into a new style of living, the pursuit of a challenging career, perhaps a passion for travel.  This stage can be a consuming one.  A few women get stuck at this point and become permanent daydreamers.  But most will move on to relate their desires to a close friend, often a sympathetic woman who has experienced a similar situation.  They may at this stage seek out a professional therapist to confide in, or take the bolder step of seeking an attorney.

Not sure I agree with classifying seeking an attorney as a “bolder” step - it seems to me a premature step.  It’s also unfortunate that I am not alone in having been unable to express my true feelings firstly to myself, and then to my husband.  Had I been able to do that 36 months ago, we might be in a different place today. 

My goal set during Write Club RVA was to continue to blog through this haze and fog, and not shy away from the truth.  It’s very hard at times (like right now) to really find the strength to express my feelings in a way that others can understand. 

That being said, today has been hard.  I wish my medication would work, dammit, and work fast.  I know better than to expect it to erase all the pain and uncertainty and general angst I feel inside, but feeling hopeless day after day is pretty much a complete and total drag.  I even sat outside in the sun this afternoon soaking up some Vitamin D in the hopes it would snap me out of this horrible nightmare I can’t wake from. 

At some point, you have to start telling your friends and family you are fine, even when you don’t feel fine.  No one wants to hear, “I’m the same brand of shitty I was yesterday” day after day.  It’s depressing and boring.  I’m certain Mike feels the same way, though he puts on a good front for me - which is yet another example of why he’s a much better person than me.  He still worries about me, even though I’m in the process of dismantling and analyzing our life together that he thought was very solid.  I’ve made everything creaky and decayed with my words, and it’s an unsettling place to be - for both of us.  I do try to focus on my high moments:  pilates this morning, with sweat pouring off me, erasing any other thought than holding myself up on an elbow.  Arden’s face as she walked toward my car.  Cuddling with Arden, and stroking her hair.  Watching Lily drawing this afternoon.  Meeting a friend for a dinner in Carytown. 

In between those moments, I swing wildly between “WHAT AM I DOING?  I’m a horrible mother and wife” and “GET ME OUT. GET ME OUT.  GET ME OUT.”  Par for the course for me, there are no gray thoughts.  Perhaps that’s why I’ve been buying a lot of gray clothes lately - it’s a visceral reminder that there is such a color, and it’s not a bad place to live. 

On a happier note, I finally narrowed down my NaNoWriMo topics to two, and I’m going to force myself to pick one tonight.  Hopefully this weekend will get me working on the outline.  It’s been interesting to note that anything other than blogging has been impossible for me to write - my brain can only process my reality.  Fiction is a tall order these days. 

(By the way, it took an extreme amount of maturity not to make a bowel movement joke in the title of this post. *golf claps*)

Today has been a full day of questions I can’t really answer and a lot of introspection.  First, Mike and I had our initial marriage counseling session.  I liked the therapist and am convinced of one thing:  she will help us figure out what direction we are going in.  I can’t tell you what direction that is, but we started down the path and I’m glad to be moving instead of mired down in my own personal version of hell:  inertia. 

At 1 pm, I went off to see a psychiatrist my therapist recommended.  (note:  so this is what it’s like to be old - doctor’s appointment after doctor’s appointment!)  I liked her a lot but I was a bit shocked when she slapped another diagnosis on me.  I heard murmurings of it while at Poplar Springs.  She confirmed that I was having panic attacks, but thankfully I have had none since the afternoon I got out of the hospital.  She prescribed Xanax for any time in the future I feel one coming on and recommended keeping it in my purse.  I’m a regular drug pusher now.  “So what’s in your purse, Mommy?”  “Oh, just the essentials, girls;  you know, a tampon, some lipstick, face powder and Mommy’s little helper, Xanax!”

She diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder II.  I immediately did what all nerds do:  I googled it on the world wide interwebs.  It was pretty shocking, because a lot of it made me say, “Wow, um, that’s me.”  I always assumed you couldn’t be bipolar if you didn’t have the mania with it - I didn’t realize there are many versions of Bipolar.  Here’s an excerpt from the article: 

Symptoms during hypomanic episodes include:

  * Flying suddenly from one idea to the next
  * Rapid, “pressured” speech
  * Increased energy, with hyperactivity and decreased need for sleep

People experiencing hypomanic episodes are often quite pleasant to be around. They can often seem like the “life of the party”—making jokes, taking an intense interest in other people and activities, and infecting others with their positive mood.

What’s so bad about that, you might ask? Hypomania can also lead to erratic and unhealthy behavior. Also, the vast majority of people with bipolar II disorder experience significant depressive episodes. These can occur soon after hypomania subsides, or much later. Some people cycle back and forth between hypomania and depression, while others have long periods of normal mood in between episodes.

Untreated, an episode of hypomania can last anywhere from a few days to several years. Most commonly, symptoms continue for a few weeks to a few months.

Depressive episodes in bipolar II disorder are similar to “regular” clinical depression, with depressed mood, loss of pleasure, low energy and activity, feelings of guilt or worthlessness, and thoughts of suicide. Depressive symptoms of bipolar disorder can last weeks, months, or rarely years.

It’s also considered a very mild form of Bipolar which means I’m only mildly crazy.

I’m joking about all of this, but I’m a combination of relieved and upset.  I’m relieved because I’m on a new medication that sits on top of my antidepressant and will hopefully level me off more permanently.  Even though my antidepressant is working better, I’m still very moody. I can handle that, but I literally go from full-on moments of joy to the very depths of despair in less than 10 seconds.  It’s the speed of that rollercoaster that makes me sick and tired of being me.  I’m upset because damn, seriously?  Depression is bad enough, but you can act like it’s a temporary thing.  Like, “Oh, I’m having a rough time right now - but this too shall pass, bless my heart!”  Bipolar has a scary, straightjacket-and-padded-room sort of feel to it - at least it does to me.  This is partly because a close friend in college was plain ol’ Bipolar and her brand of crazy scared the crap out of me.  There was one particularly memorable wrist-slashing episode resulting in her bleeding all over my car as I rushed her to the hospital, and another where she overdosed on Lithium all the while screaming at me over the phone.

It’s hard feeling normal and likeable these days.  In many ways, my ego and self-esteem has hit an all-time low.  In other ways, I feel pretty good about myself - mainly because I’m finally dealing with some ugly stuff inside of me.  Finding out I have yet another wart on my psyche bums me out, but at least I can treat it.  Hi, I’m Cristina - your lovable eating-disordered, bipolar depressive.  Wanna hang out? 

I remember playing with my friend Amy.  She had a Ken doll; I did not.  We spent hours making houses out of shoeboxes and cardboard so that Ken and Barbie could live in sin (we would always forget to have their wedding first).  I was fascinated by all the stuff they could have:  barstools made out of old deodorant, a store-bought swimming pool, a stable for their horses, a hideous pink canopied bed.  That game never got old.  Hours were spent rearranging the furniture, or moving Ken and Barbie somewhere new (like into the closet, which I guess is akin to moving to the suburbs). 

In adulthood, I’ve spent hours and years rearranging the furniture.  One of my favorite verses comes from a Jonatha Brooke/Story song:

My mother moved the furniture
When she no longer moved the man
We thought nothing of it at the time
She painted walls, painted smiles,
Checked herself in the mirror one more time,
Then yoked her heart to a whim.

In the past, I’ve been known to rearrange rooms of furniture or rip down the paint to symbolize a change in my life.  I get bored with furniture placement and colors easily, and am forever shifting things around to suit my saturnine personality. 

Since I moved back into the house after my release from Poplar Springs, I’ve been playing house.  First I was so exhausted I just wanted to forget everything that had happened and write it off as an unwakeable nightmare.  When I couldn’t wake up from it, I moved to the third floor.  I actually am trying to pretend it’s like an apartment, and put things in the drawers and closets.  It’s the closest I can get to a physical separation at this moment in time.  Although I know this is what’s best for the children - and the least disruptive to my sleep and ability to keep up with the house - it’s hard on Mike and it’s hard on me.  Although I am the anti-Barbie and he certainly is no Ken, I feel like we’re playing house, keeping up appearances. 

We will be in limbo and it will be for a while.  We start marriage counseling next week.  Those who know would agree I’m not very patient. I am an incredibly decisive person - decisive to a fault.  Once my mind is made up, it normally takes something akin to a Mack truck hitting me to chage it.  This “limbo” period is difficult for me on many levels, because I cannot afford to assume my mind is made up and I must work to stay open when all I want to do is shut down into a very small steel box of a girl. 

There’s so much joy in between the bits of sheer hell.  Allowing myself to be helped and supported by my family, by my friends.  Spending an hour sipping overpriced lattes with a friend, recounting our experiences, holding them up for each other to compare.  Sitting quietly in the moonlight on the screened porch when everyone else is asleep.  Listening to other people’s sad and happy stories.  Tentatively poking my heart every once in awhile, just to see if it’s still beating.  Talking to Mike before I realize how strange I feel around him, like my husband is a stranger.  I tweeted the other day:  “it’s a weird sensation when the most familiar things feel scary.”  This is my life now.  Those things that used to give me comfort now make me anxious.  Half the time I’m frantically digging around inside, asking myself, “How do I really feel about this?  Is this good? bad? indifferent?”  Most of the time I can’t even answer the basic questions. 

At therapy on Thursday I had a major epiphany.  I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner, but better late than never.  Mike asked me in a letter if I thought my weight loss had anything to do with all the stuff I’m going through.  He thought that perhaps I was losing weight so I’d feel happier, and when I did, and wasn’t, it caused a depression.  I immediately said no. 

As my therapist and I discussed something else, I mentioned my weight loss.  And we started talking about it.  I literally felt like a Jesus postcard - you know, the kind with the dark clouds being parted by a shining beam of light.  It was all very clear.  For years, I’ve been pushing down all my emotions with food.  Whether I was starving or eating, it didn’t matter.  I don’t use drugs or drink to numb myself, but I certainly do use food, and I have really been numb since I was pregnant with Lily.  Because Weight Watchers is really a lifestyle change, and because it makes you eat properly, I couldn’t abuse food any longer.  As soon as the food was gone, all of the feelings started to come out. I didn’t notice it right away, but they crept up on me from the farthest corners of my mind.  With nothing to keep them at bay, they blew through their containments and exited through my mouth and my tear ducts.  So yes, Mike, in retrospect:  yes, my weight loss has something to do with all this mess I’ve handed you on a platter.