Sunday, October 5, 2014

Waiting for the fish to bite or the wind to fly a kite

I'm always amazed at the amount of waiting at a hospital. Need some Tylenol, that's 30 minutes. An IV, give that 45 minutes. You wanna see a doctor, cool your jets for a half a day.

Sometimes the waiting drives me nuts. Mostly it's when I'm the caretaker and have things to do, places to go. But this time I'm the patient and the thing I'm waiting for is a transfer to a psych facility. So cooling my jets on the fourth floor where I have a view and all the cranberry juice I want ain't a bad gig.

If anything, this time is a much needed break from the reality of my life. I've essentially dropped out of my life. Sure, the players come see me, kiss me, handle me with kid gloves. But they aren't asking me for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, where the clean socks are, how much money is left in the account, whether or not the bills are paid, and what's for dinner. I feel sort of bad that it all became too much and I bailed. Well, it was a forced bail. Matt gave me a choice of getting in the car to go to the ER or he'd call the ambulance. I chose the former. But it was a much needed bail. Had I stayed, the urge to take a forever nap in the garage would have taken over. As it was I would spend long periods of time sitting in the dark of the garage or sometimes actually sitting in one of the cars, keys sometimes in hand and sometimes in the ignition. I need to be in a place where the garage is simply a place to store dog food and snowboards, not a portal to the other side.

Right now I'm waiting for dinner, steamed tilapia and grilled veggies. After that Matt is coming to play Scrabble with me, it will be a hospital date. Sexy stuff. Tomorrow I think I'll be transferred and I figure then is. When I'll sit with a psychiatrist and we'll pull out the big guns and battle the beasts in my head. Not looking forward to that. I have no idea how the kids will feel about my absence, what sorts of repair will be needed upon my return, or even when that return will be.

So for today I'll just wait for the fish to bite or the wind to fly the kite and my tilapia to magically show up in my room.

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Location:Blake Ave,Glenwood Springs,United States

A step aside

I've woken up in a lot places in my 44 years, only to find myself disoriented and unclear as to how that particular nest became my resting spot. Granted nearly 99% of those occurred between the ages of 18 and 21. But here I am. It's 2:33 am, I'm dressed in hospital pj's, I've got an identification tag on my wrist and I can feel the gentle caress of Ativan coursing through my veins.

I'm in the seclusion room. Been here since last night around midnight. I signed away 72 hours of my life because it seemed safer than be released and facing the sweet temptation of the garage. Tomorrow I'm supposed to be transferred to another facility. Not sure how I feel about that. I like this nest. It has a beautiful view, the staff handles me with Kid gloves.My own kids are close by and come visit me.

What if they send me to Denver and the women are mean, sort of an Orange is the new Black, only psych style. I know I should be more concerned about finding the right doctor and Medication that will enable me to shower more than once every 10 days. But right now I'm just scared

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

So. I'm Poor.

When I was a kid I never dreamed I would grow up to be poor. No just a little bit poor, but serious gut clenching, not sure you're going to make it and everything will be lost poor. I grew up in comfort. In fact, I was spoiled which is likely one of the reasons it never occurred to me that life held anything other than sparkly things for me.But here I am, 44 and but ass broke. It sucks. Truly.

Looking back and I can see the series of not so clever decisions that lead to this current state. However, at the time I thought that working from home or teaching preschool to stay on track with my children's schedules was a good thing. The problem is that I stopped there, I didn't take any steps during those years to improve on my degree or keep up with the workforce. If a job didn't fit with our lives, I stayed out the season and then moved on to another one. Needless to say my resume is a mess and reflects my lack of commitment to a career. So I totally understand this current position which only makes it harder in those wee hours of the mornings when Clarity takes a seat next to my weary head and starts spouting her truths and I stay awake, eventually facing the day in a state of panic.

Poverty sucks. Any way you chop it up and rearrange it it sucks. There is no Pinterest fix to sprinkle some glitter on it. It is grueling, exhausting and soul crushing. I have never felt more helpless or worthless. I look at my children, our home and feel such guilt that I've inadvertently lead us here and that it might all disappear. Our lives could so easily disintegrate because it truly is that precarious right now.

Poverty doesn't take naps. It has the stamina to go 24/7. Every time I think I have an idea to get us through it all another bill crops up and there is Poverty, licking its fingers and sending me a sly wink of triumph.

Poverty doesn't play nice, it likes to choke. Most of the time my throat is so tight and on the verge of closing up entirely. Breathing is an in and out effort and there are times when I wonder if maybe I'll just stop and quietly let that last breath go.

I can't see a way through this right now. Maybe it's because I grew up spoiled and I don't know how to to the day-to-day hard work. Maybe because it is all simply that bad and there is no hope. I really don't know. I have to get us out of this. Somehow I have to suck my guts and soldier on and that scares the hell out of me. Because what if I can't? What if this is as good as it gets?

Wednesday, September 24, 2014


I am at a cross roads where the traffic whizzes by at a neck whipping speed and I am somehow unable to get through the cars to the other side. There is no light here, no overpass, no cross walk. There seems to be no way around this other than through it.

The thing of it is that I can't seem to get a job. Since Devon was born I've not had a real job. It's been ten years of either working seasonally at the ski mountain, blogging for pay or teaching preschool. All of it brought in a bit of scratch but when put down on paper an impressive resume of power it is not.

I've been actively applying for jobs for the past six months or so. I've tried everything from trying to cash in on my volunteer hours of fundraising in the form of a development director to office assistant jobs. There have been interviews. Lots of interviews. In the beginning I was both inwardly and outwardly enthusiastic at these meetings. Why wouldn't I be? Here was a golden opportunity to become a) a paid fundraiser b) a social media manager c) a good ole secretary. So much hope in each and every one. But no. Then there are all the applications that have lingered out there like little fingers of hope. Some have lain so long I forget them entirely, only to recall them when I get the inevitable Email of No.

Last week I attended an interview where two women flanked me at the ends of a large-ish table and a man sat opposite of me. (I'm not a fan of multiple person interviews because at this point it feels like this presents more chances to screw up and blurt out that no, I don't want to be there and yes, I'd rather chew off my toes than answer where I see myself in the next five years. Because know what? I haven't the foggiest fucking idea because right now I can only piece together the next ten minutes or I'll get so stressed out that I might lose my shit.) The man last week spent the entire interview engrossed in his iPad. Not just laying it on the table and occasionally poking at it, but holding it up in front of his face while once or twice peeking out to interject a question. Was he filming me? Actively Googling me when I mentioned I had once been a professional blogger? And why was he so interested where my daughter attends high school? For that matter, why did that come up at all? It's no shock that I never heard back from them.

Clearly I need to get off my small space of highway and to the other side. Also, it's becoming obvious to me that a real job isn't in my future. It's unfortunate. I'm bright. I have a degree. I just happened to screw up and not stay the path for the last ten years. Instead I chose to follow my children and their schedules so I could be a mom. The fact that I fucked up by doing so is fucked up.

I'm not entirely without hope. This morning I looked into FAFSA to see if I qualify for student aid. I figure if I don't have the qualifications now maybe I will with another degree. A nursing degree. I have to retake about 20 credits of Anatomy and Physiology, but at least I would be working towards something rather than sitting on the edge watching it all go by.

Monday, September 15, 2014


I used to write because it felt good. Sometimes it felt cathartic. Other times it was just a mess of fun sass. But then life got all real and in my face. My kids got older. One is now an adult and the other will graduate from high school this year. There is a wealth of writing material to be expressed about both of them, but somehow right now it seems wrong to dump their tidbits on the screen and put it somewhere out there for other people to read.Then there is the little one, just ten. Lots there too. But I've said so much about him and think so much more.

After the kids there is Matt and our relationship. So many words there. But again, can't go there right now.

I could keep a diary, but I'm too lazy to  pick up a pen. 

So that leaves me. I'm going to write about me for awhile.  I'm down and tired. The weight of all the words I've not written rattling about in my head in lost conversations. But don't get me wrong, there are no voices, just words and expressions. Voices, as my therapist and I have discussed are indicative of certain situations. What I have is words and noise. HUGE difference there. Huge.

What I am is stifled by mid-life. By the kids' needs overwriting my own. Of the details outweighing the visions. I've tried medications and have stopped them because the side effects aren't worth the quiet. I run. I yoga. I try to meditate, but that noise.... The Grinch new it well when he said, "Oh, the noise. The noise, noise, noise."

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Finding peace at mile number two

I'm no runner. I want to be a runner and I often fancy myself as a lithe, trail running beast. But the truth is that I'm just not. Many things account for this fact. One: running requires a sharp mindset of determination and never-give-upedness. Me? I like to feel good and not hurt so much. Two: running is a daily activity that builds on the previous day. Due to reason number one I'm prone to skipping days and deluding myself that I run more than I do. Three: anything with the size GG should probably not be hurled through space with any sort of velocity. So true and sad, but this is likely the biggest reason, no pun intended, running is not my forte. However, harking back to the delusional thing, I don't let any of that stop me. I continue to run and often fantasize about the day I'll commit to and finish a half marathon.

This winter was a brutal one in our home, filled with sicknesses ranging from flu to pneumonia. I was lucky enough to catch them all. Needless to say I spent the cold months in varying states of stillness while warding off bugs of all kinds. This of course took a toll on my stellar running career and I have just very recently gotten back into the groove. The process has been grueling and one would question my sanity in wanting to endure the effort. But I do and I love it. Today for the first time since the two weeks I've been at this I found that mind blowing peace that only comes from running. It was at mile number two, out of only 2.75, and it was so profound that I ended up on a wrong trail and in somebody's private driveway. It was the sort of feeling that negated the panic, the noise, the doubts and fears of my daily existence. It was truly beautiful and I feel so lucky to have found it for those few minutes.

That is why I continue this madness of running. It is why I strap the GG's into the hardiest sports bra I can find. It's why I'll endure two weeks of huffing up my guts. That peace means goodness and that goodness gives me hope.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Looking in

Sometimes things are functional until they really aren't. Sometimes the decline to nonfunctional is slow, imperceptible. Other times the abruptness is such that it creates whiplash and leaves the cervical vertebrae splintered.

If you aren't prone to anxiety or other mental illnesses, the previous sentences might not mean much. But if you've experienced the feeling of being in a different plane and looking in on the living while for some reason not being able to get there, then you totally get it. And for that I'm sorry. I also get it and wish I didn't have to be part of this tribe. But a card holding member I am and so it goes. Or sometimes it doesn't go. Which is my point.

This year hasn't been much of a go for me. It feels as though I've spent more time curled up in knots, trying to scrape the nails from the ends of my fingertips than being productive in any manner. It's been a slow decline and I can't exactly pinpoint where or when it began. However, the origins don't particularly matter when daily inertia is near to impossible. What I do know is that sometimes it's just fine to lean on Big Pharma for a hug. It's not the ultimate solution but it is a Band-Aid and that's good enough for today.