Thursday, December 28, 2006

An open letter....

Dear, Sweet, Precious Boy,

The other night I was coming upstairs to bed at an unseemly late hour and as I was walking by your bedroom door I noticed you standing there. I'm pretty sure you were sleepwalking as I said your name and got no response. A few moments later, you beelined into my bedroom, without a word, and climbed the ladder into my bed. Being that it was already two in the morning, and I thought you were sleepwalking, and I was feeling kind of lazy, I just left you there and climbed in beside you.

It was quite possibly the worst mistake I've ever made in my life, and let me tell you, Boy, that I have made zillions and zillions of terrible mistakes in my life. And no, that doesn't count the perm I got in the eighth grade.

Years and years ago, Precious Boy, my mom and I took you to an Easter church service. Back in the day we were religious folk, and on Easter weekend we had four separate church services to go to on all four days of the holiday from school.

You were but a few months old and we were in my favorite church with my favorite pastor, one who swayed and prayed and and sang his heart out unto the Lord with fervor. His services were always beautiful.

At the beginning of the service, you were sleeping. When you awoke, you seemed like you might start to cry and so I took you to the back of the church and I held you and rocked you and your beautiful self fell asleep in my arms. The church was candle lit and all the stained glass windows were aglow. The congregation was singing, led by the pastor, and for some reason the music at that service was particularly moving.

I went back to our pew once I was sure you were asleep, but I wasn't ready to put you down in your car seat. Instead, I held you for the rest of the nighttime service and looked down at your angelic, sleeping face.

It was that night, with such a lovely baby in my arms, surrounded by music and love, my family, the congregation, that I truly felt God's presence in my life. My whole heart filled with joy and wonder, and my entire being felt light with the possibilities that awaited me in this world. It was an entirely holy experience and I'm not sure if it had to do with you, or me, or God, but either way, it was a way that I'd like to feel again and again and again.

So, the other night, you were sleeping and I was barely making off with my life under the constant attack from your kicks, punches, moans, and tooth grinding. I thought for sure that come morning, you would be wonderfully rested and I would have two black eyes and a broken rib. Maybe even two or three broken ribs.

My room was moonlit at that point and I could hardly make out your thrashing figure. I was deciding if I should carry you back to your bed or if I should give up on sleep and go to your bed, when you rolled to face me.

In the moments that followed, I have to say that I felt as though I were in a prayer. It was was prayer of thanks and joy and everything that a prayer to God should be.

As you rolled over to face me, your arms flying through the air like missiles, I purposely didn't get out of the way. And I'm not sure how, but your right hand ended up on my right cheek and your left hand ended up on my left cheek and we lay there in silence with your fingertips touching my cheekbones, facing each other. I could make out your sweet, angelic face on the comfort of my flannel pillow case and for those moments, I would trade anything in this world to experience them again and again and again. We were wrapped up in the warmth and comfort of sheets washed in Downy, and your fingers were not sticky or sweaty or clammy. They were perfect against my face, long and grown but still with a layer of baby fat on them that makes them even more precious to me.

I wished at that moment that I was the type who brought her camera to bed with her, because I would have loved to get a snapshot of you sleeping perfectly, your breath low and even, beside me.

I thought for a few seconds about all the terror and horror that goes on in this world. It is the terror and horror that makes me think that I should only really pray about the most important things, because God has so much on His plate right now that He really shouldn't be concerned about the mild desires of an aspiring fruit farmer.

But for those few moments, those very precious moments in my life, I hoped that God was looking down on CowTown at that second, so that He could see us, Aunty with a Y and her nephew, warm and cozy and safe. Wrapped up in a prayer, feeling joy and hope and wonder. Joyful, hopeful, and wonderful are ways I haven't felt in a fairly long time.

It's moments like these that I'm sure that God has a camera with Him everywhere He is, and its moments like these that make me want to be a particularly good person, so that one day I may get to Heaven, and God will share with me these snapshots of perfection and wonder, so that I can look back on my life and know that even if it is pretty rough now and then, waves of perfection and wonder will still come through and make everything ok.

All my love,

Aunty Toonses

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

A Berry Merry Christmas....

Another Christmas has come and gone, and a good one it was. We did our usual Danish Christmas on the 24th, with some yummy goose, red cabbage, carmelized potatoes, and all the trimmings. Of course no Danish Christmas is complete without rice pudding, and we had a very yummy dessert.

Gift opening was a blast, as per usual. The Precious Boy is thrilled with his pet snake, which he originally named Anaconda, but has now switched her name to Hog Nose. I had a lovely chat with the Berry Queen on the 25th after her tumultuous thirty hour car ride with five children and the Berry King. She says that being the snake is a girl and all, perhaps The Precious Boy shouldn't name her after her worst feature. I, however, think the Hog Nose is cute on a snake.

From my parents I received some jammies, some hunting gloves, some cool pens, and a new planner, as well as the sixth season of RoseAnne. Oh, how I love thee, RoseAnne.

Big Brother got me a Metallica T-shirt, A hunting turtle neck, and my all time favorite book: The Berry Grower's Companion. It's full of diagrams and all kinds of big words about soil density and stuff I don't know enough about yet, and I can't wait to sink myself into it and learn about my future.

My crazy uncle came through as usual with a host of new reading material for the new year, which is always nice to have on hand. As far as book buyers go, I'd have to say he's the best around and he always picks out books that I end up enjoying. He buys them in hard cover too, which I like the feel of. I'm going to have to put up some more bookshelves when I move back to the Ranch for good, though, because my book collection is getting out of control.

Today is the first day of real snow. It's thick, sticky, and looks wonderful. I offered to take the Precious Boy out to make a snow fort, but he poo-pooed that idea, replacing it with the idea of a snow Castle with a canon. My artistic skills are somewhat lacking, but perhaps we can start the foundation and then the ever artful Big Brother can come home and save me from my pathetic design skills.

And now I must go, feed the Precious Boy, and await my family's return from their day of activities. I think I might even get out of my new jammies for a big today, but only because I don't htink it's wise to go snow castle building in pajamas.


Wednesday, December 20, 2006

A Happy Topic....

And one that indicates that I am the BIGGEST LOSER IN THE FREE WORLD. And I love me. Even though I'm a big loser.

What makes me a big loser?

Wanting to jump for joy in the toy aisle of Wal Mart over finding something that says clearly on the package it is made for those in the six to ten year old age range.

I know I have a six year old nephew.

But the toy was not for him.

After my mother (And every other sane person I know) flatly refused to buy me a Giga Pet for Christmas on the basis that THEY ARE TOYS MADE FOR SIX YEAR OLDS, I found one at Wal Mart and decided that I want one, Dammit, and come Hell or High water, I'm buying one.

I think it was the best fourteen dollars I've ever spent in my life.

Good Night,


Tuesday, December 19, 2006


Here I am. I'm doing well. I have one more exam to go.

The drug that the city doctor gave me is slowly working its way out of my system. I've been feeling the effects of that the last few days, but thankfully Dr. Chuck gave me some other medicines to counteract the effects of the drug leaving my system.

My best friend says I should sue. My Dad tends to feel the same way. Essentially, this doctor gave me a very powerful drug, at very high doses, and did no follow up care. I had every possible bad side effect from this drug, along with the fact that it was not helping my anxiety and depression at all.

I am angry. I am angry that it had to come to this, because it didn't have to come to this. When Dr. Chuck prescribes a new medication, he's on the ball, scheduling two appointments per week to make sure my progress is good.

It could be a matter of him having more time on his hands, being from the country and all. It could be that he's developed a relationship with myself and my family since I was seven, and so he cares that much more.

At the same time, with regards to my city doctor, I feel that I'm a grown up girl. I should have noticed weeks and weeks ago that this drug was not working. I hsould have taken control of my own health. But I kept telling myself, this is a DOCTOR we're talking about! Surely she knows what she's doing?

I guess the moral of the story is to listen to that little voice inside your head, or that aching deep inside your belly when you know that something isn't right.

I believe it was about this time last year that I was screaming and carrying on about the water in Hell that had turned my hair orange.

Well, now this Satanic Drug From Hell has wreaked havoc on my newly naturally colored hair: It's made my hair fall out. My roommate has been bemoaning the amount of hair in the shower drain since I started on this drug. My mother noticed it last night and I had her run her fingers through my hair. It is noticeably thinner. My ponytail is noticeably smaller. My Mom inspected my head for bald spots last night, and there are none, which means that the hair is falling out equally throughout my head.

However, regardless of the pattern of falling out, I'd really prefer that my hair stay firmly where the Good Lord planted it.

Regardless, this is just one more reality of the healing process that I've begun. Hopefully my tresses will be full and natural again at some point in the near future.

Off to study for my final final...


Thursday, December 14, 2006

I put on pants this week....

After weeks of existing in jogging pants, tank tops, and men's boxer shorts, I put on a complete outfit of actual clothing on Monday morning. Getting the bra done up after all this time of not doing up bras took away so much of my energy that I had to stop and cry for a minute before I left the house. By the time my Mom and I had driven to the Tim Horton's about fifteen minutes away, I thought my head was going to either explode or roll right off my shoulders and get stuck under the clutch. HOW IN HELL WOULD YOU GEAR DOWN WITH A HUMAN HEAD STUCK BENEATH YOUR CLUTCH? I have no idea. Fortuanately, my head remained firmly attached to the rest of my body and I made it through my first two exams.

I finally got to see my dear, sweet, wonderful Doctor Chuck this week. I have anxiety just thinking about what I'm going to do when he retires. He's been my doctor since I was seven. He takes all the time in the world with me. He sits in front of me, attentively, occasionally with a comforting hand on my knee if it gets too hard to talk.

He wants the antidepressant that my City Doctor prescribed OUT of my system and by OUT he means GET THE HELL OUT, YOU SATANIC DRUG FROM HELL. Thankfully, hospitalization is not required. I'm going to get better. It's going to be a long, shaky, and nauseous road while this drug gets out, but it's going to get out.

I was sitting at the computer after my visit with Doctor Chuck, and after my mom had found a proper receptacle for the mass quantities of drugs that I'm taking to help me get this drug out. I was sitting at the computer table and my mom came and put an arm around my shoulder. And I leaned on her, in much the same way I've been leaning on so many people lately, and for a brief moment, I felt ok. I'm by no means better. Better, for me, is weeks and weeks away.

But I've made it through several days now, one of them even wearing real clothes. I'm going to up the ante tomorrow and see if I can scrounge up the strength to apply some underarm deodorant before I resume my wardrobe of boxers and jogging gear.

Baby steps. It's all about the baby steps.


Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Lumps of coal for those who don't behave....

I have recently been training Copernicus to like me. By training, I mean that I have been bribing her to let me pet her while forcing her to eat treats out of my hand.

The other day I happened across a Christmas package of her favorite treats. A GIFT PACK for my kitty!!

SuperNan stopped me. Eight dollars on a cat who won't come near you! She said.

What she doesn't understand is that maybe, just maybe, if I bought the eight dollars worth of treats, the cat might start liking me!

At any rate, Dixie is thrilled to have me home and is willing to cuddle and nap the days away with me.

Nothing like being woken up by doggie kisses.


Saturday, December 09, 2006

Overwhelmed by life, Part III

Blogging is hard sometimes, because you never know what you should write about where the world can read it, and what you should keep private.

The last few months for me have been some of the worst months of my life. These months have been bleak, scary, and sometimes downright terrifying.

I have a few people to thank for helping me make it through. I'm not out of the forrest yet, I don't think. But I've been handed a compass, and with the right help from the right people, I'll be able to make it out.

I don't think words can describe how lucky I am to have my roommate. She put up with my in my darkest hours. She pestered me to see if everything was ok when she knew it wasn't. Thursday I needed someone and she was there. She dressed me, took my hand, and led me where I needed to go. She held me while I cried, stood by me when I thought that no one in this world would. She left her exam studying behind, and put me as her first priority. Dear, sweet, wonderful rommate: I may very well owe you my life.

Joomy and Dave, you stayed up with me late into the night, many, many times. If it weren't for Joomy's blog, I'd have no idea what is going on in her life because every time we've talked on the phone or online, we've only been talking about me. Dave, I think you should start up a blog for the mere purpose of filling me in on what's been going on in your life lately, so I can catch up, because you, too, have listened to only me when I needed to blather incessantly.

My dear and wonderful parents. Once again, you dropped everything and ran to me when I needed you most. I was thinking about a day, twenty two and a half years ago.That day was during a massive heat wave. My mother weighed over a hundred and eighty pounds, went to the hospital, and delivered a ten pound baby girl without and epidural. Sometimes the guilt overwhelms me, not that I weighted ten pounds or that I was born during a heat wave, but it overwhlems me to this day that my parents are there: waiting, waiting, waiting, and then they are there. Catching me when I need it most, wrapping me up in comfy jammies and feeding me my favorite foods. They comfort me, they hug me, they tell me everything is going to be ok. What kind of love is that? That it can go on for all these years, that it can survive all the ridiculous mistakes I've made, that it can perservere even though I'm probably the most difficult person to deal with on this planet?

I'm back at The Ranch now. I apologize in advance because I may not be posting too much or too often. I'm still going to be writing me exams even though I have a note to have them deferred. It's a long story....

At any rate, here I am, with my little compass, in my warmest, most coziest jammies. My dad promised to make me breakfast today. No one in this world makes a breakfast like my dad.


Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Overwhelmed By Life, Part II

Ok, so if you haven't read my last entry, scroll past this one and read it first. I didn't name it Part I because I didn't think I'd have to make two entries about the overwhelmingness of this life in THE SAME FIFTEEN MINUTES.

But thanks to my school? Here I am, blogging away my frustrations. Seriously. These people make me want to impale myself on large pieces of farm machinery WITHOUT protective body gear because I think that would be more fun than dealing with them.

Email: From: My idiot School
Subject: Ajout du cours SOC4517

**Me interjecting here. WHAT THE FUCK DOES AJOUT MEAN??? **


Veuillez noter l'ajout du cours SOC4517 à la session d'hiver 2007.
Description Élaboration et réalisation d'une recherche fondée sur les méthodes quantitatives. Élaboration de la problématique, collecte et analyse de données, rédaction d'un rapport final de recherche. Apprentissage de la construction de questionnaires et d'autres outils de recherche quantitatifs. Traitement informatique et analyse des données. Préalable : SOC3542. (Antérieurement : SOC3541)
SOC4517 A (Jan 4 - Avr 11)
LEC 1: Lundi 11;30 - 13;00
LEC 2: Jeudi 13;00 - 14;30
Vous pouvez apporter des changements à votre horaire jusqu'au 17 janvier 2007.


And I'm sure that by Merci, they mean: With love from the dumb FuckWits who run your school.

So, I sent them this email back because I feared that my brains were about to spew out my ears onto myroommate's lovely leather couch and really? I have no idea how I would clean my own brain matter off my roommate's lovely leather couch.

TO: The dumb FuckWits who run my School
Subject: Re: Ajout du cours SOC4517


I'm an English speaking student. What does this email say and why is it in French? Does it pertain to my program of study, or was it sent to me by mistake?

Thank you.

And actually, by Thank You, I meant I hope you Donkey Ball Sucking AssHoles Rot For All Eternity Where Institutions Insist on Sending You Correspondence In Languages You Don't Understand.

So, they sent me this witty number back:

From: Donkey Ball Sucking AssHoles Who Will Rot For All Eternity Where Institutions Will Insist on Sending them Correspondence in Languages They Don't Understand
Subject:Re: Ajout du cours SOC4517


This email is french because the course added to the winter timetable is given in french.

Thank you,

Have a nice day.

By Have a nice day, they actually meant: I Like Sucking Donkey Balls, Especially When Said Balls are Attached to Donkeys that Speak Languages I Don't Understand.

NOW do you people see why I hate my school? I get things like this ALL the time. And I know, I know, I'm kind of prone to being hysterical ALL the time. But when I first saw this first email, my head almost rolled off my shoulders. I was thinking, is this some mandatory class that I have to take or I won't graduate?

Because this school has done things to me in the past like say "By the way, you're not getting a degree at the end of this because we fucked your shit up." And it took mighty amounts of screaming, crying, hollering, my mom trying to fix things, and I believe there was me laying on the floor of Hell with a five pound bag of peanut M & Ms involved there, too. And about sixteen bottles of beer. (Cow sedatives hadn't yet entered my life.)

And they are SO RUDE to me. All I want to do is finish this damn thing that I started. All I want to do is go to my classes, and have my questions answered. I DO MY DAMNDEST to keep myself under control. I am POLITE AS ALL FUCKING HELL every time I go to deal with these people. It's like a peace offering. Like: Here, I'll wear makeup and look good and smile meekly and be real pleasant if you all just TRY to speak English to me.

But, no.

I imagine I'll print out a copy of the email and ask one of my French reading co-workers what it means. I'm not sure if it means that this is some French Class I have to take in order to graduate, or if the email was sent to me by accident.

At any rate, there's no Jack Daniels handy and I am really, really regretting the decision to not have a sixty ouncer on hand at all times for the rest of this schoo year.(Oh, Mom, I'm kidding.....)


Overwhelmed By Life...

I talked to my mom today. A lady from the drug store named Judy called.

And it wasn't even the drug store that gave me the cow sedatives from the nineteen eighties. It was my family drugstore, where the friendly and pleasant and English speaking Dr. B greets me every time I go in, to ask about my grandparents and to ask me how school is going, and how I've been feeling lately, and did I know that So And So from my grade six class is back in town? Well, he thought that she and I were great friends back in the day and we should look each other up.

Little does he know how most people actually feel about sociology students who aspire to be fruit farmers -- regardless, his kindness and understandability is overwhelmingly comforting. There's nothing quite like being asked about cow sedatives in a language you don't understand, by someone you don't know, in a pharmacy that keeps the condoms directly beside where the non-condom buying people have to stand to pay for their cow sedatives and other happy pills.

The pharmacy called to ask about some billing information. My mom gave me a phone number and I immediately said "Ok, Mom, thanks" and made plans to call them the first second I saw a sedated cow with teased hair and a polka-dot cut-off sweater flying by my sixth story bedroom window. I simply don't call people who call my mother saying scary things like "Billing information".

My mom caught on and said "You know, you have to call them. They will be your pharmacy for the rest of your life." And that they will. Because once I get back to the comforts of the country I am never, never leaving them.

It was at this point in our conversation that I burst into a hysterical tirade on paying an institution thousands of dollars that I don't even have for services that they NEVER give. Like sand? On the sidewalks? WALKING TO CLASS SHOULDN'T BE A SAFETY CONCERN. Another thing I pay for is health insurance. I have to say that of all the many, many times I've needed drugs since being in this city, I have actually gotten to use my health benefits without some major hassle ABOUT three times. Maybe only two. But every time I leave the drug store, I'm in such a blinding fit of hysteria over the assholes who run my school that I am reduced to making incoherent syllables and my head turns that funny plum color, and all that leaves the number of times my insurance has worked hard to count.

Well, anyhow, so my mom wants me to return this call to the drugstore at home, and I'm thinking, can't I just send them a check for five hundred dollars with a caveat that states upon cashing it they may never contact me about anything ever again? Because the mere thought of having to go through something, and find a receipt for something, or give information about something, makes me want to jump off the wagon ride that is this insanity. There is only so much a person can take.

And so my mother was talking to me and I was talking to my mother, and I asked her "So, if this gets nasty, can I tell her that my insurance company blows rocks?"

And my mother says: "Of course"

And I said: "What if I need to tell them that my insurance company sucks donkey balls, can I tell them that?"

And my mother says: "You should do what you feel you need to do, just make sure to call them."

And so tomorrow? When my mom goes to the grocery store and hears Judy telling the whole town about this girl who called the pharmacy, and how she burst into a hysterical conniption fit on the phone and started screeching incoherent syllables pertaining to donkey balls?

At least my mom will know that the girl that Judy is talking about had permission from her mother.


Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Ok, but seriously....

I feel guilty for the amount of joy in my heart right now.

I seriously do not feel that this much joy should be encompassing me unless I'm being involved in an experience that is exclusively a religious one.

But every time I look at my new Airwalk-laden feet, I feel joy.

We're talking serious, serious amounts of joy.

These shoes are so damn comfy! And so damn cute! I used to wear this brand of shoe when I was thirteen and fourteen. They were all the rage at the time. And now I'm wondering why, for the last several years, I've been wearing running shoes at all.

I don't run. I may hasten my pace if someone says "Hey! Let's go to McDonald's!" I will definitely speed up if someone says "Let's go grab a beer!" Occasionally I make a mad dash to the couch if I'm late to make the first few minutes of Survivor. And sometimes I trot across the street when the little flashy hand tells me to stop crossing.

But run? Nevah. So why have I been paying for the expense of running shoes for the last few years?

These shoes also have incredibly sticky soles. I was crossing an ice patch on campus yesterday after my sex class (The ice patches on campus drive me to the brink of insanity, considering that I'm paying them thousands of dollars each year, and salt costs, like, pennies... but that's another rant) and I wasn't in danger of falling! And for me? I fall everywhere I go. I fly through the air and land in slushy puddles of mud and ice like it's my job. But on the ice patch? I was planted on firm ground.

Nothing makes me happier than being planted on firm ground, let me tell you.


Monday, December 04, 2006

My Christmas Wish List....

In honor of December, I've decided to copy Joomy once more and put up my Christmas wish list. I'll try to keep it short and sweet, nothing like the lists of over a hundred items that would adorn my mother's fridge in my younger years.

1) Socks. I love socks. I especially ly plain white sport socks from Wal-Mart.

2) Nano pet or Tamagotchi Pet. Yes, I'm reverting to my old twelve year old behavior. I never had a cool name brand one when I was little. As a result, I want one now. Babies, Puppies, Kitties are all acceptable.

3) Hair barrettes. Because a girl with hair like mine can never have too many hair barettes.

4) Some cool pens for my last semester of university. Blue or black ink, with a cool body surrounding this ink.

5) A journal type thingy. One with a nice, hard cover and preferably sections for different things, but with plain, lined pages. I can write in it with my cool pen.

And there you have it. My entire Christmas wish list, in no particular order. Things that will make my heart smile, keep my feet cozy, my hands busy, and my hair well contained. And what better way to celebrate the Lord'd birth and a new year than with cozy feet, busy hands, contained hair and a smiling heart.


A weekend in pictures....

My weekend started with Sushi and ended with new shoes. I guess it can't really get any better than that, now can it? This is my third attempt at making sushi in my lifetime, and it turns out ok each time. The problem is that I'm not very good at rolling it, and as a result, they look a little bit... decrepid? Either way, they taste yummy.

This is sushi vinegar. Remember how earlier in the weekend I said that Ikea was the devil? Well, I lied because this stuff is the real devil. It smells so horrid that cats the world over can smell it for miles and start howling their howliest howls.

Every time I make this dish, Copernicus goes on top of the cupboards and commences pacing back and forth around my head, howling at the rice vinegar. It smells kind of fish-y, and is very potent, so imagine sticking your head into a plastic bag full of fish guts and vinegar that's been fermenting in the sun for a week or two. That's about what the rice vinegar smells like, only worse.

I went hunting in my room on Saturday, and about an hour and a half after I entered the room, I came out victorious: I found floor. My whole room is now neat and tidy.

Coperni-Kitty was thrilled with my Saturday afternoon conquest, because in the aftermath of the conquest? She was able to find her food dish. Nothing makes a fat, lazy city cat happier than a dish of No Name's finest Finicky Cat Cat Food. It's probably not certified by the catfood certifying food company, but she resigns herself to eat it with the knowledge that I picked it out for the yellow sale tag on it more than for it's nutritional value.

And finally, the moment we've all been waiting for: SuperNan and SuperDad finally made it to the big city, whereupon they were greeted by their sub-a-licious daughter and forced to take her shopping. It was at this point that they purchased me shoes and lunch! Airwalks! I haven't had a pair of Airwalks since I was thirteen and in a wanna-be skater phase. At any rate, these are incredibly comfy and casual shoes that match my new jogging pants just perfectly. Many thanks, Mom and Dad!!


Saturday, December 02, 2006

In which my heart soars.....

I got to talk to Big Brother online today. It was so exciting to see his name pop up on my screen. I had to look twice because I was like, I have a contact with the same name as my brother?

But it was actually him.

He's doing fine. He is working hand in hand with the Americans over there, and he says they are pretty nice. The Americans do them favors sometimes, like fly them places. He's out of the hot spot right this moment, taking some R & R at Kandahar Air Field. They've started timing the amount of time they take on the computers, and he doesn't need any books or snacks.

Mail seems to be a little slow as he's only gotten two of my letters. I suppose this means that I will have to stop sending them at least a month before he leaves so that a bunch of letters don't get sent all the way to Afghanistan with no one to recieve them.

He hasn't yet received the pictures from deer season. When he saw my picture online he said "Is that you drinking from MY glass?" And I said yes, I was, and that was right before I went hunting with YOUR gun!

At which point he said: Did I leave the key for the trigger lock?

Ahem. I sent him a cute smiley face and ommitted some parts of the truth. He's on the other side of the world: What's he gonna do, come to my appartment and noogie me to death?

At any rate, I had a lovely twenty minute conversation with my brother, and now I feel uplifted and happy, just in time to start in on my Sociology of work project.


Five a.m. Blogging....

Im sitting here are five a.m. waiting for it to be an acceptable time to call my boss and tell him my exam schedule. I walked by my work four times today, but never managed to stumble in from the cold and let them know that there are a bunch of days I can't work because I have a ridiculous number of term papers and finals to write.

I've been having problems doing even the most basic tasks lately, and it's getting hard. So, I'm chain smoking and reading Dooce archives at five a.m.

Dooce writes so eloquently and I'm reading the archives where she spirals into depression, and it all sounds so familiar.

I've been having a rough time of late, and I'm trying my damndest to keep it under control.

All my life I've been fairly comfortable with my diagnosis as Obsessive Compulsive. But lately I've been questioning that because I've been less prone to chew, scrub, arrange, and count things and more likely to sit, stare, and listen to Hank Williams.

Some days there are tasks that are just so huge that I can't contemplate even beginning them, such as going to the grocery store or my work (Both of which I walk by several times per day) to get change to do my laundry with.

I've been trying to put on a happy face. I've been trying to remain focussed on my goals for the future, on moving home, on Christmas and the vacation that my parents are taking me on this year after Christmas.

But at the same time, everything feels kind of bleak. The problem is that guilt follows these feelings I have. I have everything I need to be happy: My roommate is wonderfully understanding and compassionate when I'm feeling down; my family is just plain wonderful; I have a myriad of people I can call at any time to come and comfort me or to just be present. I have a huge support network at my disposal and still: I feel bleak.

I've also been having massive anxiety as of late. Where I can't do anything but sit on my couch and listen to bad country music while simultaneously daydreaming about nothing at all.

I think that one of the hardest things about my anxiety and emotional issues is that people feel that these issues are their fault. They feel like they should help, or do something, or for the love of God, something. I know that it's hard for my family to deal with having a crazy person as a member. I think this is a downfall of having a family that loves you this much, because I worry about them worrying. And then it turns into a vicious cycle of worry.

I've been contemplating a course of action for weeks now. I don't know what this course of action will be. I want to go to my city doctor again and say: Look here, Honey. This shit is not working and I still feel like ass. Truth be told, I'd kind of like to slap her, because she's not that interested in talking about any of my feelings, or following up on things that I've told her in weeks past. She just ups the number of milligrams of my new, pretty green and yellow pills and sends me on my way with a script for something that my mother used to sedate cattle with in the eighties.

I think the first step is recognition, though. I think that if I give this thing, this whatever-it-is the recognition that it deserves and clearly needs, I'll be on my way.

And while I'm at it, I think I'll be on my way to book another appointment with another doctor somewhere in this world: Hopefully one who says things like "Hi, how are you feeling this week?" Rather than "Did you up your Drug X this week? By how much?" as a greeting.

Baby steps. It's all about the baby steps.

And, as always? I'll be just fine. Because I'm me, and as a result of being me, there is no other option than to be just fine in the end. I always am.


Friday, December 01, 2006

Mom? You might want to look away....

This week's blog challenge is one I came up with and we'll have to see if any of the other lovely ladies on my blog board are brave enough to do the challenge.

It's a challenge to post pics of your bedroom.

As is.

I love my bedroom. I tend to spend a lot of time in my bedroom, mostly sleeping or sitting and listening to music. It's a chill place to be.

Recently, though, it's become a bit of a safety issue as I haven't had any money for laundry or the ambition to pick anything up for about a month.

This is what my bedroom looks like from the hallway. I haven't moved recently and I am not planning on moving in the near future, yet there is a green bin and a garbage bag full of curtains when you first walk in. My media centre (That's what I call the dresser with the thirteen inch television and the printer from 1999 on it) is a little disheveled, and there are cords running everywhere, threatening to take over the room.

This is the view from inside the door. Notice Coperni-Kitty, who has resigned herself to sleeping on the edge of my bed. Notice that she's as far away from my potential sleeping space as is humanly possible: She'll sleep with me if she has no other options, but she makes it clear that she is not here of her own free will. You'll also note the hundred and five year old bed with my duvet on it. The bed: Incredibly sucky and neck-crick inducing. The duvet: Rocks my world.

This is the view from my vantage point on the hundred and five year old bed. You can see the closet, which has no door, exposing all of my clothes to the world, and of course, Coperni-Kitty looking pissed off as usual.

This is the shelf that hangs over my bed, on the naked wall. My dad gave it to me back when I lived in Hell. I finally managed, with the help of my roomie, to get it put up in October. I keep pictures of all that is precious to me up here. As well, I boast my approval of living in a culture where it is acceptable to decorate with giant beer cans.

This is my Ikea bookshelf. Ikea is the devil, and this book shelf is incredibly unstable. On it you can see my prized glass geese that my Grandad gave me, my bubble gum machine that my nephew asks about daily, and my Americana lamp that SuperNan gave me. Oh, and you can see another beer can. This one's not a decoration. It's just there because I'm kinda lazy.

And now for the piece de resistance. Elvis. No bedroom is complete without a wall hanging of Elvis. I hung him myself above the hundred and five year old bed. The problem is that I used a drill bit that was waaaay too big in the cement wall. So, there is a screw connecting Elvis to the wall: it's just placed in the giant hole and by some miracle of gravity, or sonic forces, or something, Elvis stays there. I'm always scared he's going to impale my head with one of his sharp corners one of these nights, but so far, so good.

And so, there you have it. My bedroom. The place where all my dreaming happens. The place where all my junk is stored. The place where my mother will someday walk into, shake her head, and mutter "My God. The child wasn't raised like this and I don't know why she lives like this. My God." (It's actually true. My mother is a neat freak. She could never live like this. And, when I move home in April? I'm not allowed to bring any of this stuff with me or leave any junk on the floor. Times, they are a-changin', and hopefully these are changes I can make in the interest of family peace. And in the interest of not losing small children in my bedroom.)