memories don't always haunt

yesterday was supposed to be steak and crown royal day but whatever asshole is in charge of the budget around my house cut corners a little too close this paycheck and so instead it was meatloaf day. (oh, that's me. oops).

steak and crown day is a celebration i (try) to do every year to mark my dad's birthday. he used to come to town every year and take me out for my birthday, so now i like to drink and devour to honor his birthday. it will happen this weekend for sure...i'm sure he won't mind a few days difference as long as i double the crown consumption. happy 61st birthday dad. maybe i'll have a cigar too...

life is all about balance after all.

so. meatloaf day means left over meatloaf lunch the next day.

i warmed up said lunch at work today and one of the guys asked how i make it and the biggest key to my meatloaf (which is really nothing fancy) is using my grandmother's meatloaf pan. it was passed on to me after she died and i've never seen another like it and it will stay in my cupboards until someone has to pry it out of my dead hands. well, i probably won't die HOLDING IT. but you know...maybe. (it's really simple- basically two bread pans stacked on each other with holes drilled in one so the grease drips out.)

but actually thinking about the meatloaf pan made me try to remember how long ago she passed away. I don't remember how long ago, and i don't remember how, but i DO KNOW she was around long enough to see my youngest kiddo born. so...less than 13 years ago.

HERE'S HOW I KNOW.

my second birth was not great. i was induced TWICE for 48 hours. the first time they sent me home to wait another week, the second ended in an emergency c-section, a near death experience, and a whole lot of crazy. the WHOLE TIME i was in the hospital, i was being yelled at by my ex-husband for taking to long. i mean, HE TOOK TIME OFF WORK FOR THIS. now the ex part makes even more sense i'm sure.

the other person who stuck it out the most at the hospital with me was my grandma. she stayed in my room with me, helped buffer the mood, and was pretty mellow overall. at one point she noticed i didn't have any nursing bras and so she decided that would be her baby gift.

the conversation went something like this:

gma: "what size nursing bra will you need?"

me: "i'm not sure. it's definitely different than last time, i really don't know."

gma: "well, you look like you're about as big as me, so i'll get you a DD."

at this point i'm pretty sure i blushed and looked anywhere but at my grandma because for the first time in my life i suddenly realized: HOLY SHIT, GRANDMA IS STACKED. which is an awkward realization at best. ESPECIALLY when you consider i was getting ready to run a full production milk farm and she was just that way ALL THE TIME.

memories like that don't haunt you. memories like that, as weird and awkward as they are make me laugh. those are the good ones. remembering my dad calling me on st. patrick's day telling me he hasn't had enough to drink because he's still not peeing green. remembering my brother calling me on my birthday like he was ordering tacos.

remembering the things that make me smile instead of crawl in a corner and cry for the rest of the day.

not all memories haunt you. plenty do, but not all.

the one with a sense of humor

i was planning on making today’s blog post about anger- i seem to have PLENTY of that right about now. anger at everything- “friends”, family, kids, life, money, the universe. PLENTY of anger to go around. trust.

instead today’s blog is going to be about humor- cause that’s how i roll. i just tweeted (if you don’t know what that is, i can’t love you any more) the following: “trust: there’s nothing in this world that can’t be overcome with a smile and a slightly off color joke. trick is knowing how to do both.”

it’s true. humor has gotten me through this far. being able to find SOMETHING to laugh at, being able to find a smile, being able to do both. but it’s hard. it’s REALLY fucking hard. i don’t want to smile some days. i don’t want to make a joke. i don’t want to be happy even for a moment. and there’s been plenty of days that i haven’t been. there have been days of nothing but fear or anger or hurt or a million other things. but the days with the smiles and the jokes- THOSE are the good days. and what good is a smile if you can’t share it? right? or some other cheesy lame ass expression like that…

so. here’s a few of the smiles that have gotten me through the last few weeks, please understand some may end up being not so funny now but they were fucking pee your pants funny in the moment:

moment #1: introducing my mom to my boyfriend the morning she came to tell me about the fire. i answered the door in a wife beater (a-shirt for those against domestic violence) and underwear (incase you missed that in yesterday’s post). THAT’S IT. and i had to wake up boyfriend while crying and snuffling and being a MESS and introduce him to my mom for the first time IN MY UNDERWEARS. the uuber religious crazy person from whence i sprang meeting the boy sharing my bed outside of marriage. good moment. warm, fuzzy, family memory for the scrap books.

moment #2: after getting back from my seeing my dad’s house for the first time, boyfriend’s roommates girlfriend (did you follow that trail?) and i were making dinner and drinking. we may or may not have split a WHOLE bottle of wine betwixt the two of us in under 15 minutes. so, the two of us, slightly *cough* intoxicated, trying to cut vegetables for a roast, start talking- and she drops this bomb: “well, if he wasn’t on the international watch list before, he sure is now.” _I_ABOUT_DIED_LAUGHING. understand: boyfriend is here as a political refugee. from iraq. and speaks very good english, but even better arabic. and he went with me to the scene of the worst loss in WSP history…i’m suffering a failure to communicate the humor here…but trust: it was freaking hilarious. maybe it was the wine. everyone go drink a half a bottle of wine then come back and read this again…i’ll wait.

moment #3: finding the ONE, SINGLE, ONLY remaining piece of my dad that is completely and 100% in tact at the scene of the fire: his BRAND NEW golf clubs that were safe and secure in the back of his expedition parked in the driveway. why is this funny? my dad was TERRIBLE at golf. my brother (who took the clubs) is even worse. i’m not even allowed to play- i’m restricted to driving the cart. so, of COURSE, the one thing that survives- it couldn’t be a photo album or a treasured keepsake or a family heirloom- it has to be his golf clubs, the one thing we’re all TERRIBLE at. i mean…REALLY DAD? your final dying wish? as your life flashed before your eyes and you were granted one last request on this earth? it couldn’t be for a window to open? or a sudden torrential downpour? or, you know, not to die? your FINAL REQUEST was to save the new golf clubs? i love you dad.

moment #4: in the cars on the way to the procession, riding with a good family friend and her parents who were all best friends of my dad (he called her my other sister and spent all his time with her parents). we’re riding along and we start talking about bi-mart (turn at the bi-mart to get to where the procession is starting). and i crack up…it’s not turn at the church, or a left at the patrol office- it’s turn left at bi-mart. very fitting for my dad. and they start joking about how much they all love the bi-mart coupons. in fact- just the day before, they had been able to get four bags of doritos FREE using bi-mart coupons- and the mom suddenly says: YOU KNOW- we should have brought one of the bags- we could have had some road trip snacks! OH.MY.GOD. about peed myself. road trip snacks? in a funeral procession? of 182 police cars? of course. we should have brought road trip snacks. and what better road trip snack than doritos? because nothing says klassy like showing up for a funeral in a full black suit with orange dorito cheese all over (it always happens) and nice dorito breath for when you have to greet and talk to the governor. oh.my.god. i cracked up. road trip snacks.

moment #5: getting to the staging lot for the procession was hard. seeing all the police, the cars, the emergency response vehicles, all the people that worked with my dad, the people that hadn’t worked with him but still knew the impact of the whole event. it was moving. but i held it together. until we went to actually pull out and leave- they just HAD to release doves for us to drive under. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? there’s only so much waterproof mascara can do people! and i can’t help but think of my dad, and i can’t help but wish, if there’s any justice or sense of balance in the world- i just HOPE upon HOPE that somewhere, in one of the cages, of all the birds they released, PLEASE, PLEASE say there was one retarded dove that either flew into a windshield, “blessed” one of the motorcycle police, wandered around and couldn’t figure out how to fly…SOMETHING. please say there was one retard bird in the batch. i only got to see the first few…but i couldn’t help but laugh in my head just hoping…it wasn’t a moment i got to see, but it’s a moment i got to hope for…

moment #6: my body guard. it wasn’t so much of a moment as a WHOLE DAY with an outstanding officer that knew exactly how to make me laugh and keep me moving forward and got me through the whole ceremony. BLESS HIM for never once calling my by name. i was never trooper miller’s daughter, sherry, ms. miller- the WHOLE DAY i was: “where’s the girl with the blue hair?” ADORE. and i adore him for telling me about his son, the 6’7” 280-some-odd pound college linebacker that played all four years of college ball, graduated, then decided to go to a beauty academy. if i ever decided to cheat on my darling kati with another hair dresser it would be with that guy. because: AWESOME. and i adore him for scolding me when i wasn’t where i was supposed to be. and for reminding us that no matter how much brass or how many fancy titles, or who else showed up, WE, the family, were the dignitaries for the day. and for going against the grain and proudly wearing a flamingo on his uniform pocket for everyone to see for anne. and for keeping track of me the whole day until the moment i walked out the door heading back to the motel. and for just being everything an officer should be. and for being even more than that.

moment #7: talking to the funeral home on the phone to verify the forms granting permission for cremation: me: “ummm…is there really anything left for you guys to do? is this paperwork even really necessary?”

moment #8: speaking of ashes: getting ready to do my tattoo, asking my artist: “ready to meet my dad?” as i pulled the ashes out of my purse.

moment #9: being able, every single day, to still hear my dad’s voice in my head about EVERYTHING.

about the service: really? you couldn’t just dig a hole and kick me in it? what’s all this mess for?”

about the estate: “make sure you take care of yourself. remember, you can’t feed the world.”

about buying a house: “i wish i had a million dollars to buy you a house so you would never have to worry again.” this isn’t the way i want it dad, but you’re doing that.

i know there’s so many more- it’s been three weeks and i’m still standing, so there had to have been WAY more moments- i’ll add more as i remember them. but these are the slightly inappropriate moments that made me smile and have helped me get through to here. so. there you have it. as long as you can smile and tell (or think) something slightly off color you’ll be fine. well, not fine, but a little less of a train wreck. oh hell, you’ll still be a train wreck but at least a mildly entertaining one.

trying to explain depression

so i battle depression. and by battle i mean full on gladiator style battle some days. a dohyo face off with the world’s biggest sumo wrestler. most people kinda get it- they’ve had bad days or been sad about something. some have no clue and like to mock depression as stupid/weak/imaginary. until recently i’ve never really thought of a way to fully explain it. explain what it feels, like, how real it is, anything in a way that makes sense. i think this explains it. for me anyway:
remember when you were a kid and your big brother thought it would be funny to hold you under a huge thick blanket and keep you there as long as he could? yeah…it’s like that. like being trapped under grandma’s giant afghan (and yes, i very specifically picked an afghan) until you screamed uncle. and even then most times my brother still wouldn’t let me up. it’s like that. an afghan: it’s huge and heavy and dark but there are always little places where light pokes through and sometimes you can find an edge to pull back. depression is like that. you’re trapped under this huge, heavy, dark blanket fighting like hell to find an edge or a way to get out but in the mean time every once in a while you can see little spots of light that give you a little hope and let you know that at least you’re not stuck under the blanket AND locked in the trunk of the car AND on the way to be encased in cement (if my brother could have thought of it…he would have).
and i get that depression is so different for everyone. the things they’re dealing with are different. the way they experience it and how much it impacts them is different. but for me, people can’t understand my depression. yes, i’m depressed, i’m stuck under this huge fucking blanket being smothered and fighting like hell to try to get out, but during the fight there’s these spots of light. those are moments of happiness, breaks in the clouds.

just because i’m depressed doesn’t mean i don’t have good moments and just because i have good moments doesn’t mean i’m not depressed.

even in the worst of it i will still try to crack a joke or enjoy a moment or sing along with a song. i still try to put on my happy face (which i suck at by the way). i’m sure everyone knows something is off. i know i’m not fooling anyone, i know i’m not good at hiding shit, and part of me thinks i shouldn’t have to, but at the same time they don’t know how deep it is. but there’s these holes in the afghan…i’m peeking out through those, reminding myself what’s on the outside and what i’m fighting to get back to. little glimpses of light and life. if i do have a few good moments, it doesn’t mean i’m “cured” it just means i had a moment where i saw a little light. i’m still stuck. i’m still trapped under that huge fucking weight with the universe sitting on my chest laughing and not letting me up. but then there’s times when you actually feel like you’re winning the battle…you manage to find an edge and peek out and get a breath and feel like yourself again, but then big brother notices and ducks you back under the blanket for another round and usually packs an extra punch just because. those are the most frustrating. you think you’re clear, you think you’re out…then just as suddenly, you’re not. i don’t know if it ever goes away. when i was a kid my brother would get bored or get in trouble and have to let me out…i’m not sure real depression plays by those rules. in fact, i’m pretty damn sure it doesn’t play by any rules.

and i’ve had doctors and people tell me that there are medications to help. and i’ve tried a few. and i will never try any again. they make the crazy worse (again, just me speaking). they say right on the package it will take MONTHS, yes MONTHS to adjust to them and know if they’re working and then MONTHS to wean yourself off of them if you ever want to stop. umm…no thanks. i still have to function in the mean time. i don’t exactly have a few months away from kids and life to try to adjust to some medication that may or may not work. they also say exercise is the answer- is there anything exercise ISN’T the answer to? fucking retards. i’m sure it works at some point. it gives you something to focus on and i’m sure it helps you feel better physically eventually (although everyone that i know that works out complains about always being sore…sooo…). and i’m sure whatever else goes with it is magical shit on a cloud, but i just can’t get into it. never have. i’m one of those people that has spent THOUSANDS on exercise equipment and videos and trying to get into it- i’ve had the gazelle, the elliptical, the videos, the exercise balls, the yoga mats…i just can’t get into it.

what’s the point of this? what am i really trying to say? i don’t know. i just want to say it’s real. and i’m fighting it. but i get tired. and i get worse. and i get better. it goes around and around. but it’s real. it’s very real. please don’t tell me on the days when i want to give up that i’m just being weak and stupid. please understand that i’ve been battling this for as long as i can remember and i get tired. i get exhausted. please don’t laugh at me or think it’s all fake just because i have a good moment or a good day or a good week. some days i’m stronger than others. some days a kindergartner hopped up on pixie sticks could kick my ass. it’s just been so frustrating listening to people say that my brother was weak and cowardly and gave up or couldn’t deal when he took his own life. i don’t see it that way. i think because i’ve fought the battles he fought. i’m still fucking fighting them. and if anything, his death has scared the fucking shit out of me because if he lost the fight…who’s to say i won’t? and i know it’s a personal choice and it’s a personal decision to continue on or not. but i understand why he chose not. i understand how tired and hurt and broken he felt. and more than once i’ve wanted to make the same choice. and more than once i’ve felt that it was too much and wanted a way out.
i guess i just want people to understand it better. understand me better. that’s all.