my healing process

so. in the middle of everything there’s one thing that keeps coming up, one thing everyone keeps saying, one recurring theme: it will get better, i’ll heal and get back to normal. i’ll move on.

i get it. you know? i know it will happen. i know it’s inevitable. it will get better. i will begin to heal. i will eventually move on. but normal? there is no normal any more. normal is long gone. there will be a NEW normal eventually but there is no normal to go back to. nothing will ever be the same again.

NORMAL was talking to my dad every week. it was him checking about my car, asking how money was, what the boys were up to, when i was going to come see him again. it was listening to him talk about football games or golf or fifty cent taco night at the bar. normal was my dad being upset every time i moved that my house wasn’t good enough. it was grandpa showing up at every birthday or holiday with WAY too many presents- there was no such thing as getting a few things on the wish list- it was EVERYTHING on the wish list. normal was great big grizzly bear hugs and snoring that put old school cartoons to shame. normal was having a dad i could call any time for help or love or laughs. there will never be a normal again.

so what do i go back to? i guess the answer is that you don’t go back to anything- you have to move forward. but it’s fucking hard people. it’s hard to move forward. it’s hard to move. it’s hard to breathe. it’s hard to know that all the things that were so special, the things i took for granted are just gone. they’re memories now. and i’m TERRIFIED that memories will fade with time.

i don’t want to move forward. i don’t want to have a new normal. i don’t want to forget.

i know that eventually i’ll have to. i know that time and life will force me to. but for now i need to hurt. i HAVE to hurt before i can heal. i have to ask my questions. i have to be angry. i have to cry. i have to rage against the universe and curse the unfairness of it all. i have to find time to let myself feel all the different things.

i’ve been told over and over “this is the life” but i say BULLSHIT. BULL. FUCKING. SHIT. this is NOT the life. it is NOT normal to lose your brother and your grandmother and your father and your step mother all in less than a year. YES, loss happens. but holy fuck universe- give me some fucking room to breathe and deal with things. can we space these out a little more? you know...like...NEVER? and yes, i understand how unreasonable that is. i understand life and death and eventually we will lose people. but FUCK. not all at once, you know?

so. the questions really are: HOW DO I HURT? and HOW DO I HEAL? i know that i have to do both. and here’s what i’m attempting (poorly, but attempting):

talking about it: friends and sounding boards and therapy and hell, even perfect strangers are all hearing little bits and pieces of what i’m going through right now. there’s several reasons for this: #1- it validates my feelings. wait...validates isn’t the right word- it makes them real. when you’re forced to put words to things you have to know what you’re saying. you have to be able to call it by name and once you’re able to do that it doesn’t seem so big and scary. it makes me really think about what i’m feeling so i CAN say it. #2- every person you come into contact with is there for a reason and at a specific time. i believe that with every part of my being. every person is there for you to share something with or to share something with you. you never know what you will take away from an interaction, or what you may be able to give them. whose to say that the checker at the store didn’t also recently experience a loss and by my talking about mine it lets them know that they’re not alone in the shit-pile the universe is shoveling out? maybe they can tell me how they’re getting through it or i can tell them how i am. maybe it’s something as simple as making another human connection. maybe it’s an opportunity to learn something new or laugh for a minute or be reminded and one of a million things. TALKING IS GOOD.

writing about it: if talking is good, writing is fan-fucking-tastic. as much as you can talk about something there’s a sense of finality to see it in front of you. writing has always been my core self. it’s what i ALWAYS go back to when shit hits the fan. i have journals from every hard part of my life. it’s my chance to talk to myself and talk to other people without being interrupted or thrown off track or forgetting what i was trying to say. i can organize it, tweak it, work it through until i really know it’s exactly what i want to express. it also gets it out of my head- there’s something about writing for me- i can think about it forever, i can talk about it, but until i put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) it won’t be OUT of my head. once it’s written i can finally put it to rest. i can know i’ve said my peace. i can know that it’s there. it’s a tangible thought. it’s no longer just my own voice in my head, it’s out there- if this makes sense to you, you’re probably also a writer. if it doesn’t make sense- trust, it really helps me.

and i'm finding new ways to write. ways to force myself through it. i'm making myself write on my lunch breaks at work- it makes me get through things and feel it all without being allowed to fall apart. i tried to write at home one evening and just found myself staring at the wall and getting lost in emotions and getting NO writing done. when i write at work i have to focus, i have a time limit, i have to get it out and still be able to function for the rest of the day. i make myself write about the hard things that i know i wouldn't be able to face otherwise. it's been very helpful.

ink: i waited until i was 27 to get my first tattoo. every single one of my designs is something i picked, something that represents a part of me, something that helped me deal with a different part of my life. a tattoo on my foot for my kids. “destiny” on my wrist to remind me every day that there’s a time and a purpose for everying. the flowers growing up my calf to remind me of all the battles i’ve made it through. the vw for my brother. and now my dad’s badge on my shoulder to never forget who he was and what he meant to so many people.

i went in a week or so ago and had this new one done. and it’s my dad. it’s his badge, his badge number, hell, my artist even mixed some of my dad’s ashes into the ink for me. it’s as much of my dad as i can get and keep forever. and there’s something about the pain of getting ink- it puts a REAL pain to the pain in my heart. as i was on the table for this last one i started crying- something NOT ALLOWED on tattoo tables. you know how there’s no crying in baseball? there’s no crying in tattoos too. so there i am on the table, all of 5 minutes into the ink, and i start to cry. IT DIDN’T HURT (which was surprising given the placement). that is to say the INK didn’t hurt. but it hurt to the very core to think of why i was getting the tattoo, what it meant. it made me really face it again- you can’t deny your father is gone when his ashes are being put into your skin. you can’t say he’ll come back one day when you’re holding his burned badge in your hand for the artist to get the design from. you can’t pretend it didn’t happen any longer.

and you know that thing about talking that i mentioned? how each person is there at a certain time for a certain reason? turns out my tattoo artist was law enforcement. he worked as an EMT for years, had been recruited for the WSP, had tested for Kootenai county- all places my family of cops has been. my dad studied to be an emt back in the beginning and was a WSP. my brother started his career in Kootenai county. my artist UNDERSTOOD. he knew what it meant to put this badge on me. he had read the news and followed the story. it meant as much to him to be able to do the ink for me as it did for me to receive the ink. it wasn’t just some random person all...whatever...with the gun. we were able to talk about it through the process. he understood the tears and made an exception to the rule for me on his table crying.

and it really did help me start to heal. going through the pain, working through the meaning, making sure the ink healed right- it’s helping me heal a little more every day. i still tear up when i look at it. i still hurt when i remember why it’s there. i have a hard time explaining it to people without turning into a slobbering crying mess. but each time gets a little easier. i can’t say each day is getting easier yet. just when i think that something comes along to submarine me. but you know...eventually...right? that whole being forced to move forward and find a new normal? it will happen whether i want it to or not, right? so. welcome to my healing.

TMIT: the first and the last

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Steal this button and put it in your post just by copying and pasting the html code in the box below, or just link back to the hub with this link, so your readers can read ALLLLLLL the TMI glory, and I’ll make sure to link to you.***
TMI Thursday
 

ok kids. this is my first and my last TMIT: LiLu, this is all for you darling. i am blushing at the thought of posting this story, but it only seems right that if i'm going to jump on the bandwagon, the LAST bandwagon, i have to do it with guns a-blazing, in the most humiliating way possible. this story has been known to make it's way to light in the company of good friends and after MANY drinks...so i think this is the perfect home for it. that said: let me tell you about kevin:

i met kevin online back in the yahoo chat room days. WHAT? you know you did it too. shush. so. we chatted for a long time (months) but had never met since he lived across the state. and, as a newly divorced young mom with two kids i didn't do much traveling. kevin seemed mostly normal...as normal as someone can seem in chat anyway. he was able to keep up with conversation, crack jokes, catch my jokes...it was fun to have a pretend friend to chat with after the kids were in bed. fast forward a few months, i actually ended up going on a road trip (with my mum) to a town only about 30 minutes from where kevin lived. so he decided to drive up and meet me. my mum and i had adjoining rooms at the motel we were staying at...and...well...let's just say that didn't bother kevin at all. i will warn you: this is horrifying: we ended up gettin dirty on the floor in the bathroom. that's right. a motel bathroom floor. with my mum in the adjoining room (thus the bathroom...it put at least one more door between us). i don't even want to think about it. motel. bathroom. floor. *shudder* oh.my.god.

~sigh~

but that isn't it kids. that wasn't the TMIT post. that was just the back story. yes, it gets worse from there. so. kevin it turns out was fairly normal (thus the actual gettin it on, not just a friendly hi, thanks for driving up). we continued to chat after our little romp and he decided to drive all the way up north to the middle of BFE to visit me a few weeks later. this time in my own house. with my own bed. much better. and he did! and i was flattered. aww...a boy drove across state to see me.

so. you know that moment when a little alarm bell goes off i your head and you start to think: hmm...maybe this is something i'm not ok with?

three words: RED. VELVET. THONG.

and not me kids. NOT. ME. that's right. "somewhat normal" kevin was wearing a red. velvet. thong. not just a boy in a thong (ew). not just a boy in a red thong (ew, ew). a boy in a RED. VELVET. THONG. (vomit). here's another fun fact about kevin: he was a little alternative. now granted, this was back before i had any ink or anything different about me, so you know, pretty much EVERYTHING was shocking. not anymore. sure kevin had ink, which was "so edgy" to me then. kevin also had piercings. well. one anyway. just one. one.oh.god. piercing. i've never seen anything like it again and i REALLY, REALLY hope i never do. you see, kevin had (probably still has...who knows) a "down there" piercing. yes. red. velvet. thong. boy had a down there piercing. and not just a little bar, or a stud, or anything dainty. oh hell no. he went ALL OUT. imagine a circle with the diameter of a silver dollar. now add the gauge of approximately a pencil. now. place that THROUGH THE TIP. yes. through the tip. i don't even know how to describe it more than that: let's just say: if you ever saw the pam anderson/tommy lee video...know the part where he hangs the towel over it? kevin would have had a nice little ring to tuck it through...like a little mustache at the end of a pinocchio nose...OH.MY.OUCH.

and we're still not done yet kids. i warned you i was coming out with guns a-blazing.

so. we have red velvet thong boy. with the optional towel ring. and...alternative tastes. you see. after we bow-chicka-wow-wowed, he was interested in a little more. now...here's me: young, innocent (i honestly was back then...truth) flattered as hell that a guy drove across state for me...i'm pretty much gonna do whatever he asks. and boy did he he ask. you see...he wanted to...umm...visit other continents. like austrailia. like...ones i'd never been to before. EVER. like...ones i wasn't sure i EVER wanted to go to. you know...ummm...THERE. and i'm reasoning it out: well...he DID drive across state for me...so...

(if i had ever watched sex and the city at this point, i SO would have understood charlotte SO much better).

now. here's the thing. when you've never been to austrailia, you don't know what you're supposed to do. you don't know the customs or the rituals. you don't know how to...umm...prepare for your trip. if you're smart you read a tour guide before you go...i had never even planned on going and had never read a tour guide. i trusted that my traveling buddy had been there before and knew what he was doing. looking back...i'm thinking not so much.

so. we have red. velvet. thong. boy. with LARGE *ahem* "ear"ring. with his passport to austrailia and he's ready to go. damn. there's really no delicate way to end this story...so...we will just list the mistakes that i QUICKLY learned:

#1: girl should NEVER EVER EVER be on top. EVER.

#2: there should ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS be plenty of lube and preparation.

#3: there should NEVER. EVER. EVER. EVER. EVER. EVER. be piercings of any type involved.

so. my first "exploration to the other side of the world" lasted all of about 30 second. MUCH pain. MUCH. ~sigh~ MUCH PAIN.

there you have it. the first, the last, the mortifying TMIT. all for you LiLu.

birth control

so. after watching the office last week and with my small spawn having a birthday the other day, i got to thinking about different funny/horrifying birth stories. if you have kids, i'm sure some of your own glorious memories will be stirred. if you don't have kids but want them some day, you may want to wait a few years before reading this post. if you don't have kids and don't want them any time soon, this should serve as pretty much the best birth control available. you're welcome. and because over-sharing is what i do...these are for you:

spawn one: so, i was 17 when my first spawn decided to make an appearance. i had no idea what child birth was supposed to be like. i had no idea what labor would entail. and i will tell you straight up: IT SUCKED. seriously. and not just in an...oh...this hurts kind of way. i mean it SUCKED as in embarrassing/terrifying/scarred for life. well, obviously not for life since i popped out another spawn...but scarring still the same.

so they had to induce my first spawn. turned out the kid had decided to it wasn't so bad having his own private swimming pool and extended his cooking time by two weeks. during july. the hottest part of the year. nice. thanks. still hold that against him. so, as much as they told me. being induced involves shoving seaweed where shouldn't be and waiting for it to so something (which it never did). i checked into the hospital for said seaweed spa treatment at 7 pm, not being allowed to eat dinner before going. so i waited all night...nothing happened. it was fab. nothing like sitting in a hospital bed all night waiting for nothing. so morning comes and i'm STARVING. i'm tired. i'm grumpy. i'm prego. you cant starve a prego for 18 hours. its just mean. i BEG to be allowed breakfast. turns out if you ever need to go into labor just eat some hospital eggs and sausage and a powdered donut. MAGIC. well. in a way. turns out the breakfast didn't like me much and requested to return from whence it came. as i stood up to go return the pity breakfast i felt a kick...or i thought it was a kick...either way it dropped me to my knees. in a puddle. and i crawled from there to the bathroom. that's how my mom found me when she came back to the room. like a deranged slug dragging a slime trail to the bathroom where i was in the process of being sick AND having a contraction AND freaking out about my water breaking all at the same time. great start. it went downhill from there...

same spawn: three hours later: STILL trying to get the dang kid out. since it's taking a while, they (the TEAM of people in the room) decided to try suction. if you're unfamiliar with this...well, it is what it is. SUCKING the kid out. with a vacuum. sounds fun, huh? well, like i said, i was 17. NONE of this made sense to me. i didn't have my contacts in or my glasses on, so i had NO CLUE what the fuck was going on. all i knew was one of the nurses has a hoover in my hoo-ha. i had read up a bit on labor before hand and unfortunately had even made it through the chapters on suction...and the risks: like sucking the brain through the skull. lovely thought (i'm sure that hasn't happened within the last 1000 years...but they put it in the damn book). so there i am...hoovered up...and all of a sudden: SLLLLLUUUURRRRRPPPP _POP_ (yes, it was that disgusting). OH.MY.FUCKING.GOD. what the fuck just happened? (or at the time, since i was young and doe eyed them...gee wally, did something go wrong?) i sat up and SCREAMED at the nurse: "DID YOU JUST RIP THE HEAD OFF MY BABY?!?!?!" turns out not so much...but they tried it again two more times with the same results. each time i freaked the fuck out. i was SURE it was going to suck his brain out or make him a cone head or something. turned out the spawn had a bunch of hair and they couldn't get a good seal. isn't childbirth glamorous? well. another hour, 2 doctors, 4 nurses, 2 labor coaches, 13 stitches and...well...a fishing expedition later i had my very own 9 pound 11 ounce spawn, brain intact, no banana head. no wonder he was stuck. gave birth to a dang toddler.

spawn #2: no horrible stories with this one...he was stubborn enough to make them go in after him and fish him out. and i DID NOT look over the curtain. so you're spared a traumatic delivery story there. all i know is they gave me a shot, pushed on my stomach once and there was a clean, screaming, healthy baby wrapped in a towel in the bassinet. TOTALLY the way to go. 96 hours of pain, one shot, 8 staples, and DONE. BUT. you can't be completely spared, this is a horror story of a different kind. rewind to before the fishing expedition: i was sitting in the delivery room waiting in a 48 hours showdown with spawn number 2. during this time, several people stopped by to visit- my grandmother being one of them. turns out she wanted to get me something for the new baby and asked if i had any nursing bras. okay. that right there should be enough. my grandmother asking about my bras. oy. SHOULD be enough. but it wasn't. oh hell no. that was just the beginning. the tip of the iceberg that sank the titanic. she had decided that i needed a GOOD nursing bra and she was going to get one for me. oy. as it goes with bra shopping, she needed to know what size i was. well, here's the thing about pregnancy: it makes your boobs grow. and if you plan on nursing, add another cup size or two for when your milk comes in. in short: i wasn't sure what size i would need. i had a rough guess of what i was up to, but wasn't 100% sure. so i guessed. umm....i'll take a c cup for $200 alex.. oh the horror...dear god the horror. my grandmother looked at me. then looked at herself. then looked back at me. it took a moment for this to sink in. and i was wondering what the hell...and the bomb dropped: "honey...you have to be bigger than that. i'm a d cup and you're much bigger than me."

there are things i've learned over the years that i could have gone the rest of my life never knowing. little facts and tidbits that really do not need to be taking up valuable real estate. finding out/realizing that my darling grandmother was in fact a FULL d cup is one of them. my whole life shifted in that moment. my grandmother went from being this shapeless person who looked, in my mind, like a raggedy ann doll under all her sweaters and dresses to suddenly being a PERSON. WITH PARTS. LARGE PARTS. and she was sizing up mine. in comparison to hers. I HAD A BOOB-OFF WITH MY GRANDMOTHER. oh god. at least i won i guess. after that, the c section was nothing. i think i was still so in shock they didn't even have to drug me (that's a lie. they drugged me. A LOT.)

and finally: me: yes, that's right. wonderful stories about my own infancy have been passed on over the years. all i can say is: my poor mother. turns out *shock* i wasnt the easiest of babies. i mean the basics were easy: i was fat. in baby speak that generally means good natured and healthy. from what i've heard i wasn't too demanding or colicy or horrible. but i did get sick. not really sick, but i had a rash. and it led to a great story. which is good enough for me. so. like most babies, i was born. and soon after birth i was hungry (i know...go figure with me, right?). my mother being a good and wholesome mother decided to nurse me. best start to life. turns out i didn't do so well with it. i guess at a few days old i developed thrush which is basically a yeast infection in the mouth. important note: this can be a common infection in infants who are bottle fed. remember that. so. my mother goes to the pharmacy to see if there's anything she can do to help this infection go away. she chats with the pharmacist a bit, explains what's wrong with me (well, at that particular time anyway...would be a whole saga now), and asks for any advice. the pharmacist, more than willing to help, did what he could. he told her: "the best way to help clear up thrush is to boil the nipples."

***S.I.L.E.N.C.E.***

as the story goes, it took a few moments for the pharmacist to notice the COMPLETE SILENCE in response to his suggestion. one can only guess the look of sheer horror he saw on my mother's face when he finally looked up. typical infection in BOTTLE FEEDING. typical solution for bottle feeding. NOT a typical infection in breast feeding. HORRIFYING solution for breast feeding. my mom, 27 YEARS LATER still had a horrified look on her face when she told me the story. she said she was standing there in those few moments of silence trying desperately to figure out what and why and how before the pharmacist caught on. "you are bottle feeding, right?" what's that saying about assuming? something about making a complete and total ass out of you? she said she barely whispered no and then the pharmacist fully realized what he'd just suggested. can you imagine? boil the nipples. now i know some people are into some pretty extreme things now days...piercings and what not. but this is one particular trend i have yet to hear about. ow. damn.

so. there you have it. a bit of trauma, just for you,. if you weren't already, my darling few readers, you should be completely good to go now on birth control for...well...forever. you're welcome.