On Pumpkin Spice Lattes

I write this with an empty PSL cup on my desk beside me. It's only September 19th, and I've already lost count of the PSLs I have consumed. On September 2nd, I got my first PSL of the season. I think I was halfway through before I realized that was my first PSL in 2 years. Last year, I couldn't do it. I couldn't handle a PSL, or making my yearly pumpkin and spiced fall things.

Of course, last year, I was in hell about this time. Making it even worse was the fact that the ex and I had started eagerly anticipating Fall and PSLs and pumpkin spiced everything in about...May. We kept talking about all the things I would make, and all the PSLs we'd get at Starbucks, and how the first PSL of the season should always be a day of celebration. We talked about picking apples and pumpkins, and doing all things Fall related. And then when Fall came, breathing was almost too much. Given my state of mental health last fall, and all the things I was dealing with, even on top of the breakup, it's no wonder that I couldn't manage a PSL. And that Fall itself was almost too much for me.

For a while, I kinda wondered if I would get that back. If I'd be able to fully enjoy PSLs again. Or if they'd always be sad to me. There are things that, even now, nearly 15 months out, and 7 months in to a new and awesome relationship, I still really can't deal with. Guardians of the Galaxy and Goonies are both kinda ruined, and I may never get either of those back. There are a couple songs I doubt I'll ever fully enjoy again. I'm getting to the place where Gremlins and Back to the Future and The Big Bang Theory and various other things are no longer huge, painful reminders. They carry with them mild to moderate pangs, but they're not the knife in the gut they used to be.

For this reason, I was really happy to realize, and to continually see, over the last 18 days, that a PSL is...a PSL to me. It's not a painful reminder. It's not even a very mildly uncomfortable reminder. It may seem petty that I place so much significance on enjoying a PSL. But really, it's a huge thing. Last year, I couldn't even deal with the thought of drinking one. It was far too painful. But this year, I've come a really long way. I've gotten to where I can order one and experience no more than a "Huh. Nope, nothing. This is really good."

And you know what? That's part of living a successful and fulfilling life. Recognizing that every victory, no matter how small it may seem, is, indeed, a victory.  I think a lot of times, we sell ourselves short. We minimize the victories and milestones. We make victories insignificant, and discount the milestones. Every victory comes from a battle that could have been lost, but wasn't. Every milestone comes from a place that could never have been reached, but was. Plus, if you ask me, anything that involves drinking a PSL is a huge win.

I don't usually do this, but today, I'm going to end with a challenge to everyone reading this. What is a victory, a milestone, or an accomplishment that you have achieved, but have been downplaying? What is something good in your life that you've been minimizing, telling yourself it's not a big deal? STOP! Stop denying that whatever it is, isn't a big deal, and appreciate everything that got you through that victory or milestone or achievement. It's when we're able to fully appreciate the things that may seem small, that life suddenly becomes so much better. 

7 Months, 1 Day

I'm not gonna lie. I'm a little unsettled today. A little on edge. A little jittery. Yesterday, Andy and I reached the 7 month mark in our relationship. We spent part of the day together, and it was great. But then he left (to go watch the Broncos beat the Colts...), and I started feeling less great.

We all know by now that the ex left me incredibly scarred and damaged. Some of that will continue to heal. Some of it never will. But that's part of life. I still fight the mental demons on that issue on a daily basis. Some days are worse than others. Some are horrible. Some are quite good. Today...today is rough.

Why?
Well, I'll tell you.

It was the day after the 7 month mark that the ex came over during his lunch break and broke up with me, leaving me completely shocked and devastated.

I'm someone who makes significant connections between, well, nearly everything. Connections and associations are basically how I process the world and all information that goes through my brain. Usually, it helps. Sometimes, it hurts. This time, it's brutal. I have something called synesthesia. For most synesthetes, everything has a color, but there are other types. For me, I have spatial sequence and spatio-temporal synesthesia. What does this mean? Well, basically, time is far more concrete to me than to most people. Perhaps that's why I'm a historian. But that's another thought for another time. Birthdays, events, dates, years, etc., all have a fixed place in my mind. I'm always highly aware of duration, and of one thing's duration in comparison to other similar things in my life. I could explain more, but for one thing, that would take too much time, and for another, it would probably freak some of you out. Usually, it's a blessing, as it helps give me an unusually good memory. Sometimes, it's a curse. But it's one reason that I always know exactly how old all of my family members are, how long my brother has been gone, how I know when my grandparents died, how I know how long my parents have been married, how long it's been since I graduated from high school, college, grad school...how long since we joined ATI, and how long since I got out. Everything significant has a fixed place in my head.

So for me, the day after the seven month mark has me on high alert. I've been dreading it, as I could see it getting closer. I have repeatedly told myself it doesn't matter, but everything in my head and my gut, and everything about how I process information has screamed otherwise. Every part of me wants to brace for impact, and possibly, sleep through the day. But I have a job, so I'm here at work, hoping the day flies by, and telling myself to chill. Of course, saying it is way easier than actually doing it.

Today is just one of those days I have to power through. It's just one of those days I have to deal with the pit in my stomach, and tell myself that no matter what my mind, body, and emotions are screaming at me, things really are good between us. Andy isn't going to just suddenly be like, "So um...I can't do this..." I'm going to leave work today and meet him and the kitties at his place. We're going to have dinner, play with the kitties, and watch a movie, or perhaps Gilmore Girls. We'll talk about our days, and the day will end, and we'll still be together.

So for today, I'll just have to deal. I'll do my job, and I'll grade exams for my online class, and I'll write a few blog posts, and I'll read on in  The Girl on the Train (guys, it's as amazing as they say...and leaps and bounds better than Gone Girl, which many are comparing it with), and I'll make it through, like I always do. I'm okay. I don't feel okay, but I am. And at the end of the day, being okay is far more important than feeling okay. The being is here. The feeling will come. 

On Kittens and Puppies

As many of you know by now, two weeks ago, I got a kitten, Violet. She's all black, teeny-tiny, and (mostly) adorable. When I got her, she was just barely 2lbs, and 8 weeks old. Now, she's two weeks older, and definitely bigger, but still in the 2lb range. The humane society information we got with her says she was found alone under a porch. Which is just really sad, especially for a kitten who was only a few weeks old and could not fend for herself! We're guessing she was the kitten of a feral or outdoor cat, and since she's SO tiny, was probably the runt, and rejected by the mother. I'm glad someone found her and brought her to the humane society, though, so that we could adopt her and love her!

Violet (also known lovingly as Jingle Butt, cause she has a bell on her collar and can be a little bit of a butt at times) is my cat, but she's living with Andy, and his 14 year old Maine Coon, Smokey. So she's really our cat. We got her together. I had told Andy about her, and said I was thinking about getting her, but then decided I just couldn't afford the pet deposit and all the stuff I needed for her right now. So I decided not to get her. But the next day, Andy said we should get her, and he would keep her with Smokey, and we could buy all the stuff together. I went for it, and my cousin Valerie, who had been fostering Violet for the humane society in Boulder, put her on hold for us.

We got the call that Violet had been spayed, and was ready for us to pick her up, on a Monday, and I made plans to get her the next day. But that night, I started getting scared. I didn't have a panic attack, but I did spend a decent portion of the evening crying and dealing with unpleasant memories.

Last summer, I talked to my ex about getting a puppy (before he was my ex, of course), as a way to help deal with the depression brought about by the Duggar scandals, and exacerbated by my temporary joblessness. We had always planned on each getting a puppy after we got married, but I felt like I needed one sooner. He thought it was a good idea, so I rescued little Rue. She was a lab mixed with multiple other breeds, and was full of fleas and ticks and worms when I got her. The people who I got her from had a farm and tons of dogs that they didn't spay, neuter, or keep away from each other, and they all stayed outside. She still has a scar on her leg from being kept outside without much care.

I got her, and immediately, she helped with my depression. When I woke up the day the ex broke up with me, I had realized that I really hadn't felt very depressed in the three days I'd had her. She was adorable, and got me out of bed in the morning, and gave me something to do. Well, the ex came over during his lunch break that day and broke up with me. As I have said in other places, no one- not even his best friends- saw that ever happening. I was completely blindsided. I tried to keep Rue, but at the end of the day, with all of my health issues, I couldn't keep her by myself. It's why I had never gotten a puppy in my 10 years of living alone. If I had known he was thinking about breaking up with me (which he was, when he told me getting her was a good idea), I never would have gotten her. After three weeks, I had to give her up. I left her with a friend in Colorado (who has since lost Rue to a breakup as well), and leaving her broke my heart. It was awful. And I still want my damn dog back all the time.

Things are different with Andy. Everyone sees it. But getting a kitten to keep at his house scared the crap out of me. I was so afraid he was going to break up with me, and I was going to lose another pet. That night, I really and truly wanted to back out and decide not to get her. But I knew the only thing making me want to do that was fear. So I made myself go to bed, and managed to sleep better than I thought I would.

The next day, I headed to Boulder after work, and picked up Violet. She is so precious. Usually, anyway. She loves pouncing, jumping, running, ambushing poor Smokey, and sleeping on faces or throats. Yes, ON the face. Foreheads and cheeks seem like ideal beds to her. And so do throats, though I find that one somewhat panic inducing. I'm so glad I decided to get her, despite the fear. She can be a little demanding, she loves to play with a playmate, rather than alone.When Smokey is done with her, she decides to try and get one of us to play with her. Heaven forbid we may be busy! She definitely attached to me immediately. Andy says she looks for me when I'm not there.

Sometimes, I still get scared I'll lose her. That something will happen with Andy and me, and I'll lose my cat in the process. But some things are out of my hands. I can't control everything. Maybe I'll lose her, but I probably won't. I can't let fear keep me from living my life. That's the reason I have this blog in the first place.