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. 

On Being Human

Some days, I really hate my PTSD. Don't get me wrong, I never love it. For the most part, I have learned to live with it. I have learned to deal with the highly disturbing nightmares that happen more than I would like. I have learned to deal with the flashbacks, and the flood of emotions that I have become much more able to handle than I used to. But sometimes, it rears its ugly head in the most unexpected of places, and totally undoes me. Last night was one of those nights, and today, I'm suffering the consequences.

I'm not going to go into a lot of detail here for many reasons, so please forgive my vagueness. There is a certain person from my past who was extremely abusive towards me for a very long time. I have them blocked on Facebook, and have managed to live my life entirely removed from them for several years. This has exponentially improved my life, and allowed me to move forward and work on becoming a healthier person. But unfortunately, as is often the case, blocking a person and otherwise cutting them out of your life is not a 100% guarantee that they will not ever pop up in unexpected places since, most of the time, you have mutual acquaintances.

Last night, this person popped up on my newsfeed (no, there was no way for me to avoid that happening), and I almost dropped my phone. I physically startled, and found myself wanting to throw up. And here's the frustrating thing about mental illness: we often find ourselves reacting in irrational ways. I knew there was no way this person could hurt me. There was no way this person could actually get to me or do anything to me, just by virtue of them popping up on my newsfeed. Let me be clear, this is the only person in the world I am actually afraid of (more afraid because of potential emotional/mental damage than physical). Cutting them out as I have almost completely guarantees they can't ever hurt me again. Therefore, having such a severe reaction to seeing a picture of them in an unexpected place is rather irrational because they can't actually hurt me. But that's the thing about PTSD. Anything resembling the person or situation that caused it can trigger a severe reaction, even if no real threat is posed.

In the case of what happened last night, it triggered a panic attack. I've had more panic attacks than I can count. I've lived through them. I know they're not going to kill me. But last year, as a result of all of the breakup trauma, I decided to attack my issues with panic attacks. And I was extremely successful. I stopped avoiding things that caused the attacks, and faced them head on. Before last night, the last panic attack I had experienced was 368 days before, when I was in the hospital. A nurse who was behaving wildly inappropriately for the psych ward quite literally stood in my way while she verbally abused me and accused me of things I didn't do, causing, unsurprisingly, a panic attack. But that's another story for another time.

Having another panic attack, aside from the very real trauma of the attack itself and its aftermath, was frustrating for me. I still find it frustrating that I had one last night. I know it's not true, but I feel as though I should have been able to logic my way out of it. It feels like a colossal failure: I managed to keep panic attacks at bay for just over a year, in every situation, and a single picture undoes me. Psychologically, my reaction makes sense. It's part of the PTSD. And yet, I still feel that I should be able to control it. That, in itself, is irrational. If I could completely control it, I wouldn't have PTSD (yeah, I can't win with the cycle of irrationality- talk about INTJ hell...).

So today, as I try to recover from the lack of sleep, the headache, the muscle tension, the overall fatigue and emotional exhaustion, I also try to give myself some grace. I'm not perfect, after all. I'm not superhuman. Having a panic attack is not a sign of weakness. The reality is, it's hugely significant that I went over a year without one. It's not realistic to expect I will never have another panic attack again, as long as I live. Part of living a functional, healthy life is understanding and accepting that I will not always be able to avoid things like panic attacks. I'm only human. And that's okay. 

Trying

A year ago today, my parents came and picked me up, and took me home from the hospital. On August 25th, the second day of the Fall semester, my thesis advisor and general mentor, Dr. Hoffman, put his day aside, and took me to Southeast Hospital in Cape Girardeau. He spent hours with me in the ER, as doctors, nurses, and a social worker came in and out of the room. And then he went upstairs with me to the psych ward, and stayed with me until they made him leave. He called my parents, to tell them I was in the hospital, and he and his wife came back that night to visit, and bring me clothes, which I had not brought with me.

I was in the midst of a very deep, suicidal depression. The breakup I had been dealing with, and the way it had been handled by him, the lack of information and integrity and willingness to take responsibility (and funny enough, I didn't even know just how bad all that was for another few weeks, but it was already bad), the lies he had told his friends and our mutual friends...his refusal to work on things, or even talk them out, despite my complete willingness to do so...it had all taken its toll on me. This was the hardest thing I found myself ever having dealt with. Nothing- not my brother's death, not my loss of the ability to play the piano, not my years being kept in a cult- had been that awful for me. Absolutely nothing. I just didn't want to go on living. I was done.

The doctor and staff at the hospital kept telling me that my life had value. That I was worth something. That I would be missed if I died. In contrast to my previous depressions, I knew all that. Reading the Divergent series really did change my life. It showed me my worth and value as a person. And in the nearly 3 years since then, that hasn't wavered. I remember one day during a group discussion, expressing my frustration. The recreational therapist was asking us how we were going to prepare for success once we got out. How were we going to avoid going back into the hospital? Everyone else in the hospital, the whole time I was there, without exception, had all made destructive choices in their lives, that they were reaping the consequences of. I was the only one who had never had a substance abuse problem. I was the only one with any kind of college degree. I was one of the only ones who had never been in trouble with the law. I was the only person there who had never been in the psych ward before, and I was the only person who, in general, lived a functional life on a day-to-day basis. Even the doctor and therapists had told be that I was the exception to the people they saw go through the psych ward on a regular basis. They said that every once in a while, they got someone like me. And that I wasn't there because I was unhealthy, like everyone else. I was one of the few people who went through there precisely because I was healthy. I recognized a problem and got help in solving the problem. I wasn't there so people could patch me up and do damage control, so I could go out and keep being dysfunctional. I was there so I could get help getting better. One of the social workers told me, in our one on one, that she was actually really surprised and impressed by me. She said that she had encountered cult survivors before. And they're usually attention seeking and difficult to deal with. She said I was the most well-adjusted cult survivor she had ever met. And that I would do so well in life.

But all of that was part of my frustration. If I was in that deep depression and in the hospital because I had screwed up my life, then there would be something I could do to fix the problem. I remember when I had my bad car accident in October of 2014, I was upset more because I hadn't done anything wrong, than anything else. There had been literally nothing I could have done to avoid that accident. I was rear-ended by someone going above the speed limit while waiting for someone else to turn left. I was a sitting duck. I was frustrated, because there wasn't anything I could do to avoid that happening again. And I was feeling exactly the same way here again. I was born with Anxiety and Autism. I was given PTSD four times over, by siblings who tormented (no really, that's the correct word) me, classmates who tormented me because of my Autism, and by my parents who put me in a cult for 9 years and subjected me to abuse, and even abused me themselves. As a result of those three things, I wound up with Persistent Depressive Disorder, with an early onset. I was born with multiple health issues exacerbated by my traumatic early life. I was a good kid, I earnestly sought God, I (usually) happily obeyed my authorities, I did well in school, I tried to follow the social rules I could never quite figure out. When things at home and in the cult became so toxic I couldn't really function anymore, I took responsibility for my own well-being and left home against my parents' wishes. When my PTSD became disruptive, I took responsibility and got help. I fought through years of illness-both mental and physical- to get through college, even though I didn't think I could. When I got my Celiac diagnosis, I took responsibility for my health and changed my diet. I got through grad school, I took on lots of extra jobs to make more money because I didn't make much. I followed the rules. I took risks when I had to. Bottom line, I made good decisions. I remember being there in the hospital- and the months after- feeling so frustrated, because I was the epitome of the good girl. I didn't screw up. I had never in my life done anything to cause anything more than marginal inconveniences for myself or anyone else. Even my parents agree with this. And yet, I had PTSD four times over because of things other people had done to me. And here I was in the hospital, because of the horrible depression I was in because of what someone else had done.

And I was just done. What was the point? Why keep trying? Why keep doing everything I'm supposed to do, when it all gets screwed up anyway? Why keep fighting so hard? It didn't seem to be getting me far.

I still don't have much of an answer to that. I got out of the hospital, and kept doing what I do: making good choices. Surviving. Making my way. I was only in Cape that Fall as long as I absolutely had to be in order to do my job. I spent the weekends out of town. And as soon as I could, I got the hell out of Dodge. I left it all behind and moved a thousand miles away. Literally. I took responsibility for my own life. So far, it has worked out. Things are definitely better than they were. I made the right choices. But it's still rough. I still struggle with everything that happened. I still struggle with wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. Because, in my experience, it always does.

I still have nightmares. I still find myself crying on occasion. I still find myself incredibly confused. But I keep going. Sometimes, I'm not even sure why. I think that's just who I am. Like it or not, I'm a fighter. I'm a survivor. I don't allow myself to be victimized. And above all, I'm Dauntless. That doesn't mean I don't get scared or discouraged or angry at things out of my control. What it does mean, though, is that I keep fighting through all of those things. It's how I have always been, and I suppose it's how I'll always be. Sometimes I wish it wasn't. Sometimes, it gets so tiring. Maybe there's a good reason for all of it, maybe that's just how the chips fell. Regardless, I'll keep going. And I hope, someday, I see it really pay off. For me, or for someone else. 

Joshua Alexander

One thing that many people don't know about me, is that I have a niece and nephew, and they are 19 and 16 years old. I was actually in the delivery room with my niece, and was the first person to hold her. My nephew was born three years later, but my sister and her family had moved to New Jersey by then. I was 16 when he was born, and I loved our visits to New Jersey and getting to spend time with Joshua and Gabriella. I looked forward to watching them grow up.

But sometimes, our plans don't pan out. Sometimes, life just happens.

I'm not going to go into this here, because I'm not interested in airing dirty laundry between my sister and myself. But we had a falling out nearly 6 years ago, and as a result, I had to give up my relationship with my niece and nephew, which I have absolutely hated. My parents still had a relationship with them, but I didn't. For years, I couldn't even listen to my parents talk about them. It was too hard; too painful. I felt awful about removing myself from their lives, but I really didn't have any other choice. It was what I had to do to survive.

In the last year or so, I've gotten to the point where I could handle having a relationship with them, and they're now old enough that I can have a relationship with them, without having anything to do with my sister. But I knew that I had, effectively, abandoned them. I didn't feel like it was right for me to just jump back into their lives because I wanted to. I'd thought about going to visit their dad, Johnny, and having a conversation with him about it. The best think I could think to do was to have someone else tell the kids that I was available and happy to have a relationship with them now, if they wanted one. But I was going to leave that up to them.

A few weeks ago, at the end of July, my parents went to Philadelphia to visit Joshua at his other grandmother's house. I asked my parents to tell Josh that I was sorry I just dropped out of his life, and that if he wanted a relationship, I'm available. I told them this the day they were flying up there. The very next day, I was sick, and I took a half day off of work. While I was driving home, I decided to call my parents and see if they could talk for a bit, to help keep me distracted from how crappy I felt, until I got home. As it so happened, when I called, they were  just finishing up lunch with Joshua. I was talking to my dad, and heard Josh say, "Tell her I said hi." I heard my dad reply, "Tell her yourself." Half a second later, I heard this deep, young man's voice saying, "Hello?" I hadn't talked to my nephew since he was 10, and hadn't seen him since he was 7 or 8. I suddenly changed from my usually fairly cool demeanor to a blubbering aunt who almost couldn't handle the fact that she was finally talking to her long-lost nephew, who was no longer a little boy.

"Joshua?" I barely choked out, "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, I'm crying. I can't help myself."
"Well it's been a long time since we've talked. I was a little boy. How old was I?"
"You were 10. Oh my gosh, how are you?" We went back and forth a little, and I asked about his sister, who is now a Sophomore in college (can't even deal with that!). Then I spent some time telling him that I was sorry I just dropped out of his life; that I never meant to abandon him. It had nothing to do with him, it was all about my relationship with his mom, and because he was so young, I couldn't have a relationship with him and his sister, but not with his mom. He said he knew, and he understood. I told him that the door to me is open now. If he wants to be FB friends, if he wants to talk to me ever, whatever he wants, I'm here.

We didn't talk terribly long, just a few minutes. And I cried the WHOLE time. I wish we'd had more time. But I do know that we'll talk again. And I hope I get to see him sometime soon.

I still felt sick the rest of the day, but I was kind of on Cloud 9 for the next two days. Finally getting to talk to him, hearing how he's turned out to be more or less the strong, level-headed young man I always thought he'd be, was amazing. And, knowing he understands, and he doesn't hate me.

I don't know how long it will be before I get to see him. I don't know when or if I'll get to talk to his sister. There are a lot of things I don't know. But for now, I'm just SO happy that after so many years, I finally got to talk to my nephew again. That right there kind of made my summer. 

Summer Travels: Cincinnati, Part 4

Monday morning I awoke finding that the feels I had expected to strike all weekend, had finally hit me. Skip and Linda are in the process of selling their house, and moving full time to their Indiana property. While I know this is what they want, and they feel is the right thing for them to do, I'm personally really not thrilled by the idea. It's the only home I have left. I've never lived at my parents' house. Mole Manor (the name of their often mole-ridden property), has been my home for 10 years, and I have over 20 years of memories there. I've been through some amazingly good times there, and some pretty awful ones, too. I've had many birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings, and summer vacations there. I hate the idea of not having a home to go back to anymore. They're all gone now.

I packed up my things, and looked around my room for the last time. I thought about all the sleepless nights I spent in that room. All the days with deep depression. The nights with such bad anxiety I had to keep the lights on. The early mornings, hearing Jeff or Jason or Pennie or any of a number of other people getting ready in the bathroom on the other side of the wall from my bed. I remember Jenn helping me get ready for my 30th birthday party in that room. I spend a very long summer kicking early stage Lyme and a failing spleen (yes, it's a thing) in that room. I very nearly cried as I stood there, realizing, I would never be back. I said goodbye to the giant cedar closet in the upstairs hall, and regretted the fact that I'd never managed to find Narnia in it, even though I'm positive it's in there somewhere. I went downstairs and looked at the dining room, where I'd had many birthday and holiday meals, and thought of all the time I'd spent in front of the fireplace in the living room. We packed up the car, and I have no idea how we pulled out of the driveway without me bursting into tears, but somehow, I managed it.

We went to lunch with my parents, and then came back and played poker with them for a little while,  before heading to the airport. We used my Jelly Bellies as chips, and Andy kept eating them! I came out of the game with a LOT fewer Jelly Bellies than I went in with. Yes, I'm dating a gourmet jelly bean thief.

Despite some close calls and a few bumps along the way (and a bag that stayed in Cincinnati!), we got home in one piece. It was about 8:30 before Andy dropped me off at my place, and I definitely slept well that night, and regretted having to go back to work the next morning.

This was my first trip home in a year, it was my last stay in my house, it was my first trip with Andy. Most of what happened between August and December of last year is a pretty big blur. I'll delve more into this in future posts, but it's not that I didn't think I could survive. It's not that I didn't think my life had value. I knew I could and I knew it did. I was just...done. Tired of struggling so hard with life, and trying so hard to make good choices, only to have the choices of other people (my brother and sister, my parents, various "friends," etc. cause me trauma and extreme distress. I still think that all sucks. But I've come out on the other side. Mostly, anyway. This trip was a reminder of how far I've come. And for that, I'm grateful.