Progress?

Perhaps.

During the beginning of my self induced hiatus, I had a four day weekend from work. I originally requested vacation time to attend a trip out of state to celebrate a friend's birthday. Unfortunately, that was the first of many sacrifices I made when deciding to distance myself from my current spending and consumption habits. I did conclude however, that four days away from my regular responsibilities might do me some good so I decided to not retract my time-off request. However, the first half of my stay-cation went catastrophically out of plan.

That Friday, I somehow managed to get myself stuck with babysitting a relative's two kids. All fucking day. For free. By the time Sister came to relieve me of my duties, all of my friends were already out and about. And at one point, I felt down-right, intentionally excluded from the opening party of a friends' restaurant. I moped around my apartment, alone and feeling quite sorry for myself, yet looking forward to the early morning hike I had planned with a friend. Unfortunately, that friend just didn't show. I had gear packed and ready, a picnic prepared, fresh gas in the car, and sat outside. Waiting. And waiting. Finally, an hour after our agreed upon meeting time, I resorted to taking My Boy on an angry walk around my neighborhood.

Two full days of sitting on my ass, alone to wallow in my self-destructive brain was not how I wanted to spend the first half of my time off work. I knew that would be a dangerous place to be. I sat around thinking how I wish my life were different. What pieces of shit my friends can be. How if I made more money at my job, I'd be out having a blast with them. How I work too hard for such little money. How due to how hard I work, how precious and minimal my time off is. I began to panic. My life was slipping out of my hands, wasted, just as my four day weekend was. Over the course of a few hours, my thoughts became more cryptic and dark. I had a Mental. Fucking. Breakdown. At some point, while laying in the fetal position on my living room floor, I managed to push one speed dial button on my cell. After the voice on the other end answered, it took a few moments to catch my breath between sobs before I said the words "Dad. I need help. Please."

I have called my Dad crying many times in my years. He still, is sometimes the only person that can brush off my scraped knee and help me get back up. But something about the desperation he heard in me was different this time. He knew it was serious. This wasn't just a "I've had a bad day and the world is unfair" type of phone call. He knew what I knew. My depression has come to an ugly head and I can no longer fix this on my own. He agreed to help me get the professional help I need. Luckily, Dad has also been calling and emailing me to check in on a more consistent basis. I am ever grateful for this. I can feel abandoned by everything else in the world. But so long as I have his support and have him to stand behind me, I know everything is going to be okay.

Day Three of my four day weekend, I woke with a bit of a brighter outlook. At dawn, I took My Boy on a very long and slow walk all over our town. That evening, I met up with my neighbors to host a home cooked meal. The meditative state of cooking, the companionship of friends, and the sharing of delicious food helped bring my spirit back to life. By Day Four, I pushed my physical abilities on a strenuous alpine hike. As My Boy ran free in the tundra, my heart found a freedom of its own. I found myself laughing and acting silly with companions as we soaked in the UV rays of high altitude.

That hike brought on another interesting positive twist. I have started to develop a great friendship with one of my hiking partners from that day. I have known The Beast for a few years as a casual acquaintance among mutual friends. While I have always enjoyed our sporadic conversations and friendly banter, we hadn't known each other all that well. In the last few weeks, we have become great hiking companions. I am comfortable in my head while I am in the presence of The Beast. As we spend longer and more challenging days in the woods together, our conversations are filled with substance. I have opened up to him about my "Turning Thirty and Wasted Twenties" anxiety. Turns out - he's been through the exact same thing. When The Beast reached this pivotal point in his life, he too retreated into a walkabout to find himself. He simply "gets" that there are just some things in our hearts that can only be healed from being in the mountains. In turn, I have found hope in knowing that though I may feel abandoned by some of my closest friends, I am building a bond with a new friend who not only knows what I am going through, but also supports me without judgement.

Of course, whenever two people of the opposite sex spend time together, the Gossip Wolves get hungry. And while I may be in a dark place and have zero business getting romantically attached to someone, I would be lying through my sad teeth to say there are no flirtations exchanged between us. He is kind, funny, smart, ambitious, healthy, smoking hot, and most of all - happy. Our hikes have slowly started to be followed by beers (in moderation) and dinners at my house. The time on the clock when he heads home gets a little later each time. If the nature of our friendship continues to evolve, I would welcome the advancement. Yet at present, I am most happy to have a consistent and reliable friend to share my tundra with.

In recent days, my smile has become little less forced and my eyes have regained some of their twinkle. It could be the increasingly regular time spent with The Beast. It could be the lack of drinking, binging, and frivolous spending. It could be the quiet in my heart that is found from removing the things that hurt. It could be a combination of it all. Today, at this moment, it is good.

A Painful Pride

Last Friday was a very difficult day for me.  I had to say goodbye to one of the only constant companions of my Twenties.  Or, as I figured it, I was having to Kevorkian my dog.  The way I felt that day was absolutely tragic.  I felt fragile and lost.  After the days I'd had in preparation, I didn't think I had any tears left by the time we arrived to the vet.  But I lost it.  I mean broke down and sobbed like I've never cried before.  Her enormous heart stopped before they'd even finished injecting the medication.  The moment they confirmed she was gone, the only emotion I could feel was lonely.

Back when I was a young and optimistic twenty year old adpopting my first pup, I guess I just always assumed that by the time she died, I would be married, or have a live in boyfriend, or own a house with a big yard and perhaps already have another dog.  I never thought, even in recent years as her health declined, that I'd be left all alone.  I don't have a spouse, or roommates, or kids.  For nearly a solid decade, that dog is who I came home to every day.  She was the one who greeted me at the door, wanting to hear about my day.  The one who laid with me as my tears fell onto her fur while consoling my heartaches.  The reason I had to get out of bed everyday, if only just to feed her and let her out.  When she died, my aunt and Sister were by my side and cried a few tears so I could cry a few less.  The incredible outpouring from family, friends I hadn't seen in years, and even a handful of demons, was something to be grateful for.  All weekend, friends and family made sure I didn't have to be alone.  I didn't even stay at home for two nights.  Still, without my baby, I felt incredibly alone.

But that outpouring has helped me to see a silver lining and something beautiful about it all. I had well wishes from countries she had never been to.  Friends from all over the US, who also spent nearly their entire Twenties with that dog, called and texted all the time.  That sweet and sometimes grumpy dog made an impact on this globe during her time here.  And I should be proud of that.  If I had never come along, she would have been euthanized years ago, never having the chance to experience a full and free life. Together, we traveled, attended keg parties, slept on random couches (and in my car), went rock climbing, snow-hiking, camping, swimming in rivers, danced at music festivals... The list goes on.  That dog lived an absolutely beautiful life and is known and loved the world over.  Thanks to me.  I take pride and comfort in knowing the two of us had a mutually loving bond, and side by side, we saved one another.  Her last few days were spent with me taking time off work to spoil her absolutely rotten and do all the things her old age had put on hold.  Just one last time.

May you always be so smug, My Girl.

Friday marked another monumental day in my life.  I should have been attending a baseball game and having beers and lunch bought for me.  It was my ten-year anniversary at my work.  Now come on, how many people reach ten freakin' years of employment at the same place before age Thirty?  Not too bad, in my eyes.  I love my career and what I do.  I may not be bringing home wads of cash just yet, and it hasn't been easy.  In fact, it's been downright painful sometimes.  But I am proud of myself and proud of what hand I have played in helping my company to become what it is.

Through all my self doubt and moments of feeling as I have wasted my Twenties, I can proudly say there are at least two things I managed to not completely fuck up.

Dear Universe

Dear Universe,

How about you go fuck yourself?

Thanks, 

C

If I were to say that my heart could not possibly be anymore broken, I think the Universe would take that as a challenge so I will refrain.  

Last Friday, I had a girls' date with Bodhi.  We met for happy hour beers at our usual spot, then proceeded downtown when, after searching for parking forever, we snagged some delicious sandwiches for dinner.  We then walked a few blocks to an intimate concert venue to see a great show.  The night could not be better. Turns out that we had some other friends in the crowd so before the first act got underway we went on a search mission.  Less than one minute into said mission, we run into the motherfucking Wrecking Ball.  FUCK. How, in a sea of beautiful and inebriated bearded men, do I only exchange words with the one I have been avoiding like the Black Death for over a year? You see, the Wrecking Ball is not just any demon.  He is Satan himself.  No one person or thing in this world can fuck with the wiring of my brain as that man can.  The heartache from our demise is still so raw and so fresh.  My gaping wound that after being gangrenous and infectious, was just starting to heal and resemble more of a battle scar, when he walked up and slashed it all open again.  After successfully not puking on him and finding the other members of our group, Bodhi and I took our spots in front of the stage and I tried to brush it off.  I am certain the old drunk hippie standing next to me, thought I was on Acid as the only thing I could do was stare at the pretty lights in the ceiling, hoping that by elevating my face, no tears would fall down my cheeks.

Though I had designated myself as our driver, I woke the next morning with an emotional hangover.  The kind where you have a headache simply from crying.  My phone rang next to my head as I tried to come to.  It was darling Robo trying to wake my pathetic ass up for our planned hike.  Before calling her back, I decided I should replay the previous night's events in my head and start some coffee.  I laid in bed just a little longer while I felt the way I did over a year ago "Just last night, he was here.  And now he's gone."  I felt like I would die. I found myself asking all the same questions over and over.  I eventually hobbled out of bed to start the kettle, while cursing the Universe for ever bringing that man into my life if I was just going to wake up alone anyway.

As I stumble into my living room, the Universe smacks me upside the head to remind me that I never wake up alone. There it was. Vomit. Shit. Lots of it. Once contained in the forty pound body of a dog. MY dog. My sweet, precious girl that has been with me for the entirety of my Twenties. Who, while I bitch and moan about being lonely, gently reminds me "But I'm here.  And I love you. Unconditionally.  And I will never, ever leave your side."  But the fact is, she will. Not by her own doing. No, she will not abandon me. Instead, I have to make the decision to not be selfish and let her leave this Earth in no more pain than she is currently in. I have to let her go. I have to let her know that I will be okay without her. That I am a better and stronger person because of her love. That her job here is done. 

This Friday, Sister and I will take my dog into her very last vet visit.  And we will leave without her. The outpouring of love and compassion from everyone who knows her and my love for her has been amazing. Even dogless, I know I am not alone.

Dear Universe, 

If you can be gentle after the tough week you have dealt me, that would be great.

I love you, 

C 

 

Lonely Girl

It has taken me a long time to write this post.  Over and over, I keep coming back to it because I find it hard to not only articulate everything into fluid sentences, but also just understanding for myself, what the hell in going on in my own head.  And every time I think I am about ready to publish, something else evolves that changes the story a bit.  Mentally, I am in a very weird position.  Spring has shown her pretty face. It is easy to be optimistic and positive.  And dare I say, downright fucking cheery with the warmth of the sunshine and smell of fresh life.

I'm also terrified.  Here is a little secret: I am afraid of being alone.  Which is interesting, as I am a person who very much values my solo time.  As I get older, it becomes much more important to get a good night's sleep and run a functioning 1-person household.  Just this week, I turned down a handful of social invitations because I truly wanted to do laundry.  It's the thought of being forced to be alone that scares the shit out of me.  In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I would probably just off myself.  Those big screen movies, where the protagonist  searches for other living humans the first forty minutes?  Yeah, that would never happen for me.  Upon learning that my comfort of companionship was gone, I would lose all "survival" instinct and find the quickest and easiest way to end it.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see how this fear formed.  Growing up, my mom wasn't really around in the way one would expect a mother to be.  Sister and I basically felt "abandoned".  Given the shit she put us through as vulnerable and impressionable kids, abandonment issues is the best we could hope for.  Sometime in high school, Sister went off to boarding school and Dad traveled for work.  My last two years in the nest were pretty much just me in a huge house on a mountain top amidst forty-five acres of wooded property.  As soon as I could get out and live on my own, I moved in with eight of my friends, where it was impossible to be lonely.  In my late teens and early twenties, I did everything I could to make sure I had a posse.  I hardly ever came home from work to spend an entire night to myself.  Eventually, I got a dog.  Surely I can't be lonely with a K9 partner with me at all times.  Somewhere along the way, I decided to be a functioning adult and embraced my alone time to take care of responsibilities.  I started finding the importance of enjoying the simple act of chilling the fuck out with a cup of tea in silence.  For years, I have lived alone.

Three days ago, my little apartment became a nursing home.  Perhaps "hospice" is the better word.  My sweet dog has been getting old for quite some time and it now seems our time together is slipping by at a rapid rate.  A quick trip to the vet to check up on some bladder control issues sent us home with five prescriptions, two of which she will need to be on the for the short remainder of her life.  In my experience, vets are not necessarily in the business to save you money.  Nor, do they ever advocate not vaccinating your pets.  So when he responds to my inquiry about renewing her shots with "I don't think you should worry about the vaccinations.  It would probably just be a waste of money.", that leaves me to believe even the vet doesn't think the dog is going to live much longer.

The last few weeks with The Writer have been very tense.  He has landed some new gigs that have significantly increased his work load, while I have been trying to really aim my focus on my own professional and personal goals.  This combination has left us with little time to spend with one another, and when we do get the chance, it becomes a battle of who goes to who's:  His place so he can keep catching up on work and we can rage it in the city?  Or my place so I can properly take care of the dying dog and we can play outside in the mountains.  This predicament has unfortunately, led to some bickering and resentment.  Things came to an ugly head last weekend but for now, we are working through the fragile state and trying to tough it out.

I am so proud that Sister is about to graduate college, and she is applying for jobs in her field.  One potential employer seems to be very interested in her.  In a far away city.  I would never for anything in the world, desire Sister to not pursue her dreams.  But the thought of her moving far away, and only getting to see her and my nephew a couple times a year, is heart-wrenching for me.  She may be a mom and a little more behaved than me, but she is still my baby sister.  And I still feel a need to fiercely protect her from all the evil things in this world.  I have also come to lean on Sister, particularly this last year.  She has been with me through every bit of heartache and turmoil.  The thought of her not being here when shit hits the fan again, terrifies the hell out of me.

Though they (for the most part) live less than twenty miles away, I rarely see or have much contact with my parents these days.  Our weekly phone chats and / or dinners have dwindled to more of a monthly occurrence.  My dad busted his ass all his adult life to provide for Sister and I.  My stepmother has graciously and lovingly risen to the challenge of being Mom and Grandma to a family she probably never expected to have.  Together they deserve nothing less than the chance to travel, renovate their vacation home, and relax with friends.  But in many ways, I miss them.  I still don't feel completely independent from them, at least in the emotional sense.  I'm not sure that grown children ever do.  With all their exciting adventures, enjoying the fruits of their labor, and getting Sister's future going, I guess one could say I feel a little "forgotten."   

As my anxiety about turning thirty builds, I cannot help but feel lonely and a little left-behind.  Many of my friends are getting engaged and married, or living with a significant other.  At the very least, working on long-term, healthy relationships.  I can't seem to outlast a relationship longer than a year.  Some of my peers are having children, and while dogs may be more my speed, these friends are welcoming new life while I'm saying goodbye to life of my "baby". I am rational enough to know that we will likely always outlive our precious pets, not every relationship is built to last, and loved ones often relocate for wonderful opportunities.  It is all just part of life and learning to cope with these realities is simply part of being an adult.

But what happens when the dog dies and Sister moves away for work?  What happens if The Writer and I decide to go our separate ways?  I fear that I will be alone, in my little apartment, waiting for the phone to ring, with some familiarity on the other line.  I hate the very thought of it.  I feel like I'm once again the blonde little girl who's Mommy doesn't want her and who cries when Daddy calls home from his business trip.

Now that I'm grown up, what happens to the Dog Lady with no dog?

Ground Zero

After only an hour's worth of real sleep, I woke up to the morning alarm.  I was in his bed but his half was cold.  He had slept downstairs on the couch.  Not incredibly unusual, as we had a fight the night before.  Also, not incredibly unusual.  Then I remembered that this time was different.  This time the fight was a fight that I knew would likely be our last.  He heard my alarm and came upstairs to hold me and cry with me for the next hour.  I eventually showered and somehow got myself ready for work.  I gathered my things and we kissed goodbye, telling each other to have a good day, pretending it was any other morning.  It was the last time I ever saw him.

During my first few moments of consciousness that morning, my only desire was to close my eyes, wake up later, and discover it all having been a bad dream.  For the next few months, but what seemed like eternity, I spent every morning (and nearly every waking moment) that way.  Every morning, I woke up in a cold and half empty bed, realizing where I was, what the reality of my life was, and only wishing it to not be true.  This morning ritual in my psyche made me afraid to sleep at night, for I knew that in my sleep, my dreams would be of our normal life.  But when I woke, my nightmare would still be the same.

I had been through breakups before.  I have lost friends and family to death.  Hell, I have had physical, life threatening injuries that took months to recover from.  None of it prepared me for the pain I felt after that morning.  My entire body hurt from the inside out.  I had a perpetual migraine, I was unable to take full breaths, my stomach was in a constant somersault.  My daily diet consisted of coffee, cigarettes, beer and whatever food my friend Robo forced me to eat when I was drunk.

I hadn't just lost my partner and best friend.  I lost half of my friends (his friends), I lost my (practically) in-laws, I lost my dreams and hopes - OUR dreams and hopes.  I also found myself metaphorically homeless.  I was renting an apartment in the city that I only used as a week-day hotel room for when I needed to be close to the office.  I now was forced to call it home. His home in the mountains was no longer there for me.  No more nights of cooking in the log kitchen while he stoked the wood stove and fat snow flakes fell from the sky.  No more lazy days of him chopping wood while I sewed up the patches in his work pants.  No more long weekends with our friends filling the spare bedrooms.  We had plans together.  A wedding, dogs, eventually little DNA clones of us playing in the acreage surrounding our house.  Our nest was gone.

And just like that, my life as I knew it was crushed.  Though it had been crumbling for quite some time, it seemed to happen in just an instant.  Everything I loved and cared for, my goals, my dreams, what kept me going every day, crumbled that morning.  I felt as if a category 5 tornado rumbled onto everything that was "me."  A tornado with a giant fucking Wrecking Ball in the eye of it.

The Kids' Table

I know I have sucked at blogging this week.  My sincerest apologies as I have been just itching to write. I certainly hope everyone has enjoyed their holidays thus far.

The main reason for my lack of posting has been a lack of material.  My other excuse is I am currently on vacation in my family's mountain cabin where the bandwidth has been in short supply.  Which brings me to this current post for your reading pleasure.  Looking back at my very first post, this whole blogging experiment is to help me sort out exactly what I have done with the last decade of my life while preparing myself for the next.  And yes, I am in a bit of a freak out knowing my time in my 20's is running out.  My family certainly doesn't help with that anxiety.

Let me firstly say, I love my family.  I abnormally love my family.  We are all amazingly close to where even friends have commented it's a little freakish.  Just last night, some cousins and I were joking that we are perhaps more accurately considered a cult than a family.  The blessed life I have had would be impossible without them.  But here's the thing, I am almost 30 years old. (I know, I'm beating the dead horse with that one.)  Yet, although I am the oldest member of my generation in my family, I am still treated much the same as the other members of this generation.  My family is young.  I have an uncle less than 10 years older than me.  His wife is only 4 years older than me.  An aunt of mine is the same age as my last serious boyfriend.  However, they are in The Grown Up group.  And I am left somewhere at The Kids' Table.     

Yeah, it's unfair when I don't get offered a glass of wine because the host or hostess "forgets" I am 7 years over the legal drinking age in our state.  And yes, it's unfair that I don't get introduced or included in meetings and conversations with adult family friends and neighbors. I must admit though, if I were to tell my parents how I feel about this issue, they would hammer home the following:

•  You didn't finish college so you aren't a grown up.
•  Because you didn't finish college and get an engineering job, we still have to help support you so you aren't a grown up.
• You don't have a mortgage so you aren't a grown up.
• You aren't married so you aren't a grown up.
• You don't have children of your own so you aren't a grown up.
•  If you were a grown up, you would be paying for this cabin. So you aren't a grown up.

Fuck!  No wonder I have a complex and insanely major anxiety about turning 30!  What about 40?  Will I still be at the Kids' Table at 50?  Am I required to have a high paying job, husband, home owners insurance and children to finally be considered an adult member of this family? I feel stuck somewhere in limbo.  In a parallel universe.  Alone amongst my own people.  Truly, I feel like shit about myself.  This is just more proof at how much I suck at life and what a failure my 20's have been. 

Merry Christmas, Baby

The holidays can prove to be so painful for so many people.  The guilt of having more when some have so much less.  Memories of better times, worse times, lonely times.  Regretful times.  I am in this group of people who find it excruciatingly difficult to get into the spirit most years.

Upon the end of my first real relationship, my devastation drove me to make some of the most dumb-fuck decisions of my life.  I ran to the arms, and eventually the bed, of my closest male friend, Patriot.  I paid for it.  Dearly.  If the whole situation wasn't irresponsible enough, we made it even more so during our "therapeutic sack sessions".  After a long night of tequila shots with my best girl, Trinity, I hungover-ly mentioned that I was late on my period.  So as normal girls do, we stumble our asses to the grocery store for some breakfast fixings and a piss stick.  As Trinity lovingly makes me biscuits, I holler from the bathroom "Hey, what does 2 lines mean?"

So there I was.  A heart broken, drunken mess.  Young, impregnated by my fuck-buddy.  Scared shitless. Of course, I immediately called Patriot.  Well before breakfast was even finished.  He was my one of my closest friends after all.  He would figure this out with me right?  Well, he actually did NOT completely freak out over the phone like I expected.  Instead, he was totally calm and said "You know, when the phone rang, I had a feeling it was you calling for this reason." 

I told my parents the day I found out I was pregnant.  Being the rock stars they are they simply said "We love you and whatever you want to do, we will support you".  Patriot on the other hand, came from a guilt ridden, strict, Catholic family and kept mum. We went back and forth over what to do.  We both have pro-choice views so we had options.  We also felt as adults we should just put on our big kid pants and become parents.  After a couple of weeks of this back and forth, we decided that we were just too unprepared, would likely make miserable parents and each of us had big plans for our lives.  We made an appointment to have a medical abortion.  We would go into a clinic, undergo a few minutes of "are you sure" questioning, I would swallow a pill there, go home to take the rest of the pills and wait out the bloody results.

The evening before the appointment, I called Patriot in hysterics and he immediately rushed over.  I was having doubts.  So was he.  We changed our game-plan entirely.  He called his Catholic parents to tell them they would be Grandparents. Fast forward to 9 weeks gestation and only a few days before Christmas, I miscarried their grandchild alone in my apartment. 

To this day, I think of the result as a blessing.  A bullet dodged.  Patriot and I are civil but no longer close and I am thankful I am not tied to him for the rest of my days.  At present, I am not sure if I even WANT to have children.  Ever.  I am content with only having a dog to depend on me. I have had a lot of fun and many experiences that would have not been possible with a little one in tow.  I am thankful with every ounce of my being that I don't have a 4 year old looking up to me, aspiring to one day make a mess of themselves just as mommy did. 

There is still though, a feeling of inadequacy.  Feeling less than a woman.  If I am unable to accomplish the one and only task I was biologically put on this Earth to do, then why am I here?  And of course, there is the sadness and a sense of loss from the trauma.  Postpartum Depression is widely known and accepted as a real medical emergency.  These women could be of danger to themselves and their children.  Studies show the bonding of mother and child during breast feeding can help alleviate the symptoms.  What about the women suffering with Postpartum Depression who have no baby to bond with?  The body goes through the same hormone spikes and drops (maybe more so) during a miscarriage.  I can say for certainty that even at 9 weeks, I felt mild contractions.  My cervix hurt for weeks afterward.  I technically, gave birth to an albeit tiny, baby.  PPD was indeed VERY real in my case.  I did not change out of my stinky bathrobe for nearly 2 months. 

The world is sympathetic to women who lose their intended and welcomed pregnancies.  But when it is a miscarriage of an unintended pregnancy, the woman is left feeling less deserving of the same sympathy and support.  There is a fear of hearing "Well you didn't really want it anyway".  And asking for support?  Saying "I got drunk and knocked up during a slut phase."  Forget about it.

The shame.

Patriot is now married with a healthy baby girl.  I am happy for him.  But seeing the random photo of the beautiful little girl on my Facebook news feed every so often, strikes a pang in my heart that only few people could imagine.