Farewell 2011, you Surly Bitch.

Sure, it's been a while. But only until I caught myself outside on the porch in my bathrobe, smoking, did I realize that this blog is far from over.

The major highlight of this year is that I found the love of my life. And at this very moment, he is beside me, curled up with my pup, on our couch. The second highlight of this year is that I survived. I am a proud, 2011 Survivor. Can you say the same?

It was a year of ups and downs. I am gainfully employed... kind of, yet still medicated to the gills. The mental health struggle continues. I am in a good relationship, in a new home which is shared with my spouse. I have a car, a job, a bank account, and a homemade chicken courdon bleu waiting for me in the oven. I do feel pretty blessed.

My mother died this year. And I witnessed a few family experiences that I would like to take back. Mistakes were made, lessons were learned. Yada yada yada. All in all, it's a time for new beginnings and forgiveness for the ass-hattery I'd like to call the gong show of my life. What does this New Year bring? Stay tuned. I'm sure it won't lack in drama and eventfullness, love and anger, or tears and diarrhea. That's right, I went there.

As my sister poignantly stated: "Happy 2012, Bitches." All I know is that this year, I'll be sure to strap on the emergency chute. You can never be too prepared.

xoxo
The Bathrobe Smoker. I feel I have at least upgraded.

It's been a long November so far. Oh wait... it's July.

I am going to do something I rarely do, and something I generally despise when others go on about it. I am going to complain about the weather.

Can I just get a "what the fuck IS this??" and a "one more day of this and I'm going to go to bed and not emerge until NEXT July"?

As some of you may not know, I live on the West Coast of British Columbia. The southern west coast. The mildest place in Canada. Closer to California than to Alberta, which is the next province over. For ten months out of the year, it is customary to experience rain, wind, fog, mist, hail, the occasional wet snow. Basically any kind of precipitation imaginable. And I suck it up. I suck it the fuck up, because I am lucky not to have to ever shovel snow, or plug in my car, or stick a jacket and shoes on my dog. And hey, it makes my skin look younger. So that being said, I endure ten months of grey, depressing, mild and wet weather so that in the other two months (July and August), I get some sunshine, some warmth, and some bathing suit/swimming weather. Don't get me wrong, it's rare to push over 30 degrees C. But I don't complain because I also don't have to use a mosquito net, air conditioning, and my city doesn't smell like rotting garbage.

Now, I am complaining.

I'm not sure if any of you knew this, but I'm prone to experiencing depression. (hehe) And like most others who experience bouts of depression, I'm very much affected by the weather. Grey days make me blue, and if I'm already blue, they make me want to lie in bed and never come out. A hot sunny day is like an injection of prozac. Or speed, depending on how hot and sunny. It's like the fog in my head lifts, and I'm filled with a little bit of... I don't know... joy! Love for my surroundings. Energy!

So far all we've had this summer is rain, and temperatures equalling early spring and late fall. And I am so done. I am (not for the first time) imagining what my mood would be like if I lived somewhere far south, where it's the polar opposite. Ten months of sun, the occasional two months of grey. I wonder. How much would it change me? What if I could actualy go off meds? What if that is the key to this whole puzzle?

I consider moving to California. Or Arizona (yes, cold winters, but STILL). I want to get the hell out of here.

Sigh.

So now that my rant is complete, I will say what any good West Coaster would say at this particular moment, and I will suck it up and continue with my day.

"At least I don't have to water the gardens."

OH WAIT. I'm currently employed to water my friend's garden twice a week, so I'm now also out of a job. So much for that little gem of optimism.

Sitting in front of my space heater on July 14th,
PS

Your passport photo makes you look like a serial killer.

Heehee! Heehee!

If you finished reading the latest Thomas King novel, you'd get the reference. For the record - a pleasure to read. Beyond expectations.

I started another book but was liking it so much that I've put a bookmark in it to save it for my vacation. I'm at that point where I will only read mediocre fiction until I am lying on a beach, slathered in politically-incorrect tanning oil, and wearing an embarassingly large pair of sunglasses and a shockingly small bikini.

So. Passport photos.

I feel as though I need to rewind. I have decided that from the beginning, this is a blog about me and only me, I do not share other people's stories. I make the odd reference, but privacy is sacred. Not mine - mine is non-existent in this forum. But other people's privacy... well, I try and respect that. Boring, I know.

Last night, I had a fight. I had a fight like no other I have had before. I fought with a friend. Can anyone else here relate when I say that I've never *really* duked it out with anyone other than a boyfriend (read: romantic partner)? I thought it would be different, but the absence of sex doesn't really change the fact that it is scary, heartbreaking, awful on SO many levels, and absoultely debilitating. This story does actually have a happy ending, by the way.

We worked it out, and I truly feel that said friend and I are stronger for it. And unlike most of my romantic relationships, present excluded, I actually feel like we worked it out without me turtling. A nice term for apologizing over and over and taking back everything I said, pretending I didn't mean it, and trying to please please please. Obviously I said things I didn't mean and apologized for them, but what it came down to was that it was a really liberating day for me. Awful in every way, but liberating. Why is it that there has to be the good with the bad? Why can't there just be the good? Ah well. Symmetry, I guess.

Long story short, I feel so open and honest and real with this person. I thought I was before, but I never realized I wasn't 100% until yesterday. I was only working at about 95% honesty. Anyways. It was a learning experience that we went through together.

Last night I cried. I cried like I haven't cried in a long, long, time. My boyfriend has made mention before at my inability (strong word, mine not his) to cry. But I'm on some pretty strong meds that work really well at suppressing feelings of anxiety. Unfortunately, strong feelings such as sadness, though they exist, are harder to bring to the surface level. But when I cry, I CRY. Something I never really experienced before the past two years. I used to cry often, but for small periods of time. Last night I sobbed until my body could no longer produce liquid. And though it was under awful circumstances, I'm not going to lie, it was overdue.

The idea that a pill changes my being like that scares me. Sure, it changes my levels of anxiety and depression and because that's good, I don't doubt its effectiveness. But when it comes to things like feeling severe sadness and not being able to express it... that's when the effects of a single pill really becomes clear. And a little startling.

Wait, I was going to try to make this story more interesting and funny. Yes. Passport photos.

After my night of emotional release, I woke up this morning feeling drained, sick, but motivated. I took everything on my to-do list that I have been avoiding for stupid reasons, and I went and DID them. One of those things was renewing my passport before it expires and I'm left with going through some shit-show to get a new one.

In my enthusiasm to be productive, I ran out of the house, toothbrush going as I threw on my shoes, without looking in a mirror. Or showering. Or putting on deodorant. And trust me, after the night sweats I have, that is a serious exclusion. I shopped, I photocopied, I gassed the car, I went in to get my passport photo taken and then realized, hmm. This is a photo to last five years. And there is no mirror in this store.

I thought that the only passport photo caveat was to not smile. Turns out you must also remove your necklace, and tuck your limp, greasy, sweaty, unmaintained, three-days before a dye-job hair BEHIND your ears. Oh, and not smile. And then they show you the photo. Oh, the photo.

My first comment was: "Yup. I look like a serial killer, must be a proper pasport photo. Looks good to me." My second comment was: "Maybe I should have re-thought the grey Fruit of the Loom tank top, which doesn't really make the serial killer thing less prominent."

I don't know what, if any, point there is to this story. But if I am to take anything from it, it will be...

1) If you are incapable of crying and only do so once every two months, just stay home the next day. For the love of god, take your sluggy eyelids and go back to bed.

2) There is always time to apply deodorant. A rule I believe is universal beyond this story, after years of waitressing.

3) If you need to have your passport photo taken, for the love of all that is good in this world: run a comb through your hair, wear a shirt that cost you more than $1.50, cover your tattoos (it will pay off in the long run) and LOOK IN A MIRROR.

Signing off as someone who has resigned herself to the next five years of being strip searched at the border...

PS

Keith Richards is kind of a boring writer...

... and other things I have learned in my period of unemployment.

Also included:

- Pyjamas are casual, sweatpants are for dressing up and going out.
- The challenges in life are easier to face with good friends and a very supportive live-in boyfriend.
- Mushrooms are always cheaper at the Great Canadian Superstore.
- The Keith Richards autobiography is a slow yawn of a read (who would have thought??) but the Thomas King novel I'm halfway through is super amazing.
- The only downside of knitting: one cannot simultaneously read and knit.
- Toques take more time to construct than I ever realized (who would have thought??)
- Don't ever get cocky when applying for a job for which you feel overqualified. Because then it sucks when you're not even offered an interview.
- Farting is, and always will be, really really funny.
- 2:00 pm is not "the morning."

So. My two jobs fell through and I am currently unemployed, still living with some pretty bad days of anxiety, and applying for "social worky" jobs even though I still lack the confidence to feel I can hold a solid job. To make matters WAY better but more complicated, I am going on holiday for two weeks in... five sleeps!! Luckily, I paid for it when I still had a job. My wonderful man-friend has actually "forbid" me from applying for any jobs right before vacation because he wants me to enjoy my time, but when have I ever listened to good advice that involves self-care? I applied for two jobs. Smart boyfriend be-damned!

Okay, I'm having a pretty good time in life these days. I'm enjoying being in love, and in particular the fact that 90% of the time we're either kissing or laughing. To those cynics who are years into a relationship, yes, I know it's not *always* like that. He and I spend the other 10% fighting. But then someone farts and we're back to laughing.

I have my off days. Yesterday I spent the entirety of the day in bed reading, crying, and having anxiety attacks. But today is a new day, and I find it easier to bounce back than I used to. It helps living with someone, because it's a lot harder to extend that one self-indulgent day into, say, seven. Or ten. Or a month.

My night sweats and dreams are back in full force with the same damn themes as are always haunting me. Angry parents, disturbing violence. On a slightly more amusing note, I have constant recurring dreams that I never finished high school (better finish high school before they take away my university degree!!) and that I return to finish my year but don't show up for any classes. My best friend who I went to high school with is always in the dream, and attends all classes, therefore making me feel even more like a loser. I'm also always on rollerskates when in school, and I can never, ever, remember my locker combination and therefore stress about the fact that my locker hasn't been opened in years.

Every night it's a continuation of the same high school theme. Trying to meet with the school counsellor to see if I can get "incompletes" and redo the work so my permanent record won't be tarnished. Trying to find my classroom (on rollerskates) and never able to succeed. Trying to remember my locker combination over and over again. For the record, this is in fact the locker combination that my best friend and I had when we shared a locker in Junior High School.

Then last night. Last night, amidst the violence and crying and angry parents. I'm back in school, in front of the dreaded locker. On rollerskates. Of course. And VOILA! I remember the actual combination that my friend and I used to use. I pop open the locker in a frenzy of successful joy. I open the locker to find a fine layer of mold upon a stuffed pig, pencils, and what appears to have been... grapes? Spiders and bugs crawling throughout the dusty, webbed chasm. A poof of toxic smoke emerges, and I cover my nose for fear of inhaling black mold.

As the teacher across the hall closes the door to his classroom in order to fend of the stench, I turn away from the locker, walk down the hall, and out the front door.

I woke up feeling just a little bit like I may have made some progress.

Mourning the abandonment of the stuffed pig,

PS

Hello, Old Friend.

And by "Old Friend", I mean Anxiety.

So... Anxiety. Friend or foe? Anxiety lives in us for a good reason. It's like pain. It's there to tell us when there is danger ahead. It's there to alert us, keep us safe and alive. So what does one do when Anxiety stops being our friend, and starts being an enemy? Notice I capitalize the word "Anxiety". In this post, I will give it the grammatical recognition, because in my life these days, it is Anxiety with a capital fucking A.

My life is pretty good these days. Okay, in some aspects, my life is fucking great. I spent the evening with the man I love, who is absolutely amazing, at the wedding reception of one of my closest friends. It was an evening of love and happiness. Just to say a little bit more about recent events in my romantic life... I have met the one. The. One. I have hit the motherload of supportive, giving, caring, romantic, sexual compatibility. I need that to be clear for the rest of this post to really make sense, because I cannot express the gratitude and privilege I feel in my life.

I guess the point I'm getting at is that good old Anxiety is back, and rearing her ugly, bitchy head. I spent the day in bed with the covers pulled over my head. When I wasn't there, I was having very bad intestinal problems DUE to anxiety that I have had for days. Pyjama Smoker would life to thank her sponsors - Gravol and Immodium. I spent the evening at my close friends' wedding with a ginger ale clutched in one hand, two rice cakes happily digesting in my empty stomach (finally!), and living through some pretty intense social anxiety. I started dancing with my boyfriend and one minute in found myself starting to faint from lack of fricking nurtition. I knew then it was time to go home. Early.

Why? Because I am weaning off of one of my two medications. And weaning, my friends, sucks.

I made the choice based on my current lifestyle. I am staying on my daily SSRI's, and plan to do so for the long run. They keep me out of the danger zone of severe depression and agoraphobia. These pills are the core medication, and I'm not planning to futz with them. I am, however, taking myself of daily tranquilizers. They were a stop-gap upon which I have relied too long. Today and yesterday are proof that I have been physically addicted to them. They got me through the rough patches, but I should not be on them daily. I have been putting this off, but the time is now. Work has settled down, and I can live with the side effects of withdrawal comfortably as long as I go slowly. If I succeed, I will gain clarity during the days (I won't be a narcoleptic zombie) and I will be able to have orgasms easier. Too much information, I know. But it's the truth. I was one of those lucky women who could do it every time... and I miss that. And that has taken a bit of a toll on my ability to physically show my emotional reactions.

Less sleepy, less drowsy, more able to focus in the mornings, and possibly the ability to have orgasms the old fashioned way again. Is it worth it? Yeah, ask me tomorrow. Cause today was hell, and it was one of the most important days in my friend's life.

Today and this evening were a humbling reminder that if I live with true physiological depression and anxiety, it doesn't matter HOW well my life is going. They're always going to be there. This is not a natural (and understandably severe) reaction to loss and/or trauma. Those reactions are strong, and scary, and eventually they go away. With a lot of strength and support, mind you. This is my body sensing loss and trauma even when loss and trauma doesn't exist! Not only is there no fresh loss or trauma, there is happiness, love, and safety! Why won't my brain get that? Why does my brain tell me there is sadness and danger ahead, when in fact there is none?

I once had a psychiatrist explain it in an interesting way. A way I kind of like. She told me that clinically, the opposite of a highly anxious person is a person living with narcissism. Narcissism is a trait that occurs in (perfectly good people who live with a disability, let's not demonize here) people who do not care what other people think about them. People who are not particularly aware of their emotional surroundings. Whereas people who live with anxiety are on the other end of the spectrum and in fact have overly heightened awareness. Sensing hurt and danger where hurt and danger may not in fact live.

I am in love. I am safe. I have a wonderful man in my life, and wonderful friends, who protect me and help me feel loved and safe. My heart knows it. My brain even knows it. I am safe, I am safe, I AM SAFE. When will my body catch up, god DAMMIT?

Realizing there will never be a magic pill,

xo-Pyjama Smoker.

Is it Mania? Or is it Love...

Hello readers,

It's been so long, I don't know where to begin. I guess I'll just post about how I've been doing, and fill in the blanks in the next few posts.

As the title suggests, I have met someone. He is the cheese to my macaroni, and I'm sure I will be addressing *that* topic as I go along. A week into our relationship I remember waking up - sun shining through the window, me looking forward to my day at work - with this wonderful, complex, beautiful man waking up next to me. The day simply rolled along from there, me feeling like I had unlimited energy and emotional resources. The feeling that I could give to the whole world and still have enough left to give to myself. That's when I realized... am I happy? Is this what happiness feels like? Is this what love feels like? Is all of this real, or am I having a manic episode?

Needless to say, I still live with my mental illness on a daily basis.

For the record, I have established that I was not having a manic episode. I am, in fact happy. And it is not just because I found my love. In fact, that may be a small piece of it - not to diminish that in any way - but I believe it is the events that lead me to falling in love that have also contributed to happiness in so many other areas.

I have been working in childcare, and enjoying every moment. I feel a part of their family, and I feel very connected to the children. With this realization, I began to feel better about my life, and more comfortable reaching out to new things and new people. I ran into two old friends. One who I am now happily dating, and the other who offered me another job, a new friendship, and a lot of new learning along the way. I'm now working (as well) as a gardener for an architectural landscaper, and I *love* it. I spend half of my working days with two amazing children, and the other half knee and elbow deep in dirt, plants, woodbugs, worms. Talking to the deer, eating lunch on the ocean. Drawing in as much sun as my little body can handle. And I feel so fucking good.

I think of Elizabeth Wurtzel. She wrote 'Prozac Nation'. There was a point where she wrote about her recovery from depression, and I will paraphrase. Basically, what she said was that her recovery from illness was similar to her descent into depression. It happened slowly at first, and then all of a sudden. Perhaps my recovery can be the same. Isn't it interesting that as soon as I start finding happiness working with children, and their mother who is a close friend of mine; Finding that connection through a healthy family... Isn't it interesting that from there I can start to crawl out from my shell. If I hadn't taken those risks - meeting up with old friends, I wouldn't be knee deep in dirt, or waking up next to the most amazing man I have ever had the privilege of knowing.

My journey is far from over. Relationships are complicated, work will be shifting quite a bit this summer. I want to thank those who have been following my blog, and ask you to keep reading. I've never been to this place before, and I can't help but think it's certainly going to be an interesting few months. I'm thinking it's important for me to start writing again, because this is where I go to ground myself.

Finding my sunshine again,
Pyjama Smoker.

PS - To K, an avid reader and close friend who lives over the waters. This one is dedicated to you. I love you, Lady. xoxo

Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret.

Dear Diary,

Been a while since I wrote, and I'm not going to lie, things haven't been all that great. The boy I was dating broke up with me via text because he didn't want to be in a committed relationship... then a day later it was announced that he was in a committed relationship with another girl. Through Facebook, which is humiliating to even *write*, for the record. How very high school. While I recognize that all of this is a good sign that we weren't good together, it's hard not to feel the oh-so-recognizable sting of rejection.

I'm sick again, which is kind of feeling like the last straw. Not so much because of how uncomfortable I am (kill me?), but more because of the financial and job worries that come along with being sick all the time.

When one is living with depression, there is nothing worse than giving them a grody virus and causing them to live inside with their fever, snotty kleenexes, and thoughts for five or more days. Let me tell you. This is my third time around in two months, and I am so very, very sick of myself. I'm sick of me, my martyr-like thoughts and behaviour, and my sad-sack weeping and self-pity. I can't even imagine how you all feel reading this, because all I want to do is give myself a big kick in the ass and send myself out the door!

So here's the deal. I'm pulling out the big guns for this one, because I KNOW that it can always get worse, so nothing should be taken for granted. This time two years ago, I was hospitalized over the Easter weekend and I was mentally and physically worse off than I am today. I may not be able to say much that is positive, but I will say this - it can get worse. I have been there, and I truly believe that even if it feels like I'm back at square one, I have too many experiences and too much acquired knowledge in me to really believe that.

I'm just going to say that over and over tonight until I fall asleep :)

xoxo-PS

Sometimes all you need is a brief meltdown.

... but what happens if you're feeling no better?

I should be going back to therapy, but I'm broke. That being said, all the work I've done in the past has helped me deal with the little bumps in my road a wee bit better, so I'm hoping I can use some of my acquired skills to start taking better emotional care of myself. Easier said than done.

Where to start. I may have had a bit of a meltdown last night. You'd think by now that I would see them coming and make arrangements. I've been holding some things in, and should know by now that it's just not a viable way for me to deal. In fact, a very wise friend of mine reminded me via email that there's usually a reason why we choose not to deal with certain feelings and thoughts, and that it can be pretty unhealthy to leave them unattended. True dat. Yesterday was just the straw that broke the pyjama smoker's back. So here I am - I have my coffee, a ciggie, and I'm ready to debrief.

I've been seeing someone and I care a great deal for him. He is kind, funny, and I love spending time with him. We are taking things slowly, and I'm fighting tooth and nail (mostly for my own benefit) to keep from being scared shitless. Why am I scared? Simple. For one of the first times in my life, I am entering a relationship as myself. In other words, I am not tailoring myself to be who I think the other person wants me to be... I'm saying how I feel and what I need. This is new, and so unnatural for me. It is a daily struggle, and it pertains not just to romantic relationships, but to the rest of my life as well. For example, I had been pretending for a long time that I could handle my job as a clinical counsellor, when it wasn't the right time for me to be doing that work. Not to say that it won't be the right time in my future. Currently, I am doing work that I need to be doing, yet my old attitude - the one that isn't true to myelf, the mean one - judges me for not being able to handle the social work jobs that I passionately pursued through school and after. The jobs in which my school friends are finding success. The old me attitude is being pretty unaccepting of the new me attitude that is allowing me to take the space I need (through less intense work) to enjoy my life a little bit more. To let me find out what it is I want in my life when I take work out of the equation.

But I digress. Changing my attitude towards (for?) myself is not an easy or smooth road, and I find myself constantly slipping into old habits and beating myself up for my mistakes. Hence the relationship in question. It feels so unnatural for me to be laying my real feelings out on the table, and when I do, I find myself immediately apologizing for them. There's a lot of "hey, this is what I need from you. Wait! I'm sorry! Don't leave!" This results in two things: I'm making myself feel like an utter TOOL, and I'm not giving the other person a chance to see ME, like me, and accept me for who I am.

This is what I realized last night. I would rather be rejected by someone for my old, fake relationship self, than rejected for who I really am. And by rejection, I mean things not working out, for whatever reason. Being rejected for my true self feels like it would break me. It wouldn't of course... because I've been there and survived that. But it sure did suck. I think specifically of a relationship in my past where I really let go and started to be myself, and he left me. He left me in the biggest, worst, most heartbreaking way imaginable. He went on a trip, promised to return, and never did. I was left with his belongings in a place we had shared, and an email, telling me we were done. After that, I went back to being the people-pleasing girlfriend with people I dated. Keep the flaws to myself, and be... perfect. Be what I thought he thought perfect was. Then if and when he left, or emotionally detached, I could blame it on him, and not my well-hidden flaws and insecurities.

As I write this, I am aware of how backwards all of this "logic" was, and is. I understand that it is incredibly self-sabotaging. It is, however, a pretty effective defense mechanism!! Yeah, just ask me how well that's been working out...

I live every damn day doubting myself. My decisions, my words, my behaviours, my FEELINGS!! As I was sobbing on the phone to my bestie last night, it came out that I have been also struggling with this stupid fucking health concern that is probably nothing. That being said, last night was the first time I admitted how much it scares me, and why I wasn't allowing myself to admit that.

Growing up, I had a mixed bag of mental health problems. Acute anxiety a a child. My parents dealt with it with a mixture of denial and head patting. My mother brushed it off in an attempt to make it "no big deal" so that I would grow out of it (to give her credit, she apparently went to therapy to learn techniques to deal with me). My father called me a hypochondriac. Don't get me wrong - I'm not blaming my parents at ALL. Hindsight is 20/20. They dealt in the way that they thought was best. And they loved me. That being said, I completely internalized that label, and I bust it out on myself every chance I get. That way, I no longer need my parents. I don't need my Dad to call me a hypochondriac, I can do it myself! See how self-sufficient I have become?

I spent years ignoring random hand pains that turned out to be a symptom of a large tumour growing in my chest. I spent my twenties minimalizing my mental health concerns. After all, the best way to deal was to suck it up, keep moving, and it will pass. Right? Err, right? Yeah, I certainly learned the hard way on that one. Yesterday I had an assessment with the Retinologist and he gave me the choice of moving to the "next level" of testing, to try and figure out the worsening blindness in my left eye. I wanted to say forget it. I wanted to walk out of the office and write it off as me being a hypochondriac. So there's a little blindness. I'm sure I'm just making a mountain out of a mole hill. Instead, I was honest, and true. I told him about how I wished I had pursued more medical tests in my teens so I found my tumour far earlier. Turns out, he didn't have that medical history faxed over. Nerve cell tumour histories sure do wake a doctor up, especially when there's random growth occuring on your OPTIC NERVE. I was honest, and guess what? He listened. He took me seriously.

He took me seriously because I demanded it. Because I am worth it. Crazy, right?

This self-improvement shit is a long and tiring road. Most of the time, it's just so much easier and safer to slip into old habits. Of course, my life is a great example of why old destructive habits get us nowhere. And maybe one day I'll truly believe that I'm worth the work. Until then, I'll keep doing the work with the faith that I deserve it and it will get me to a better place. After all, my friends think I'm worth love and respect. They can't all be wrong.

xo
PS

Who needs enemies? I have myself.

It's been a while since I've written. I'd say I've been busy, but that would be a lie. I guess I just haven't wanted to air my dirty laundry and messed up internal thoughts to the world these days. That being said, I remember how much writing in this blog has helped me in the past, and I hope it can begin to help me again.

I got sick for about a month. No big deal, just a flu, and then another flu. I haven't been that sick... I don't know, maybe ever? Certainly not since I was a child. A combination of reasons, I figure. I had spent so long in seclusion on my medical leave, then I began working in a bar and with children within one week. My immune system wasn't up for the challenge, clearly. Also, I didn't get a flu shot this year, and I get them annually. Say what you will about the flu shot, I know people have different beliefs about it. I always got it because my doctor and I agreed that me being out for two weeks straight would be hard on my work, and also I wouldn't be able to go see my mother if she needed me. This year it just slipped my mind, I never got around to it. Turns out, being sick for a month and not seeing my mother for a month was about as shitty as my doctor and I had predicted. I went to see Mum yesterday after a month of no visits. It was wonderful to see her, but bittersweet as the visits always tend to be. She just seems to be in a holding pattern between life and death. I still dream about her every night, and every night she is her old, well self. I wake up and remember every morning, that she's not okay any more.

Mums. We take them for granted. I sure did... I can't tell you how many days in a row while I was sick I just wished for someone to help me into the shower then change my dirty, sweaty sheets while I was cleaning up. Nothing better when you're sick than climbing into fresh pyjamas, fresh sheets, and having someone bring you orange Jell-o. Partway through my second flu bout I remembered something my therapist and I had talked about - asking for help. Something I rarely do, and had been trying to change. I called up my best friend first thing in the morning, and accepted her help for the entire day, despite the fact that she had other things going on. Yeah, I felt a bit guilty. But I had reached the point where I was too sick, tired and scared to care. I don't know what I would do without the few close friends around who I feel comfortable - they keep me sane and healthy when I don't have the strength to do so for myself.

That's all I felt like writing about for today. I have a lot of other things going on, but I'm too afraid to write about them - I guess I'm just not ready to be honest with myself yet. It's coming, though... I've done a lot of thinking about relationships and my behaviour in them for the past while. Hence the title of this post. I don't need enemies in my life, I trash myself enough for an army of mean and vindictive people. Nobody is sabataging my life but myself.

For now,
PS

New job, new reasons to burst into tears!

Woah Nelly. Am I right in saying that there may be nothing worse than being hated by a seven year old? It may actually be one of the most heartbreaking feelings in the world.

So I started my new job! Pyjama Smoker is now exploring strange new worlds, new civilizations. I am going where few self-proclaimed "bad with children" thirty-some-odds have gone. I am taking care of children.

I've been on the job for a few weeks now. May I first say - of course I will keep details of the job anonymous, as to protect the identity and privacy of the kids who I work with. That being said, I must start with the fact that the kids I'm working with are totally rad. They have loving, amazing parents, and as such, they are loving, amazing children.

I am so very new at this whole children thing. I am in fact, so new, that I have no fucking clue what I am doing. It's okay - their mother is aware of this. Luckily, I am a fairly rational, responsible, empathetic person, so I can't do too much damage. Famous last words.

Today, one of the children got upset with me. I was unable to give her what she wanted. As it turns out, what she was asking for wasn't what she really wanted, it's just that she wasn't able to identify what the real emotional need was. Which makes total sense to me. It doesn't make life any easier, however.

The thing I've noticed about working with children is that it triggers my emotional memories of what it was like to be that age. What it was like for me - not to say it's like that for them. I felt the same when I was working with teenagers. For example, when a seven year old is crying that she misses her Mummy, I am immediately transported back to my seven year-old self... missing MY Mummy.

When I was a child, I had some issues with anxiety. Hey, that was kind of like the understatement of the year! Because I couldn't explain anxiety - because I couldn't identify that feeling, I became extremely dependent on my mother. I had *severe* separation anxiety from her for my entire childhood. This was very trying on my mum, my dad, and my sister. I still feel badly that my sister had to put up with years of her needs being put behind mine, because mine were quite simply - louder.

Okay - the scene from today. I am driving the two children to their mother's work so I can take the one who misses her Mum to see her Mum, and the other one to an extracurricular activity. It felt like the longest ten minute drive of my life, because the more she was begging to see her Mum, the more I was feeling that anxiety in myself - that NEED to get her to the place where she feels the most safe. I was perilously close to bursting into tears myself.

I dropped off the two children in their respective places, trying to also be empathetic towards the one who was being such a patient trooper through my process of fulfilling the other child's needs. I drove home, and I cried the whole way.

I think this may be a small pitfall I will encounter in any work I do that involves caring for another, or supporting another. I have this weakness where if I relate to someone's pain in some way, I try to hold that pain inside myself to keep the other person from feeling all of it. Needless to say, this does not work. It was difficult in counselling, because I had to learn to be supportive, while still building a little warm bubble around myself that took in the bad and vaporized it before it could reach my heart. In fact, there are some interesting visualisation techniques for helping professionals to do exactly that - build a warm bubble. Not a wall, but something that is both protective and permeable.

Sigh.

I'm sure of one thing - "Adventures in Baby-sitting" is not a realistic movie, and Mary Poppins can stick her spoonful of sugar up her wazoo. NO one has that much patience. And you know what? That's okay.

PS

Sweet goodbyes.

Hey readers.

I kinda sit here wondering what happened to my life, my plans. I was going to be a successful social worker, making change from inside the system, living comfortably with myself, and who I have become. I mean, I never presumed I would be in love and in a committed relationship by the age of 31. I never expected to be well-off (financially), and I certainly didn't believe I would be famous. I never expected them, though sometimes I hoped. I never, however, thought I would have the doubts about myself that I still have to this day. I guess I expected that I would be a grown up.

This blog is soon to become the life and lessons of a well-educated woman, squandering her degree (earned through blood sweat and tears) and working again in the field of "I'll take what I can get". That being said, I have been blessed with opportunity. I will be working part time at a bar - the one I worked at for years and had some wonderful times within. I will also be working as a nanny. Shocking, I know. Who the hell put ME in charge of child care? It's no secret that I don't want to have children, but I don't believe that disqualifies me from loving children, and caring for them. Oh, the adventures we will have. Stay tuned!

With one new chapter beginning, one closes. Today, I ran into an ex-client on the street. I was her counsellor for a year. The thing about going on medical leave is that as soon as your doctor writes you off, you are *unable* to work. In my case, that meant... no more contact with clients. I lay in bed for nights worrying about the 20 some-odd youth I left without any explanation. Keeping in mind, these are resilient youth to which disappearance is normal. Sad, but true. I guess I just didn't want to be added to the list of disappointments. Of course, I kept my ego in check. I realized that in most cases, my clients wouldn't care that I was going to be replaced by a colleague. But there was one. There was one who I KNEW would feel hurt and betrayed by my sudden withdrawal.

We met today on the streets downtown. I still feel obligated to keep our conversation privileged. I will say this - I let her down. But she still told me how much our time together meant to her. And I told her how much working with her had meant to me.

We both stood in the middle of the street, tears streaming down our faces. It was a happy greeting, and a very sad goodbye. I didn't want to stop hugging her and let her go, because I knew it was a chance meeting. This was someone I had seen once a week for a year, and I had to let her go. It was by far the most significant moment in my life that I've had in years.

I'm left with a million emotions. I'm happy that she is well, because I was so, so worried. I'm sad that I will be unable to attend her *very hard earned* high school graduation. (Needless to say, I always knew she'd get there.) I'm angry because my stupid fucking health crap got in the way of seeing her victories through... of being there until SHE no longer needed or wanted my support. It should have been her decision. I cut her off before she wanted to be cut off. I wanted to be there until she was ready to say goodbye. I hate that until now, I didn't get to explain what happened. I didn't get to explain that it wasn't that I *forgot* to contact her, it was that I was not legally allowed to do so. I hate that I was just a blip on the radar for so many youth who meant so much to me - not because of my job, but because of how incredibly amazing they are. And I am so very humbled... so very very humbled... to have someone tell me how important I was to her in a difficult time in her life.

I will never feel like my three years as a counsellor were a waste. Because I know that there is one person out there who was thankful for my presence, even if for a brief period of time.

I wish I could say I felt peaceful with today's events. But all I can feel is complete anger at myself and my situation. I'm so jealous of those counsellors I worked with who didn't have mental health problems, who got to see youth come and go on their OWN terms - not the terms of the clinician. I feel as though I began working with a number of youth, giving them this promise of stability. When I had to break that promise, I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. A chance to explain that sometimes, us adults are just as fucked up as the people we are trying to help.

I guess I've been kinda fooling myself. I don't just want to take a year off from my chosen career. I don't trust myself to be able to make attachments like that again. I don't trust that I won't fall apart because of my own shit. I know that in most cases it doesn't make a difference, but what about those few where it does? I don't feel strong enough right now to take that chance. And the person who is missing out is me.

PS

You pick yourself up, dust yourself off...

Oooooh Funseekers. What a week it has been. A slight warning, I'm feeling tremendously selfish and sorry for myself at this moment, so please understand that most of the time, I'm not this much of a sad sack.

This is the one place where I have vowed to write truthfully. Some days, I feel inspired and courageous, some days I feel like a loser. Really - who CAN'T relate to that. It's just the natural process that people go through every day. With that, I hope people forgive some of my whining, because I really just need to let some shit out. It feels like forever since my group therapy ended, but I have to say, today I missed it. A lot. I took for granted the opportunity to meet twice a week and speak with people who face some of the same challenges regarding depression and anxiety. It was different than talking with friends, because I could really open up without fear of hurting someone, or making them worry about me. I love my friends, and I rely on them for love, support, laughter. I miss my group though.

This past week was my Mother's birthday, and (in the same day) the one year anniversary of the last day I saw my Grandpa, who died a year ago this upcoming week. Last year, I went to see Mum on her birthday, then Grandpa in the hospital. He died ten days later when I was up island at a conference for work. He was old, but he was supposedly getting better, so I wasn't prepared. But really - are we ever prepared? I like to say I'm prepared for Mum's death, but I know, I just know, that it will knock me over when it happens.

It wasn't a good birthday visit. (note - I didn't say this was going to be a fun post). I went to see Mum for her lunch, and tried to feed her as I do every time I visit. That day, though, she couldn't wake up. Keep in mind, she is on no sedatives or sleeping meds. She just... nodded off. Before lunch, I held her hand and watched her sleep in her wheelchair, telling her that it was her birthday, and goddammit she could sleep if she wants to!! :) I told her why I thought she deserved the rest - being a mother and a wife - constantly giving. Lunchtime came and she woke up for a moment. I began feeding her as usual, but she fell asleep with the food in her mouth. The staff told me this was unusual - she's usually so alert during the days. We put aside her lunch for later, when she was more awake. The staff member produced a lovely piece of black forest birthday cake - especially for Mum. She suggested I try that - a bit more sugar and taste - might perk her up. She again, fell asleep with that in her mouth. I wiped the drool off, held her hand and watched her sleep some more. Then I left. It was her 66th birthday.

I tried to imagine what would have happened if Mum hadn't gotten sick. My parents were separated when I was 15, but I thought that if she hadn't gotten sick, she might have met and married a lovely gentle man sometime in her 60s. Maybe, maybe not. She would have moved out of the big old family house, and into a condo... provided it had garden space. She would have gray hair, but she would maintain her trademark haircut (inverted bob with bangs) and she would still be working out at the gym and walking for an hour each day. She may have gotten a cat. Mum would have me over for tea and laugh at my stories and tell me that I should do stand-up (she used to say that to me). She would hug me goodbye every time, telling me she loves me, and asking that I check in via email - because she would have inevitably tackled that and gotten herself an account. She probably would have taken a community class to learn about the internet. She would still go to church occasionally, and she would have friends. She would send out Christmas cards, and get the same cabin every summer and wear her sensible Speedo one-piece (no frills). She would volunteer at a library. She would be sad sometimes, but joyous others.

I feel like I'm watching my family drift away one by one, and I feel like I'm left over, still 15 and dancing and trying to win at competitions and trying to make everyone happy... overachiever and so naive.

I competed this weekend as well. It went far better that the competition two weeks ago - I wasn't nauseous or having any tummy problems. I walked up on stage confident and strong for each dance. I didn't place, and I was disappointed. That being said, however, I feel it was my personal best for performances since I've gotten back into it. I allowed myself a five minute pity party regarding the loss, and have left it behind me. Three weeks from now, I hope to redeem myself. I'm certainly not going to lose momentum after one lousy but well-danced competition!!

Lastly. This is the hardest to address, because it inadvertently addresses many of my friends. My wonderful, amazing friends. This past week, via Facebook, I have witnessed the celebration of many, many Valentine's Days by many, many of my friends. I have so many friends who are discovering love, or have recently discovered love. That includes one newly engaged, and four married within the past year. I count these people as close friends, not just "Facebook friends". There are also the number of friends who are maintaining strong and committed relationships, and one who is discovering loss, freedom, and the newness of love all within one year. Love is, quite literally, all around me. You know what? I wouldn't have it any other fucking way. You know what else? I am starting to lose hope that it's in the cards for me.

Yeah yeah yeah. HOW many women have blogged about THIS. Not to mention the movies, TV shows, and so on addressing this highly cliched issue. Everyone has felt like they've been there, most people have. This is one feeling I do not get to have on my own, that is for sure. I have to say, I have never really been struck with this feeling before, though, and it's icky. Downright icky.

I need to stop thinking about life as being about fate, or karma, or any of that other bullshit. I need to stop looking at it as one big score sheet. No, I'm not the best dancer out there, despite the work I put in. No, I'm not meeting new available men and going on dates. No, I'm not gainfully employed, or capable of being so at this time. No, my mother can't hug me. That all being said, that last point really pisses me off - because if we're talking karma or fate, FUCK YOU.

I guess I needed to get that all out. Because as I write all of that down, with the intention of it going public, I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed because of the things I really do have. I have family - they may be far away (in more ways than one!) but they love me. I have friends. In fact, I have the best friends in the world. I'm just saying - I'm so lucky in that department. I have my dog, my knitting, my home and food. I have luxuries. I have an education. I have books. Once again, I bump up against the old "I had no shoes and then I met a man who had no feet." I may have no shoes but I certainly have my feet. I appreciate my feet, I do. I appreciate so many things in my life.

So why am I so sad?

Picking myself, dusting myself off, and definitely starting all over again...
xo-PS

Thirtysomething 2.0

Okay, so I'm not going to lie, I've spent most evenings watching the show "Thirtsomething" on Netflix. Some of you may remember it - it was a show in the 80s. I missed out entirely because it was on past my bedtime and was a bit too mature for my taste. I was probably about six at the time. I took a chance and watched the pilot last week, and couldn't stop thinking to myself... "this has the *flavour* of 'My So-Called Life', and I love it." Not until the credits did I realize it was done by the same creators of MSCL. They did "Thirtysomething", it was a success, and then they came up with MSCL. Even the introductions, music, lighting, all have the same feel. I have this huge soft spot for MSCL, so I'm quite happy to be watching it's predecessor.

I remember recently rewatching "My So-Called Life" and thinking to myself - when this show first began, I was in Junior High and I related, epically, to the teenager characters. All teenage girls who watched that show could relate to someone - Angela, maybe Rayanne for the more rebellious girls. I felt like an Angela, because I always had a complicated cruch on a boy (the Jordan Chases of the world) who never appeared to be interested. Then of course, the show ends with promise of a relationship, and girls like myself could pretend that maybe, just maybe, those boys actually *would* take notice. Maybe, just maybe, that boy I had a crush on would take my hand and walk with me down the hall as a swell of music rings in my ears.

For the record, no such luck. My first kiss was a pity kiss by a boy I was hopelessly in love with... who ended up dating my best friend for four years. That teenage sting never really goes away, you know.

What was my point. Ah yes. I used to relate to the teenagers. When rewatching, however, I couldn't help but relate far more to the parents in the show. Not because of their relationship or parenting dilemmas... perhaps more their maturity, jobs, and life-views. I wonder when I crossed over from feeling like an Angela, to feeling like a Patty.

So, "Thirtysomething". I am completely fascinated with this show, because it was giving a fairly accurate view of people in their thirties - in the early 1980s. Almost three decades ago (does anyone else feel a little old as I say that? I had to do the math twice, it seemed so wrong.) One thing is for sure. Some things never change, and others do. Could I vague that statement up a little more?

What do I mean. Just like three decades ago, people in their thirties still place value on the same things - love, careers, babies, marriage, personal success (defined by what is most important to us...). Cheating, birth, sickness, death... the topics are timeless. That being said, other than the glaringly obvious (FASHION), there are some interesting differences.

First of all, case in point. When I watch these shows, I can't help but think to myself "why are all these actors so OLD, they aren't in their thirties!!" Newsflash - they are. I simply can't see past the high heel pumps, pink lipstick, pantyhose, shoulderpads and silk scarves. All the women dress like how my mother dressed in the 80s. When I was a child, my Mum was old. Not really, but babies think grown-ups are ancient. Actually, Mum was close to the age of the actors and actresses, and she was in her thirties. As am I, now.

Woah.

I was inspired to write this after watching one of the episodes covering a hard hitting topic - the scandal involved with a single woman, in her thirties, looking at buying her apartment. On top of the usual scandal of a woman buying before marriage (and her buying, not the man) this was particularly scandalous because it was *gasp* a ONE-BEDROOM. In other words, no place to put the baby.

She didn't have a baby. But you know, you can't buy a place without a room for the inevitable baby!!

I watched this episode, has a cocktail and a cigarette. I knitted a few more rows on a scarf, cuddled with my puppy. I felt a little lonely, because I don't have a partner. But then again, neither did the fabulous Ellen on Thirtysomething, and she seems to be doing okay. And I guess, to summarize in as succinct a way possible... I feel very glad that in my group and in society in general, my lifestyle is not generally questioned. Who knows, maybe one day I'll buy this apartment. I doubt anyone would question me about it. Of course, if I then have a baby, I'll simply have to convert the bathtub into a crib, and store the stroller on the roof of the Noodle Box.

Bringing a new attitude to Thirtysomething...

PS

You're nobody till somebody loves you.

Happy V-Day, Bitches.

I find that this appears to be a day of extremes - either people go all out and enjoy the day with or without a partner, or they a) are in a relationship and call it a stupid money-making holiday created by Hallmark or b) are single and whine about how they have no one to spend it with.

I fall somewhere in between amusement/annoyance and just not really caring. Whether I'm with someone or not. I would like to say, however... CBC Radio 1? I'm disappointed in you. It has been nothing but vomitous cheesy love songs all day, and I don't care how much anyone can be in love - it's just waaaaay too much for a person to take. I have decided to celebrate V-Day by making a pot full of chili and then joyfully passing gas all evening (aimed directly at the dog, as penance for the many dog farts I endure on a daily basis).

I'm not particularly stoked about this week, and here's why.

Well, first of all, I had to pay my car insurance, but to make matters worse, as I was leaving the office the mid-thirties insurance agent (crinkled black shirt, Tazmanian Devil neck tie, male-pattern baldness, dandruff, sensible black Walmart sneakers) wished me a Happy Valentine's Day. I responded with, "Valentine's Day! Yes." He then said, "well, be sure to call someone special at least. Perhaps your mother?" If he wasn't already the saddest specimen, I would have taken sick pleasure in turning around and saying, "I'm sorry, due to the Alzheimers, she can't pick up the phone..."

I had a Doctor's appointment today, to renew my many prescriptions. After learning that I had quit my well-paying, adult, secure position (with benefits) my Doctor asked me, "so... do you know what you want to be when you grow up?" I replied, "No, but it looks as though I'll be working at the bar until I figure it out." He replies, "... as a dancer?"

As I was leaving the office, I ran into an ex-client, who assured me that he and his daughter are doing well, and that they actually prefer the counsellor who took over my work with them.

Tomorrow, I have been invited to go to my last workplace for a sort of goodbye party - cake, coffee, and apparently a gift. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to seeing my co-workers, because I genuinely miss them. A lot, actually. I'm NOT, however, looking forward to bursting into tears, which is completely inevitable. At the merest modicum of kindness, I turn into a premenopausal, hormonal teenage girl locked in her room and listening to Taylor Swift's "Back to December." It's going to be a messy reunion, peeps. Though, one that I think will be good for me - it's time to really move on.

Well, off to make some chili and ponder the implication of my wacky-ass dream last night. It involved Dr. Phil (morphed with one of my exes - covered in tattoos and rather handsome, actually!), lying naked in my bed, analyzing my relationship with my father. As he got up to leave, he collected his keys, wallet, cigarettes, lighter, and a potato, off the night stand.

I don't know why, but the potato really stuck with me.

xo-PS

It's hard to say goodbye.

Hello Funseekers, it's been a while.

I'm beginning a new journey as the Pyjama Smoker you all know and love - I call her "back to work" Pyjama Smoker. Though I believe this to be a good thing, I think my body is rebelling. Perhaps I'm just... allergic to the idea of work? I'm sick with some kind of chesty flu thing, and remembering what it was like to deal with this AND work. I haven't really gotten physically (virally) sick since I took my leave, so this is the first time I've really had time to ponder the time I've had off, the time before I had time off, and so on. That, and my sister has been as sick as a dog for about a week, and is still going to work because she is one fucking badass scientist. Makes a gal think.

I used to get so, so sick, for months at a time. SICK. I mean, the way I feel today is childs' play next to what I used to go through. First of all, there was the impending doom with oncoming illness. It's the "oh shit I have to cancel all my client work tomorrow what are they going to do, when am I going to be better so I can reschedule next week is going to be doubly hard because I'm taking this day off" feeling. Holy SHIT I don't miss that feeling.

Then we go back a few years when I was taking care of Mum. That was the "motherfucker I have to work at the bar tonight because there's no one to cover for me oh wait, my best friend who also works there will cover for me tonight god bless him, okay tonight I'm going to collapse but I have a paper due tomorrow afternoon and Mum will be up at 7 am and if I sleep tonight maybe I can skip class tomorrow and get Mum off to her day program and write the paper during the skipped class and get it in on time and then work tomorrow night" era.

Which begs the question - why am I surprised I used to be sick for weeks at a time??

I am now, officially, employed. I start working at a bar in the next few weeks. I have made the decision not to go back to work in my destined field (social work, outreach work, counselling) until after this summer is over. I call that my "destined" field of work because despite the fact that I'm not currently *in* it, I still feel passionate about it, love it, and yes, very much miss it. That being said - I am sick, it is winter, and I am taking care of my body. No, I mean, I'm taking CARE of myself. And it's something I have finally decided to prioritize. I think I remember how to do it, it's just been so long since I've allowed myself to do so and (more importantly) had the privilege and freedom to do so.

So here I am, day two of doing preeeeetty much nothing. I'm smoking very minimally (just enough to keep me from getting cranky and restless - yes, I'm an addict) and not drinking. I'm taking in fluids, emergen-C, eating steamed veggies and rice, using my nasal lavage, steaming my head with hot water and tiger balm. I am going to recover in a predictable period of time, goddammit, if it kills me in the process! I have no excuse - no work, minimal obligation. It's like being a fucking kid again! Only without my Mum here making orange Jell-o and setting me up in the den in front of the TV. My version is natural fruit juice, knitting, and ongoing episodes of the TV show "Thirty Something"

Anyways, the next few weeks are going to be quite the flux for Miss PJ. I'm going to shed the actual PJ's and re-enter the workplace, only in a very part-time and "my terms" basis. This year has to be... HAS to be... less about me fulfilling my dreams of creating change through work, and more about me creating change in myself so that I can once again work in my preferred field.

But I digress.

The topic of this blog was "It's hard to say goodbye". One of the first posts in this blog was about my first experience meeting with my therapist and psychiatrist, and the struggles I had even walking in that door. Some things have changed so much, some have changed not much at all. I still wake up most days with sadness, depression, the inability to see my future being more than this sheltered, safe but lonely life. I still have nightmares every night. That being said, I have learned so much about coping, and being gentle towards myself.

Today, I had my very last appointment with my therapist and psychiatrist, and I had to say my goodbyes. If I have ever written anything of any kind of significance, the following is the most important thing I have ever written and acknowledged. And as I write it, I cry.

My therapist and psychiatrist's departing words, jointly, were as follows. And I don't think I will ever forget them: "Don't settle. Don't settle in life if because you know when you need or deserve more than what you are settling for. Take such care of yourself, physically and mentally, and be gentle on yourself, because you deserve kindness. You are one of the most unusual people I have met - and I mean that in a good way. I hope that you will be able to continue to push the depression further away, and live your life with love for yourself."

They left me with the name of a woman they both agreed will be a good long-term private therapist, if I can afford it. I have already decided that paying for this private therapist will be a priority in my financial planning. I trust both of them to have referred me to someone who will suit me.

To the two people I said goodbye to today. I cannot reveal your names, but just so you know, I will never forget you - the kindness you have given me will forever be etched in my brain. You, perhaps not physically, but emotionally, wrapped your arms around me and gave me true unconditional love and support. I know that as a counsellor, that is real. It's not something you do because you're paid to do it, you do it because it's real. Thank-you for everything, and I promise you that I will be kind and gentle to myself. And on the days it is difficult to do so, you will pop into my head and remind me. I am truly honoured to have been cared for by two inspiring, kind, loving, professional women such as yourselves.

xo
PS

It's not whether you win or lose...

... it's whether or not you manage not to faint and/or vomit on the judge.

Anxiety and sports, people. A fine line between being good for the mental health, or just a bad time overall.

As many of you know, I'm a competitive dancer. I love competing because it gives me a drive to work harder and longer than I would if I didn't have a personal goal set for myself. And this month, I have been working harder and longer than I have since I started dance again (two years ago), with hopes of doing well in the next four competitions - two in February, and two in March. The first was today, and oh, what a day it was.

First of all, I've been dancing so much that I lost a toenail. Yes, gross, I'll leave it at that. Needless to say, it is painful. Not pain that I can't handle, but mother-fucking painful nonetheless. Do I let this get me down? Hell NO. Last night I had everything packed up and ready to go for a competition up island today. I had the gatorade mixed, the toe taped, I was ready to go and feeling strong! And then, well, there were a few hiccups.

Hiccup #1 - I had the worst sleep I've had in weeks, and it included nightmares about my Grandpa (deceased a year ago this month) and my sister. I kept waking up in cold sweats. So, I woke up feeling pretty underslept. But was I going to let that get me down? Hell NO! Bad sleep be DAMNED! I was alert, and ready to win this bitch.

Mistake #1 - So I don't really 'do' breakfast. The problem is, I recognize that I need to have some sort of meal before delving into competition. This morning, I made eggs on bagel - a meal I quite enjoy at about 11:00 am. 8 am, however, is another story. I ate my brekkie, made my coffee, and departed - hoping for the digestive best.

Mistake #2 - My teacher and I showed up *just* in time for me to change and make it up for the first dance. How were we to know they would skip the lunch break and actually be efficient at sticking to the schedule! For the record, that never happens. I wound up doing my first dance (the most strenuous of all, and the hardest on my toe) without warming up. At all. But was *I* going to let that get me down? Hello NO! I went up there, danced cold, and figured that although it wasn't my best performance, I did well considering, and I could write it off and concentrate on the next five.

Hiccup #2 - One can imagine the adrenaline rush of realizing you're late, then doing an extremely strenuous dance cold. For those of us who are physically delicate to anxiety, this is a recipe for disaster. Well, that and the eggs. Within five minutes of finishing the first dance, I sure did regret that breakfast. Yes indeedy I did...

Insert ten minutes of me experiencing intense problems with my, ahem, "guts". However... was I going to let this get me down? Hell NO! I popped an immodium (carried with me in my little anxiety rescue pack at all times) and off I went. Yes, lying in the fetal position would have been more comfortable, but what's a little bit of jumping? Pshaw.

I think the rest of the story writes itself. The competition was hard, the 6 dances I did (in under two hours - unprecendented and very difficult) were the most difficult, physically, of all the dances to choose from. The next five dances went as follows:

... clench stomach, swallow bile, get up to dance and pretend my toe doesn't feel like it's falling off and that I'm going to lose my eggs on the floor. Do dance. Walk off the floor, race outside, push down the nausea, burst into tears, dry my eyes, go in, warm up for the next dance.

Hiccup #3 - Due to the nausea, I danced six dances without a snack in between, and probably about four tablespoons of Gatorade. By the last dance I was seeing stars and my vision was starting to tunnel. Did I let that get me down? Hell... no?

Before I knew it, I was done. The day was a haze, but I made it through. God knows I wanted so badly to curl up and die in the change room and withdraw from the competition. Needless to say, I didn't place. I didn't do my best, and I know it. I allowed myself a small weep in the change room (alone, as the members of my class accepted their awards on stage), and rewarded myself by taking off my dance slippers and letting my toe breathe, and bleed, freely. Did I let it get me down? Well, yeah. It was a shitty fucking day, and I basically limped my way through the competition.

So here's the deal. I don't lose well, and I never have. I am my most brutal critic, and I always will be. If there's anything I've learned after working on myself and going through group, it is to give myself *sigh* "accurate credit." (I roll my eyes as I say this). But no. Dammit, this time I'm going to do it, and you all are my witnesses.

Accurate credit. I didn't give up. I didn't give up in the beginning, middle, or even the end - the last step of the last dance. I may not have placed, but I didn't let my performance anxiety or my anxiety around stomach problems get the best of me, and I took a risk that felt very risky and scary indeed. For this, I will go to bed proud, and sore.

Because really. It's not whether you win or lose, it's whether you manage not to faint and/or vomit on the judge. I may have come close, but dammit, I persisted.

Rest in peace, big toenail. Sure did miss you today...

PS

Count me in.

Hola, funseekers!

It's been a while since I posted - I've been kind of busy actually. I know. Shocking. This week I've been working on a new life strategy called "accepting invitations". Maybe one of the things I have the hardest time doing. It always feels so much safer (there's that word again) staying in my comfy little cubby.

After the party I went to on Saturday night, and the FUN I had meeting new people and such, I decided that maybe I should start taking these risks a little bit more often. As a result, I have social engagements already lined up for this evening (I went and hung out with my friends after dance), tomorrow evening, Saturday evening, and Sunday. My life, once again, includes people. Scary? Yes. But I can't begin to describe how much I forgot what it was like to be a social person. I used to be so much of one. It feels good, to say the least.

Some of you may be wondering about what happened after meeting someone on Saturday. Did we get in touch? After all, it really felt like there was a new friendship or something in the works. Yeah, funny story. Turns out he doesn't remember much of the night, and as of Sunday evening, I was *officially* (confirmed by friends, not just my own paranoia) brushed OFF. For, I'm sure, some form of a good reason - complicated life, dating another person, not interested in me, whatever. I could speculate and write a story in my head about what happened (and make it the worst story possible, including some form of me making an ass of myself) but that was the old me. That's something else I am trying to change.

Now that I've begun to make more of a habit of getting myself physically out there and into others' homes and environments, I think it's time to start looking at my work situation. Well, within two weeks, my work situation will go from "needs attention" to "potentially dire", so this has to be my next goal.

I will certainly keep the world posted on the progression of employment... I have a few ideas up my sleeve.

Signing off from my first officially BORING post,

PS

Note - I've decided this post is what I shall call a "transition post". Not interesting, but brings readers up to speed so that next time I have a story-and-a-half, I don't have to blah blah on about the less interesting revelations. That and I had my third dance lesson of the week tonight, and I am so achy I can't concentrate enough to form witty sentences. I'm surprised I was able to go beyond "blah ugh A535 hot water bottle soak feet bed with book phhhht."

"If fate doesn’t make you laugh, then you just don’t get the joke.”

I don't think I get the joke.

Above quote is from a fascinating book I read a while back - Shantaram. It struck me as an interesting view on life events. First of all, I regularly ponder the existence of "fate" and second of all, when it seems to appear in my life (despite whatever name I may give it) it rarely feels funny. Not "haha" funny, perhaps more "cruel joke" funny.

Last night I find myself at a party with a good friend - surrounded by nobody else I know. Yes, a nightmare for one who lives with anxiety. Luckily, I have an amazingly supportive friend (many, actually) who helped me feel comfortable and had no problem with the idea that I may tap out and leave at any moment. I knew about this party for about two weeks, and told myself that I would probably end up backing out last minute, and that was okay. After all, I back out last minute on most things these days. Then, I didn't! I didn't back out, I sucked it up and went. Two reasons were behind my decision - one, I wanted to see my friend badly. Two, I have been *craving* human experience. Day in day out it's all safe and staying safe and seeking safety. Safe can be okay, until you realize you're missing out on some of the best things in the world: human experience with other humans. Socializing. Meeting new people. Having NEW conversations.

As soon as I had given up on meeting someone interesting, single, age-appropriate, hot... did I mention interesting?... I did. Last night, fate, or luck, or random circumstance struck, and I have once again been reinstated with a feeling that there are still people out there in this small town who I haven't yet MET. And all I could think today was: what if I hadn't gone? What have I been missing all these times I've stayed home. Stayed safe.

Needless to say, as the high of the evening wore off (and after a hug that turned my knees to jelly and made my tongue tingle), I realized that other people probably experience this feeling far more often than I, and that I shouldn't put too much weight on the experience. That's when the old habits began to kick in for me. All those thoughts reminding me that the chances of someone feeling a spark with me when I feel a spark with him is minimal. The chances that another person is ready to be in some form of relationship or mutual dating experience when I am is minimal. The chances that if we were to get to know each other that we would both have strong feelings for each other is minimal. The negative thinking takes over, swirls around, and reminds me that mutual love, admiration and respect happens so rarely, and can be so fleeting, that it's no wonder we reel in shock and terror when we feel "it" - the momentary zap of connection, attraction - whether it be physical or intellectual. Oh, what a feeling of vulnerability! The hovering possibility of rejection surrounding the unshakeable inkling of hope.

I've spent so long in safety, I forget what risk looks like.

xo-PS

On a side note - the light burnt out on my rotating ocean picture lamp. I forget how to fall aslepp without it.

I like the nightlife, and I do in fact like to boogie.

Two posts in one day! My goodness. Well, the last one covered today, but not last night, so I feel the need to purge a little more.

For the record, I'm currently in pyjamas, one drink in, newly painted nails that I'm trying not to chip as I type. I haven't painted my nails since I had my falsies removed in August, and I came across an old picture where I thought "hmm, I really liked that colour." Turns out, it's the only colour I own, but I did three coats and now I'm waiting the obligatory 45 minutes before I can actually touch anything. Apparently my nails are now "Royal Rajah Ruby". I think it looks more like "blood clot red" but I guess that's not as glamorous.

Countdown three weeks until I'm off medical EI, and therefore the pressure for employment has begun. I have thought about this... a lot. What else do I have to do, really. I thought about my past years of employment, from the age of 17 to present. This is the first time since I got my first job straight out of high school that I have been literally - unemployed. No workplace to speak for. It's been scary and liberating, and I'm attempting to see the positive in all of this.

I have sent a few resumes in. One for a casual position that relates to my BSW, and two that do not relate to my degree. No response on all accounts.

I've been thinking a lot about what I want from my life, both short and long term. Sometimes I read over some of my blog entries to take a look at what things I've valued, what times have been good for me, what times haven't. I've been thinking a lot about what I need to both pay my bills but keep me well.

Last night I took a trip to the old night club where I used to work. It has since then changed names and (some) staff. I spent four solid years of my life there, working full time for most of it, part time while I was in school. If those walls could talk, the stories they would tell. I fell in love in that bar. I danced my heart out, drank too much, made so many connections with so many good people. I felt free to express myself through fashion, and I was a very, very good waitress. That being said, I also had my heart broken. I watched my lovers betray me, I had recent exes parade their new and prettier girls past me while I had to stay composed and serve. I sobbed in the arms of my manager in the office, too many times to count. It was the first place I went when broke up with my fiance, searching out my friend and crying into his coat in full view of the people I served. I dragged abusive men out by their collars and kicked one of them out the door in the back with my knee-high boots. I worked all night and went home in time to get my mother up and feed her breakfast, two hours after falling asleep in my clothes on the couch, make-up smudged all over my face.

Last night I met up with the owner of the bar and asked him if he would consider hiring me for... well, whatever they need - part time, on call, what have you. I specifically requested work as a waitress, because (while I was thoroughly trained and experienced on the bar) I never really felt at home except for when I had a tray in my hand.

I never thought I would ask for bar work again. I never thought I would sit here, worrying that I wouldn't be able to get work after requesting it, because I never thought I'd care enough to apply for a job that I spent studying my way out of. But here's the thing.

I need time off. I need time away from the clinical atmosphere of my last job. I want to spend a bit of time (before going back, because I plan on it) working at night and sleeping in the mornings when I'm most haunted by depression. I want to do my hair crazy, paint my nails, dress up and ask 200 people what they would like to drink. I want to know that when I walk out the door at the end of the night, that nobody's treatment referral is waiting on my desk. That I haven't just submitted a suicide risk assessment report and gone home wondering if there's going to be a voicemail for me at work the next day saying that the person in fact succeeded. And I am ashamed to admit ALL of that. Really... ashamed.

The whole reason I put myself through school is because I wanted to know that what I did, by my standards, was supporting change. Big or small. What I have come to realize, however, is that the only way I can be there to support or facilitate that change is by knowing who I am, what I want, and how to take care of myself. Maybe every once in a while, I'll have to take off a year. Dress up, serve drinks, socialize. So why do I feel so badly recognizing that it's what I may need? I fell like in admitting all this, my vanity (is it vanity, or sanity?) comes before the well-being of my community.

Food for thought for me, anyways.

Goodnight,
PS

Can't I just cut out the middle man and mainline the endorphines?

Today has been the first day in a long time that I have decided to stay in and be lazy, but not as a by-product of depression. Well, not originally. As the sun begins to lower in the sky, that raw, sinking feeling has begun, and I've realized that it is quite possibly impossible for me to avoid feelings of deep depression when I spend the day alone. It's just not a good thing in the end. This is unfortunate, because I really do value my time alone.

One of the reasons I decided to make today a "me" day was because last night I parked my car at Dad's, knowing that I had nothing planned for today. Normally, throughout the day I would move my car around town to access free two-hour zone parking. Not having to do this is a luxury. Second reason I designated today as a "me" day is because, as aformentioned - no plans. Thirdly, I am incapable of moving without pain, so I figured I might as well take advantage of my immobility and sloth-it-up.

I have been dancing more lately, in anticipation of two upcoming competitions in February, and two in March. Competition season snuck up on me immediately after Christmas break (two weeks of no dancing) and I reminded myself that if I commit to a competition, it's only worth going if I'm going to make my best effort to succeed. This means effort, and effort means pain.

I know, I know, all dancers, runners, swimmers, and so on, go through basic pain. It's all a part of the process. After all, what is that slogan? No pain, no gain? Since I've begun kicking it into high gear, so to speak, I'm reminded of the fact that, well, I'm not so young and resilient any more. People older than me are guffawing, but to try and make it more understandable - competitive Highland Dancing is similar to girl's gymnastics - there's a reason you see no one over 24 doing it publicly. It's hard on the body. Harder than most adult-oriented sports. I had a sports medicine doctor (who was the official doctor for the Canadian figure skating team) who told me that my feet and ankles reminded her of a ballerina's and figure skater's combined (skaters are notorious for having ankle injuries, and ballerinas, well, we've seen pictures of their feet. If you haven't, be sure to do so on an empty stomach). For the record, I was 15 when the physio told me this.

Sunday, I performed for a Robbie Burns function, which was super fun, but there wasn't enough time for me to warm up which (again) is the difference between a 30 year old body and that of someone who's 15. Not warming up is a very bad idea. Vurry Vurry bad. Then Monday and Tuesday I had vigorous lessons. I love it when my dance teacher pushes us almost beyond ability, because I feel like I'm getting my lesson-worth. If I wanted moderate exercise without too much challenge, I'd go to aerobics (for the record, I used to, but quit because it was too boring and easy). Today is my day off dance, and then I'm back at it tomorrow. Why do I do it? Because dancing is my favourite drug. The *only* time I don't feel depressed is when I'm dancing. The only time. I can't get enough of it, and I would do it for hours a day if my body would allow.

Unfortunately, these days, every time I land to the beat of the music on the ball of one foot, I swear my spine is compressing to the point where I'm going to lose an inch in height per month. This morning was the second in a row I had to rely on Advil to get out of bed, and for the record, I am usually very good at tolerating pain without pain killers.

Hence the lazy day. Lazy doesn't necessarily mean unproductive, as I believe I'm incapable of going a day without doing something. Currently I have my laundry going, and I'm 3/4 of the way through a book I started this morning. My dog has gone for two walks, and I've showered and washed my hair. After a long mid-morning nap, I decided that I wasn't going to be in any less pain unless I bit the bullet and moved around. I strapped on my running shoes and went for an hour long jog and power walk, stretching my seizing arches and achilles along the way. It seemed to do the job - I felt a little less rickety, and my mood had significantly elevated after all that fresh sea air and cardio.

Over the past few days, I've come to a few realizations. One is that I can probably keep my mood in check easier if I get some form of hard exercise every day. Something about those endorphins - I can't get enough. The other is that I'm going to have to invest in a large bottle of advil.

So here I am, feeling good about the choices and actions of my day, and perfectly happy doing them by myself. Why then, do I feel so lonely and down? This is why I wish I could bottle those exercise endorphins - I come off of them and feel hungover from the high - wanting more, but too tired and hurting to be able to go back to it... yet. I wish that I could find happiness and satisfaction in all the things I used to, like reading, and knitting, and taking my dog out and yes, even doing things like laundry! I'm quickly realizing, however, that I'm craving an extreme escape from life, all day long, and it can only be found in going all-out. I need to be going 100 mph, because anything else is too slow. After all, then I may have to pause and think.

Hobbling down the stairs to switch my laundry,

PS

Woah, who drugged me? Wait. Yup - that was me.

Welcome, my friends, to 'lack of motivation station'. 'Motivation station' rolls of the tongue a little sweeter, but I'm incapable of getting there.

I've certainly noticed fluctuations in patterns and habits for me since I've been off work (and kind of in treatment, for lack of a better term) but my treatment is complete and it's time for me to step forward again. The problem is, I don't really feel... better. If this is better, it's highly disappointing and not very practical for the every-day world.

More often than not, I'm falling into my all-day-in-bed habits. Though I don't know if I can call it a habit when I feel incapable of breaking it. I don't feel sad, per say, but I am completely and totally exhausted, and the littlest things feel like the biggest chores. The kicker is, some days I don't feel like this and I'm perfectly productive. While this is good, but it tends to give me false confidence - like I could do this *every* day! Then I have a day like today and I can't figure out how I'm supposed to work if I can't predict the days I can't function.

My dog had a routine vet visit this morning. We rolled out of bed at 8:30, made some coffee, had a walk, she had her breakfast. By the time 9:30 rolled around, my eyes were drooping and all I wanted to do was cancel the appointment and crawl back into bed. I had taken an ativan at about 4:00 am after a few particularly anxiety-provoking nightmares, and for some reason I think the ativan hit me a little harder than usual. I have a hard time being able to tell the difference between low anxiety (drugged on ativan) and high depression. My hand was on the phone to cancel, but I stopped myself. Any other situation I would have cancelled, but the dog-Mum in me could not justify cancelling an appointment for my fur child because I was depressed. There's no child protective services for pups, but I don't want to feel like if there were, I would be on the list. So we drove to the vet (me in my pyjamas - I may not be an unfit dog-Mum, but I sure as hell wasn't washing my face or brushing my hair.) All went well, and we drove back, me yawning all the way, desperate to go back to bed.

Fast forward until now. It's 2:00, and I just got out of bed to move my car. Now I am fighting, tooth and nail, the urge to return. Needless to say, the ativan has worn off, but the drowsiness and inability to focus is still there. I couldn't get over my demeanor at the vet - completely and totally out to lunch. The vet was talking to me, but for the life of me I couldn't hang on to what she was saying. I had to re-book for a follow-up shot for a month from now, but I couldn't even organize that in my brain, and had to leave saying I would call this week to book.

Writing helps a bit. It helps me feel like I have clarity going on somewhere in my noggin, though if you approached me on the street, I'd probably just give one word answers and stare off into space. And, of course, yawn. Constantly.

So here I sit, still unable to start my day. I have people I want to write to, knitting I want to do, household chores I *could* do, books I want to read, walks I want to take. All I can think of right now, though, is that I NEED to go back to bed and sleep this feeling away. It is, my friends, the ultimate in escapism. It is my own way of self-medicating, and though it's hard to argue that sleep is bad for you, it feels as though it is in this case.

Good afternoon, and good night,

PS

I wuv you, magical food machine!

Okay, so this is a blog about mental health, but sometimes I really neeed to put those issues aside, take a deep breath, and laugh at my dog.

First of all, this story does not go without credit. My best friends recently got an automatic feeder for their cat, who would harass them for food at all hours, and they too have hilarious stories about the cat's reactions to the new magical food dispenser.

So thus began my logic. My biggest battle with my dog is always around food. She is a pug. Most dogs don't have that "off" switch when they've had too much food, so they will continue to gorge if the food is all accessible. My dog doesn't just not have the "off" switch, she is full on *obsessed* about food. It makes her world go around, my friends. First of all, needless to say, she is on diet food. Otherwise she would be as big as a house. For years, I believe that to her, I have been labelled as the "food dispenser". Sure, I give her love and cuddles, but above all else, I give her FOOD. And for that, she loves me. Being the food dispenser is a tiresome and thankless job, and I was ready to give it up.

What if I didn't give her food? Would she still spend hours a day yelling at me, asking for me to drop a few more kibbles in her bowl? I figured, if she stops relating me to the hand that feeds, she will stop making my life hell six hours out of a day, bouncing around like an energizer bunny (with sound effects) and doing so until I feed her.

Yesterday was the holy day. The day that the magical food dispenser came to live at our house. I feel that it may go down in my dog's memory as something akin to the rebirth of Christ... the day the big bulbous machine came into her life and dispensed kibble at pre-programmed times. The wonderful, warm, plastic dispenser of food.

I would love to say it was smooth sailing, but there were a few glitches regarding... "the transition".

I programmed the machine to dispense a half cup at 9:00 am (breakfast), a quarter cup at 5:00 pm (dinner, and prime feeding time) and then another quarter cup at 8:00 pm (bedtime snack). Impatiently, my dog and I sat perched in front of the machine, tails wiggling, waiting to see what would happen at five pm (the first programmed feeding time). The clock chimed, the machine whirred, and "tick-a-tick-a-tick." Out came four kibbles. Dora snatched them up and swallowed them down in one gulp, and then resumed her usual activity - yell at Mummy till more food shows up. Frustrated, I started to dismantle the machine to figure out why the little rotors weren't working as the should. This, of course, resulted in me accidentally dumping 10 lbs of food on the floor.

This moment will now go down as the day that Dora's birthday, Christmas, and Halloween all culminated in one, spectacular moment of dream-fulfillment. Pug Mardis Gras.

I stuffed her in her kennel and began cleaning up the mess.

Long story short, after accidentally dumping the unit TWICE, and programming the dinner function over and over to measure how much came out, I finally had a working unit. Of course, throughout this half hour, my dog was having a cornonary whilst throwing herself against the side of her kennel.

This morning, I am proud to say, was the first successful feeding. I was sitting with my coffee on the couch, trying to ignore my dog as she danced around me yelling and whining, as I stared drowsily at the computer clock... praying for it to hit 9:00. Sure enough, "whir whir whir... tick-a-tick-a-tick." Dora didn't clue in to the noise trigger, so I had to point her to the bowl from the couch and ask her what was going on. She ran over there, a voila! Magical food dispenser made all her breakfast dreams come true!

It's only been a day, so we're still getting used to the drastic shift in responsibility. Dora dances around, barking at me, while I look at the machine and shrug. It's out of my hands, my little chicken. Time to take it up with the machine.

Mark my words - after a week, I believe Dora will be found sleeping with her body wrapped around magical food dispenser, waiting for the reward to appear. I, however, will be sleeping soundly in bed, having dodged a dog's lifetime of responsibility.

Shedding my duties one day at a time...

PS

But... it hurts so good!

I was going to start writing about my relationship history, and somehow I started thinking about the concept of pain. That should be some kind of an indicator, me thinks.

The first psychiatric evaluation I underwent was about two years ago. It was all right - a nice understanding man, who had just enough quirks to come off as endearing. He took off his shoes upon arrival (something I have done as a counsellor - along with sitting cross legged) and he dimmed the lights because, well, he just found them to be too abrasive. I liked him immediately. He ended up diagnosing me as bipolar, which was quite incorrect, actually - and I knew that from the get go. Luckily, since then the diagnosis has been changed to: major depressive disorder, panic disorder, and generalized anxiety disorder. Or as I like to call them - The Holy Trinity of mental illness. Anyhoo - not bipolar. Why? Not manic.

Where was I going with this. Ahh yes - included in my psych evaluation was a request for me to explain my body modifications - my piercings and tattoos. I, naively, answered immediately, wondering what kind of stupid question was that... I did it because I love the way it looks. Why else would I have pictures inked permanently onto my body? Turns out he was trying to steer me in another direction. I'm a girl who loves the PAIN.

For the record? Not true. No judgement to those who do. Pain is what I put up with to get to the pretty ending. With both piercings and tattoos. It got me thinking. Well, first it got me thinking about the stigma attached to body modification, and the generalization that a) I like pain and b) I'm actually good with pain. I think I'm good with pain now, but only after a lot of practice.

Interesting side note - since starting meds, I have begun fainting or getting-close-to in some of the most basic situations that I've always been able to handle. The last time I had my blood tested, I passed out and had a HUGE anxiety attack in the lab. They eventually had to carry me downstairs to the clinic, where I lay shaking and crying on a table. I had no one with me, because - when have I ever had a problem getting blood taken?? Soon after, I had my arm worked on and when the artist moved to my elbow, I had to get him to stop because I knew I was going to faint. For the record, I felt like such a poser.

Then I began to cut. I know, a girl who begins fainting while having her blood taken should probably not cut. But to me it was different - surface only, none of the veins involved. I tried it and I was hooked - best way to get my mind off my anxiety, my sadness. It wasn't about the pain, it was more about the control over a body. Perhaps much like someone who is anorexic may feel - no longer about the weight, but about being able to say "hey! I have no control over my depression or anxiety, but this I can do to my body because it's MINE." So I became the cliched depressed cutter - something which I have never admitted to anyone beyond my sex partners, and them only because I had to explain the scars. I felt ashamed - cutting felt like such a "teenage" thing to do. Glorified by emo kids who slash up and down their wrists with a sawed off safety razor. Perhaps I am trying to justify it, but to me - people who cut for their pain don't show it off to the world around them. They avoid the arms.

I truly believe that from these tales, it's been well-established that I'm not a massochist. I don't get off on pain, and I put up with it only as a means to an end - some form of reward.

Then... there is emotional massochism.

This is where the blog post was going to begin, but I got all caught up in the physical side of pain and went off on a tangent. So much so, that I can't even remember where I was going with this.

I have a crush, on a man, who is good. He's kind, funny, respectful. He challenges me - he is completely unavailable. Which in my mind is pretty much common sense, because he IS so kind, funny, respectful, and so on. The reason this is coming up is because I look at people like him, and automatically presume that he would not go for the likes of me. Around him is one of the few times in my life that I feel a little too, oh, I don't know, freaky deeky. Not because he makes me feel that way, but because I put that upon myself. I put myself down, presuming I'm too fucked up for the relatively well-adjusted likes of him.

This was a big realization for me! Where did this come from, and how has it affected my dating past? First of all, there are obviously exceptions to all rules. I have dated a few kind, respectful men in my past. And they have cared for me despite my occassional... oddness. Perhaps more so because of it. That, however, has sometimes made me wary, because I feel like they're looking at this picture of coolness (based on my appearance, facade, what have you) and then they kinda realize that the girl isn't as pretty and fun as the picture. That has happened in the past, and it has resulted in them cheating. The shine wears off eventually. Then there's the men who I feel I deserve to date, who treat me like shit. They're edgy, fucked up, totally non-committal. What more could a girl ask for? Needless to say, those relationships have ended in utter and true heartbreak - always on my end, and always lasting. To the point where I feel like they actually left with a piece of me that I will never, ever, be able to regain. Yeah. Fuck them for that.

After a lot of work on myself, I've begun to open my eyes to the possibilities. The idea that I deserve someone who is not only kind, respectful, loving, but also funny, a little bit edgy, and a little bit crazy. It's the happy medium, and at this point, I still only see it as a faint possibility. I can only hope that one day I will have a huge crush on a man and NOT think to myself... "There's no way he would want to be with me."

Dreaming of change, cuddling the pug,

xo-PS