Tomorrow Is Another Day...

Travel Therapy

Thank you so much for all of the sweet, supportive comments and messages on my last post.  I wish I could say I've been doing better, but this week has been pretty dismal.  On top of not seeing the sun since Saturday, I've been sick with a horribly sore throat.  I've never had strep, but if I were running a fever, I'd be pretty convinced that's what this is.  Fortunately, the girls have gotten so good at playing with each other and entertaining themselves, I can just lay in the couch in a stupor and they don't get too bothered unless feeding time is delayed!

I did up my dose of Vitamin D and I just ordered a sunlamp from Amazon.de (this one for any of my Deutschland pals who may be on the hunt) that should arrive either tomorrow or Monday.  So I am trying.  I've decided to let myself continue to mope through the end of this week, and then starting on Saturday it's onward and upward.  I will get through this winter, I will get through this slump, and there will be better days ahead.

In fact, I have taken steps to ENSURE better days ahead by going on a trip planning spree.  With our heavy traveling schedule last summer and fall, including a fun though exhausting trip back to the States, we got pretty burned out on going places.  But our last trip in Europe was to Brussels in October, which seems llke an absolute aeon ago, and I've been starting to feel the travel bug itch again.

First Up: Vienna, Austria; Bratislava, Slovakia; Budapest, Hungary in February.  Ever since my parents went on a Danube cruise last year, and raved about their experiences, I've been dying to go to Vienna and Budapest.  With Bratislava only an hour away from Vienna, it seems like an easy way to add one more country to our travel list.  Plus, I just want to see if you really could start your own hotel with a nickel.

Round Two: After a disappointing experience at the Keukenhof in the Netherlands last year, we're giving the tulips one more shot to impress us this April.  We'll also do a daytrip into Amsterdam because we liked the city so much, and hopefully a visit out to the coast.  Please cooperate with us this time, weather!

St. Petersburg is Gloomy: This is the one I'm absolutely dying with excitement over--a Baltic cruise to Copenhagen, Denmark; Helsinki, Finland; Talin, Estonia; St. Petersburg, Russia; and Stockholm, Sweden in July.  Despite the rather more than slightly terrifying experience we had onboard our last cruise ship, we've decided that particular brand of lightning just couldn't possibly strike twice.  Please don't let those be famous last words...

Croatian Destination: We haven't officially booked this one as we're still waiting to hear back on plans from family, but we're hoping to visit Croatia in August and sneak in a daytrip to Venice, Italy by ferry.

So, that's a lot of big trips, but since we're likely staring down the barrel of our last summer in Europe, we don't want to waste a minute that we have left.  I don't think I could ever possibly fit in every single destination that we'd like to visit in Europe in one lifetime, but after this summer, we'll have checked off the biggest Must Sees on our bucket list.  Do you have any fun vacations coming up this year?

Weaning Woes

I've been having a really hard time for a little over a month now.  You'd think that after experiencing this year after year, I would somehow be more prepared once the dreaded Seasonal Affective Disorder starts to hit, but no, each year it's like a whole new, miserable plummet.  And this year it feels about as bad as it's ever been.

It's SO HARD for me to convince myself to leave the house.  I just want to stay in my pajamas all day and mope about how isolated I feel--all while furthering that isolation by not wanting to leave the house.  So I force myself out, and do genuinely have a good time once I'm amongst other humans, but then I am so wiped out by the exertion of sociability that I retreat even further into my cave and feel even more glum.  Ah, the glorious intersection of introversion and depression.

It's hard for me to even sit down and write this blog post.  I've been halfheartedly mulling over how I would approach it, and what to even say beyond: don't mind me, I'm just having another Eeyore moment.  I barely have the energy to devote to mindlessly addressing holiday cards a month late, nevermind introspection and forming entire sentences.

Being convinced that this winter has been one of the hardest ones to get through, I did think long and hard about what was different about this year as opposed to those in the past.  The one thing I could pinpoint was weaning.  I've been slowly reducing our nursing sessions since the girls became more interested in solid food a little before their first birthday.  We're now down to one, on rare occasions two, sessions a day.  

And it's not that I'm sad about weaning.  Frankly, I'm ready to be done, and pretty happy with the fact that we made it past my initial goal of six months, let alone fourteen.  But Charlotte, and mostly Annabelle, just aren't totally ready to be done.  Still, going from four or five sessions a day in the fall to our current one or two, has very likely been wreaking havoc with my hormones, which, let's face it, really don't need any help in the havoc department.

I did a Google search and lo and behold, all of these links popped up about an experience that many women go through while weaning that is comparable to PPD.  From this article in the Huffington Post:

In the days after Jane Roper stopped breastfeeding her 13-month-old twin girls, her mood slumped. She took no joy in the things she normally loved, lost her motivation and found it difficult to concentrate.

Yes.  Check.  Check.  And check.

But the frequency with which women experience depressive episodes when weaning their babies is far less understood. Researchers have yet to examine the connection between weaning and depression in depth.

"The intersection between lactation and mood is important, and it is extremely understudied," said Dr. Samantha Meltzer-Brody, director of the perinatal psychiatry program at the UNC Center for Women's Mood Disorders. "There are definitely people who report mood symptoms associated with lactation."

And later:

"We don't have the data that measure oxytocin levels with breastfeeding and weaning. It's certainly plausible that losing that is going to make people feel physically bad, independent of any cognitive sadness they're experiencing," said Dr. Alison Stuebe, an OBGYN and assistant professor of maternal and child health at the University of North Carolina and one of Meltzer Brody's co-authors.

When I first realized that my sadness went a bit beyond my typical winter blues, I mentioned it to my friends in a kind of baby support group, and was pretty surprised by the number of people who shared similar experiences upon weaning.  So, at least I can take comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone in this.

I'm due for a check up with my OB/GYN pretty soon, and I go back and forth about whether to bring this up.  My previous bout of depression led to a prescription for an antidepression medication by a military general practitioner which led to questions about my mental stability when the Air Force was deciding whether or not I could "handle" a move to Germany.  So, I'm pretty hesitant about adding further fuel to that particular fire.  For now, I'm just upping my Vitamin D intake, starting to exercise more, researching sunlamps, and looking at pictures like this one.

They are my reason for getting up in the morning.  For smiling and singing.  They are everything that is perfect and sweet and pure.  This too shall pass.  This too shall pass.

Try A Little Honesty

It's hard to believe that we're already at the end of February and the girls are almost four months old.  The last month and a half or so has been so much fun.  They know who we are, and give us the brightest, happiest smiles.  Annabelle's eyes light up and her mouth opens wide into the most adorable expression of glee.  Charlotte raises her eyebrows, crinkles her nose and gives you a sideways glance and a mischievious grin.  They're rolling over, trying to sit up, playing with toys, giggling at the baby in the mirror, trying out their voices, chewing on their hands.  They take naps in their own room, giving me a much needed few hours to myself throughout the day.  It takes ten or fifteen minutes to get them to sleep at night instead of three hours.  They interact with the world around them, and even seem to be beginning to notice each other as they'll suddenly stop what they're doing and stare intently at the baby across the way.  In short, I am loving this mom gig.

But full, brutal, honest disclosure?  I didn't always.

It's still hard to admit that to myself.  To know how hard we had to try to get here, and how much I felt like we'd made a huge mistake for the first two months of the girls' lives--that I wasn't cut out for this.

It's strange, because you hear all about baby blues and post partum depression and how hard motherhood is, but it's something that you just cannot prepare yourself for or understand until you are in the trenches.  And once you're in there--the bullets whizzing by your head, in the same pajamas for the third day straight, a screaming baby in your arms and one ramping up, exhausted, sick to death of feeding your child--it suddenly seems like everyone around you is experiencing this perfect, rosy version of motherhood.

I think the world of social media has to take a lot of the blame for that.  Now that I'm coming out on the other side of the horrible "fourth trimester", I look back and realize that I projected--or tried to project--that same image.  Everything is perfect.  I couldn't ask for a happier life.  Look at this beautiful Instagram-filtered photo of my ideal life.  But don't look beyond it.  Don't really see me.

It took me time to fall in love with my babies.  That's another one I wasn't expecting.  Not only is motherhood hard, but either there is something very wrong with me, or not everyone forms an immediate, loving bond with their child.  I was caring for these tiny strangers who didn't care, or even know, one way or another about my existence.  I had a very strong protective instinct toward them--so strong that I experienced my first anxiety attacks after their birth.  So strong that I was physically incapable of "sleeping when the baby sleeps".  But I didn't feel an instantaneous, enjoyable love.

Combined with that, was the horrible guilt that I didn't feel like holding them all the time, that I resented the fact that they were attached to me every two hours--sometimes more.  I was almost angry about the fact that breastfeeding went so well because it meant that I never got a break, that I didn't have an excuse to just formula feed and not be solely responsible for their nourishment.  I actually do enjoy nursing now, and am so glad that I stuck with it, but it has taken me almost four months to get to this point.  It took me almost two months to learn to enjoy my children, and to love them in something other than just a primal way.  To enjoy their company.  To look forward to seeing their little faces when they wake up, and not dread the moment.

I still feel awful confessing these things, but I feel even more awful keeping it a secret.  Maybe this is normal.  Maybe other people have these feelings.  I don't know.  Looking back, I wish I had realized that I was experiencing a little more than just the baby blues.  I realized it in retrospect, but by then I was starting to come out of it and didn't feel the need for professional help.

I'm so glad that I had a supportive family here to help out with holding babies, cooking dinner, not judging me and my pajamas.  That I have a husband who could not possibly be more helpful.  Who changes diapers, gets up with me at night, rocks screaming babies to sleep, cooks dinner, helps clean the house, doesn't judge me and my pajamas.  That I have two beautiful baby girls who I have finally fallen completely in love with.

I'm still not at the point where I can say that I hope we have another baby some day, but I have gotten to the place where I can understand why people would want to do this again.  When I was stashing away the outgrown newborn and 0-3 month clothes, I actually found myself wondering if I should save it for possible future use.  So things have gotten better.  We're all doing better.  But I wanted to be honest about how I got to this point.  Maybe someone else out there is feeling these same things.  Maybe everyone else feels them.  Maybe no one else does.  But it was my experience.

Grief

I know.  I know.  You're sitting there thinking, how many more words can this girl possibly write about infertility?  I can understand this sentiment, because quite frankly, I get sick of thinking about it myself.  I wish I could empty my brains of all the feelings and thoughts and feelings that are taking over my every waking moment.  Because, you see, there are so many feelings.

I've never been a particularly sensitive person.  This personality trait led to a great many moments of discord growing up with a mother and a sister who are more sensitive than a bundle of raw nerves.  I rarely went out of my way to be mean, but I would consistently make comments or behave in ways that branded me as "thoughtless".  As I grew older and slightly more mature I learned that it took just a little extra effort for me to be thoughtful and compassionate toward other people's feelings.  It's not that I don't ever feel sad or hurt or misunderstood--I have an entire blog category dedicated to my struggles with depression--it's just that I often have trouble communicating these feelings, or even understanding them myself, so to avoid dealing with them I pour them into a neat little bottle and pack them away into a deep, dark corner of my psyche.

So, it's not that I don't have feelings, it's just that I get very uncomfortable acknowledging or expressing my feelings in anything but writing.

But ever since it began to dawn on us that making a baby wasn't going to be quite the hey presto experience we were expecting, all of that has changed.  I am constantly feeling sad, or angry, or hopeful, or bitter, or jealous, or betrayed, or worried, or any number of other complicated emotions that I can't just power through, dash off a blog post about and carry on with my life.  I spring rapidly from one feeling to the next, leaving me with a sense of emotional whiplash.  One minute I'll be feeling optimistic or even excited about our fertility treatment plan, so then why do I suddenly want to punch that woman who is complaining about her child?  Or, I was just feeling incredibly guilty about how my anger has gotten the better of me once more, promising myself that I will find better ways to channel my emotions than through jealousy and bitterness, and now I want to write a scathing Facebook post about pregnant women who think they can just go out in public any old time walking around all PREGNANT.  Or hey, maybe we'll miraculously get pregnant in that one last cycle after Colby gets home, and then we won't have to worry about any of this!  And then I'm right back to this is all so fucking unfair, woe is meeeeeee, I hate the world today.

I never know how I'm going to feel when I wake up in the morning.  I dread falling asleep because I don't know if I can handle another dream where I discover I'm pregnant or am joyfully juggling twins, only to wake up and find myself just as babyless as ever.  There are days where I feel a sense of lightness, because we have this figured out and I am excited for the future.  Then there are days where I wonder how anybody can look at me and not see that I am falling apart.

This weekend, I somehow landed on a website detailing Kubler-Ross's Five Stages of Grief.

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Anyone who has taken an Intro to Psych class has seen these before, but seeing it there in writing, just as I was going through it... it was as though the clouds parted, and I had a sudden moment of clarity.  Even though I'm not mourning a death, I am going through the most classic stages of grief.  In a sense, mourning the loss of a dream.  The dream I have had since I was a little girl of growing up, falling in love, having a baby.  On my own terms.  

Is it certainly possible, even likely, that there will be a child or children at the end of this path we're on?  Yes.  But I can guarandamntee you that when I was pouring my heart out at slumber parties, none of my rosy scenarios involved painful daily hormone injections, cleaning out my savings account since my supposedly stellar insurance plan doesn't cover the one major medical procedure my body needs in order to function semi-properly because it's "elective", and creating the miracle of life in a petri dish.

The article stated that though these are the most common stages of grief, there is not necessarily a linear progression through them.  And while you may spend just a minute in one stage, you could spend days, weeks or months in another.  I suppose it's a good sign that I have, if only in the briefest of moments, flirted with feelings of acceptance.  It doesn't mean that I'm happy, or joyful about our circumstances, but I do acknowledge that it is our circumstance, whether we like it or not.

Unfortunately, I'm still spending most of my time ping ponging between anger and depression.  I feel sick to my stomach when I hear about a pregnancy.  I have countless moments of bitterness toward other mothers who express completely valid frustrations of their own.  I feel furious at an insurance company that is failing us so deplorably.  I want to scream at the unfairness of a world where a drug addict, alcoholic, or a teenager can get pregnant on accident, while a loving, financially secure, educated, mature couple has to undergo invasive medical procedures for just the glimmer of hope that an embryo might implant.  I even cringe at the merest possiblity of yet another character on tv announcing a pregnancy.  I don't go around melting down in public or punching people, but the anger and sadness is almost always there, simmering just below the surface of day to day life.

I have no doubt that this is just a miniscule taste of the emotionally and physically draining mountain that I still have to climb--I can't even think about what a mess I'm going to be when I'm hopped up on hormones and stress.  I have so many worries and fears about the path that we've set before us, and I think that the anger, while also a natural reaction to a shity situation, is a defense mechanism.  I don't know how long it will take before I land permanently on acceptance--honestly, it may be never--but I cannot give up and allow myself to be swallowed up by bitterness and anger.  I know that I have to keep going and cling desperately to whatever shreds of hope I can find.  But I have to feel my feelings.  I have to accept them as valid emotions, and let myself go through this.  Everyone tells me that at the end of the day, I will look back on this and it will all have been worth it.  It will all be worth it.

"After climbing a great hill, one only finds there are more hills to climb. I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the glorious vista that surrounds me and to look back on the distance I have come. But I dare not linger and can rest only for a moment, for my long walk is not ended." ~Nelson Mandela

"Hope is like a bird that senses the dawn and carefully starts to sing while it is still dark." ~Anonymous

Resigning From Life

BLEEEAAAAARRRRRGHHHHH!!!!!!

I quit.  Consider this my two week notice.  I am turning in my resignation letter to the Department of Living Amongst Society and moving to a hut on the beach in an as yet undiscovered island.  I'm not leaving a forwarding address.  I go alone.  Don't come looking for me, because I am DONE.

I don't want to clean up after a destructive dog who will pull items out of thin air if there are none within reach that he can rip to shreds in my absence and then prance about proudly when I return home.  I don't want to clean the bathroom, wash the dishes, do the laundry, vacuum the floor only to have to do it again in what seems like mere hours.

I don't want to be a law abiding citizen, vote in elections, throw my garbage in the trash can, give money to causes that need it more than I do, and be a generally good person, only to be given a $340 ticket for not registering my car in the state of Washington, when I had no clue that I was supposed to.  I'm not registered to vote here, I don't claim residency here, I'm a military nomad and I'm sorry you Office-Space-Boss-Looking-Asshole Cop, I have never been made aware of this rule.  I'm not claiming that ignorance of the law is the perfect excuse, but how easy would it have been to have given a friendly warning and gone about your day?  You can take your, "Have a nice day, ma'am," and shove it up your power-tripping, quota-filling rear end.

I'm tired of being tired.  I'm sick of exhausted kids who treat me and each other like crap and make me dread the day I see two lines on a pregnancy test.  I'm flummoxed by my suddenly shitty gas mileage that makes me suspect a gremlin is sneaking into my garage at night and siphoning the gasoline out of my car.  I wish the damn cd player in my car would stop overheating and spitting cds out at me with a snotty "Check CD" message on the display every time I try to listen to something other than our lame radio stations.

I'm so over feeling negative.  I want the fucking sun to shine.  I want to wake up and feel excited about another day.  I'm sick of being a single wife.  I'm worn down from the constant stream of "what ifs" running circles around my brain about where we're going to live this time next year, how we'll sell our house without losing our shirts, whether or not we'll be able to get another mortgage, and what furniture or precious family mementos will be destroyed in the move.

I'm just so ready to check out.

But I can't quit.  This is my life.

As shitty as it makes me feel sometimes.  I love my retarded dogs.  This job is the first one I've ever had where I feel like maybe I'm making a difference.  I know I need to just suck it up and have a little faith that God won't dish out more than we can take.  The military infuriates me on a daily basis, but it has also been very good to us over the years.  As for the cop and the ticket situation... well, I tried, but I can't find the silver lining there.

I just want to escape from it all.  But then I guess everyone does, and we just keep riding this completely absurd roller coaster of life.  In the meantime, thank you Jesus for wine, carefully cultivated savings accounts, Gossip Girl, and giant, liquid puppy dog eyes that just won't allow you to stay angry for too long.

But I'd still rather be in Capri.

T.G.I... Wait, I Just Said That

(Edit:  As an aside, why does Google Reader hate me so much lately?  My posts have been taking 4-5 hours to show up in recent weeks, but this particular post was published over 12 hours ago and Reader has yet to pick it up.  Is anyone else having this issue, or is even Google deciding that my entries are too mundane for publication??)

This week... happened.

I think I've just kind of given up, accepted that I am hugely boring, and come to terms with the fact that I can no longer scrape together enough interesting material to blog more than once a week.  It's not a conscious decision, it's just...I've kind of lost the plot.  I don't know what to say other than variations the following:

This morning I woke up at a time that I consider to be the middle of the night.  I went to work for a couple of hours where I attempted to keep grade schoolers from committing any sort of illegal or life threatening activities.  Then I came home and ate/took a nap/watched tv/folded laundry until it was time to go back to work.  Then I came home, ate, watched tv, and will go to bed around 9:30.  10:30 if I am feeling particularly energetic.

Can you imagine anything more dull?  And can you imagine that more than once a week?  If I'm being entirely honest with myself, I'm not even narcissistic enough to believe that I'm in any way interesting enough for even a weekly post, but I'm just not quite ready to put this horse out to pasture yet.

So, here I am.

Super bummed that Alexis Grace went home last night.  Still trying to figure out if I love Megan Corkery (who seems to have changed her name?) or if I find her affected and irritating.  My feelings on this change daily.

I went to the dentist today for the first time in over two years, and was astounded to discover how much dental hygienists have in common with Billy Mays.  I suppose I was just sheltered by Air Force dentists who weren't forced to make a buck shilling xylitol based products, Sonicare toothbrushes, and at home bleaching kits, but crap.  Just massacre my teeth and gums for the agreed upon fee and let me out of there.  I did at least get some free gum samples.

Colby left yesterday for a five to six week school in Oklahoma.  I never thought that I would be jealous of that fact, but it was sunny and in the 70s there today, while Washington is still firmly in winter's grip and the rest of March is projected to look something like this:

I want to cry on a near daily basis.  I blame poor parenting and rain clouds.

My dinner tonight consisted of a single serving package of pepper jack Tillamook cheese, a bowl of Golden Grahams, and a buttered english muffin.  If I die of malnutrition or depression during the next five weeks, I am blaming the Air Force.

I can't even believe I am hitting "save" on this steaming crap pile of a post.  But, alas, I am.

Restless

You like how I patted myself on the back there for blogging more frequently, then promptly fell off the radar for the rest of the week?  Yeah, that was great.  I've been consciously making the decision not to blog, because honestly the only thing I want to write about right now is just how restless and apathetic about life I've been feeling lately.  And it seems of late, every time someone dares blog about something making them unhappy trolls have come out of the woodwork to lambast them for daring to not be happy about everything in their perfect lives, and quite frankly, I just feel too fragile for trolls right now.  But then I was all, "Angela, this is YOUR blog and if someone doesn't want to read your little epistle of unhappiness, they are free to navigate away to cutepuppies dot com."

So basically, I've just felt like a huge old lump of grump for the past couple of weeks.  I've been picking fights with Colby at home, I've been ridiculously sensitive and defensive about just about anything anyone says to me, and my tolerance for nonsense at school has been dangerously low.  Every morning I wake up and tell myself that today will be better, then I really make a concerted effort to be more positive until around midmorning when I reach the end of my rope.

I don't know precisely what my problem is.  One can really only blame so much on that much dreaded time of month, and the excuse wears a little thin when it is used every day of the month.  When I try to put my finger on exactly what is upsetting me, it just makes me feel utterly ridiculous.  Por ejemplo, Things That Are Currently Bumming me Out:

1) I am not going to Italy next month.  Or anywhere glamorous and European for that matter.  We're getting closer and closer to the one year point of when Colby and I left for our honeymoon last year, and I've been torturing myself by reading through my posts leading up to and after the trip.  I know, I'm a twit, some people never get to leave the country, and I'm bemoaning the fact that I have to go more than a year between trips abroad.  But still, every time I broach the topic of my dreams of a trip to France next summer, Colby all but laughs in my face.  In the interim, he's jetting off to Korea, Italy, and Germany, while I'm stuck in Washington, explaining once more to 9-year-olds exactly why it is not okay to use the term "cracker" in a derogatory manner.

2) I'm sick of winter, I'm a little over Washington, and I just want to know what our future holds so that we can stop stressing about the what ifs and start making a plan.  We've turned in our updated dream location list for Colby's next assignment, we have a pretty strong feeling that we'll end up at one of our top two choices--either Charleston or a base about an hour outside of San Francisco.  That's all well and good, but with the real estate market in its current state of gloom and doom, those two options provide us with two very different paths down which we'll travel depending on where we're assigned.  And of course there's always the threat of ending up in Alaska or middle of nowhere Oklahoma.  And please don't tell me that Alaska is actually quite beautiful.  I don't want beautiful.  I want warm.  And not Oklahoma.

3) I really do enjoy what I do.  For the most part, I think the kids I work with are pretty great, and we just had a talent show on Wednesday night, that oh my God, had me in stitches the kids were so damn cute.  But there are are 3-5 kids (depending on the day) that absolutely make me want to rip my hair out.  It is amazing to me how just a couple of disrespectful, physically and emotionally aggressive children can really ruin what should be a great day.  And every day it's a different thing.  A fight. Name calling.  Lying.  Sidebar lessons on what sex is while I'm talking about Dr. Seuss's birthday.  I know this is no different from what I'll experience as a teacher, but it really is exhausting and I feel that in a daycare setting, children are allowed to get away with more than they would in a more structured school setting.  I find parenting other people's kids exhausting, and it's frustrating that they all seem to operate under the delusion that their little angels couldn't possibly be the problem.

4) I've been feeling a little bit taken for granted by Colby lately.  Not in a huge way, just in the little things, I don't necessarily feel that what I do is important and that somehow I've become a little bit of the Lucy to his Ricky.  I know I probably bring this upon myself in the way that I make jokes out of things that I'm really serious about.  Like, I constantly make jokes about wanting a third dog.  I joke about wanting to plan that trip abroad next summer.  I don't come across as really serious about my desires and I often make jokes about my job, so it's to be expected that maybe he would do the same.  But the other night, after repeated reminders about the talent show at school, Colby completely and utterly forgot to show up.  I'd been talking about it for weeks, and it just wasn't on his radar at all, even though he'd participated in the conversations with me.  I was incredibly hurt and angry, and I think it was sort of a culmination of all those feelings I've been having for a while now.  I'm okay with making light of situations, but I don't want to be the foil in the relationship.  There is probably a whole blog for another day, exploring this further, but basically, these feelings had been seething for a while and that was just the final straw for me.

Anyway, the sun is shining today, I've got two hours of America's Next Top Model to watch before I go back to work, it's Friday and I think we're actually going to do something fun this weekend instead of sitting around the house doing homework.  I'm hopeful that next week will be better, and if not, maybe I'll just write about it as it comes instead of saving everything up for another ten page long missive on why I'm still not feeling like rainbows and starshine.

Quarter Life Crisis: Round Two

My struggles with depression and attempts to define myself have been pretty well documented here over the past few years.  Sometimes, when I want a really surreal trip down memory lane, I just click over there on that depression category, and I read the posts that were written just over a year ago, and I feel like I'm reading about someone else's life.  My method of coping with those memories has been to just completely erase 2006 and late 2005 from my mind.  It was a pretty dark period in my life, and I don't really like to look back.

Lately though, I've been looking back.  I've been trying to gauge what I've been feeling lately against what I was feeling then.  Checking my Crazy Barometer if you will.  The last thing I want to do is put Colby through the hell of an unmedicated, depressed Angela, so every morning I lick my finger and test the winds of Crazy, trying to determine if what I'm feeling is really depression rearing its ugly head once more, or just confusion.

The thing is, I don't feel like driving my car off of an overpass, I don't lay in bed crying every night, and I don't feel like a totally empty shell of a person.  Yes I'm a little grumpier than usual, and yes, my patience is a little shorter than it should be, but I don't feel like it's time to start medicating my brain again.  And yet, still I don't feel quite right.

Then I found this post, from almost two years ago, and it hit me.  That's exactly what this is.  I'm going through my Quarter Life Crisis version 2.0.  I thought it was over and done with, that I had come to terms with who I am as a person, but I'm beginning to think that these little existential crises just never really stop happening.  All of those things I questioned then--whether I would ever find true love, whether I would ever be a published writer, whether I really belonged in the military--have been answered.  I thought that once I was married, published, and a civilian, everything would fall into place.  Magically, my life would have meaning, and I would know why I was put on this earth.

Thing is though?  I'm just as lost now as I was then.  Only now I'm even more confused, because all this time I just thought that if I could accomplish X, Y, and Z, everything would be perfect and I would never have to question my role in life again.

But now I'm once again on the brink of unemployment, spending my afternoons trolling through job listings, waiting for something to jump out at me.  Waiting to feel a pull in a certain direction.  Who will I be next?  What is my calling in life?  What if my calling in life already happened, and I was too busy watching Dancing with the Stars to pay attention?  What is wrong with me that never in my life have I had any sort of passion for a career?  Sure, there's writing, but I haven't done such a great job of making a career out of that.   I've always wanted three things:  to be a wife, a mother, and a writer.  I have two out of three of those things under my belt, and I still feel like I'm floundering.

So then I start wondering once more, am I supposed to be a mom now?  If that's the only thing left that I've always wanted, is that what I'm supposed to do now?  Once every two or three weeks, that starts to sound like a really great idea.  It is generally after I've spent some time with a very well behaved child, or wandered aimlessly through the Target baby section.  I start to feel those maternal twinges, and I think, "Yes, this is what I need."  But then I spend a weekend sleeping in until 10:30, lounging on the couch all day watching America's Next Top Model marathons, planning our trip to Italy and future dream trips to Costa Rica and Paris, and I think, "No, actually, I think this is what I need.  This and a Cadbury Cream Egg will do nicely, thank you."

In two years will I look back on this entry, and laugh sardonically as I hoist a baby on my hip and try to do ten loads of laundry one handed while Colby is deployed to Madrid for 6 months?  How's that for your life long dream, Ang.  Good job pinning all of your hopes on this!  Will I ever have that lightning bolt moment where I realize, "This is IT.  This is your life!  Embrace it!"  Or am I going to spend the rest of my life wondering what the hell I'm doing and if I left the gas on at home?

So Worn Down

I think this year has finally caught up with me--leaving my job, moving across the country, setting up a house, finding a job, planning a wedding--I've run out of energy.  Everything that has happened in the past 10 months is something that I would choose to do again and again, but I've just kept powering through everything and I don't feel like I can keep powering on anymore.

I'm so happy with the job that I have--it's enjoyable, but not demanding, I work with great people, and the pay for what I do is pretty astounding.  What I'm not happy with, at all, is the commute.  It was nice at first, and admittedly, the train is pretty great here.  It's fairly quiet in the mornings, I'm always able to get there in time to find a seat, it's clean, I can sleep without worrying that someone is going to steal my bag, and most importantly, it allows me to avoid the nightmare of rush hour traffic in Seattle.  With all of those great things being said, it's getting harder and harder to spend 3 hours of my day on a commute.  It's bad enough to wake up at 6:15 each morning, but to wake up at 6:15 and know that I won't be home for another 12 hours just sucks.

I know that some people have careers that demand far more from them than 12 hours a day, and they're happy and fulfilled and uncomplaining.  But I hate getting home at 6:30, eating dinner, watching tv for a couple of hours and passing out on the couch by 10 o'clock.  I hate that I leave the office at 10 to 5:00 knowing that no matter how quickly the train moves or how light the traffic is on the way home, I won't be walking through my door for another hour and a half.  I'll admit it to anyone that asks--my career is not the focus of my life.  I only work because it pays the bills, not because of any personal fulfillment it gives me.  I love to be at home with Colby, with the dogs watching our terrible television shows and running errands.

In those few hours when I am at home, and not asleep, I watch the laundry pile up in our closet, the dishes pile up in the sink, the dust coating the furniture, the clumps of dog hair on the floor, and I just can't keep up with it.  I always think I'll be able to take care of it on the weekends, but I only manage to make the tiniest dent, and by Monday evening it seems as though everything has reverted to the way it was.  I don't work out anymore because it's so dark and cold by the time I get home and I barely have the energy to wash a plate, never mind run for 45 minutes, and I know that I've lost all of the progress I made over the summer.

I can't even bring myself to get excited about Christmas.  I've spent the last week trying to figure out gifts for people, because there was just no room in my brain for those kinds of decisions over the past few months.  Now that we have our wedding pictures from the photographers I can do our Christmas cards, but the thought of addressing all of those envelopes overwhelms me.  We haven't decorated the house, I haven't mailed a single gift, and I've listened to a grand total of 20 minutes of Christmas music.  I feel like such a Grinch.

The days feel like they've gotten unbearably short--it seems like the sun has set by 4:30 every day--and I'm so, so tired of being cold.  I've been fighting some kind of sickness or another off ever since we got back to Washington, and the germs and the exhaustion have finally got their claws into me.  My stomach has been churning for the past two days, my throat is sore, I have a perpetual headache, and all I want to do is sleep until the Spring.

I honestly don't know if this is really just a matter of me needing a break or if depression is once again starting to slither its way back into my life.  All I know is that I just want to wake up and feel rested for one day.  I want to be able to stay alert past 9:30 pm, and I want the crankiness and the apathy to go away.  I want to be excited about Christmas and my birthday and I want to stop feeling so overwhelmed by life and dreading waking up in the morning every night when I go to sleep.

Postcards From the Sofa

Well, I suppose one way to get yourself a four-day weekend is to eat a leftover slice of pizza from Domino's on the night of your third day at home and spend the rest of the night violently ill in the loo.  I don't recommend it, actually.  I also don't think I'll be ordering from Domino's again anytime soon.

Anyway, it was a good weekend in which shopping, eating, and sleeping took place, and absolutely nothing with any productivity value was accomplished.  Which leaves me with Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday to pack for a two week trip with a weather variation of approximately 50-90 degrees, clean my apartment, do laundry, and take care of various other girly necessities.  I don't foresee leaving the borders of my couch or the bathroom (Two separate places--I don't actually have a couch in the bathroom, what do you think this is?  Bloomingdales?) anytime soon, so I'm down to Wednesday and Thursday.  Nothing quite like waiting until the last possible minute is there?  No worries, I'll just be up packing until 2 in the morning on Thursday.  As per usual.

So, in lieu of creativity, today I will bestow upon you some not very well thought out, scattered opinions on The Bell Jar (quick summary in that there link) which I am shamelessly stealing from an email I wrote only minutes ago and barely brushing over with my editorial wand.  A few of my friends and I have recently started up a long distance book club in which discussions take place over email and there is a sad lack of hors d'ouevres, however, I am hoping that it will help me branch out from my recent addiction to reading nothing but Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes, and Maeve Binchy.  All lovely books that I worship and adore in their own right, and even aspire to, but not what I like to call "brain food", if you know what I mean.  Every now and then a girl needs to read something that makes her think--and so I present to you the innerworkings of my brain in reference to Sylvia Plath's only novel, The Bell Jar:

Let me begin by saying--if you are a woman, and you have not yet read this book, hie thee to a Barnes and Noble tout suite and remedy the situation.  I have never read another book that felt more as though the author was sitting inside my brain and plucking out thoughts, experiences, and fears and translating them to the written word. 

There were two themes specifically that really stood out to me and hit home--two things that made me wish I had read this when I was quite a bit younger.  Esther's struggle with balancing her desire for a writing career and her desire for a relationship and how those seemingly "mismatched" wants spiraled her into a depression.

I think in this day and age there is just as much pressure on a woman to want a career over a relationship/family as there was in Esther's generation to want a family over a career.  I felt as though I could really identify with her struggles and her feelings of suffocation--just from the opposite end of the spectrum.  We live in a day and age when the first thing question out of everyone's mouth upon introduction is "what do you do".  Our identities seem to be so wrapped up in our jobs, just as Esther felt that her identity was supposed to be tied to being a wife and mother someday.  I think that there must be some way for people to find a middle ground--to understand that by giving women the right to choose that you're giving them the right to choose differently. I found it so interesting to see the internal struggle in the character that I felt was mirrored in the negative in my own self.  And to see how failing in having those desires that society presses on you can turn you against yourself--make you question your own dreams and spiral you downward into a feeling of hopelessness.

There were actually times when I had to put the book down and leave it for some time, because certain ways that Esther was thinking, or feelings that she was describing would hit so close to home.  The question was asked:  Do people in that state realize that they're thinking ways that they shouldn't, that their mental state is somehow "off".  I can only speak to depression, and I imagine that all mental diseases are different, but I feel like there's definitely a realization that something is very, very wrong with you, but you don't know how to make it better.  Or, beyond that, you don't see how it possibly could ever be better, so why even bother.  I think for Esther, and by extension I imagine Sylvia Plath, both knew that there was something terribly wrong--it's not possible to have those dark thoughts and not realize that you're wading into dangerous waters.  Esther was able to find the help that she needed to buoy herself back up, but it's like she said in the novel, the bell jar that she felt had suffocated her for so long had lifted, but there's always the fear that it will drop back down again.  I think today we're lucky enough to have much healthier ways to deal with this disease, and a much better understanding of it, but at the same time once you've been there, then there's always the shadow of the bell jar hanging over your head and you're never really quite sure when it will close over you again.  And the fear of not knowing if next time you'll be able to escape it again.

Some Nights Are Still Dark

Duane:  Sometimes, when I'm driving... on the road at night... I see two headlights coming toward me.  Fast.  I have this sudden impulse to turn the wheel quickly, head-on into the oncoming car.  I can anticipate the explosion.  The sound of shattering glass.  The... flames rising out of the flowing gasoline.

Alvy Singer:  Right.  Well, I have to--I have to go now, Duane, because I, I'm due back on planet Earth.

~Annie Hall, 1977

Well.  I'm back on planet earth now, but I can say without a sliver of doubt that last night was quite possibly the most surreal night of my life.  And I've had some pretty surreal shit go on in my life thusfar.

It started earlier this week when my good friend came to my office to tell me that he'd gotten a short notice deployment and would be leaving on Friday for "Over There".  This is the same good friend that I've been trying to interpret my feelings for for a few months now.  So he tells me about his going away dinner on Thursday and said I should come--of course I agreed, just like I would for any of my friends.  Plus, it was an outing involving food, and I am ALWAYS up for that.

So, last night was the dinner and after a few of us went for drinks at The Fox and the Hound.  Everything following I blame entirely on the "Hey Baby, I'm Going Off to War Tomorrow" Syndrome--it exists, it's been documented.

I walked him out to his car when he left and we said our goodbyes, went in for the hugs... and then we weren't just hugging anymore.  I got out of the car, a little bit dazed and walked back inside where I promptly called my sister to freak out (a pattern, you may notice).  She got me calmed down to the point where I was able to go back to my table and have a good time for the rest of the evening, but underneath I could still feel something unpleasant bubbling, and I was pretty sure it wasn't from the filet mignon.

We all left pretty shortly after, and as I was driving home I figured I'd give Colby a call to see if he was back home yet, but it went straight to voicemail.  So I'm driving, and just went into some kind of insane downward spiral--I honestly don't know if this is what people mean when they talk about panic attack or anxiety attacks, but suddenly all of the incredible uncertainty of my life hit me, and I couldn't breathe properly.  Tears just started pouring down my face and my mind was spinning at warp speed.  At this point I was going over an overpass that loops over the interstate and as I looked over the concrete barriers I suddenly felt so calm.  There were no headlights on the road at that late hour, and it just seemed so dark and peaceful.

All I could think was how easy it would be to not turn the wheel to loop over the overpass and instead just go straight off the side into that calmness.  It seemed like at least 5 minutes passed, but I know in reality this could have only been a split second thought before I came crashing back to reality and knew that what I had just contemplated was something I would never actually do.  But for that one second, it seemed like the most sane and wonderful thing I could imagine.  And that scared the ever living crap out of me.

I called my sister for the second time, practically in hysterics and once again she calmed me down and talked to me until I pulled into the gates of my apartment complex.  Later that night I talked to Colby and said things that I've needed to say for a while now.  And I feel better about it now... but still... afraid of that part of my brain that wanted me to drive off of an overpass.  Afraid that it will come back for a longer period of time someday and I won't snap out of it in a split second.

I know exactly what my problem is.  I don't have anything definite in my life right now--my job, my relationships, my future...  Everything is so up in the air right now, and I am not what we like to call a "spontaneous, go with the flow" kind of girl.  I like to have my future nailed down solidly, and it scares me that when things aren't quite so definite, my coping abilities fly right out the window.  It scares me that I had been doing so well and feeling so positive and upbeat for so many weeks now, and in just a quick turn of events my mind can be completely shattered into a million directions.

The two people in my life that keep me sane held me together last night.  I hated to put them in a difficult position where I so desperately needed them to be there for me, but they were, and I think the part of my mind that knows I have all of these people who want me to be okay and want me to be happy is the part that made me turn the wheel and continue driving home.   I thank them for that more than I can say.

A Little Change of Pace

Well, in news of the weird and unexplained (ha!), I'm still feeling exceptionally thundercloudish and unthrilled with the male species today, but I've decided that I shall combat that moodiness by forcing myself to talk about the enjoyable things that have been going on in my life lately.  Because believe it or not I really don't walk around all day with a permanent scowl on my face and a woe is me attitude.  In all actuality, I think if you were to hang out with me or talk to me outside of the "blawgy world" you wouldn't even know how downtrodden and depressed I've been lately--unless your name is Colby and you have to listen to my whining and crying every blessed night, in which case thank you, I appreciate the fact that you haven't sent the men in little white coats to get me yet because seriously, I scare MYSELF sometimes.  Yeah, so I pride myself on my "fake it till you make it" or "turn that frown upside down" attempt at living, and typically only become morose and downtrodden once I step through the door of my apartment and no longer have to put on an act for anyone.

I don't feel that proper attention has been paid to the IMMENSE amount of fun that I had when I was home for Shani's Wedding And Related Festivities (as I have taken to calling the weekend).  I had so much fun there that it almost completely took my mind off of all boy drama, and that is a major, MAJOR accomplishment.  I love how spending time with Shani and her sister and my sister we can go months without seeing each other, or even talking very much, and then as soon as we're together again we slip right back into all of our "roles" and have an amazing time.  Starting Wednesday night when I arrived in town it was literally non-stop partying and celebrating through Friday night.  I rolled straight into the aforementioned bachelorette party where we started drinking and didn't quit all weekend--that's how I knew I was home.  There was never a lack of food or alcohol present to get us through the day!  Thursday was spent running errands and then on to the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner that we all mainly napped through with brief interruptions for ingesting chocolate covered strawberries.  Friday morning kicked off with the beautiful bridesmaids' brunch (how do you like that alliteration!) complete with mimosas, stuffed french toast and devilled eggs (which didn't last long) among zillions of others delicious treats.  And of course the beautiful wedding and amazingly fun reception that night, followed by crazy, insane after party, that I honestly remember very little of...

Saturday I spent the day sleepy and grouchy but pulled myself together enough for a night of food and karaoke at the parent's house--my sister and I were pretty much the only people shameless enough to jump up and belt it out in front of everyone, but my mom eventually joined us toward the end, and I've got to say, we would have put the Supremes to shame!  Sunday I dragged myself out of bed later than expected, after an alarm malfunction, and headed over to Lafayette where I met up with some other fantastic friends that I don't get to see nearly enough of all the way up here in the North-country.  We had a fantastic brunch--over mimosas, of course!--and even more fantastic conversation.  I managed to stay awake for the entire drive home and didn't death spiral even once!  That night began the descent into depression, but up until then, life was really, REALLY awesome for about two weeks...

And then of course, Heather B opened my eyes to the Kate Spade sample sale (going on through tomorrow!!) and I managed to pick up a $175 bag for only $79... if that can't make you smile, I don't know what can!!  It's so squeezably, kissably cute... and I don't ever have to wait for it to call!

And in the category of Things To Look Forward To, I have my promotion on Friday, my parents coming up for a visit on the weekend of the Fourth of July, and probably most thrillingly, the visit to NYC in just one month and five days!!  I'm of course ever so excited to be seeing my sister and getting to hang out in The Big Apple (or The Big Tomato), but on top of that I plan on catching up with an old friend that I haven't seen in ages and hopefully meeting up with a "new" friend that I've known forever through this new fangled innernet thing.

So, you see, even though I'm having trouble seeing past all of the crap that's been hitting lately, I do realize that there are good things in my life and I'm making an attempt to make that my focus rather than the negativity that I've been fixating on over the past few months.  The thing is though, I was talking to a friend the other night and I made what I feel like is a pretty good point.  It's really not that I need a man to be happy, because I can see how my life is pretty great without one.  I don't feel like I need a man by my side to be complete, but damned if they don't have a way of making me UNhappy.

I think I'll stick with my Kate's and my Coaches... they've never once made me cry anything but tears of sheer joy and it takes absolutely no brainwaves to understand how they function.  I'd much rather have something cost me money than happiness!!

And My Head Commences Exploding

The internet was down at work all day and I've been suffering from withdrawal because all of the things that wanted to rush out yesterday have finally slowed down enough for me to wrap my mind around it and all I wanted was to write write write.  Instead I was forced to work.  That always stinks.  Anyway, onto the actual meat of the entry.

Growing up in Baton Rouge, I spent my entire childhood through young adult years wanting desperately to get out, move AWAY!  I wasn't ever really sure where away was, but it was always somewhere way better than where I was living.  Where I didn't have curfews and could eat as much chocolate as I wanted and maybe had actual seasons.  This imaginary place sounded fantastic, and I just COULDN'T WAIT to get OUT and be a grown up person.

So, now I'm a grown up person.  And I live in Little Rock.  And it's so not the way I'd imagined it would be.  The thing is, after this last visit home, I realize just how much I miss Baton Rouge.  I guess you just can't live somewhere for 16 years and not form an intense attachment to it.  I miss the familiarity of knowing where all the stores are and where the cheaper gas is.  I miss being able to drive around LSU and see the kids walking to class, going to visit Mike the Tiger in his cage, going to football games and screaming myself hoarse--even if we're losing.  I miss having family and old friends around that know me through and through and I don't have to make an effort to have fun with--I can just "be" with.  And now being back here is that much harder because I know just how much I DON'T want to be here.  Going to work is so much harder because I know I could have a job that I really wanted if I could just be back home.  I can see a light at the end of the tunnel, but it's so hard to see the path that will get me there, right now everything just seems dark and black and the light seems very, very far away.

And then on top of that I keep getting myself involved in these horrible guy situations that just end up crushing me into oblivion.  I try so hard to not get attached because I know how easily I get hurt, but every time I meet a new guy I think, "this one will be different!" and I throw caution to the wind.  And then I end up crying for a week and kicking myself for being so stupid yet again.  Honestly, I can't go into a lot of details about this last guy, but we spent about 4 days total hanging out and, I thought, totally clicking.  He talked a lot about how much he wanted a relationship, we talked about kids and all the places that we'd like to live someday, he helped me with my car, he tried to impress me at restaurants... and still I managed to keep my distance, treat it like a fun "summer romance" because I knew he was leaving soon.  But then the last day that we were together, he dropped the "I'll call you" bomb, and said it oh so sincerely.  In fact, he even said "I'll call you in a few days... unless you don't want to keep in touch with me..." kind of hesitantly like I was going to shoot him down.  And then he said it again... "I'll call you in a few days."  And I really thought he would.  And once again I was wrong.  And once again I've spent the past three days trying to figure out how I could have seen this coming... how I could have let my guard down once again... why I keep trusting people when time and time again they prove to me that they can't be trusted.

A lady at work gave me her son's phone number and said that she'd really like me to call him and meet.  Because "there are so few nice girls out there."  So, I ask you.  If there are so few nice girls out there, and I seem to be one of them, then why oh why is it that none of these guys can see that?  Why am I so easy to let go of?  So now I'm so scared to even contact this guy--not because I think we wouldn't hit it off, but because I'm afraid we would.  I'm afraid of getting attached again.  Getting hurt again.  Letting a person in again.  And then being left alone at the end... wondering.

All I really want is to go home.

I Hate This

There's nothing quite like getting a phone call from your father at eight o'clock on a Thursday night informing you that your depression has managed to transcend almost 400 miles of territory and become obvious to pretty much EVERYONE but you and it's time to stop living in a dream world where I think everything is just groovy.  Denial:  It ain't just a river in Egypt.

I decided to stop taking my Happy Drugs/Crazy Pills a few months ago because I felt like I had reached a place where I could handle life on my own, without the interference of an outside substance.  I am strong.  My life is generally good.  I should be happy.  I was also feeling odd flutters in my chest at times and I was discouraged because I couldn't see a big change for the better in my personality.  Although apparently other people did.

But I've managed to lie to myself for all these months that I was doing great.  That I am happy.  That this exhaustion I've been whining about is just because I have a lot going on.  That the constant ache in the back of my throat as I hold back the tears that perpetually threaten to overwhelm me is just a part of my drama queen personality.  That the intense highs I feel when FINALLY for ONCE something good happens, that are then followed by deep, terrifying descents into despair and anger, are normal. 

I'm not happy.  I'm not doing great.  I'm intensely UNhappy.  I don't sleep properly.  I don't function properly when I'm awake.  I snap at people with the tiniest provocation and as much as I've blamed SJB for handling this whole situation horribly (which he did) I know that I have just as much part in the dramatics of the past two months.  I should have been strong enough and stable enough to walk away ages ago, but a pathetic desperation kept me hanging on.  And I hate being pathetic.  And desperate.  It disgusts me in other girls, and now I see it in myself.  I've made some incredibly unwise decisions over the past few weeks, things that I wish to God I could take back.  If I had a better self image, if I could be happy with myself and with life, I think I wouldn't have made those decisions.

I need help, and that's okay to admit, and to really believe.  I've said it before, but I don't think I realized just how much I needed it.  I thought there could be a quick fix, just a temporary pick me up, and I'd be fine.  But the scales have fallen from my eyes and I can see now that I'm far from fine.  So, I've made my appointment and I'm ready to take back control of my life.  I want to go back to a life where the highs may not be so high, but the lows also won't be so low.  I just want to remember what it's like to feel happy without the expectation that soon to follow will be a crash of immense proportions.  I want to be content again.  I remember that there was a time when I was, and I want to find that again.

Note To Self

You know when things are going really great? And life seems totally awesome? And you forget to take your crazy pills for a little while? And then you have a completely shitty day where you just kind of want to go back to bed and cry, but you're not really sure why, and then you realize that you haven't taken your medicine in a few days? And then you take your medicine?

Probably not such a good idea to take the full dose. Probably better to ease back into it so that you don't feel like you just got run down with a lawnmower which pretty much just makes you want to cry more.

(Also, for those of you watching American Idol, I'll leave the real snarking to the people who do it best, like Television Without Pity, but does "McPheever" sound like an STD to anyone else? I don't think I'd run around diagnosing people with the McPheever and then expect them to think that's a good thing...)

 

Okay, going to go focus on not dying now.

Looking for Jane

I've been feeling very split lately… very Eve White/Eve Black, if you will.

There's the Angela who goes to work, jokes with coworkers, gets her job done, talks to friends, smiles a lot, laughs a lot, plays with her dogs, is flirtatious, is generally very easy going and fun. Then there's the Angela who is broody, moody, angry at men, wants to hurt men the way she's been hurt, is manipulative, cries, rages, in short, not a very nice person. I don't feel any connection between these two selves, and it scares me sometimes. I don't feel as though I'm pretending or not really being myself when I'm in my good moods, but I do feel the "Eve Black" lurking somewhere underneath, and I know that as soon as I'm away from watching eyes that she'll emerge again.

I try very hard not to blame men for my unhappiness and anger, because I know that it is my job to control my reactions to situations and to choose my attitude. I choose to be happy. But even as I'm making that choice, I feel the bitterness boiling underneath.

I know that it's not natural to become angry when I hear of another engagement or marriage. I know it's cruel to think every time that it will only end badly. I actually sit back and think of all of my married friends and make guesses on who will be the ones to end up divorced. I hate this about myself. I hate that I seem to have come to the conclusion that happiness doesn't last. That love isn't forever. That people aren't meant to stay with one person for their entire lives.

But then there's the outside Angela who coos in excitement with each happy announcement. Who sends cute cards with teddy bears hugging. Who truly does want happiness for her friends. Who doesn't understand the bitter Angela inside. Who loves sappy songs and cries along to Moon River. I want to set her as my default Angela. I want her to be the person who comes effortlessly, who doesn't have to be paraded around in front of the public to hide the hurt, angry girl inside.

I want to truly be able to believe in love. To know that there is a person out there who is deserving of all of what I have to give. Who won't only dish out parts of themselves and hold back with others. I want to find a happy medium between my two Eves. I want to be realistic and not blinded by love, but also believe in being swept off of my feet. I want to be laughing on the inside while I laugh on the outside, and not berating myself for being a faker.

I want to feel whole, and not like a stacking doll who seems solid and beautiful on the outside, but as you open it at the cracks you find different faces and finally on the inside on tiny, insignificant empty little thing that you wouldn't even notice if you lost. And the thing is that I do things that make me happy. I've got trips planned, I have fantastic friends, I like my current job, I have a good future ahead of me, I've come to terms with body image issues, I love my dogs…

I'm not sure why I feel empty. I don't know what's missing. I don't like being two people who have nothing to do with each other. I want to find my hidden Jane. I just don't know what it takes to finally be satisfied. To finally be comfortable with life.

But then, I guess, is anyone really comfortable with life? Is everyone else hiding an Eve Black? I'll never really know.

I Just Got Bitch Slapped By Reality

The problem with ending a long distance relationship is that when they come to an end there’s very little difference in the before and after pictures. Sure there’s no communication, but I’d gotten so used to talking to him only a couple of times a week during his deployment that it really doesn’t seem all that different. I don’t see him, but I didn’t see him much before, so no big change there.

I’ve thought I’ve been handling this breakup really well. I haven’t been dwelling, I’ve been staying busy, I see other guys and think “ooh, cute!” and not “ugh, hate men”. At the same time I’ve been a little disconcerted with how okay I’ve been. Obviously I miss him very much, but I haven’t really cried at all since the day after the breakup, which is not how I typically deal with things. I cry about everything.

This morning my fabulous friends left after a great weekend, and I was alone again in the apartment with the pups. I watched a movie, fell asleep, and felt generally okay.

Then it hit. The dogs have spent the evening being generally pests, then I was watching Grey’s Anatomy and I was about 30 minutes behind on TiVo when I accidentally hit the channel button so I missed the whole second half. Then I took the dogs out and busted my butt on the ice. I got inside, unleashed them and completely broke down.

I hadn’t cried this much in the entire week since the breakup, and oddly enough it kind of felt good to get it out instead of feeling detached from the whole situation. I want to be strong about it all, but at the same time I don’t want to deny my feelings and act as though I’m totally okay with the situation.

It really didn’t help that this weekend I got a bridal catalog from Cartier with a selection of pictures all of their gorgeous engagement rings. We all laughed hysterically about the situation last night, but I can’t help but feeling a little bit as though the universe is getting the last laugh with me right now.

I just keep waiting. At some point things have to start turning around and getting better again. As my wise sister pointed out, last year came in like a lamb and went out like a lion. After these past couple of lionish months I’m hoping and praying that the damn lamb gets its happy butt here sooner rather than later. I’m not sure how much more of this crap I can handle.

The Scarlet Z

I had my doctor’s appointment yesterday and it went as well as can be expected. I sat outside the clinic for about 10 minutes, my stomach in knots, working up the courage to just walk through the damn door already. It was strange to walk into a doctor’s office and to not know quite what to say when the PA asked me what was wrong. I’ve read a few accounts lately of other women going to see their doctors for similar symptoms, and it seems we all try to walk a fine line of communicating that there is something wrong, while not coming across as total Looney Tunes. Other women (and possibly men) tend to try to convey their sanity through their attire—a nice button down shirt with nicely ironed pants or a pastel twin set (probably not men in this case)—but I was stuck with my uniform, and felt an added pressure to come across as “normal”.

Turns out, I must have achieved the perfect harmony of normality and dementia, because the PA was quick to assure me, “Oh! We’ve got lots of drugs for that!” when I told her that I was there regarding my mental fitness rather than physical. I couldn’t figure out if I was relieved to hear that or intensely disturbed. I gave her a brief history of my trials and tribulations over the past year and that I’d been feeling slumpy since some time in October or November. Then the doctor came in and asked a bunch of questions about sleeping, concentration, eating, relationships, and on. It was extremely uncomfortable as I didn’t know exactly what the “right” thing to say was, and I felt under the microscope in a lot of respects. I answered as honestly and completely as I could, watching for some kind of change in his face or a different inflection to his voice, but he remained rather impassive (read: sat there like a lump, nodding every now and then, but mostly staying lumpish).

Then he asked me how I felt about prescription drugs to treat depression, and then I really didn’t know what to say. Should I be stoic and insist that I don’t need medication, just vitamins thank you, and internally plead that he would still do something to help me, or should I throw myself at his mercy and cry out for the drugs and hope that I didn’t look too desperate. I went with a sort of unintelligible combination of the two, minus the throwing of myself at his feet.

I guess he figured that I wasn’t opposed to a little capsule of sunshine and ended up prescribing Zoloft, starting me off at 50 mg for the next five days and then I’ll raise the dosage to 100 mg after that. I have no idea how large or small a dosage that is, but I’m assuming it’s not too large since he didn’t have a hint of fear in his eyes when addressing me. He also suggested that I could stop by Mental Health anytime I needed to, and I’m scheduled with a follow up on the 17^th. Maybe just to make sure it hasn’t given me adverse side affects such as jumping from high rooftops or beating coworkers about their heads. If I have shown any signs of jumping from buildings we’ll try a different type of medication until I’m feeling all rainbows and daisies, and bouncing along happily with bluebirds chirping and bunnies trailing along in my wake.

So, it feels good. It feels good knowing that I was brave enough to get help for this and it feels good that within the next couple of weeks I should start to feel more positive about life. I will admit that I also feel a little paranoid that I have it emblazoned on my forehead, "I need drugs to take part in normal day to day activities without crying like a little girl", but then I eat a piece of cake and feel more at peace with myself. I'm also a little nervous about possible side affects, but I'm smart enough to know if this is working for me or not, and now that I've made the first step, I'm not afraid to go back and say this is the wrong treatment for me.

Thank you for all your kind comments and emails over these past few weeks, they’ve been quite inspirational, and I really think if I hadn’t ever started this site and met such great people (and opened up to people I already know!) I would still be sitting in a pool of my own despair and self-pity. And despair and self-pity do not go well at all with my new shoes.