Monday, May 16, 2016

What's Going On

Side note: I literally *just* learned this song is not called "What's Going On." WTactualF, teen me?

I don't even know where to start!

We bought a house. A real, live, grown up house. With 3 bedrooms and 2.5 bathrooms and a garage and shit! The process started February 14, but we didn't move in until April 23; I didn't say much about it while it was ongoing because there was this constant fear that something would go wrong and that talking about it would "jinx" us (I'm so logical).

Also on April 23, Pops moved in with us. I went from thinking I was never having children to having a 60-year old... HA! Not really, but kinda sort of a little bit. He still has some effects of the stroke, like not remembering to take the medication that prevents another stroke, so that's exciting!

I also got a promotion at work, just shy of my one-year anniversary! Super exciting, super happy... super busy because I'm doing double duty until they find someone to replace me in my old role. 

The move has taken us out of the city by 10 minutes and much further (for me) from work; my drive to work is 30-40 minutes depending on how early I get out of the house, but closer to an hour home, so I feel very rushed and like I don't have a lot of down time - I get home, walk the dog, make/eat/clean up dinner, have a shower, and BAM! bed time because I'm now up at 5am to make sure I have time to walk said dog before leaving for work 45 minutes earlier than I used to.

On Monday, I rear-ended a poor (but lovely and kind!) woman on my way to work. 

On Tuesday, I left my swipe card on my desk when I went to washroom and had to loiter in the hallways until someone came along to let me back into my office; I then proceeded to leave without my bloody car keys. 

On Wednesday, our nightmare landlord (another post for another day because emotionally fucking draining) refunded us less than half of our damage deposit, claiming she spent 16+ hours cleaning (AFTER we spent 10+ hours cleaning) and that the dog damaged a 15 x 15 FOOT area of the backyard. 

On Thursday, I stopped there on my way to work to take pictures with a measuring tape. I wasn't going to unload all my crap - I wanted to get in the backyard, take the pictures, and get the hell out of Dodge lest she show up and accuse me of trespassing - and thought, "Oh, I'll have to make sure I leave the door unlocked." I grabbed the measuring tape and the first iDevice my hand touched (my iPod, which takes pictures, so I didn't bother swapping it for my phone) and hopped out of the car. I took my pictures (6 x 2 feet, for those interested: she clearly just wants the entire shitty backyard redone on our dime), went back to the car, and SONOFAMOTHERLESSGOAT. The window was down about an inch, but I couldn't open it wider. My iPod doesn't make phone calls (duh), so I went next door to the neighbours', but got no answer, so I wandered down the road to the little old lady who loves my dog as much as I do to call Chebbar - no answer; try again: no answer - then CAA, then work, then work again. She's such a sweetheart, she waited with me until the tow truck got there. I was only half an hour late for work.

Feeling overwhelmed navigating this new normal, but I also know (and recognize, thank Ceiling Cat) that THIS is part of my process - I go through it every time something major happens in life, so I'm doing my best to hang on and ride it out. With copious amounts of drinking meditating.
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Saturday, May 7, 2016


Yep. The thing I've feared (less and less as time has gone by, sure) for the past eight years (HOLY SHIT!) finally happened.

I got an email about this here blog. To my personal email address, not the Chibi Jeebs email address that's linked in the sidebar right there on the left. *ahem*

When I saw it, I did a double-take, wondering if somehow someway my Chibi Jeebs email was being sent to my phone (nope). When I realized I had a blog email in my personal account, my blood went cold - my body very literally went numb as I tried to figure out HOW it happened.

Welp, my Whois Proof service failed. While it was still paid up through the end of August, it was no longer diverting my contact information to a PO Box, but showing my full *personal* name, email address, phone number, AND HOME FUCKING ADDRESS.

You should've seen me scrambling around trying to figure this out: I started with the web host who told me they were no longer hosting the URL. I went to the host they mentioned, but couldn't figure out how to long in. They told me my URL and been sold, which made no sense because I've never let my service lapse. Eventually I figured out I do still own my URL and that the error was not on my end.

I'm not happy, but it's fixed (for now?). All I can say is that I'm damned glad we moved. Oy vey.

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Monday, April 4, 2016

Family Disappointment

My father-in-law had his weekend pass this past weekend to assess his status for release from rehab. Long story short, he needed keys to the apartment, so I texted Mom to see if she could run the spare set to him. After a prolonged delay, I got, "Yeah I guess so..."

Well, PLEASE don't let me put you out with a 20-minute round trip. For a man who is recovering from a stroke. A man you professed to like "SO MUCH."

I. Was. Pissed.

Pissed was quickly replaced by disappointed and... well, embarrassed.

When we learned Pops would likely be at the apartment alone for two weeks before he moves out here with us, we talked about support for him. I started to say I'd ask Mom and was interrupted by a grimace from Chebbar. I now-now'd him and said if it was simply a matter of her checking to see if he needed anything *IF* she was in the area, it shouldn't be a big deal: I wasn't planning on asking her to drive him to rehab three times a week. Chebbar still said he doubted she'd be okay with it.

Fast forward to Thursday night, and a) she proved me wrong and b) she proved Chebbar right. I didn't even HAVE a chance to ask her about checking in with him before she disappointed me to the point that I WON'T ask her.

All I could think was that I hope to hell she's never in a position like Pops where she might need a favour or two.

Barf. Pin It

Saturday, April 2, 2016

Death Warmed Over

After a week of feeling like death-warmed-over, I noticed last night that my Cipralex wasn't in my vitamin holder. I double-checked to make sure there weren't two pills in Saturday (I've done THAT before): nope. Checked Sunday's: no Cipralex.

I haven't taken it in a week. As I said above, I've missed one day by accidentally putting two pills in the same day in the holder, but I've never missed this many in a row in the [checks archives] five years I've been on meds.

First thought? Holy fuck! What have I done? Jesus Christ. [insert boggle-eyed emoji here]

Second thought? I wonder if THAT'S why I've felt like shit this week! Maybe it wasn't (just) the infected tooth.

My third thought, I'm embarrassed to admit, was maybe I shouldn't start taking them... (at damn near the same moment Chebbar told me to hurry up and take a pill).

Embarrassed that, after five years, I still wonder if I need medication. Embarrassed that I still feel stigma - of my OWN doing - around medication. Embarrassed that I still feel inadequate for needing medication.

Then I realized that this was likely the reason I haven't been able to get to sleep all week, why my brain won't shut off (thanks, GAD!), why I wake up in the middle of the night and proceed to toss and turn because I can't get back to sleep. After so many years of shitty sleep and a relatively short period of feeling what good sleep can do for a person, I value sleep more than ever.

And yet, I still found myself wondering... what if I don't take this pill? What if I just "tough it out," this death-warmed-over thing? [With a(n internal) job interview, another appointment with the endodontist about this fucked up tooth, BUYING! A! HOUSE!, moving, cleaning the rental, a new boss starting, and my recovering-stroke-patient father-in-law moving in with us in the span of 3 weeks. I'm a GENIUS, I tell you!] What if I don't need it anymore?

At this point in time, I'm not entirely sure if it's the anxiety talking, the stigma talking, or if it's possible the meds themselves make me think this way, but I know better than to screw with something this without my doctor's input.

I still feel like a moron for forgetting (HOW, dude?!?), but I'm back on the pillwagon.

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Sunday, February 21, 2016

Dearest Body

My dear body,

I've been fighting you, and I'm tired. I don't want to fight you anymore. I've been bemoaning how tired and achy I am all the time. I've been bitching about how no matter what changes, everything stays the same. I've been offering up a litany of reasons I'm frustrated to damn near anyone who will listen.

I'm tired, and I'm done.

Yes, I'm tired and achy, but I'm not *as* tired OR achy as I was back in October. Yes, I've made a number of (good) changes without instantaneous, obvious results, but I am seeing differences, like a moderate weight loss (3 pounds) and perhaps more energy/less fatigue. Yes, I've been scowling my praises, but I'm starting to see that part of it might possibly be a tiny bit of humble bragging (I walk 45 minutes a day, alternate weights and yoga 15 minutes a day 5 days a week, I drink 3 liters of water every day, and I'm eating better than I have in a long time, BUT I feel like I'm gaining weight, specifically in my belly - my pants cut across my midsection).

The exercise feels good. Taking that break every afternoon at work to move my body feels good. Eating well makes me feel smug good. I like water. I am losing weight, and even though I feel like my pants are tight in the waist, my waist measurement hasn't changed.

So, I'm asking for a detente: I'm going to do my damnedest to stop bitching about what isn't working  and start acknowledging all you're doing right by me. I'm going to do my best to work with you, not strain against you. I'm going to be mindful of thinking of and speaking to you with respect and compassion.

What do you say? Truce?

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