Category: Uncategorized

June 2018 has been a rough month. Not just for me, but for the public at large.  Like there is a planetary imbalance that has caused the world to go to its darkest place.  There were the suicides of 2 famous people; everyone heard of that.  But apparently there were some private battles being waged as evidenced by the explosion of memes encouraging everyone to check on their friends.

Let me start by saying this: There is absolutely NOTHING you can do to prevent a person from committing suicide.  You can delay it, but if that person is set on removing themselves from this plane of existence they will become more practiced at it.  They will eventually elude all efforts at intervention and succeed at their goal.

I suffer more than most affected by this phenomenon.  This blog is based on my life as a DSM-IV diagnosed wife and mother of 3.  So let’s talk about how it affected me.

*DEEP BREATH*

*EXHALE*

I am a misanthrope. I really do not like people in general.  I love individuals.  But the gen pop scares the shxt out of me.  And I belong to a few subsets of people that have traditionally been primary targets for the public at large.  By way of defense I am a very sarcastic person; I am snarky, and rude, and irreverent.  I think it is all in fun, and those who have stuck around long enough to know me get a kick out of it.  Mostly. But then there is the cruel, evil, “fxck you and the horse you rode in on” side that people – even my closest friends – are afraid of.

That is the beginning of the spiral.

In spite of my intense dislike for humans at large, I am a people pleaser.  I don’t invite conflict.  Don’t get me wrong, I will END conflict.  But I am so reluctant to start it.  Even if every fiber of my being is screaming “THIS IS BULLSHXT” I will capitulate just so that I can avoid conflict.

Continue the downward spiral.

I have a mate that is gamer with a capital “G”.  Morning, noon, night he is at that console grinding away at some fictional goal.  You’ve heard of football widows? The wives who can’t get their husbands’ attention during football season?  I am a video game widow, and there is no season.  The drastic measures I have taken to get his attention are legendary (we’ll talk about that in another blog) and sometimes even those fail.  Don’t get me wrong, this is not always the case, and he is mostly attentive when it counts. But he doesn’t always notice when I am starting to lose it.

Pedal to the metal and out of control.

The job that accounts for my income is not a cake walk.  I am a female in a male dominated field. A large portion of the men I work with have huge egos, and no communication skills, with the expectation that I will be a mind reader.  So when things are not done to their uncommunicated specifications, I get heat.  I give more than was expected, I get heat.  I finish projects assigned to other people and I get little to no recognition.  Mind you, this is not all of my coworkers, just the loud ones.  After having busted my tail to finish a project that the original owner was too busy to complete I got the tiniest bit of acknowledgement.  But something spontaneously breaks while I am using it and everyone plus GOD must be informed.

Danger, Will Robinson!  Danger!

I crashed.  Hard.  A semi with a full payload and a freight train colliding at full speed sending bits of my sanity floating around me like carnage from a pillow fight.  All my coping skills were sandbags facing an angry Katrina.  As I sat there – a quivering mass useless humanity – I contemplated the absolute necessity of my existence.

You can’t stop someone from committing suicide:  IF THAT IS WHAT THEY REALLY WANT.  Think of how sneaky teenagers are when they want to be.  As a full grown adult, with no one checking on them, it’s a cake walk.  I am not saying do not check on your friends.  By all means, spend every moment you can with them.  Do something odd and unexpected for them. Cut the grass. Walk the dog. Bring their favorite pint of ice cream and a movie.  Talk, or don’t talk.  Just be.  And this is why:

While sitting there, wondering why I actually exist, I remembered my friends.  The person who took such good care of me when my body was being invaded by a fetal parasite.  The one who baked me an alcoholic cake for when I finally weaned my last child.  The one who brought chicken soup from the other side of the city when I was sick. Who took me to the hospital for prenatal care even though they had just left the hospital themselves.  Who organized a birthday dinner at my favorite restaurant. The ones who are ready with an alibi if I have to end a conflict.

So I put out my hand, and someone grabbed it.  Pulled me to my feet. Brushed the dust off my shoulders and told me I was good as new.  THAT is what saved my sanity.  Maybe even my life.  I remembered what I felt like when they did these things for me. I remembered what it felt like to do the same for them.  And the times I did a stupid and they laughed with me and not AT me.  And so many other things that are beautiful side effects of being surrounded by love.

Love on your friends, so they know who to reach out to when they want help. But it is NOT YOUR FAULT if they don’t.

I really do.  It creates voices in my head that cause me to make mistakes. And those same voices beat me up about those mistakes forevermore.  I learned to call it the “Itty Bitty Shitty Committee”.

For example:

I have this group of friends that are WONDERFUL.  This is a real down for whatever, “let’s get in trouble together”, “wait who has the alibi?” type group.  We will tease each other but will beat down anyone who tries to hurt any of us.  REAL friends.  The kind that will pull you back if they see you stepping off the cliff.

I am somewhere with a couple of these friends.  I’ll call them Taylor and Reagan.  These 2 are masters at straight faced insults.  From a distance you would think they are having a conversation about the weather, sports, shopping.  But when you hear what they are saying you want to HOWL with laughter at their exchange.  And I am standing between these 2 as they are talking about the hygiene (or lack there of) of someone who has just walked in the door. I am cracking up, not so much at what they are saying, but the delivery!  I told you, they are masters.

Later that evening I get home and change clothes.  It is a HOT summer day.  Like, even my sweat was sweating.  Like a lot of us, I carry extra weight in areas I really wish I didn’t.  And that extra weight creates extra places for this extra sweat to hang out.  So I have to be extra diligent about hygiene. Which means more baths/showers/wash ups during the summer cause, you know, hygiene.  And that evening I felt like I needed to put those clothes in the shower right along with me.

Fast forward a day.  It’s one of those nights that I can’t sleep to save my life. (And my partner is practicing Tai-Bo in his sleep, so it’s kind of dangerous to be in the bed.  I mean, his fist is the size of my HEAD!)  And my Itty Bitty Shitty Committee decided to keep me company.

“You do realize they were talking about you, right?”   No they weren’t

“Of course they were, don’t you remember how awful your clothes smelled that evening?”  Well…

“They just didn’t want you to know, so they pretended to be talking about someone else.”  You might be right, I’m gonna ask them

“NO! Don’t do that.  Do you really want them to laugh in your face? Or worse, lie to you?”  No…

“You should vaguebook about it instead.”

So of course I listened to the Committee and post this:

“I would like for my friends to tell me if I’m off. Just pull me to the side and tell me what I need to correct. It sucks for me to know that people who I consider my friends can’t muster the courage to tell me. Or worse, would rather just make fun of me.”

You read my description of these friends, right?  Does that even remotely sound like the same group?  Of course not.  Stupid committee.

Another friend in the group, I’ll call her Alma, reached out to me.  When she heard my explanation, I could literally hear the “AW HAYELL NAW” through the text message.  Which started my ascent from the abyss, and turned the volume down on the Committee.

A workday passes, and that evening, Alma messages me back.  The whole conversation made me feel embarrassed and guilty, but mostly it made me feel LOVED.

So here I am, writing this blog. A public apology, since I made a public ass of myself.

Taylor and Reagan: I am truly sorry for betraying our friendship by not coming to you and telling you how I felt. 

I am not using my brain chemistry as an excuse, just an explanation.  I will do better in the future, I will mute the committee, and talk to you about it instead.

In the meantime, everyone please be patient with me.

I have to apologize to the subject of this blog. They are going to be embarrassed, or pissed. I sure hope they will eventually forgive me for telling this story.

Or I’ll be exiled.

I volunteer for a rather large anime convention. For the uninitiated, anime is Japanese animation. No, it is not “cartoons” and they are not all proper viewing for children. For those who still want to doubt me, I invite you to put “Elfin Lied”, “Helsing”, and “Grave of the Fireflies” on your little one’s playlist. Go on. I dare you.

As part of my volunteer duties, I travel to different conventions and talk to anime industry representatives about the latest releases, and what we can do to promote/showcase these releases. A few years ago I was new to the position, and as such I traveled in the shadow of a more seasoned volunteer. Let’s call him Frank. Frank is an expert on most things anime. I mean, ask him the year an anime was released, who the Japanese and American voice actors are, the company that owns the rights – he has all those facts swimming around in his head. Just don’t ask him about Miss Manner’s Rules of Etiquette.

The convention we traveled to is a rather large and popular convention on the West Coast. In a rather large and popular city. Because lodgings cost a ton, and are in short supply, Frank and I were to share a room. Because he is the senior, the room was in his name. So I had to wait for him to show up before I could check in to my room. Lucky for me there was someone else that I know who was attending the event, so I was able to leave my things in their room while I waited. Frank was actually in the city, just staying with friends, so it was not supposed to be long before he was able to get to the hotel and check us in. My friend and I met him for breakfast and he passed me the room key. I waited a few hours, explored the convention a bit before I returned to the hotel to move my things from my friend’s room to mine. When I entered the room I was speechless: he had gotten one king size bed instead of 2 queen beds. So I called him and asked what he was thinking. “Oh, I didn’t realize, I’ll have it changed when I get back.” Still didn’t put my name on the room, so of course I can’t do it. Remember what I said about rooms being in short supply? By the time he gets back there are no rooms available to switch to.

He shrugs apologetically and says he will sleep on the floor. Of course he is, because *I* am not.

Next morning we get up and get ready for the official first day of con. Frank has appointments to keep, I do not. I take my leave and find coffee, breakfast, and a view. An hour and a half later I come back to the room and Frank has left. Mission accomplished, because all of you know that a man and a woman cannot get dressed at the same time unless there are multiple bathrooms – especially if that man and woman are not romantically involved. I pull out my clothes, grab my toiletries and head to the bathroom… where I promptly lost my footing and almost slammed my head in to the beautiful marble flooring. I look around and the ENTIRE BATHROOM FLOOR is SOAKED! So I back out, find my slippers and carefully enter again. The bathroom mat, the one that goes on the floor in front of the tub so you DON’T bust your ass on the floor? Still hanging over the tub. And soaked all the way through. Oh but the tub…

Imagine you have a puppy. You take that puppy outside after a heavy rainfall. S/he is all over the yard, swimming in mud, digging holes, the works. Then take that puppy and drop them in a tub ¾ full of water and clean them until their fur sparkles. Take puppy out, then drain tub. Don’t rinse the tub, don’t swirl the water so the dirt drains out. Just pull the plug and walk away. Now think about what that tub looks like.

THAT IS WHAT THE TUB LOOKED LIKE. I declined a bath/shower that morning. I did a spot clean, got dressed and headed to the convention. That evening I came back, walked in to the room and almost gagged.

Frank had turned the HVAC to 80 degrees. In July, on the West Coast! Not only was the room sweltering but it STANK. Like rotting food in the kitchen garbage smell. I turned the thermostat down to 65 degrees, but I could not locate the source of the odor. Lucky for me the cool air helped to eliminate the smell.

This was my life for 5 days.

On the fifth day we are packing up to leave. I generally carry an empty luggage or bag with me in case there is swag and I can’t fit it in my suitcase. I did not need it this trip and was about to pack it away when Frank asks me if he can borrow it. It is a unique bag. It cannot be replaced. I do not want to let it out of my sight. I impressed upon him that this is my favorite bag. Please give it back to me in one piece. He all but pinky swears that he will. I relinquish the bag and continue packing. Frank then picks up a plastic grocery bag and says “I guess I don’t need these anymore.”

Now, I am a nosy broad. I asked him what was in it. He says they are some Japanese snacks that he was given just before he checked in to the hotel. I’m thinking Pocky, some ginger candies, maybe even those green tea KitKats I love so much. Frank tells me to check it out. I reach my hand in the bag…

…and immediately yank it out again, full of some oily substance that absolutely REEKS. I open the bag wide so I look in it. There are packets, about the size and shape of a gas station size box of condoms for well-endowed men. Inside these packets are fish, in oil. One of these packets was OPEN and leaking EVERYWHERE. Thus solving the mystery of the obnoxious smell. I was so happy that trip was over; I almost kissed the floor of my house when I got there.

A month later I get my favorite bag back. With a hole in it.

Never traveling with Frank again.

I promised to tell this story, so here it is.

After having gone to bed at some unreasonable hour the night before, the alarms go off at 5 am.  2 of them: one in the parents’ bedroom, one in the tweenager’s room, where the Tasmanian devil decided to sleep as well.  2 alarms, 4 people, only I get up.  Alright fine.

“Babe, wake up.”

“Make me.”

“Get the hayell, up! Don’t make me go grab the water.” (He loathes being sprayed with water. I sometimes wonder how closely he is related to cats.)

“No.”

Now at this point I figure he is just messing with me, because he does like to see how angry I can get.  Because he is coherent enough to argue with me, I figure he is going to get up. On to the girls.

“Tweenager!”

“Yes Mommy”

“Time to get up baby.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Alright everyone has been told to get up.  I go get McFurrybutt out of the cage and outside.  I give her some water, some food.  I get the day’s wardrobe together.  I have not heard one foot hit the floor yet.  I do not want to go back up the stairs, so I pick up the phone instead.

“Hello”

“Get out of bed, we need to go, I don’t want to be late.”

“Yes ma’am”

My other half does not ever have his phone where he can conveniently reach it.  And if by some miracle he did, he would not answer it anyway.

I go on about my business, picked out clothes for Taz, got dressed, used the bathroom. Packed my lunch. 15 minutes later, still no footsteps.  Now I am furious mainly because I am going to have to climb the stairs again.  I am stomping around the kitchen doing my best impression of Mrs. Cosby: (muttering) “These people want to drive me crazy, why can’t they just get up on time, now I gotta go BACK up them stairs and…” (record scratch) Hold up!!! Oh no I don’t have to go upstairs!!!!

Let me interject a mini story here, just for background:

A few years ago, I lived in this same house with 6 other people.  I did all the cooking.  They preferred my cooking to theirs, I was happy to oblige. This is a 3 level home, and have I mentioned how I hate stairs?  If I didn’t notify every one that dinner was done, someone would pout and say they didn’t get enough food.  But I was not going up and down stairs.  And then my housemate found a solution for me.  Have you ever heard a ship’s bell?  The one that rings the hour so the crewmen know it’s time to change shift? Yeah, one of those.

Mind you, I had only rung this bell during the evening when the house had plenty of other noises to compete with it – TV, radios, conversations, etc.

This morning, there was none of that.  Even McFurrybutt had forgone her normal “I’m pissed you put me in here” bark.  It was dead silent.  I carefully picked up the bell, making sure to hold my hand around the clapper.  Stood at the bottom of the stairs and then:

“clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang clangclangclang

I need everyone to the get the FUCK out of bed RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!!!!”

THUD

THUD

THUD

Three people fell out of bed almost simultaneously.

“Yes Ma’am!”

 

 

That night, all three of them were pissed at me.  I couldn’t breathe I was laughing so hard.