Tag Archives: Love

Bills aka Looming Cloud of Annoyance

For several months now I have been ruminating over moving back in with my parents. This has been one of those “mylifehascompletelychangedandnowIneedtofindadirection” things. This started when I was attempting to brainstorm with friends what amazing opportunity I should pursue. Buy a boat, move to another country, move across the country, etc. All of the things that “older” people tell me they would have/should have done, if they knew then what they know now. You know, that conversation that goes something like this: “You’re free now. You just got out of a shitty relationship and there is nothing to hold you back from doing what you want! If I were you, I would just travel and do lots of crazy stuff. “And then they ask “What’s stopping you?” And I say “Well, I guess I have these bills to pay, and my student loans you know.” And then I start to think about how I had done all of things that society told me I was supposed to do i.e. go to college, get married, go to graduate school, get a nice paying job, think about having some babies, buy a newer car, decorate a beautiful home. Check, Check, Check. And now I’ve done those things, but now I look at where I am and I’m still starved for adventure, love, and freedom.

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“What would you do if you won a billion dollars?”

“I’d pay off my debt and loans, travel, and buy a place in Europe, and make art.”

“What would you do if you won a million dollars?”

“I’d pay off my debt and loans, and travel to Europe, and make art for a couple months.”

“What would you do if you won 10,000 dollars?”

“I’d pay off my debt, and buy some Starbucks.”

And so I am faced with the question of moving in with my parents, rent free. If I did, I could pay off all of my debt in 3 years, 2 months, and 9 days (or 38.2 months, or 166.5 weeks, or 1,165.5 days). I would be 31 years old.

There’s only one thing to do.

Obviously go to New York for a week and then decide.

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Series of Unfortunate Events: Life’s Biggest Questions

“Only my happy old life wasn’t happy anymore. I no longer blithely sang the why-can’t-we-all-just-get-along song. Because now I’d seen poverty, I’d seen perseverance. I’d seen the craters gaping in the level playing field of American education, health care, and economic opportunity. And I’d been humbled, inspired, angered, and most important, change by all of this. Who I’d been before was no longer me…/…I’ve spent the past six months trying to figure out who I am all over again.” -Janna Cawrse Esarey, The Motion of the Ocean

For the last year, I have been crossing a bridge between identities.

About a year ago, I found out that my then husband was cheating on me. Without going into all of the long details about that for his sake and mine (although it may be elaborated on at a future date), let’s just say that by late May I found myself to be 27 and a divorcée. Then the doctor told me that I had some abnormal cells in my bladder, and that I might have cancer, and that we should schedule surgery for August. As in 3 months away August. Sit with that. I sat with it for 3 months. I figured there really wasn’t any control I had in my life anymore and so I just was. I was present with my life. Never did the phrase it is what it is make more sense than during those months. I had started practicing radical acceptance. A therapeutic technique of Dialectical Behavior Therapy that is basically a cross between Buddhism and the Serenity Prayer that states “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference between the two.” It’s all about being present with the internal conflict, and then choosing how you respond, because sometimes that’s the only choice or control one has. THEN a week and a half before my biopsy, I was working late in the psych unit completing an intake assessment, and my stomach just ached. I threw up. It continued to hurt into the next day. And the next. I webmdeed (web-em-deed: the act of searching for diagnostic answers on webmd.com) my aches and figured I must either have appendicitis or totally severe gas. Hmm. On top of this, I had been offered a new job that was supposed to start August 30th so my current insurance was going to be ending soon. (During all of this I completed the Holmes and Rahe Stress Scale for myself and my score was 533, no joke).

So, I figured I could either have my appendix erupt, causing my blood to become septic and possibly die (before the cancer, or a double whammy, who knew?) or I could just be quite embarrassed by going to the ED for gas. What the hell right? So I drove myself at 11pm to St. V’s (my parents thought I was being melodramatic about my diagnosis of appendicitis i.e. after I left to return home they had gone to bed thinking I would wait it out and take some pepto.) During my intake in the ED I started bawling like a baby, detailing the events of the last year to the empathic grandma-like nurse. “Don’t you just wish you had a gun sometimes?” she asked referring to the events of the affair I had informed her of. This of course caught me off guard, and I thought to myself “wow, until this moment, I’ve either handled myself quite well i.e. not having shot anyone, or this lady is crazier than she looks.” She laughed and so I did as well. I’m pretty sure they slipped me a roofie/Xanax and I started to settle by the time my CT results came back. Yep, appendicitis. Good ol’ webmd. They tried to call my parents to confirm that someone would be able to be there in the morning, but to no avail. I didn’t have a real emergency contact anymore. You know, I was single and living alone. No one was going to notice that I didn’t come back from the hospital. Welp. Surgery happened at 1am to take that sucker out. Through my belly button. Sorry but this was quite an interesting part of this story. I also learned that the appendix is about the size of a small fist. Not the large looming deflated red rubber kickball that I had imagined. My parents finally got the message at 7am. So I spend the next few days in the hospital. It was actually great. Lots of cream of wheat and a gal came in and cleaned my room, and I wore scrubs and those amazing socks, and I just read smutty celebrity magazines and listened to music. Friends and co-workers came and we had a party in my room. By day three, they were trying adamantly to send me home. This just didn’t feel right, and it wasn’t because I was thoroughly enjoying my inpatient stay, my women’s intuition was just kicking in. Well, they kicked me out. A couple friends took me to my place and we started to play some Mario Kart, and an hour later I had a fever of 104. Hmph. Went back to the hospital–because they told me too if I had a fever, and so I did–and they admitted me again. My women’s intuition was 2 for 2. So in total I was inpatient for 7 days. Remember that biopsy? That was scheduled for day 7. So I’m inpatient after surgery trying to reschedule surgery. I tried to get a two for one deal but that was a no go. So I leave on a Friday and then come back for surgery again the next Tuesday. They punch my I’maregularatthishospital card and do the whole shebang once again. This is also a nice/terrible detail/self-disclosure-they sent me home with a catheter for 3 days. 3 days. Apparently my bladder was going to be “angry” and so well, they didn’t want, well you get it. When I went back in to be rid of the darn thing, the nurse nonchalantly said “Did the doctor tell you that the cells were benign?” “No.” “Oh, well they were. That’s nice huh?” That’s nice huh? Yes that’s nice, I don’t have cancer. Just a string of unfortunate events leading up to I’m not quite sure what.

20120409-161727.jpgAnd so I thought about Job (the character in the bible).
And thus I started my journey across the bridge of identities with a bang. No longer a wife, and with a clean bill of health, I have spent the last year trying to once again answer the questions who am I and where do I want to go in life? I still don’t know. I’ve seen a lot and I’ve experienced a lot. All I know is “what is to give light must endure burning,” (Viktor Frankl) so I have to keep my chin up.

Locks of Hair Everywhere

The hair is the richest ornament of women. -Martin Luther

Recently I have been battling with my hair. I’m sure this is common for most women. Things like “that awkward length,” come into play, and women inevitably cut their bangs or hair once again because they simply can’t stand the transition stage—which can last years. This I’m certain, is why most women do not have long hair. Somehow, I have managed to grow out the bangs and get back to long layered locks.

I have had long hair for the majority of my life. I was sold on growing it long after watching Blue Lagoon with Brook Shields’ amazing tresses blowing in the wind.

No one can deny the impact this (soft core) movie had on women’s desires to have long luscious hair.

My battle however, is primarily a phsycial one–as in–if I sleep with my hair down it literally wraps around my neck in the night and starts to choke me! Thus, I have become quite fond of creating a “top knot,” as my nightly “do.”

It’s when it’s so long that it becomes a hassle (or safety issue 🙂 ), that I like to take a poll from friends to decide the next steps. The girls say “yeah cut it! It’ll look cute!” and the guys say “NOOO. Do not cut it. Whatever you do.” One male friend even said he wouldn’t speak with me if I cut my hair even an inch! Extreme, but hair is an extreme issue. This gender specific divide leaves me to wonder about the biological undertones of the matter. In talking with a co-worker (also in the field of psychology) we concluded that long hair is attractive to men because biologically, it signifies fertility. Think about it. In extreme cases of health issues such as eating disorders or endocrine problems, hair is one of the first things impacted–becoming brittle, dry, and even falling out. Biologically, men are driven to “plant their seed where it will thrive,” i.e. in a healthy body. Lovely I know (we won’t get into the biology of how often men are planting seeds and in how many places). Therefore, men are likely to be more attracted to long healthy hair. The hypothesis derived at therefore, is that other women are territorial about that seed, and will work to sabotage the competition, encouraging them to be “less fertile looking.” Hmm.

With this logic, I guess I should keep my hair long? Haha ridiculous.

*Disclaimer-this is just silly ramblings and is not meant to be taken very seriously 😉

Perfect

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