It’s All in Your Head

Maybe it’s About Starting Over and Creating Something Better.

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So, I was thinking a lot today about what I would have changed in my life if I could go back in time…you know, have a do-over. ‘Member when we were kids and we did something we didn’t like: a painting where the eyes didn’t line up or missing the kickball on the first pitch. When that happened, we could always have a do-over; just wad up that paper or take another pitch and suddenly, things were set straight. Wouldn’t that just be fucking awesome to be able to reverse your life a bit whenever you needed and get things done right the second time around?

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If this was possible, and I could go way back, I really don’t know where I would start! Hmmmm. Maybe Kindergarten? Instead of watching the other kids and trying to figure them out, I could just jump in the fray and simply be me. Or, when I was in 2nd grade and my teacher (who really was a sweetheart, but strict) wouldn’t let me wear my pink ‘see behind glasses’ I got in a box of Alpha-Bits that day (and sis wanted them but had her own real glasses). They were so cool and I felt like a movie star in them. But, Mrs. M. said they looked silly and I had to take them off in class. Being the overly sensitive girl I was, this crushed me. I translated this to be that I looked awful and disappointed my teacher. I would like to go back and change my perception of that day (as well as my bangs and God awful clothes my ma made me and sis wear) and understand that not everything in life is personal. That not everything revolved around me. I think that’s when I really started having a stronger sense of being self-conscious; it was the first time I can remember where what I saw wasn’t what others did.

Or, I could go back to my 5th grade class where I was badly bullied; one day he caught me behind a tree and wrapped his hands around my neck. I was petrified but didn’t speak up because of his threats. If I had, would I have been more apt to stand up for myself later in life too?

I would definitely go back to Jr. High, which was actually the best couple years of my teenager-hood, and not try out for pom poms. I sucked at it. BIG time. Not only did I have no sense of rhythm (like I do now…not) but I also looked like a Burger King sack in my red and yellow skirt and vest that was created from the most icky piece of polyester ever known to man. Believe you me, that is something I would love to forget!

96386754_516252455921935_3008065197127499776_n — Yes, I circled my own face in my yearbook because I might forget myself otherwise. Please insert eye roll here.

And high school. Oh Lord, where do I start? I think during my freshman year, I would want a do-over that probably would have affected all the rest of my life: not caring about what other kids were saying. If I hadn’t listened to them making fun of my looks…my body…my clothes. If I hadn’t held my head down instead of up that year. If I would have walked with confidence and shown pride in who I was, would that have changed the trajectory of my life?

I would definitely go back and run out of the psychologists office (for you newbies, he sexually abused me for 2 years) the first time he touched me. Period. I also would have let my mom report it, and get that son of a bitch punished for what he did to all of us girls. And letting that be a do-over might have made me more positive about relationships, more trusting, more open, less ‘needy’ (for lack of a better word…that one sounds pretty bad) and much more likely to better understand I don’t have to give anything to be loved, I can be loved just for little old me.

Another thing in high school I would change (besides dying my hair orange along with my sis when we used too much Sun-In and then lied about it to our mom) would be my grades. I sucked in my classes because I simply didn’t care. I wanted to pass notes, doodle in my notebook, decorate the cover with Mrs. So and So to see what it would look like if I married any of the guys I drooled over. I wanted to read novels instead of textbooks, and I wanted to spend time at my grandparents playing cards, riding bikes, and shooting baskets rather than doing stupid homework. See, I love animals and I think I would have been a great vet (if I got over puking every time I see blood) who did a lot in terms of animal rescue and care if I would have gotten great grades and a scholarship to university.

And as an adult? OMG. Can you have a do-over on a decade or two? Hmmm. I would definitely do-over marrying Hubby 1 (I know, they are so freaking hard to keep straight…I have flashcards in front of me to help). We were so young and stupid when it came to what a marriage entailed. And with Hubby 2? I wouldn’t have avoided conflict like I have a tendency too, but would have faced our problems head-on instead of letting every little thing build up to an explosion that was way too much to handle. And Hubby 3? I would have drawn much stronger boundaries in terms of his motorcycle club and our life. Sitting at home every weekend, and most nights, really wasn’t much of a marriage…in fact, it was pretty darn lonely.

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I definitely want a do-over with J. The first time he was cruel to me: bye! Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out! Or, at least the first time he cheated: Buh Bye! I would do-over the last time I saw my nephew and hugged him tighter. So much tighter. I would have fought how a threatening student was handled in regard to his treatment of me; I would have gone way further (like ma wanted us too, badly) in clearing my name, which up to that point at school was literally perfect after 21 years of service.

Doesn’t this all sound so freaking good? Doing all of this over so the related issues simply don’t exist anymore? It would almost make life perfect, wouldn’t it? Taking care of these pesky things that might haunt us to this day.

But wait. Let’s really think about this a tad bit more. What if I had jumped into the fray in Kindergarten? Would I have just followed anyone after that, or still have marched to the beat of my own drummer? What if I would have reported the psychologist and been put on a stand and torn apart by a sleazy lawyer? Would not being believed devastated me even more, with the lesson ‘never trust authority’ learned as well? And what if I would have looked at those jerks in high school and said, up yours assholes. Would I have gotten worse treatment for that?

And doing my homework? Why would I want to go back and do that for piss sakes? Because I did screw up so bad, I went to community college and it gave me a love for how they allow people to find their footing while being in a smaller, more comfortable classroom. It opened up so many possibilities for me and proved I could actually succeed in school. If I would have become a vet, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of the thousands of students that have been in my classes and all who have become one of the most important parts of my life. When I say I love my students, I mean it.

Hubby 1 and I had no kids so there’s nothing connecting us now. But does that mean our marriage wasn’t worth it? Or, did it help me go to Hubby 2 with more maturity and realistic expectations for us? And my God, I would never ever do over my marriage to Hubby 2 no matter what it ended up like: I got my boy. And Hubby 3? He actually did show me a new world and to be honest, he helped me to see that the men who look to be the meanest or toughest, are often the softest and sweetest; and that you have to get to know anyone before you can make a determination as to who they are.

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And J? Hmmmm. That’s a toughie. He really is the one who haunts me the most. I think it’s because of all we went through…all he put me through. Actually, it’s time I took equal responsibility: all I allowed him to do (and I was no angel either). But you see, we had really great times too. So many little jokes, and affectionate names, and things only he and I could understand and laugh about. I could bawl in front of him, sing my loudest, talk my dirtiest and he accepted it. He didn’t judge. I cherish the time I spent with him and his kids, because I felt like I was getting a 2nd chance at a young family again which I loved. And anytime I’d say, “Can I ask you something?” he’d always say: “You can ask me anything.” He was very open to hearing me, listening to me. Were those times worth the bad? I’m starting to think in some respects, they were.

I was telling my son about this post while he was rummaging around the basement and here’s what he said about do-overs: “Every decision you have ever made has led to where you are right now.” So many of my decisions in life have been crummy…so many of my perceptions have been skewed. But I’ve learned from them. Sometimes suffered because of them. And I am who I am. These decisions have taught me compassion, how to listen, the value of education, the importance of always saying I love you before saying goodbye.

But, there is one thing I would like a do-over on. And I would take it if I could. Asking for help when I knew I was really spiraling downwards in my teens instead of channeling my sickness into the ‘crazy’ Kristi who partied. Going to a psychiatrist to be diagnosed with bipolar so much earlier and then put on meds which would have lent a stability to everything else. Taking off the masks I had to wear to hide this mental illness I knew was inside of me, but I was too much of a dumbass chicken to face. Not being ashamed to let out the tears instead of pasting on a smile. Being able to say “Hey, I’m mentally ill…that’s just a part of who I am” instead of saying “Hey, I’m trying to be as perfect as I possibly can because it diverts attention away from the imperfection inside where at times I don’t know what the hell is going on in my head and I’m scared out of my fucking mind that I’m crazy and this mania will never stop and the depression will get worse and worse until there comes a day where I simply give up.” Would have made a big difference, huh?

Look, I know this isn’t possible. No matter how much I want it…how much it would have eased the burden on ma, O, sis and my family…how much it would have made my life easier, this is definitely one thing that will never get a do-over. But maybe that’s OK. Maybe I had to go through all of this until I was ready to face it, have the courage to talk about it, open up and speak about it, and finally write about it. I have you peeps tell me that reading about my experiences helps you; that it makes you feel less alone and more accepting of yourselves. Helps you to understand it’s ok to ask for help. That it’s all right to take off your masks. A do-over would take this away from you, and you know what? That’s something I just won’t allow to happen.

Kristi xoxo

“The Greatest Loss is What Dies Inside Us While We Live.” ~ Norman Cousins

So, here we are as a nation having to be isolated from one another and then knowing we are taking a chance at getting COVID when we go out to get what we need. Today I was at the grocery store and to be honest with you, I was scared by what I was seeing. There were people there with not only masks on, but with huge bandanas wrapped around their faces so only their eyes showed. When I would reach for something and my arm wasn’t exactly 6′ away, I’d get a dirty look. The instant we let go of something, it’s sanitized. Now, I know the measures need to be taken. I get that, and I would be devastated if someone in my family contracted this. But here’s my point: we are taking so many measures to fight this virus. This crisis. And that’s the right thing to do. I guess I just want to see the same measures taken for a crisis that has no ending in sight.

Now, hear me out. In 2018 (the most recent data I can find), 48,344 Americans died of suicide, which is about 132 people every day. Further, 1.4 million people attempt suicide every year (American Foundation for Suicide Prevention). What scares me the most is this: between 2007-2017, the suicide rate for teenagers (15-19) went up 76%. Read that sentence again, grasshoppers. Seventy-six percent. For KIDS ages 10-14, the suicide rate tripled during that same time frame. For both age groups, suicide is the 2nd leading cause of death and takes more lives than anything except accidents which include motor vehicle deaths (Centers for Disease Control). Finally, men over 65 are at the highest risk for suicide, and people 85 and over are the 2nd most likely age group to die (NPR).

sawyer-sweeten-suicide-secrets — Sawyer Sweeten (Everybody Loves Raymond) Gunshot wound – age 19

Obviously, I could go on and on with other statistics, but I think I made my point: suicide is a public health crisis in America ALL of the time, and I think attention needs to be paid to this; particularly when it’s taking the lives of so many of our kids and teens, as well as adults. Do you realize we are twice as likely to die by suicide than homicide, while cancer, heart disease and stroke deaths are lessening?

Think about this: suicide is preventable. Yes, I said preventable. Suicide is not about death, it’s about ending pain in the person’s life. No one truly wants to die, we have a huge survival instinct. Think about the Jews in the Holocaust, or the POW’s in Japan during WWII or Vietnam. When I think how so many willed themselves…forced themselves…to survive in spite of the abhorrent conditions they faced, it astounds me.

I teach about the Donner party in my Sociology classes, and most people joke about this: “Hey…what are the Donner’s going to have for supper? Aunt Jane!” Actually, it was tragic. These poor people who had lost the great majority of their food and supplies because of the Great Salt Dessert crossing and Paiute Native Americans who attacked them, got stuck in the Sierra Nevada mountains for an entire winter where literally, scores of snow fell which made climbing these impossible. They tried numerous times though, but failed. The first person that was eaten was a man who had begged his daughters to do so. If they lived, he said, so would the rest of their family. But no one ended up eating their kin, and no one consumed meat unless everything else had been used: bark, leather, fur, etc. That’s survival, peeps. That’s what life means.

Go back to those stats. For kids and teens to be in such pain they end their precious, young lives is unacceptable to me. Overall, not only do we have a suicide epidemic (literally) that cuts across all ‘lines’, but we have a mental illness/mental health crisis that is behind these horrific losses. It’s a 2 fold problem: a society that’s in so much pain, people of all ages are killing themselves because of problems bigger than they are mentally capable of handling at that point, and a lack of resources.

12-Quotes-From-Anthony-Bourdain-We-Will-Never-Forget — Anthony Bourdain – Death by Hanging (1956 – 2014)

Look at this: The National Institutes of Health are the largest funder for biomedical research in the entire world. In 2016, they spent $68 million on suicide, but 5x more studying SLEEP (what the fuck?), and 10x more on breast cancer which actually killed less people than suicide. Something has to give. We are spending more money on killers that take fewer lives. Isn’t there something very wrong with that? Doesn’t that show the value we place on mental illness and mental health issues?

And like I said, the kicker is that suicides are preventable, primarily with hotlines where the counselor establishes connection with the caller quickly, shows care and empathy, and let’s them know there are other ways to end the pain they are overwhelmed with in their lives. Another prevention? Breaking the stigma of mental illness by making is less ‘risky’ for people to say they are battling depression, or feel like they are outside their bodies looking in, or are experiencing so much anxiety, panic, or mania, they don’t think they can handle it another day. Men are 4x more likely to commit suicide, and are also less likely to receive help for mental health issues. Hmmmmm. Plus, these approaches don’t require social distancing, masks, or staying at home in isolation: it requires work in terms of funding and education. In my mind, that’s doable.

I know these things all too well from my own experiences at attempting suicide – when you are in such a fucking dark place where you look around and see only this black hole enveloping you more and more, you have no way of seeing anything else. That monster has you, and it takes someone outside of yourself to start the journey of climbing up those walls. It takes someone showing you that you matter. That you can survive. Saying: “Things will get better…we all go through stuff.” or “You just got to look on the bright side.” or even “Don’t be so dramatic” are just going to make the person feel guilty for what they are feeling. But saying “Hey, I care about you I want to help you” can.

2908768_1 — Kate Spade – Death by Hanging (1962 – 2018)

Edwin Schneidman was the pioneer in the study of suicide, and stated there 10 commonalities of it: seeking a solution, cessation of consciousness, intolerable psychological pain, frustrated psychological needs, feelings of helplessness-hoplessness, feeling ambivalent, a feeling of constriction, a want of escape, communication of intent, and the coping skills the person has. (The Suicidal Mind – Oxford University Press)

Look at some of these closer. How can we help ease people’s psychological pain? By maybe recognizing and helping those with it? By reducing the stigma of expressing this? What about feelings of helplessness & hopelessness? By giving people, such as the homeless, lonely, and sick something that gives them meaning? Something they feel some control over? Something to feel they are needed?

And communication of intent? Maybe we can help by addressing it. Believing it. Showing empathy for the person. Helping them while standing beside them all of the way. That’s what my ma did for me, and it obviously worked.

Lastly, the coping skills the person has. Mine suck balls, like a lot of others with bipolar. I haven’t been able to cope with much since I was a gangly little girl. Normal things hit me hard. Very hard. Just having a friend pay attention to someone else would devastate me (and I don’t use the word devastate lightly). Having my ma or dad express disappointment in me would crush me down to where I felt incapable of being loved. Having a guy reject my feelings in HS would get me so emotionally distraught, I felt I was a ‘nothing, like an invisible girl no one really saw. Is it no wonder the first time I attempted suicide was when my first love told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore? And my second time when too many things piled up on me at once that I totally collapsed under the weight of it all?

We need so much to understand what some people can handle, others can’t. When my ma would say “Honey, you’ll get over J and move on with someone who loves you back” I know her intentions were very good, she simply hated seeing me in so much pain. But I couldn’t ‘just’ do that, no matter how much I tried. Her coping skills are amazingly strong, while mine are amazingly weak. When people would say “Kristi, your nephew is in a better place”, I knew that to be true. But guess what? Maybe understanding that does comfort some, but it didn’t do shit for me when mourning a boy who had barely grown up.

Look, peeps…we are in the midst of a pandemic. We all need to stay healthy and safe. We all need to be diligent about washing our hands, wearing our masks, and staying away from others. But let me tell you something and I want to make this very clear: suicide will still be around. Long after this fucking Covid has either ‘run it’s course’ or we develop a vaccine for it. However, suicide will still be taking lives, young and old. Every single day we’ll see another 129 people kill themselves, all preventable deaths.

I don’t know about you, but I want this epidemic to be over too. Badly.

Kristi xoxo

The National Suicide Hotline is available 24/7 – 1-800-273-8255

“Oh, Oh, I Gave You My Heart.” ~ Elton John

dry rose flower next to broken heart shaped cookie — Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

So, when I started this blog it was for 2 reasons: first and foremost, to talk about life with mental illness and to shed light on related issues that might help start conversations while reducing mental illness stigma by letting others see we are ‘real people’, and not just diagnosis, who are coping with issues as best we can. Second, it was selfishly for me. I suck balls at journaling. I get the cutsie notebooks with the fancy schmancy covers and then write for 2 days and stop. Having this blog helps me be consistent, with awesome feedback and support, and allows me to get things out I need to process.

I’ve had this friend since we were in Jr. High. He’s amazingly funny, kind, smart, respectful. Actually, he is everything that’s good in a person that I’ve lacked in my other relationships. When we were in HS, he asked me out a couple of times and has said how he had wanted so badly to be with me, but I was with my first ever boyfriend so it didn’t happen. We lost touch after graduation but a couple of years ago we rediscovered each other on Facebook and started responding to each other’s posts and having bits of conversation.

As I was dealing with the break-up of J, he reached out to me and we started messaging. He made me feel better and more confident in myself by building me up, telling me how much I have to offer, and how I should never ever settle for anything less than wonderful. I was starting to think that maybe he was the wonderful that was finally coming into my life. I’ve known him for so long and talking with him was second nature.

I knew I was developing feelings…feelings that started a long time ago and grew quickly as we re-connected. In my mind, I could see a future. A ‘forever’ partner that I could be ‘me’ with and know I was safe with. I told him that the difference with him was that my other men had made me cry…but he made me smile.

A few days ago he said he loved me and that he had always had me on a pedestal. I didn’t say it back right away; I needed to think about what my feelings really were. And with the joy his words brought to me, the way my heart opened, and the butterflies I was experiencing, I knew I loved him too. It was like a part of me always did, all these decades since school.

butterflies — Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Now the caveat. He’s with another woman who he says he’s not happy with, doesn’t have sex with, but who he’s comfortable with since the relationship has lasted for a lot of years. I know, I know: “Kristi, wake up and smell the fucking coffee! ALL men say that when pursuing someone else! Duh!” And you’re right; so many men do say this. But I know him, and I think he’s genuine. Don’t say it…I know what you’re thinking, grasshoppers, that it’s just another game I’ve been sucked into.

So, I said I love him too. And I mean it from the bottom of my heart (sing that sentence like Stevie Wonder does please). We talked about having a life together and wanting to be together. But then, just today (which is why I needed to write this so I could process it the best I can right now) he told me that the future would be us together when we could be, and him going home to his partner. He just can’t leave her after these years together, no matter how unhappy he is.

I can’t do that. I simply can’t. I know first hand, not just with me, but with family members too, how horrendous ‘affairs’ are to everyone involved. They destroy relationships…break up families…hurt so many people in the name of ‘being happy.’ How can I do that to someone else? How can I selfishly hurt a person I don’t even know? How can I look my ma in the eye and tell her why this man I love won’t be around for any holidays and just sporadically at my house?

round window view of the ocean — Photo by Johannes Rapprich on Pexels.com

But (and y’all will be proud of this), how can I do that to myself? I have spent the last 2 years of my life rebuilding it. Rebuilding me. The reason why Hubby 3 left (sigh)…everything J did to me…my sweet nephew dying senselessly…my health scare…my issues at school regarding a threatening student…my mentor passing away…dealing with the most difficult depression I’ve ever had in my stinkin’ bipolar life…cutting myself…attempting suicide. For fuck sakes, I’ve had a lot to patch up and, by the grace of God (I’m very very serious about that, and I need to add with the grace of O, ma, and sis too), I have. I was at the very bottom of where I could be. Sometimes, I can’t even think about it. Revisiting that hole is terrifying because it makes me have to wonder if I’ll ever fall in again. I don’t know if I would make it this time if I did.

I like to joke and laugh about being bipolar. Like I’ve said before, if I don’t laugh I’ll cry, and to be honest with you (and I always am), I am so fucking tired of the tears. Us bipolars do that a whole lot you know, and it’s exhausting. So many of you with other mental illnesses can relate all too well; I know my sis does who struggles immensely with her major depression. Like so many, I’m overly sensitive, overly emotional, overly affected by rejection.

How ironic is it that this man is everything I say I want? Need. Desire. And like a bad joke, he’s the one man in my life that’s not accessible to me. I feel like I don’t know how to handle this. The tears have been flowing…my heart has been aching…and my brain is trying to process how I could get hurt again so fast.

Remember when we talked about punishment? It’s hard not to think that’s what’s happening to me now. I know ‘logically’ that’s probably not true. But as my neighbor and I discussed yesterday as we chatted for a couple of hours in my backyard, it’s not reality that we work from, but our own perceptions of that reality. So, ‘right’ or ‘wrong’, my perception holds true for me. I’ve also talked a lot about really shitty things I’ve done in my life that I attribute so much to my unmedicated bipolar, as well as just really crummy decisions I’ve made. I deserve retribution for those things. I deserve to pay the price. Unfortunately, I selfishly thought I had already paid that debt, but I think there’s still more there to do.

And you know, when something like this happens, it’s very difficult to think my mental illness doesn’t play a role. After all, our mental illnesses affect every part of our lives, don’t they? Maybe I’m too ‘much’ for him. Too ‘different’. Too ‘imposing.’ And yes, I probably am.

Anyhoot, I needed so bad to talk about this; to see these thoughts in words. And to be honest, connect with you, my sweet peeps. I thank you for listening. Thank you for the understanding I know you will give me because y’all are just so supportive and kind to me. In fact, thank you for going on this journey with me which I’ll continue until my age-spotted hands just can’t type anymore.

Hopefully, you’ll all be here with me for a happy ending. Very greedily, I want it sooner than later. I’m 53 (sigh…) and want my forever. Not a perfect forever…I know fairy tales aren’t real. But a forever where I’m happy…he’s happy…and we build something genuine and stable that keeps us together through the good and bad. I’m ready. I’m waiting. And when it does happen, I’ll appreciate it so much. I promise.

Kristi xoxo

Do You Want to Check that Bag?

So, I have one of the coolest things I own in my office and I look at it everyday. It’s an old steamer trunk (a real one…not a knock-off from Hobby Lobby) that I got a couple of years ago. The guy that sold it to me for just a few bucks said it was ugly and he just wanted it out of his garage. (By the way, every time I say ‘bucks’, I can hear Michael Scott telling Pam it’s not ladylike). I thought I could paint it really funky and it’d be a neat piece in my basement. Then I started doing some research on it, and come to find out, it’s an oldie that was most likely used by immigrants coming to America in the early 20th century like my grandpa and his family did. How cool is that?

The manifest from my family’s voyage. My son and I also looked it up on Ellis Island when we visited NYC.

We started moving my son and his girlfriend into their apartment yesterday (luckily, it was from a basement with stairs to a top floor apartment with stairs…just sayin’) and if I never see a cardboard box again, I’ll be thrilled. Another by the way: there was a dolly in the U-Haul that we had to park a ways away since the apartment house sets back behind a big grassy area. Being someone who likes to make work easier, I asked why we weren’t using it. My boy said, “Ma, we don’t need it” while he was mopping sweat from his brow and panting like a dog. Anyhoot, when he was carrying a load, I got the damn dolly out, chucked the heaviest item on it, and scooted it up to the stairs, saving more than half the work. You may insert an eye roll here.

So, this morning I was sitting at my laptop doing some very important things (scrolling through Facebook while watching Rocketman for the 100th time) and started thinking about baggage. That’s a word we hear so much, isn’t it? How everyone has ‘baggage’ from past relationships, their childhood, their high school years, what have you. When I look at my trunk, I always wonder what baggage was in it. Baby clothes for an infant that was going to be born in America? Old quilts from relatives the immigrants won’t see anymore? Books in their native language so they will never have to stop reading? Food especially canned for the trip so they’ll have something to eat while seeking work?

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I guess I’ve been pondering this a bit more these past couple of weeks because I’ve reconnected with a high school buddy and we’ve been talking pretty much non-stop. And here’s the thing, I know that no matter what, my baggage, and his baggage, is going to play a role into whether or not this goes anyplace at all.

How do you learn to trust someone again after so many others have betrayed you? I trusted my psychologist with my life. Literally. And he used that trust, manipulated it into something cruel, and made me feel a horrible sense of shame and guilt even though I was another one of his victims. Hubby 3 was not only my spouse, but I can honestly say he was the best friend I’ve ever had. Every single day he would tell me how happy he was and how much he loved me. And then he walked out on me Christmas day after our 10th anniversary. J was the one person I trusted every single secret I’ve ever had with. I opened up to him more than anyone else, and he took so many of my words and confessions and then used them against me. He threatened so many things, one of them being my job.

So tell me. How do you come back from that? Yes, I understand that no one should pay the price for someone elses’ mistakes, but let me know how that works. Seriously. Because once you’ve been ‘burned’, the scars are so deep and the baggage packed so well, that just ‘getting rid of it’ is something hard to do. OK…I’ll just do what some self-helpers recommend: jot all of this stuff down, tear up the paper, and then flush it down the crapper. Wow. Works like a charm. All of those decades of being hurt and used are miraculously gone Yea!

Hmmmm. No. Everyone talks about how hard it is to rebuild trust in a person that’s wronged you. But, our ‘baggage’ makes it hard to actually trust anyone. I don’t care how many times someone says, “Kristi, you can trust me.” Okey-dokey. Haven’t heard those words before. Haven’t been to that shitty rodeo. Face it, no one is going to say: “Look, I’m going to be really nice to you for a while and get you believing that this is going to be great. And then I’m going to fuck you over, use you, tear you down after building you up, make you believe you deserve no better, and then when I’m done toying with you, I’ll find someone else that I may actually be good too…you know…for fun.”

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Wouldn’t it be nice if people came with warning labels? “WARNING! Good looking guy, out for a hook up, likes to sweet talk until he gets in your knickers, but cooks great.” Well hells bells (my grandpa used to love saying that…I just had to use it at least once in a post), at least I know what I’m in for. And for piss sakes, let’s not even imagine what my label would look like…let’s just assume it would have a lot of skulls and crossbones on it.

OK, so besides trust, what else is in my trunk (steamer…not booty)? Respect is a biggie. I hate how that word is used so easily. “Hey…that guy didn’t give me my fries…he disrespected me.” Welllllll…maybe if you hadn’t screamed into the mike at the drive through while calling him a douche bag when the audio was still on, you would have gotten your freaking fries. As my ma says : “Think, man!”

Respect is more than that to me; actually it’s more than that period. True respect is believing a person to be of value because of qualities they have…because of who they are and what they’ve done that’s admirable. I think a problem I have (among a myriad of many) is ‘giving’ respect to people that actually haven’t earned it yet. Just assuming this person is admirable because of this and this and this. “Oh…you’re a CEO! You must be a great person and I have such respect for you!” (Actually, they are a blithering imbecile, but they got one terrific office).

I learned very early on in my teaching career that you can’t expect attention and control in a classroom without earning respect first. I learned you can’t expect your child to respect you unless you have shown them you deserve it. “But, Kristi…our kids should respect us no matter what!” OK, kiddies…respect your parents who are drug dealers and beat you at night when you need fed. Just sayin. See what I mean? Once, an elementary teacher told me she was so tired at screaming at her class all day. Huh? When I looked gobsmacked, she said, “Damn, with college kids you must do that a lot.” Nope. Never. I’ve never screamed at my son, never at my rambunctious elementary/jr high/high school students, and never in my college classroom. If I can’t talk in my normal tone of voice and be listened too, I have a lot of work to do in terms of earning respect.

What about kindness? First 6 months: “Hey, sweetie…anything you want.” “Love you baby, I’m behind you all the way.” “Hon…of course you can have your wonderful, kind, loving family over for the holidays…your family is my family.” Then, let’s fast forward a couple of years: “Kristi, what the hell are you doing spending so much money on that?” “Kristi, if you think I’m going to spend another holiday with your God forsaken family, you’re nuttier than I thought.” (Actually, I probably am). Kindness for some is almost like a bait and switch: turn it on in the beginning so you ooze honey, and then pull it away until it’s gone. Blech.

And love? “Hey baby…I love you more than anything! You took care of my dying mom, helped me raise my daughter through adolescence, and pretty much provided for my every whim with no questions asked. Oh, I’m leaving tomorrow.” Or, “Kristi, you weren’t my first, but you’re going to be my last (bloggers note:I think this came from Pinterest), and you’ve done more for me than anyone else in my life. Oh, by the way, I’m going to cheat on you this weekend…just wanted you to have a heads up.” So gee, I wonder why hearing ‘I love you’ is hard for me to accept.

I guess it comes down to this: I know I have baggage…a lot of it. A steamer trunk full. And I know that no matter what I do to unpack it and get it put away elsewhere, there will still be some left at the bottom. But I also know that everyone has a trunk. How can we not? Unless we’ve lived like Pollyanna, it’s gonna happen. So, someone is going to have to work a bit more hard in gaining my trust. Earning my respect. Helping me realize their kindness is genuine. Opening my heart. Actually though, that may be what I’ve always done wrong in the past…given these things away too quickly before realizing the true value of them first.

Kristi xoxo

“And you Still Listen to the Same Shit you did Back then…High School Never Ends” ~ Bowling for Soup

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So, I’m a Pinterest fanatic and can literally waste an hour looking up just one bead pattern that leads to another that leads to another and so on. Anyhoot, I get a lot of self-help stuff show up on my feed and I was thinking about all of these this morning. It’s like I scan them and will just ‘believe’ the info, but actually, so much of what they advise isn’t necessarily good. For some reason, I went ahead and saved the above from LifeHackers because I did think it had a lot of merit. Then, I read it again. And again. And I have to say, I think some of it is bullshit. (P.S. I was trying to find a good title about advice…but I love this song and it ties into education which ties into advice, so…).

Anyways, physical appearance is 1%? Sure it would be ideal if hard work was rewarded more, however, studies make it strikingly clear that ‘pretty’ people are much more likely to get call backs on interviews and are hired, earn raises, get promotions, appear as being more trustworthy, and are perceived as just being ‘better’ at the job. I remember showing a video to my classes years ago and it was an undercover deal where the producers prettied up an attractive woman, and then un-prettied an average woman with blotches, darker circles under her eyes, etc. Anyhoot, they both went to a job interview with a hidden camera: each resume had the exact same years of schooling and exact same type of work experience. The guy hiring told the un-pretty gal that he wasn’t sure if the position was still open and it paid $10 an hour. THEN, the purty girl walked in: he offered her the job on the spot, told her she was the most qualified candidate he’d seen, and told her the starting wage was $15. As much as I hate to say it, grasshoppers, looks actually matter a hell of a lot in our society.

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I see so many pretty quote pics that say this: Time heals all wounds. I disagree. Time helps with wounds, but they scar. They leave a mark. My grandparents died in the early 80’s and I can honestly say I think about them everyday. At times, I can recall happy memories that bring me to tears. BUT there’s nothing wrong with that. I want that ‘scar’ because that’s how people live on…in our hearts and our memories.

Following the rules? Yeah, it’s nice to be a rebel. It’s nice to go outside of the little boxes society puts us in based on gender, age, race, social class, etc. Of course we want to break out of them and march to the beat of our own drummer. However, there are consequences. Kids that do this? Often bullied for being different. Adults who do this? Are often marginalized and don’t do well at work: they need to go along to get along…the ‘corporate culture’ and ‘group think’ thing.

Think about this: Hubby 3 was an Outlaw biker club member and he and his buddies talked about how good it felt to be different from other guys. Hello! Y’all have the same long hair, same bandana, same vest, same patches, same t-shirts, same jeans (yummy), same chaps (yummier), same boots, and same type of bike (only Harleys, baby!). So, they aren’t different. They are the same in their different box. See? Even rebels rebel in a restricted way.

And for fuck sakes, listen to your parents, relatives and friends! There are a LOT of mistakes I wouldn’t have made if I had listened to my ma. “But Kristi, those taught you lessons.” Maybe so, but the pain wasn’t worth the lesson. Look at it this way: I know touching a red hot stove hurts so I tell my son to not touch. If he DOESN’T listen, guess what? We’re in for an ER visit. Look, we see things out of our own perspective. Period. We all need different perspectives in life. My son has been in love a few times before, and I haven’t always been crazy about the gal he was with. I would tell him (very nicely, and I always treat his women well) that there were some things I saw he might want to be aware of. He would shrug me off; he would still be in the honeymoon stage when everything is adorable. Then, reality hit and the adorable became the nerve wracking. Just sayin’.

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Never work for money? All righty! My passion is art of which I’m below mediocre at best (my real passion is teaching, but I’m making a point here, folks). So, if I do art all day, and sell 1 piece a week, it will take me a month to buy a bag of groceries at ALDI. Work for money, try to do something you like, and make sure you cultivate your passions at home. Look peeps, you need money to survive. Period.

Complaining? Of course it wastes time, but it’s also a very human thing to do. Actually, complaining can help rid you of stress. I used to complain to my hubbies (not at the same time for piss sakes) about stuff on the job or family (not you ma…hush up, T), and it got it ‘out’ and lessened how much it bothered me. And, you can’t always fix what you complain about. Right? I complain about the rain, and guess what? It’s still coming down.

So my sweet grasshoppers, if I’m going to bitch about common advice, do I have any of my own? Uh, yeah, of course I do. Hello! I teach and am a mother…I have a shit-load of advice.

First, be kind. Kindness gets you so so far. I know people I’ve taught with who treat the cleaning, maintenance or cafeteria people as less than. Nope. I’m very nice to them (to actually everyone) and guess what? My office is always clean, my stuff always fixed, and my meal always has extra fries. Need I say more? (And these are the coated fries that are crispy on the outside and tender on the inside…mmmmmmmm).

Second, be accepting of the differences in people. Celebrate them. Listen to other opinions and take in what they’re saying. Understand people have different perspectives that are built from their own life experiences. Learn from these differences. Be accepting of all humans since we all have equal value: race, age, gender, sexual orientation, religion, etc. It doesn’t matter ‘what’ you are…it matters that you are, and this applies to everyone.

Third, be non-judgmental. Hey, I’ve done some shitty things in my life that I could be judged harshly for. And so have you. But, there’s no way of knowing the back-story. The reasons. The ‘whys’. ‘Nuff said.

Fourth, be loving. Smile at people, and who gives a crap if they smile back. Give hugs to people who desperately need them…listen to people who badly need to be heard. Give more of yourself than you take. Say I love you. Say I’ll miss you. Say you’re important to me. You have no idea what these little, loving gestures can do for someone. Let me tell you:

Years ago, I taught part-time at our local university while teaching full-time at my college. There was a young gal in one of my classes who was extremely quiet and I could tell she was having a rough time. Everyday after class, I’d seek her out and walk with her across campus to her dorm and my car. I’d do most of the chatting (shocker there, huh?) but she would talk some too. On our last walk together of the semester, she handed me a letter when we got to where we would part. I read it when I got home and in it, she told me how she had been so depressed since moving to campus and she had contemplated suicide numerous times with a plan in place. She said that me talking to her helped her so much, like she had finally been ‘seen’, deemed important, and she felt like she really did have something valuable to say. Grasshoppers, I had no idea that was all going on with her, and also had no idea how much our walks meant to her. I was gobsmacked, and that was the day I realized you truly have no idea how big of an impact a loving gesture can have for someone. And actually, for you too.

Lastly, be true to you. Be as genuine as you can. Look grasshoppers, it took me 50 fucking years to get rid of the stifling masks I wore all my life so people would think I was always happy, always ‘perfect’. The masks are what forced me to always say YES and then conform to whatever someone wanted me to be. Life is too short to live it falsely. To be fake. ‘Coming out’ as mentally ill freed me in so many ways. It’s lifted off those masks and I can breathe. It took me 50 years to breathe. I know it might be hard to show yourself…be yourself. And I get that. I really do. But please, don’t do what I did. I finally started living as myself just 3 years ago. How I wish I could have done that so much earlier in my life.

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Look, you can take this advice or you can tell me to shove it (it might hurt my feelings, but c’est la vie), but always be mindful of not just following the pretty quotes and sayings that we’re bombarded with willy-nilly. Just because there’s a picture of a sunset behind the quote written in beautiful calligraphy doesn’t mean it’s valid. Or right for everyone. Or right for you. Be picky about what you listen too. Actually, be picky about everything that pertains to you. You know why? Cause, my sweet peeps, you deserve it.

Kristi xoxo

Don’t Stop Believin’ ~ Journey

So, never in a million years (well, let’s not start out too dramatically…let’s say 50) did I think I would base a post on a Lifetime movie, but here goes: I joined the Lifetime Movie Club the other day; it’s a pandemic and I’m desperate for entertainment outside of watching Edward lick himself. So anyhoot, I watched a doozie today about a couple of contractors, one who is trying to off this gal (shocker) and the other one that ‘acts’ crazy but is really the good guy. To make a long story short, the good guy never ever gave up on this woman he was trying to save, even when she was bad to him and told him to go away. He just stayed true to what he felt was right.

Hmmmmm. It got me thinking about giving up on people; when you should…when you shouldn’t.

J texted me again today, and I can tell he is in so much pain. He’s angry, hateful, acting belligerent, all of which I know is covering up the pain he has inside himself. No, he would never admit this. No, he won’t allow himself to try to confront it because I don’t think he would know how to handle the feelings he’d be flooded with. And no, he won’t seek out help because he needs this shield against a world he doesn’t want to be a part of anymore.

I have re-connected with an old friend from high school and we are really having some great talks, so I chatted with them about this today, and they said, “Just block him.” Of course, I could do that. Easily. But I’m not going to and I’ll tell you why. (Ma, if you are getting pissed at me, turn off the computer…the little button on the left. The one that says ‘power’. No…not that one. The other…oh…for fuck sakes, just shut the lid and turn on the TV).

It all goes back to giving up on people. Yes, he gave up on me. And yes, how it happened was wrong. And no, I didn’t do anything to deserve that sort of treatment (this is progress, peeps). However, after 3 years, half of them living together, I know him very well. I know his family and they are horrible to him (and to me, but I digress). They gave him absolutely nothing in his life but the bare minimum to survive and that was it. And yes, that included ‘love’ too. It’s truly beyond my realm of comprehension, as a mom, how you can’t show love to your own child. I just don’t get it.

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I could give up on J. I could turn my back. Walk away. Cut myself off. And that means I would be like everyone else in his life. I’m not though, and I think this tenacity comes from a couple of things.

First, my ma has never done that to me. I put her through hell and back a couple of summers ago, and she bore the burden and stayed by my side as long as I needed her too. She still does. I have dumped shit on her I should have taken out on myself, and she looks at me and tells me she loves me. In other words, she has never given up on me. Not when I was at the lowest place in my life…when I was telling her I wanted to die…when I was cutting myself and she had to see the bloody bandages…never. And I wouldn’t be here if she had.

Second, what is in us as humans that we walk away so easily when people need us the most? How many times have I said to someone “GO AWAY” when all I really wanted was for them to come closer? When I was younger, I’d yell “I HATE YOU” to other kids who didn’t want to play with me (gee…I wonder why), and actually, all I wanted was to feel included.

When I was in the midst of that fucking breakdown, so many people gave up on me…backed away…ignored me. People I had known for decades at school turned their backs on me. When I would cry in my office over lunch, no one would ever ask me how I was. People whispered about me (I know this because I heard them at times), would turn away when I’d walk by, would pretend they didn’t know me. How can I even describe how much that hurt? My nephew was dead, I was finalizing a divorce, J was treating me bad, I had cervical surgery, my mentor died, a student was giving me trouble, etc. I needed people more than ever. I needed just one person at work to say: “Look, I know you’re hurting, what can I do?” If just one wouldn’t have ‘given up on me’, I wonder how much faster I would have healed?

stars and clouds at nighttime — Photo by Arnie Chou on Pexels.com

So, how can I do that to J? He’s reaching out for a reason. Not because he wants me back, but because he doesn’t know any other way to connect with someone who understands. How can I turn my back on him when he’s at, what I believe, to be the lowest point in his life? How can I let him down…give up on him…like everyone else has?

Look, those of us with mental illnesses know we are going to have good times in our lives, and we are going to go through hell at times in our lives. Walking with someone in the sunshine is nothing. But helping them through the storm is. By not giving up on J, I’m paying forward all the times people haven’t given up on me. And that’s a debt I’m happy to be responsible for.

Kristi xoxo

He’s Not Heavy. He’s My Son.

So, my son has been living with me for about a year and half (or if you ask him, it’s been forever) in order to save up money and invest it in the equipment needed for his professional photography business. Now that he’s on track, he’s going to be moving out this week for his own place, and I’m feeling such mixed emotions about it.

O was always my little buddy and we did so much together when he was a kid. I had summers off, and we always swam, fished, rode bikes, played basketball, and went to the library, children’s museum, and zoo.

During the school year, I was always room mom, and since I taught at the college level and could pretty much make my own schedule, I always was able to get him off to school in the morning and be there when he got home. It was a perfect set-up. As room mom, I was known far and wide (in a small school) as the “Goodie Bag Queen”, a title that had no sash, but a lot of respect to those under 4 foot tall.

When O was in Kindergarten, I subbed one day and O couldn’t contain his enthusiasm. While the other kids were calling me “Mrs. Palmer”, O would say “MOM” very LOUDLY just so everyone would know he was the teacher’s pet! Years later, when I volunteered as ‘lunch lady’, the most God awful job one can have for the Jr. High crowd, I came in the first day and my precious son said this: “Look everyone…it’s the friendly neighborhood volun-turd.” So, I responded: “Look everyone…it’s the kid that won’t get any Christmas presents this year.” ‘Nuff said.

O in Kindergarten…My little Harry Potter!

During the summer when O was going to be a 5th grader, he had worked his way up by having short sleepovers at a local Christian camp, and was ready to spend 5 days there…overnight! I was a nervous wreck, but his dad most lovingly said, “Get over it. We’ve paid the fee.” Quite comforting. Anyhoot, we arrived, got him settled in, and after a sobbing goodbye (on my part), drove away.

The next morning, as I was in the process of painting his room to surprise him when he got home in 5 days, the phone rang and it was O, telling me he threw up and needed to come home. I threw down the paintbrushes, grabbed a bucket, and was on my way…speeding the entire 20 miles along country roads. He was quite subdued when I picked him up and held the bucket, but didn’t make a peep. We got home and I plopped him in my bed since his room was torn up. About an hour later, he came plodding out and said, “Mom? I LIED TO YOU!” I asked him what he lied about, and he said, “I wasn’t sick and didn’t throw up…I just wanted to be home with you!” I told him I was glad he lied in this case, because that was all I wanted too.

Fast forward to when he turned 18. (Actually, most of his adolescence is a blur…a defense mechanism that serves me well). One morning before I left for classes, he told me a buddy of his had an apartment and needed a roommate. I told him I would think about it and we’d have a nice long chat that evening. When I got home at 1:00 (a mere 4 hours later), he was packed up, guys were carrying boxes out of my house, and O said he took the offer. Great chat.

o and mom — O in High School before a Prom.

After a variety of jobs, O started working for Verizon and when he was 21, told me he had taken a transfer position in Fort Worth…about 780 miles from home. I was gobsmacked. How could I be that far away from him? What if he got sick? Hurt? In an accident? (I’m a very optimistic person). But, we got him moved down there and I stayed with him for a couple of weeks to help get his apartment fixed up. When it was time for me to fly home, O drove me to the airport, but dropped me off at the QUICK drop off where they rush you while yelling the entire time. He hugged me and said he would call me that night, and I trudged into the airport. I was at the TSA desk where you show your ID and boarding pass and this adorable Texan gal said, in the greatest southern drawl ever: “Did y’all have a good time in Texas??” I started bawling. Wailing might actually be a better word. She said, “OH MY!” and proceeded to help me through the line as if I was an invalid on my last leg.

And then he was back 3 years later.

Believe me, it has not been all sunshine and rainbows living in the same house together. It was hard on him to have to move back to a place where he felt like a kid again, and not the independent self he was used to being, and it was hard on me not to turn him back into my ‘kid’. Plus, he’s messy…I’m tidy. He’s quiet…I’m loud. He’s calm…I’m emotional. He’s a procrastinator…I’m a doer. We’ve had a couple of arguments, but really, this time has gone quite well, despite the fact that the one trait we do have in common is stubbornness.

20150310_105059 — O and I in Texas…I’m getting ready to leave him for the first time there…hence, my VERY forced smile.

I’m excited for him to be on his own again because I know that’s what he wants. I’m also so proud of him for building a business in a couple of years that’s already sustaining itself. His work is amazing. Plus, he’s only going to be 2 miles away, and I run by his apartment complex almost daily. He’s still going to be around a lot since my garage is storing his vintage car and Harley, plus, his darkroom will probably stay in my basement. He knows this is always going to be his home and he’ll never be without a key.

But, I’m going to miss him. In so many ways, he’s my crutch. The person I can talk to about everyday things. The noise in the house. The shoes on the floor. He’s the one that can see my moods and ask me how I’m doing. He’s the one I get a hug from The one who made me not wake up alone on Christmas. The one who’d watch a movie with me when his girlfriend worked late. The one who made me amazing dinners and ‘plated’ them so beautifully. The one who made me laugh again after J left me. The one that understood how broken my heart was and encouraged me to do things.

I’m not afraid to be alone in the sense of not being able to take of myself. Nope. I’ve been working non-stop since I was 16 and everything I have, I bought myself. I’ve always done everything around the house anyway, and have lots of interests to keep me ‘busy’. But I think that’s what bothers me the most…the word busy. It’s like kids’ worksheets in elementary school. When I was teaching 5th grade, I once had a parent tell me I should give homework. When I asked her why, she said, “Because that’s just what teachers do.” I told her I didn’t believe in busy work for the sake of busy work. After all, once you learn 2 + 2 = 4, you really don’t need to write it out another 100 times (plus, if you forget, for fuck sakes use your fingers). But, if the student actually needed more help on something with additional work, then that was another thing. She looked at me like I was nuts. (Hmmm…)

I don’t want the rest of my life to be ‘busy work’. I don’t want to just fill up my days so I can go to bed and have another day to face again. I don’t want to look out my window in the afternoon and say ‘What now?’ Instead, I want someone to go down this new path with me. To be my confidant. My partner. My sounding board. My comfort. And I want to do the same for them. I’m one of these people who need to be needed…if that makes any sense.

Maybe I’m just feeling sorry for myself…but hey, I’m a sensitive, feeling bipolar (had to throw that in there, in case you forgot or something) so what do you expect? I know I’ll be fine. I know Eddie and Dottie and I will have good days and not so good days. I know I’ll continue loving my teaching, spending time with O, ma, and sis, doing my art, reading my books, working in my yard, running and all, but I guess I just want to add someone to the mix to enjoy it all with me.

Kristi xoxo

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“Old Age is No Place for Sissies.” ~ Bette Davis

So, last night I started laughing as I was getting ready for bed. Not because of how horrible I looked with my hair plastered down on my head and no make-up on my face, but because of what I was putting myself through. And I do this every night.

I counted how many anti-aging products I have in my bathroom cabinet, and it’s 16. Sixteen! I literally have creams, lotions, oils, serums, and ‘cold plasma’ goop (which I really don’t want to know what it’s ingredients are) that I spread over my skin in hopes they will actually do what I am told they will by such enticing ads. Sometimes, I feel like a mad (well…yeah…I’m bipolar after all) scientist with my pots, bottles, and jars, mixing my concoctions and rubbing them on different parts of my face.

I have eye goop that I spread around my…you guessed it…eyes in hopes they will look 30 instead of 53 (I still look 53 after all of the smears). I have cream for around my mouth to make any small wrinkles “disappear’ while making sure my lips look pouty and moisturized. I have oils, (that I mix myself in little bottles and smell so good but are hell on my pillowcases) for my cheeks since they’re so dry, as well as overall lotions I plaster on top of all this mess. The layers on my face could be studied like geologists study rocks…just start digging and you’ll eventually be able to uncover my actual birthdate.

Then, there’s my bod. I have…wait for it…6 lotions and creams for it, plus ‘butter’ that makes me feel like a greasy french fry. I actually tried to make my own body butter this winter. It was a disaster. I cooked the ingredients in my favorite sauce pan, and it was hellish trying to get the greasy concoction completely washed out. I, of course, did it wrong (big surprise there), so the butter was grainy. I spread it on my arms and legs anyway and it was a sandy, smelly mess with the goop dripping off in globs, since the minute it was on my warm bod, it became liquified again. When I walked out in my shorts and tee, my son looked at me, turned around, and left. He was practicing what I always taught him: If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.

After all of this schmearing, I sleep in a contraption that could possibly be used in a 50 Shades of Grey type scenario (note to self, remember this) since it’s got buckles and straps which I wear in order to not get the chest wrinkles common to women my age. It’s going in the back of my closet today. I’m tired of feeling like a trussed up turkey.

So, I’m plopping in bed all lotioned, creamed, oiled, and bound up. Gee…I wonder why I’m sleeping alone. (You may insert an eye roll here).

Why in the fuck do women go to such measures to try to stay young looking? I’m the FIRST person to say how women need to accept themselves for who they are (I actually did a Tedx Talk on it), to be proud of their bodies, to love themselves for their accomplishments, to understand that beauty is so much more than what is reflected back in the mirror. And believe you me, I try! However, when you are bombarded with gorgeous young women in the media, while ads for older women are all about staying young, you begin to figure out that young equals better in our society. Why?? I don’t get it.

Confession: during the summer of the breakdown I had, I did something I regret terribly. It was just a few weeks before everything went to hell: I had a face lift. Yep. I did. J had mentioned something his mom said about my age, and I became extremely self-conscious about it (actually, I still am: old habits, or in this case messages, are hard to break). I went to a plastic surgeon, something I never thought in a million years I’d do, and was talked into it. That’s not what I went in for, but the doc made it sound like the answer to all my woes. So, I had a 90 minute surgery where the doc literally cut my face from ear to ear, pulled down the skin (you can gag…I’ll wait), stitched up my facial muscles, and then put in 22 staples AND 22 stitches to re-attach my skin.

eye of the beholder

And my reward? Paying this guy $5000 for the pleasure of sleeping upright in my ma’s chair for a week straight, not being able to talk (for some reason, ma wasn’t too upset by this…hmmm) not being able to open my mouth to eat which required ma to pour soup down my gullet, not being able to shower well since I couldn’t get my face wet, having so many bruises I looked like Rocky after being pummeled by Apollo Creed, and being in a lot of pain. It hurt like hell.

But, I figured all of this was worth it if J liked the results (remember, he’s significantly younger than I am). Well…that was a fiasco in itself. I had the surgery while he was on maneuvers with the National Guard and was told by him that he wouldn’t be able to text or call me during this time. I was mostly healed when he got home and…wait for it…he broke up with me to be with his ex girlfriend. By the way, he texted and called her during the entire month he was gone. Sigh.

I can’t tell you how much I regret that fucking surgery. Not because I felt coerced into it, but because I HATE that I did something so drastic to look younger again. For piss sakes, I’m 53. 53!! I’ve done a lot in that time. I’ve put my body through hell. I’m a hard worker; I’ve always taken care of my yard, the house maintenance, painting, digging, planting, etc. and my hands show it. I’ve had a baby (quite large I might add) who I adore with all my heart. I’ve taught for 25 years. I’ve been through 3 divorces (another eye roll). I’ve earned these wrinkles…and God knows I deserve them.

20526189_10159079488940082_1145399140704715291_n — Me…wrinkles and all. 🙂

I’m trying so hard to be ‘real’ in my life now. No masks. No lies when I’m asked how I am. No pretty stories to sugarcoat having this…say it with me…fucking bastard of a mental illness. I’m living genuinely…authentically…and it’s about time. 50 years of hiding who I am was exhausting. No wonder I have wrinkles.

As my magic potions run out, I’m not going to replace them. I’m going to take care of me like I should, but I’m done trying to turn back the clock. If I want people to accept my inside, I need to learn to accept my outside. Yes, we live in a youth oriented culture. Yes, people lose their value as they age. Yes, women are held up to the standards of perfection. But let me tell you something: I’m still valuable and I’ll always be a million miles away from perfect no matter what I do. But I’m me. Finally me. And it feels really good.

Kristi xoxo

“Pull the Lever, Kronk!” (Yzma)

So, my all time favorite movie is the “Emperor’s New Groove” and I would very much like to marry Kronk someday soon. It’s my go to when I’m getting ready for school, and I’m proud to say I can recite the entire script. (Don’t tell me…I know you’re jealous).

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Anyhoot, I was thinking about this today because Kronk, when he’s in some moral predicament, has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, and he’s forced to figure out which one to choose. (By the way, he always chooses the angel!) Actually, this is a great illustration of Freud’s 3 parts of the personality: the id (the devil), the ego (Kronk himself), and the superego (the angel).

I’ve also had a lot more time to read now that I’m teaching completely online, and one book that fascinates me is “The Lucifer Effect” by Philip Zimbardo (the book is excellent and I recommend you take a look-see). After much study, he has determined that all people, given the correct circumstance, can cross the ‘line’ to being bad or evil. Dr. Zimbardo believes that so-called line isn’t solid but permeable and we all have the capacity to be Mr. Hyde. He looks at the nature of good and evil and it’s scary to think how truly evil we have the capacity to be.

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So, can I be bad? Can I cross that line? Of course, but it would take a lot to make me do it and I often feel guilty sometimes for NOT crossing that line when I think I should have. Let me explain.

Even though I WANTED to maim him, I learned very early on to be good to R, ma’s abusive 2nd husband. I had to be. I lived with him for 4 years and had to see him often for the next 24, and if I got him angry because I wasn’t on his side with an issue, he’d take it out on ma. I didn’t care that I had to push down anything and everything I wanted to say or emote…protecting her was worth it. But, to be honest with you, part of me wishes I would have done something ‘evil’ to him so my ma wouldn’t have had to live like she did for so long. That’s something I ruminate on. I don’t know exactly what I’m talking about but, I feel like I didn’t do enough in that situation. Does that make sense?

When it came to that psychologist who sexually abused me, I had horrible thoughts as to what I could do to him after the abuse ended. I envisioned myself slashing the tires on his precious (very expensive) car and taking a baseball bat to the windows. I picked up the phone more times than I can count so I could call his wife and set her straight about what she was married too (actually, I think she already knew), and I wanted to get in his precious ‘deans office’ and destroy it. Once again, I did nothing since I would have been arrested, and the real culprit seen as the so-called victim. BUT, would it have made enough of an impression that he wouldn’t have risked hurting anyone else? I don’t know.

And then I had my son. I figured the first time I held him, I would be awash in love. And I was! Yet, I was also flooded with a fierce protectiveness I have never felt before. Like a ‘tiger mom’, I felt these instincts rise up in me and knew I would safeguard him no matter what. And I know I still would. There is absolutely no question in my mind that I would kill (not just harm) someone who was directly threatening my sons life. I think all parents can relate to that. Just ask a parent if they’d take a bullet for their kid. They won’t even have to think about it: the answer is yes.

What other bad things do I think I have the capacity to do? I think so much of that depends on the actual situation. We really don’t know what we’re capable of until faced with it. One of my all time favorite books is: The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King. In it, a 9 year old girl (who you fall in love with after the first few paragraphs) gets lost after leaving a path on the Appalachian trail she, her mom, and her brother are hiking. The story is about how she handles being alone in this vast wilderness. Anyhoot, a line in the book says that there’s a time when you can go from living to surviving.

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I think that’s such an interesting sentence. I’ve never had to just survive by any means possible. I’ve never been hungry. Homeless. In a war. People will say things like “I’d never be able to hurt anyone.” Really? What if your kid was hungry and starving…you wouldn’t fight until the end for the last of the food? What if your enemy was holding a gun in front of you…you wouldn’t shoot first? What if you were sleeping on the street out of necessity and someone started attacking you? You’d let it happen? Hmmmmm.

It’s almost going back to the age old question of whether we are born inherently good or bad. I do know this: we have to teach kids to share…teach them to apologize and show remorse…teach them not to hit, etc. Maybe we all have bad in us that’s suppressed most of the time, but is still accessible to us in the right circumstance. And, maybe a specific situation could push a person over that line to evil, where they stay. Maybe I’ll find myself in such a situation where I cross over much more easily than I ever imagined, and for no good reason other than I could. I just hope to never find that out.

Kristi xoxo

“Great Gobs of Goose Shit” (Clay – City Slickers)

So, I love to go back and watch older movies and one of my favorites is “City Slickers.” If you’re not familiar with it (because of being much younger than me…sigh…) it’s about 3 guys who take a trip to a ranch where they learn to round and drive cattle while working through the various issues in their lives.

Anyhoot, in one scene (my fave), the men share what their all time worse day was and all time best day was. It’s always made me think about what I would have chosen, and I finally have an answer…at least up to this point in my life. After all, our best and worst days can change, can’t they?

Of course my all time best day was the day my son was born…that’s a given. My all time worse day was when my nephew died on the USS McCain. Both of those are above and beyond anything else, so I’m going to talk about 2 other times in my life.

Let’s start with worse day(s)…so we can finish on the positive (that’ll be a switch…huh?). When my son was a sophomore in high school, he started having stomach problems. His dad has always had them, and O was tested for IBS, Crohns disease, food allergies, etc. Those tests all came up negative, and then we started thinking that maybe it was psychosomatic. The divorce from his dad was still pretty fresh and because O is very much the type of guy to push feelings down, this seemed to be a possibility. That was pretty much ruled out too. Finally, the specialist told his dad and I that he needed to biopsy lymph nodes in his abdominal area (they seemed to be swollen) because there was a possibility that O could have Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia.

The minute I heard those words, my world completely shifted. It’s hard to explain, but before even knowing whether he had it or not, all of a sudden I realized that something horrible could befall my son without me being able to just fix it with a smooch or band-aid.

O was admitted to the hospital and had his biopsy, then spent the night for observation. After the biopsy was done, I asked the doctor this: “Would you be worried if this was your son?” He said: “Yes.” OOOKKKAAAYYY…thanks for the reassurance, doc. O told me and his dad that he would be fine spending the night alone…he was 15 after all! I went home, which is just a couple tenths of a mile from the hospital…I can see it from my back windows, but couldn’t sleep. I went back to his room and slept in a chair just so I could be with him. The next day, we got him showered and he came home. Then, the waiting game started. His doc said it would be about 72 hours before we knew anything conclusively.

I gotta tell you, this started the longest 72 hours of my life. My ma and I weren’t talking: I couldn’t take her husband anymore and she wouldn’t be around me without him because she knew what the consequence of leaving him out would be. So, it was pretty much just me, my hubby, and his dad. Even though hubby tried to comfort us, he still wasn’t as invested as O’s dad, and so he and I talked a lot during this time. It was our son, and we were the only ones who could really relate.

Obviously, O was aware of what was happening and tried to be brave, until that first night at home when he called me into his room and asked me to read some of his old books to him like I used to when he was a little guy. I got a few of his faves out, and in a choked voice started reading. It was so hard to do, but I wanted to reign in anything I was feeling and do what he needed me to do. We trudged through every day, trying not to think the worse, and even though hubby kept telling me to be positive, your mind can’t help seeing the darkness.

46451738_2164519953567469_8359044309877522432_n — My awesome son!

Finally, we got the call that O was OK. He didn’t have leukemia. He was battling some kind of bacterial infection in his stomach that made his lymph nodes swell. I can’t even begin to express the relief I felt. I truly couldn’t see myself living in a world without him, and to think of such a talented, sensitive, genuine boy to not have his whole life ahead of him was too much to bear. Going through something like this with your kid makes you realize the gift they are. How they are so much a part of you that you can’t really see them any other way but connected to you. How they are so inextricably tied to your heart that they have become the biggest piece of it. No matter how much I knew I was blessed with O before this, I’ve never forgotten how incredibly lucky I am to have O in my life. Truly.

Now, my best day? Easy. Y’all know I had a breakdown around 2 and a half years ago, and I hit rock bottom. We don’t need to yack about all that contributed to this, but it was a combination of so many things that I simply couldn’t handle my life anymore. I have to admit something horrible though: prior to this, I really didn’t think ‘nervous breakdowns’ happened. I thought that was a histrionic term for “I can’t handle things anymore so I’m labeling it as such.” What a stupid asshole I was.

The break was a few weeks coming as situations kept piling up. And then POW; I found myself broken with absolutely no ability to care for myself. I would cry for hours at a stretch and was incapable of eating, showering, dressing, or doing anything in terms of self-care. Just getting out of bed was a major feat, and the cry of my dogs needing to pee is the only reason why I had too. I couldn’t think straight at all…it’s like my mind got so jumbled up nothing made sense. I’d hear my doctor, my counselor and my mom talking, but I was in a dark tunnel where their ‘words’ registered, but not their ‘meaning.’ I was living alone and getting through an hour by myself was hell. This is when I started cutting, badly, and also when I attempted suicide. I truly didn’t want to live (which is so hard to recall now) and I kept sobbing to my mom that all I wanted was to be with Grandma and Grandpa in heaven. And I meant it. It wasn’t a metaphor, it was a truth.

The tunnel I found myself in was dark as hell, and I was petrified to even try to crawl out because that meant facing some of the demons that were challenging me. But I had too. It was slow going…two steps forward…one step back. It took weeks, but I managed, with the help of those around me, to do it. Like the breakdown, it was a process. But light started shining again.

21557453_10159268687895082_2740290679604424814_n — I have this on my bedroom mirror to remind myself every morning that there’s always reason for me to smile.

This pic of me and Edward is so important for a couple of reasons. First, my son was visiting me from Texas where he was living at the time, and took this pic. He knew what was going on with me to a degree, but until he was here, he didn’t realize how bad I was. This particular afternoon, since I was getting better, he talked me into taking Ed to the dog park. He snapped this pic of me smiling. The first smile I had smiled in a couple of months. Having my son with me gave me so much more motivation to keep pulling myself out, because I could see the pain I was causing him. I realized I couldn’t hurt myself…couldn’t kill myself…because it would kill him. He made me remember that I was needed. Wanted. Loved. And that day in the park was my best day: I smiled. I knew I was going to be OK. I knew I was going to fight this. I knew I had people here on earth I needed to be with. I knew there was an end to this pain.

Isn’t it something how our own worst times can lead to our best days? And how the worst times in our kids/loved ones lives can give us the understanding just how precious life is? Just how much we need to enjoy each and every day we’re given?

In the movie, as 2 of the men are talking about their worst days and their best days, they use the same day for both. I guess I could too. Both of these times for me were horrific. O’s the worse…my son is everything to me. But I guess in retrospect, they were my best times too. Each made me realize how blessed I am. How lucky I am.

It’s easy to forget that, isn’t it? I hope I never do.

Kristi xoxo