A fallen squirrel.

[Bambooki]

A Miracle!

A miracle has occurred! The Heavens have shone down upon me today, and all is well.

They've actually turned the heat on! It's a gift from God, really. It's 46 degrees outside, and this building was built in 1867. So it's old and drafty. And I'm on the second floor. It's still heated with steam pipes that any baby boomer readers will remember from their dorm days. Lots of clanging and clicking and pipes that burn if you touch them and funky smells when it comes on.

But it's on! And in an hour when it warms up I can take off my coat and remove the heating pad from my lap.

Geesh. I know the state of West Virginia is poor, but did they really have to deprive us of warmth? Now if I can just get them to remove my a/c.....

Meanwhile, I have something to say to those of you having a rough time. Please, get help. I can't bear the thought of anyone in the dark, horrible place I was in for so long. If I had not found my counselor and found help in the form of medication, I would have died. Either of starvation or by taking my own life. I saw no way out, I felt no one could help me, and that dying would be far easier than living. Not all of you are that deep into depression, but catch it before it worsens. I have a number of people in my life whom I've asked to watch me. When I get depressed I stop eating. That's the first sign. And those folks watching me have been assigned the task of ordering me to a counselor and to take my medication. Good old Prozac. I don't take it any more, but I have a prescription ready to be filled when I need it. The problem with depression is that it creeps up on you. Once you actually realize you're depressed, you're too drained of energy and lifeless to help yourself. It's good to have someone around to make sure you don't go that low before you get help.

I loved my counselor in St. Pete more than anything. She was a tiny woman with little use of her legs due to a childhood bout with polio. She was brilliant. And she was the most perfect match for me. The woman saved my life. I owe her everything. Without her, and without that drug to make me level, I wouldn't have made it.

So folks, if life is too much for you to carry alone, please find help. I speak from more experience than a 24-year-old should have. Don't let this become an unconquerable demon.

=================================
And now, I'll jump on the bandwagon, as usual.

-WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR KITCHEN PLATES?
Beige with flowers and fruity things. Corel. Hard to shatter. Even for me.
-WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
Two: Bag of Bones, Stephen King, and Touching My Father’s Soul, by Jamling Norgay (the son of the sherpa who assisted Sir Edmund Hillary to the top of Mount Everest…Mt. Everest is my personal obsession.)
-WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
Some weird 3D chick with big boobs holding a gun. The Fer found it under his bed at home.
-WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE BOARD GAME?
Trivial Pursuit because I’m so god damned good at it. I will seriously take on anybody.
-FAVORITE MAGAZINE?
National Geographic, Adventure, Outside
-FAVORITE SMELL?
Hyacinth Blossoms
-LEAST FAVORITE SMELL?
When The Apso eats her own poo and then belches in my face.
-FAVORITE COLOR?
Purple
-LEAST FAVORITE COLOR?
Orange
-HOW MANY RINGS BEFORE YOU ANSWER THE PHONE?
However many it takes for the caller ID to pop up. At work: one.
-WHAT IS MOST IMPORTANT IN LIFE?
Family. My animals.
-CHOCOLATE OR VANILLA?
Get serious. Chocolate.
-DO YOU LIKE TO DRIVE FAST?
I lived in Florida. YES! But I don’t anymore. It uses too much gas in an SUV.
-DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL?
No.
-HOW MANY PILLOWS ARE ON YOUR BED?
Six: two for sleeping, two with shams for decoration, and two little throw pillows.
-WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING?
Do I have to pee badly enough to warrant not hitting the snooze?
-STORMS: COOL OR SCARY?
Very cool. Not so much at night when I’m alone, though.
-WHAT TYPE WAS YOUR FIRST CAR?
1994 black Nissan Altima named Svarte Piete.
-IF YOU COULD MEET ONE PERSON DEAD OR ALIVE?
Nobody comes to mind.
-FAVORITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK?
Toss up between pina colada and peach schnapps.
-FAVORITE SOFT DRINK?
Pepsi twist
-SODA, POP, OR SOMETHING ELSE?
Soda. Soda soda soda SODA! I detest the word "pop".
-WHAT IS YOUR SIGN & YOUR BIRTHDAY?
Taurus, 5/13
-DO YOU EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI?
Yeah. They’re probably just as healthy as the heads. Broccoli gives me awful gas, though.
-IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Marine mammal research, captive or wild.
-IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY COLOR HAIR, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
I think I like mine because it lends itself well to experimentation.
-IS THE GLASS HALF FULL OR HALF EMPTY?
I dropped it on the floor before I formed an opinion.
-FAVORITE MOVIE?
Life’s too short to have only one favorite.
-DO YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FINGERS ON THE RIGHT KEYS?
Yes I do and I must say, I’m a fireball.
-WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED?
Dust, hair, two issues of Readers Digest, one bridal magazine, extension cords, doggy chew toys, a slipper, my bathroom cup, one thigh-high nude stocking, and some scrunchies.
-WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NUMBER?
Again, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
-FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH?
In person: football. On tv: dog shows.
-WHAT IS YOUR SINGLE BIGGEST FEAR?
Dead human bodies.
-FAVORITE CD?
At the moment, Johannes Brahms, Symphony No. 3, Tragic Overture
-FAVORITE TV SHOW?
Seinfeld
-KETCHUP OR MUSTARD?
Probably ketchup.
-HAMBURGERS OR HOT-DOGS?
Hamburgers
-THE BEST PLACE YOU HAVE EVER BEEN?
Galapagos Islands, Ecuador
-WHAT SCREEN SAVER IS ON YOUR COMPUTER RIGHT NOW?
Black screen. If it’s on I’m probably not in there, so why would I bother? These questionnaires irk me. I don’t even know why I’m doing this.
-BURGER KING or MCDONALD'S?
If I were starving on the streets of Istanbul and the only food within 5,000 miles was Burger King, I still wouldn’t eat it. MacD’s, any day.
-BEST PLACE YOU'VE EVER HAD SEX?
Toss up between on the desk at work and on a pontoon boat on a sunny Saturday with families and church campers around.
-WHAT IS/ARE YOUR PETS NAME?
Chansu, Isis, Biscuit, Chinch Bug, Mr. Peppercorn, Ginger, Bubbles, Goldfish: Bipper, Bert, Ernie, the rest of the fish are collectively referred to as "The Boys".
-FAVORITE HOLIDAY?
I’m a Christmas whore. I blew St. Nick.

One of these days I'm going to come up with my own and it will be far more clever than these generic questionairres. You just wait.

 

[Bambooki]

Bambooki's Brand New and Far More Exciting Quiz

Okay so I got bored and did it. Clearly, I'm a loser. But you know you want to copy it down and do it...

1. Have you ever killed a houseplant by accident?
Yeah, I'm a fikas killer.
2. Have you ever killed a houseplant on purpose because you just didn’t want to deal with it all winter?
No, but I'm about to whack an asparagus fern this year. Last winter it got on my last nerve and the bunny ate it.
3. How do you feel about spankings?
So many ways to interpret this question...yes when it comes to discipline, not in the bedroom.
4. What is your shower routine?
Shampoo, condition, soap, shave, facewash, stare at my teeth in the shaving mirror for five minutes.
5. Do you shave your legs/face everyday?
Used to in college. Gave up the ship, though.
6. What does/did your last partner think about hairy legs/face?
I don't think he pays attention.
7. If you could have a video of yourself having sex and nobody but you would ever see it or find it, would you want to see it?
Hell yeah. I want to see just how jiggly I really am.
8. Spiders are a) helpful and they eat bugs, I let them live, or b) horrible and they get whacked the minute they step into my house.
a) if they're small, b) if they're huge and hairy.
9. If there are 8 hours in a work day, how many do you actually spend working?
Um, 6. (Obvious lie.)
10. How often do you change your underwear?
Twice a day.
11. What is your favorite cheese?
Provolone or muenster.
12. If your favorite cheese had mould on it would you throw it out or scrap off the mould and keep eating?
If nobody was looking, then yes I would scrape.
13. How much did you spend the last time you went to the grocery store?
$54.
14. How much did you spend the last time you went shopping for yourself?
$162. Oh come on, the Gap was having a sale!
15. Scented candles or incense?
Scented candles. But incense is sexier. Sultrier. More sensual. Mmm...
16. White or wheat?
Wheat, in theory. White now that my mom doesn't make me eat wheat, though. Wheat when I have kids.
17. Pumpernickel or rye?
Rye. No, pumpernickel.
18. Marble rye?
Hell yeah.
19. Overall favorite ethnic food? (I.e. Italian, Mexican, German, Polish, Indian, etc.)
Hard to argue with the Italians. Love a good wiener schnitzel, though.
20. Is horse and greyhound racing a great sport or cruelty towards animals?
Cruelty towards animals. Let them run of their own accord.
21. Are your pets from the pet store, the pound, or the breeder?
All three.
22. Do you ever have to trim your nosehair?
Shit, why did I create this question? I didn't realize I'd have to answer it myself. Yeah, sometimes I get self-conscious and think I have big nostrils.
23. If you could go back and relive high school knowing what you know now, would you?
Fuck no.
24. Curtains or blinds?
Curtains. Heavy ones to block out the street light.
25. A/C at night or open window? (Or fan?)
Open window, except on a busy road.
26. Hawaii or the Caribbean?
Never been to Hawaii but I'm guessing Caribbean.
27. If your best friend’s partner was cheating on them, would you tell your best friend?
Yes, I think so.
28. If one parent was cheating on your other parent, would you tell them?
I've stumped myself. Probably.
29. What is worse: a cold that lasts for two weeks or the stomach flu that lasts for two days?
Stomach flu. God I hate that. There's nothing worse than vomiting.
30. If there were a solid cube floating in outer space, completely filled with water, no air space, and you put a scuba diver in the cube, which way would the bubbles go?
I put this question in here so someone would tell me.
31. What’s worse: rug burn or blister? Why?
Rug burn. Takes forever to go away. And people laugh at you.
32. Would you put bleach on poison ivy if it meant curing the rash in one day as opposed to five or seven days? (This is bad for you. Do not do it.)
Tried it once. Unimpressed with the results. It stung, too.
33. What is your sleepwear of choice?
Jammie sets, generally flannelly in the winter and silky in the summer.
34. Would you rather wear a thong or no underwear at all?
Only the Victoria's secret V-string is acceptable. The thong part is generally too thick on most other thongs.
35. Girls: gynecologist: man or woman? Guys: urologist: man or woman?
Doesn't matter to me. Seen one, ya' seen 'em all.
36. If you have kids, who will give them the facts of life speech? You, or your spouse?
Oh God. Please let it be him.
37. Veggies: canned and ready to go, or fresh and requiring prep time?
Fresh. I hate that veggie liquid that they're always sitting in.
38. Favorite type of potato? (I.e. mashed, baked, grilled, scalloped, hash-browned, new, sweet, French/freedom fried, etc.)
I love those little red potatoes, boiled, and then mashed open on my plate with a fork. Love the skins, too.
39. At what age will/did you tell your kids the truth about Santa?
Probably after they sneak downstairs and see me putting stuff in their stockings.
40. Did I just spill the Santa beans to your children who are reading over your shoulder? Sorry about that folks.

 

[Bambooki]

Back Down Again

I'm back in the dark place again. I've been fighting it for a while now, but not saying much about it. Many of us here on IRC are struggling with it right now - maybe it's the season or maybe it's coincidence. But my depression is back and it's hitting me hard. Not unbearably hard - I still enjoy myself when I go out and do things. But I have a familiar feeling, it's a physical feeling, actually, as well as a mental one.

At lot is happening all at once: the knee, Pop's impending death (still kicking as of 9:54am today), the jerks at physical therapy, the jerks at work, and lots of little stupid things that wouldn't be such a big deal if my brain weren't diseased to begin with. That's really the hardest thing for me to accept about my depression. It's with me now and by the looks of it, it will be with me for the rest of my life. Genetics has dictated that I be handed this card and forced to live with it for the duration of my existence. There's no sense in getting too upset about it - some people have allergies, some people have knock knees (wait, that's me), some people have mental illness. (I've never really thought of depression as mental illness but it is, they say.)

I've not had a bout of this since the days of The Ex. My body has a hard time dealing with too many stressful situations simultaneously. Somehow or another, serious stress causes those seratonin levels to plummet. I'm thankful that I've been through it enough to recognize the signs. I know I'm going down now, and because I caught it, I can stop myself from hitting rock bottom. I started taking my medication last night. I'll take it for 4 or 5 months and then maybe I'll go off again, when I feel better.

The problem, though, is that inevitably another bout will come along and hit me. The choices are two: live my life on medication every day, or to take it when I need it and be succeptible to these down periods. It's like getting a flu shot and being prepared, or taking my chances and hoping I don't get the bug. Maybe it's dumb. I don't know. My mom can't stop her meds for even a day. She'll be on them until she dies. Maybe that's my fate too.

I feel like I'm hanging by a few fingers to the edge of a cliff. Most of me is already in that ravine, but my hand is still out on the ground. Let's just hope the Prozac balloon comes down to pull me out before those last fingers let go; it's a lot easier to be pulled out of a canyon than to hike out yourself.

 

[Bambooki]

Pissed off at genetics.

I am. I got the raw end of the deal. The short end of the stick. I'm in a catch 22 situation. I have to take my medication or I'll be in bad and scary shape. The problem? God also saw fit to give me a condition known as Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS). I don't have the time or energy to get into it. Suffice it to say that it causes incredibly uncomfortable feelings in the legs and it only comes on at night when a person lays down in bed. I barely slept last night because I was having an attack or bout of RLS. I ended up leaving my bed and going into the guest room because The Fer was there and I was keeping him awake. The only way to alleviate the discomfort is to continually move your legs. Most people with RLS end up walking around the house in the dark or walking on a treadmill. The problem is that this condition is aggravated by anti-depressants. So I have to pick which condition is harder to live with. It's complete horseshit. Nobody deserves RLS. It's awful. Many doctors have either not heard of it or don't believe it exists. Spend one night in my body and I'll show you what exists.

I'm going to talk to my doctor on Monday about what to do, and see if he is even familiar with RLS. If not, then I'll have to make some choices about what to do next.

Sugar Snit, take your meds. I hate taking them with a passion. I didn't even take them this morning, so I'm being a hypocrite, but those of us who've been handed this lot in life need them. We need them to live like human beings. And we all deserve to be happy.

 

[Bambooki]

Okay. Time to step back and evaluate things.

If you read Sehra's last post, you know exactly how I feel, too. I don't want the medication. None of us do. We don't want to wake up every morning and have to face the fact that if we don't take drugs, we won't be normal people. We're just like those of you who don't suffer from these mental funks. I remind myself daily that it's not my fault and that it's chemical. It's chemical. It's chemical and there's nothing I can do to prevent it and there's always something I can do to help myself. Take my pills.

I didn't take them yesterday and I didn't take them today. Last night I slept wonderfully - no RLS to speak of. Perhaps I should have taken a pill this morning to compare the effects tonight. I have to see if there's a connection between my RLS and Prozac. It's a wonderful excuse for not taking the pills.

But like Sehra said, I feel better. These past two days have been good. I don't want pills - I feel okay. For now.

And yet I know that there's a good chance that tonight or tomorrow I'll be right back down again. I have no idea if this positivity is a false mood or not. I feel like I'm out of my funk now, but two days isn't long enough to make that determination.

Meanwhile, I'm upset that I've put on five pounds. And I don't know if that's a legitimate reason to be upset or not. It's been bad for my self esteem. I'm up to 120, but I have a tiny frame, and even my mother made the comment that she hopes I don't become a binge eater when I'm depressed. (Thanks, Mom.) The Fer told me he likes the extra weight on me, and that I don't look so sickly. It's so hard to fight society's stigma, though. Whether your 100lbs or 200lbs, your body is never going to be good enough. None of us will ever be satisfied. It's almost laughable, in a way. We're all different shapes and sizes and we all equally discontent. (Except for Thorn, who has both the body and the self-confidence to lift her out of this category.) Last night my scale said I was back to 115, but it's a digital scale and I don't know where those five pounds could have gone in 24 hours.

I guess I've lost my point. I'm aimless these days.

Today I was half an hour late to work. I crept in the back door and snuck up to my office. It's a beautiful sunny day, and this morning there was so much frost on the ground that I could have sworn it was snow. And it was so weird to see all the green leaves on the trees and "snow" on the ground. The golf courses were all frosty. I hate the cold, and the winter, but snow still makes me so happy. Even pseudo-snow. I wonder why the trees are still green this far into the autumn.

My grandfather remains stubbornly alive. At this point, he's not expected to die within the next few days. Actually, his liver is the concern now. It's huge, and it's turned all his abdominal skin pink. They expect, at this rate, that it will shut down before his heart does. My parents are there all the time. Tensions and stresses are high. But not for him. He sleeps, he eats now and then, and he's no longer restless or agitated. He's just not ready to leave yet. So he hasn't.

Bought myself a remote car starter last night! Woohoo! No more icy window and freezing car at 7:30am anymore! I paid an absolute fortune - $250 for the device and installation - but I think it was well worth it.

 

[Bambooki]

At 5pm yesterday my brother visited Pop before driving back to WVU. My brother was the very last family member to visit him - he was the only person Pop hadn't seen and who hadn't said goodbye to him. As my brother was walking out the door, my grandfather finally let go. He'd been waiting to see my little brother, and when he finally did, he knew he could leave us. It was amazing. I was not there, but my family said it was the most peaceful of deaths. 94 years old, no pain, drifting off to sleep. You really can't ask for more of a gift than that. We're not upset. We're thankful for his life and for his peaceful death. There's been no crying, minimal sniffling. We're all assembling up at his house in half an hour to go through old photo albums. I fully expect to put on five pounds this week - with a funeral comes food. We plan to celebrate his life, not mourn his passing.

I'm very thankful today for all of our families' blessings. I'm going up to be with them now.

 

[Bambooki]

Doing well. A little agitated, but well. I almost checked in at 3am when I woke up with a raging bout of RLS in my left leg. I was awake and feeling the creepy crawlys, The Fer was snoring even on his side, and generally I was irritated. I've been so irritated lately. It's unfortunate. I've been taking things out on him because of my recurring depression and low mood. I would be irritated with anyone in constant close proximity.

The canary hears me typing and is now peeping. He's very cute. I went up to Pop's house yesterday to go through old photo albums with the family and I brought home the birdy. Pop named him Candy, but I don't really like that name. Would it be wrong to change it? Any thoughts?

Today is the visitation. I hate those. In fact, I've not been to once in 15 years since my grandmother died. After her funeral I began to develop some irrational fears of dead things, also known as necrophobia. I can't stand the thought of being around dead things. I'm horrified. I've not encountered a dead person since, and I have no idea how I'm going to handle it today. I might be okay, and I might completely spaz out and not be able to go into that room. I might sit in my car sobbing and panicked. I just don't know how I'm going to do. See, I've not been confronted with a corpse since before I developed this problem, so I don't know if it's a real phobia or if it's mostly in my head. I had nightmares about it for years. I'm very nervous about today and how I'm going to do. Maybe because it's someone I was close to, it won't be so bad. Some moments I'm okay. Others I'm not. The night he died my dad invited me up to Pop's house where the rest of the family was sitting around drinking his expensive whiskey and looking through albums. I was almost to my car with The Fer when I suddenly stopped and turned and ran back into my house and refused to go up there, thinking that he might still be there. The Fer assured me that the funeral home had come and gone hours before, but I totally spazzed and cried and shook and couldn't do anything but crawl into bed in a ball.

So I'm trying very hard to be brave today.

Oh my gosh! He's singing! I left the radio on in his room and the tv is on in my bedroom and they say that canaries try to compete with noise. So he's in there singing his little heart out. Maybe that's a sign.

The relatives come in today. It will be good to see them. We found the greatest pictures of Pop yesterday, in the south pacific during WWII. He was an enormous man - 6'4" with the longest legs you've ever seen - and in all these pictures he's squeezed into a beach chair in his causal naval uniform (the khaki pants and shirt and hat) and is sitting by a coconut tree with a dour look on his face. It's so funny.

Oh, and the other funny thing about Pop is his dogs. For fourty years he's had golden retrievers. And he had professional photos taken of every one of them. So when my grandmother died, nobody was there to keep him in check, and gradually the pictures of his four grandchildren started coming down, and pictures of his goldens started going up. He replaced us! My grandmother would have smacked him had she been alive. Yesterday we counted: grandchildren photos: 12. Golden retriever photos: 38. We just had to laugh.

 

[Bambooki]

Day's over. I did fine. No necrophobia. No problem. It went well.

Had half a beer. Now tipsy. Having trouble typing. Lightweight. Celebrating his life with the family. I tip my beer to him.

 

[Bambooki]

We just buried my grandfather. It was heartbreaking. I thought the worst part was yesterday, telling him goodbye as the 8 of us left the funeral home, knowing we would never see him again, at least not in this life.

But today was worse. It was a sad, sad event. It's a gorgeous warm day, and all the family and friends were there, and the reverend told Pop stories which made us all laugh.

I found my father, before the service, standing by a window in an empty room. When he turned around his lip was quivering and tears were in his eyes. I've never seen that before. Ever. Even my mom has never seen him cry.

The saddest part was watching the Masons wheel the casket out of the church, drape an American flag over it, and lift it into the car. Fortunately at the gravesite they didn't lower it into the ground - that would have been unbearable. The prayer at the gravesite was what finally did me in. Did us all in.

Just when we thought it couldn't get any sadder, the Rev. stepped aside and the Masonsonic part of the burial began. And the poor guy who was doing the speech totally botched it and forgot his lines. He had to be prompted by another Mason who went to hide behind the casket so as to be less noticeable. The man had a handle-bar moustache. It was a mood lightener. We chuckled.

More later. Now begins the food....

 

[Bambooki]

Thanks to my IRC friends who've sent encouraging and sympathetic PM's my way. I greatly appreciate it and am thankful for your support, truly.

It was a good feast. Catered by Heavenly Ham, it was. Mmm....ham.

After the guests had dispersed and departed, we sat around staring at the things in Pop's house. 94 years worth of treasures and pictures and furniture and knick knacks and memories. Going through it all is going to be a monumental task. It breaks my heart that they're going to sell his house, but there's not much else to do. My family already has 7 houses between just my dad and my uncle. We don't need one more. We don't have enough kids in the family. Anyway, the work we're going to have to do to clean out his house frightens me.

It was weird seeing his housekeeper leave after the feast. She's been with him for 25 years. And his care givers, the ladies who've been with him for the last 10 years. I'm sure it hasn't hit them that they won't be coming back up. It certainly hasn't hit the rest of us. The patriarch of our family is gone. The minister said something nice before the funeral. We - the family - were all standing around in a back room in a circle saying a prayer. And he said, "The family has lost a patriarch. There's a gap in the circle, so now you just have to move in closer and make the circle tighter. Close the gap." I thought it was a beautiful way to put it. Then he said another prayer and halfway through I choked on my own snot and began to cough so loudly that nobody could hear the prayer. Only me...

I'm sad, but not forlorn and not in mourning. I'm actually more happy than I am sad. It's the most beautiful day imaginable - 70 degrees and clear blue sky, no clouds. Dad said he thinks Pop must have arranged that, since Pop was always so meticulous about detail. He loved to be a good host, loved to have people in his home with food and drink, and loved it all to be perfect. Today is perfect.

 

[Bambooki]

I checked the online obituary today and saw that someone had left a message for the family: The Ex.

(Eerie music: Dun dun dun!)

I emailed him something very very brief, saying thank you and that we appreciated his note. I lingered around the "send" button for 10 minutes, and finally pressed it. Did I do the right thing? Should I not have sent it? I felt it would be an adult thing to do, to thank him for his condolences. We're thanking everyone else. I feel sick now, and I hope I didn't screw up. The Ex loved Pop, and must have heard through a family friend. (The one he almost went into business with.) I doubt The Ex has any desire to be friends the way that Louis Vuitton, did, and I don't want to start a line of communication. But I wanted him to know that his message was appreciated. I didn't want to be a small and petty person, especially in the wake of Pop's death. Pop was such a gentleman. He always sent thank-you notes.

Ugh. So why do I feel so nauseous?

Maybe it's hunger. I've been so gorged lately from all the food. Today I've not wanted to eat, but my stomach is all stretched out and is howling for nourishment.

God Bless The Fer. He wanted to take me to a hotel tonight out of town and treat me like a goddess. He knows how upset I've been and that my depression is hard to fight during such a time. I feel worse for him, though. He came to the funeral home during the second visitation Tuesday night. And he couldn't walk into that room where the casket was. He froze, and his eyes welled up with tears and he disappeared for a while. Every time he came back near that room the tears began. Finally my mom took him on a walk through the house and told him that he didn't have to be there, that the family was together and that he shouldn't stay. He hadn't been in that situation since his father's death 10 years ago, and it was unbearably painful for him. He walked the three miles home in his suit. I told him not to come to the funeral. There was no need for him to be so upset. I had my family for support and I hate to see him so miserable. Pop lived a long life; The Fer's dad died in his early forties. It wasn't fair. The Fer became head of the household at a young age and carried the family burdens. I didn't want him to carry mine, too.

 

[Bambooki]

I'm really tired this morning. Yawning constantly. If only I could have stayed at home in bed...just one more day. You'd think I'd not be griping - this is my second work day this week. But the first three were so stressful - it was like work times ten. I'd rather have been here.

More family togetherness was had last night. It's my ultimate comfort zone, being with those people. And yet they're already starting to irritate me. Not a lot, just generally. I don't mean to sound ungrateful for their presence in my life. Last night I went straight from work to pick up The Fer and we went down to get my car from the garage where I'd had it detailed. He'd given me his car; today his is being done and we're using mine. It cost me $150 but the thing is waxed and polished and absolutely spotless on the inside. Not a stain or a hair or a piece of dust or lint or Doberman hair anywhere. It’s downright greasy on the inside. I love it. And of course it rained on the way home. But it’s ready for winter and snow and salt.

I’ve digressed.

We had dinner after getting the car, only to return home to find a message from my uncle that dinner was being had at 7pm and we were expected to come. The message was left at 4:30pm for a 7pm dinner time. And that’s more notice than I usually get from family. So I called him and told him that if he’d given me more notice I’d not have eaten dinner and spent $25 on it to boot. I was guilted into going up to Pop’s house and sitting there and watching them eat anyway. Dinner was not had until 8:30pm. They just don’t plan in my family. It’s irksome. Everybody is just expected to drop their plans in a moment’s notice. I think it’s rude. Nobody else seems to care, though. Except for my mother, who has been known to kick the walls out of frustration.

Meanwhile, someone stole the giant arrangement of roses off Pop’s grave. The baby’s breath and the ribbon that says “Pop” are there, and the wires underneath that hold the flowers are there. The four or five dozen red roses are gone. Twenty-four hours after he was interred, some sick fuck stole his flowers. Dad said that if they needed them that badly, let them have them. My cousin speculated that the guys who sell the cheap roses on the corners of intersections get them from the cemetery. I think it’s repulsive, wherever they went.

 

[Bambooki]

Lament for the Death of My Sweater

I love The Fer. I truly do. I know this because the man put my Gap lambswool seafoam green cable knit sweater INTO THE DRYER. And I did not strangle him.

I wanted to. But I didn’t.

In addition to the sweater (which is for sale to anyone who may have a seven-year-old daughter, by the way), I found the following items in my dryer:
-not one, but two sets of king-sized sheets and pillow cases
-three shag carpet bathmats
-two weeks worth of clothing
-four bath towels
-three kitchen towels
-a Victoria’s secret bra, sufficiently mangled
-a large terry bathrobe

Now you men may not understand the implications of how bad that list really is in a regular-sized dryer. But the ladies will pity me. The clothing in the dryer couldn’t move, and was stuffed so tightly in there that no hot air was able to circulate. In fact, it sat in there overnight and mildewed. So now everything has to be washed again. Except the sweater, may it rest in peace. I’ve since told him he is not to go near the laundry machines. Apparently he’d packed all of that into the washer before he put it in the dryer. He was “trying to help”.

I told him to “help” by focusing on the trash and the lawn and other testosterone-related household chores. I almost cried. Seriously. I’ll never find that sweater again. I loved it.

But obviously I love him more. Because I did not strangle him.

I see my orthopedic surgeon in two hours. The physical therapist believes that my progress still has a way to go, and that more PT is needed. I agree. The knee, while it bends and straightens well, is still stiff at times and my left thigh is still visibly smaller than the right. It’s still very capable of popping out. That terrifies me. I’m not ready to leave physical therapy. I lift enormous weight with my legs, but the muscle is taking a long time to grow back. The brace is something I hate but that I’m not ready to walk without. I’m not ready to face the fact that it might happen again. I imagine that the doctor will call for another month of therapy. It’s still so delicate and so painful at times. But life has to go on, whether or not I’m afraid. A lot of bad things could happen on any given day. That’s life’s roulette wheel. Time to step up and give it a spin.

BossMan gave me a sympathy card today from the office. I’ve been doing well but it brought tears to my eyes. I went to visit Pop’s grave yesterday while I was out photographing fall leaves. Apparently the headstone he bought 15 years ago to match my grandmother’s has been lost by the cemetery. Geesh.

Went on a great hike in the woods with Dobergirl. She spent half an hour splashing in the creek. She was thrilled, and I was so happy to see her doggy joy. It really made my heart warm.

 

[Bambooki]

The update: my knee is improving, but still has a ways to go. I no longer have to wear the brace when I'm doing day-to-day activity, but I should wear one for the rest of my life when I'm doing active things. Skiing is not recommended this winter. My odds of popping the patella out again are now double what they used to be. Another dislocation right now, while I'm healing, would be disastrous, he told me. I've been sent back to physical therapy, now only twice a week, for a while longer. The healing will take another six months and I need to take it easy. Some people pop their kneecaps out repeatedly and have to have surgery.

It was a good diagnosis, and a promising one, but I'm discouraged. Fortunately the brace doesn't have to be worn, but he also added that I did this in the shower of all places, so the presence of the brace won't necessarily make a difference. Also, the brace won't always stop a dislocation. I have to be careful.

And I have to keep the leg strong. I have to lift at home, which I did last night, and will have to for the rest of my life if I want a chance at not doing this again. There's no guarantee, though. Strength isn't a preventative, necessarily. Bummer.

Going to my family doctor to get my anti-depressants today. I need them. I also went up to Pop's house last night and raided my grandmother's greenhouse. It's always been so full of plants. I brought back her collection of 6 African Violets, among others. In the past, my reputation for keeping African Violets alive has been pretty poor. If I kill the plants she grew 20 years ago, and which have been alive since her death, I'm going to be really mad at myself. I'd better do some African Violet research. I refuse to let these plants die.

 

[Bambooki]

When I was a junior in college, I met Wacko Bamboochi. That was what he called himself in jest. He wanted to go to film school and direct under that pseudonym. I thought it odd, but then everything about Wacko was odd. And loveable. I think of him often.

Wacko was a theater major, like MidWest Girl. She and Wacko and I went to a performance of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat when it came to town, and he and I hit it off. A week later he asked me out.

Wacko was tall, 6’4”, with a mop of curly hair and a goatee. He loved the spotlight. He brewed his own beer in his apartment (stunk up the hallway) and was a movie geek. His parents were enormously wealthy and he lived in a mansion in Sarasota. He hid that from most people, though. I’m getting ahead of myself already.

Wacko called me at 11pm one November night and asked if I wanted to hang out. I’d just popped a couple of Tylenol PMs, and I knew I had 45 minutes until they took effect. But I was so attracted to this boy and I was in the middle of my breakup with Louis Vuitton, and so I was not going to pass up a date, if only to prove that I could get one. It was a horrible date – he took me to a late dinner and I drank loads of coffee and stared at him with glazed eyes as he tried to make conversation. It was awful, and I shudder now to think of how I must have appeared, and the thoughts that must have gone through his head that night. We went back to his place and I suffered through a movie, trying desperately to keep my eyes open.

I didn’t hear from Wacko again for six months. Who can blame him? I was embarrassed as hell, and should have just postponed the whole thing until another night, but what was done was done. And he was done with me.

January came, and Louis Vuitton cheated on me after we got back together. I went through hell, and didn’t think much about Wacko, except to shake my head from time to time at what an awful date I’d been. April rolled around, and MidWest Girl called him on his birthday. He lived in the same apartment complex as I did, and I was itching for a second chance, mostly to prove to myself that I was over Louis, which I wasn’t.

I got it, and though I was juggling two other guys at the time (classic Rebound Syndrome), I managed to worm my way back into Wacko’s life. I tried very hard to make up for the bad date, and he realized that I wasn’t usually a glassy-eyed zombie. We hung out, and eventually started casually dating. The physical side of the relationship was intense, and wonderful, but I often found myself lacking things to say around Wacko. The problem, I later realized, was that Wacko was a spotlight seeker. And so was I. But Wacko was a theater guy, and so his personality overpowered mine, and two people cannot both be in the spotlight. I took a backseat to his humor and antics, and I couldn’t be my goofy self, because he was exponentially more funny and goofy. I became the straight man, and I hate that role.

But I was falling for Wacko. He was an odd cat, I must say. His parents were profusely wealthy, and he drove a brand new Saab 9-3 convertible and his folks’ home was on a golf course. It had an enormous fountain out front, and had 30-foot ceilings and a pool the size of Rhode Island. He was best friends with his ex girlfriend, and his parents kept pictures of the two of them all over the house, as if they were still a couple. She often called when we were lying on the couch together, and he always took the call. He told her about me with enthusiasm, and there seemed no hint of jealousy.

It was downright weird.

I slept with him only once, because he wasn’t ready for a relationship, and though I didn’t know it, I was not either. But we had fun together, and he made me feel attractive and desirable, and worthy of time and attention. He was the first person I wanted to be with since Louis, and I hoped he would change his mind about not moving past casual dating.

Of course he didn’t. (The women readers saw that coming.) We spent the day together before I left for a few weeks at home in WV. There was no talk of long-term plans, but we made tentative plans for my return to Florida. I didn’t hear from him while I was at home, and didn’t really expect to. I missed him, though.

The day I returned he called my apartment. I was overjoyed, and he said he was coming up the following day and we could visit.

And that was the last time I spoke to him.

Fucking jerk.

I later found out that he’d been seeing an actress from one of his plays at the same time as me, and had, on one drunken night, gone up to campus and bet his friends fifty bucks that he could get a blow job from her. He made his money that night. I never knew any of this, and though there was never any talk about being exclusive, I was terribly hurt and had really thought that he was interested in me. He just didn’t seem like the typical user pig. From time to time after our “dissolution”, I would see them together in his car around town.

A year later I ran into him at a play. We had a stilted conversation during which I could see him squirm. I was dating The Ex at the time, and so I felt secure, but he later told MidWest Girl that it was the most awkward moment of his life. Jerk.

I still think about him though, and wonder what was really in his head and what would have happened if things had been different. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t give up my FerBaby for anything in the world, and I’m glad Wacko and I went our separate ways. But until The Fer came along, I used to have dreams about Wacko and secretly miss him and wish he would have loved me and let me into his life. I wish he wouldn’t have used me.

I also wish I hadn’t had sex with him. Geesh. That just makes me feel cheap. Anyway, that's my Wacko Bamboochi story. Just felt like telling it.

=====================================

In other news, my little brother is in trouble. My folks don’t know it yet, but he’s being charged with domestic battery, resisting arrest, and assault on an officer. He and his girlfriend were having a drunken fight, and he grabbed her arm when she tried to run off, and some bystander called the police. Like an idiot, The Boy ran, and they pepper sprayed him and in his pain he spit on the officer. (This is the short, short version.) He was hosed down, searched (body cavity and all) and tossed in the clink for a night. Now he’s terrified, and he should be. I could kill him, and at the same time I just want to save him. He’s my little brother. It’s going to break my parents’ hearts. The kid is the poster child for birth control….

 

[Bambooki]

Last night at PT I upped my weight by one plate on each machine. I'm now lifting 11 plates on the leg press and four plates on the leg extension. Does anyone know how much weight that translates into? I don't know the weight of each plate. The physical therapist, like the doctor, told me that I'm not going to have full muscle tone back for six months. *Sigh* The only thing I can do is resign myself to getting it back, however long it takes. A nice by-product of all this is a very nice cut down the center of my stomach, and some new definition in my back. I'm starting to like what I see in the mirror again.

Last night when I returned home from PT, The Fer had not arrived. I did my home lifting regiment for Wednesdays: back, chest, shoulders, abs, hammies. No Fer. I changed my clothing and fed Dobergirl. No Fer. I watched an episode of The Golden Girls. Still no Fer. It's very unlike him to be late. He always calls me and he always sticks to his routine. Work ends at 5pm for him. By 7pm I called his mother and his work and his cell. No Fer. I told myself to chill out and not act like my grandmother, who has a stroke every time someone is five minutes late. I had a bad feeling, but I'm also in the grips of my monthly hormones, and that was probably causing the excessive worry. I stared out at the sidewalk waiting for his familiar form to come trodding up the path. No Fer.

I totally hate myself, but I panicked around 7:15pm. Two hours late. I realized how much that boy means to me and that life without him would be cold and lonely. I also know that of all the poor drivers I've known in my life, The Fer takes the cake. His driving is awful. It's frightening. So I constantly worry about him; he just doesn't pay attention at the wheel. I had hormonal visions of his car plunging off the bridge into the Ohio River, or mangled in the tunnel.

At 7:30 a police car pulled up out front and I about threw up on my shoes. I was sure they were coming to tell me he was dead. But of course he crawled out of the backseat and came trodding down the front sidewalk, whereupon I met him at the door and tackled him and cried like a menstrual idiot. It was downright embarassing. He'd indeed been in a car accident. He was not hurt badly; some lady had tried to change lanes and had run him off the road onto the sidewalk. I was so relieved that he was okay; he was angry because only five days ago we had our cars detailed, and his was spotless. $100 worth of spotless. He was honked. I was desperately thankful.

Later at his house, his mom gave me a tylenol for a headache. She didn't realize she'd given me a Tylenol PM. That was it for me. I was out. I may have drooled on her leather couch.

Today is Boss's Day. We're having a lunch, for which we all had to contribute four dollars. I resent this, but I'm biting my tongue. It seems that because I'm only 24, I'm the child of the office and not grown up enough to be let in on vital office information. But I'm good enough to chip into the pot for lunch. They're keeping me in the dark about a big new development, and I'm pretty sure it's because I'm "just a kid". The other young girl in the office, who's 26, is also left out. What I wouldn't give to be chasing manatees today...

 

[Bambooki]

I miss him.

I miss driving by his house and picturing him in there with his big fat golden retriever and his nurses bustling about. I miss the way he would say, "CHEESE!" and smile when he'd open his Christmas presents from my brother and I and see the contents. We got him cheese every year. We called him "The Cheeseman." One year we got him a hunk of Bier Cheese and the whole house smelled like vomit for the entirety of Christmas Day. He ate it like a fiend.

I miss the sound of his cane, and later his walker, coming down the hallway from his bedroom. I miss the fact that it took him 20 minutes to go 20 feet. I miss seeing him in his leather chair watching Days of Our Lives. I think he never missed an episode, ever. I miss the way he used to force me to eat cottage cheese when I was a kid having lunch at their house. I miss the way the cookie jar on the shelf was always, always full.

I miss his Christmas presents, not because they were presents for me, but because he always tried so hard and came up with the neatest, and sometime stupidest ideas. One year he got me a sleep sack - it's a sleeping bag with holes for your feet and arms, so you can essentially wear it around the house and waddle like a penguin. Two years ago he got me an expensive jade necklace. I have no idea when I'll ever wear it - it's beautiful but it's antique-y looking and I've never once worn it. He always got us exactly what we wanted too, and bought me a TV even though my dad said I couldn't have one. I miss the way he'd hand his four grandchildren a toy catalogue and tell us to put our initials by whatever we wanted, and then buy every single thing to our parents' dismay. I miss his arrival at my house on Christmas morning, and in earlier years when he and grandma would stay the night in my bedroom and I'd run around flushing toilets to wake everyone up at 6am.

I miss his younger days when he'd make my brother and I pose in stupid pictures, and take twenty five of the same shot with his finger in each one. Then he'd label the picture wrong in the album. I miss seeing him sitting in a lounge chair on Ft. Myers Beach with his enormously long, pasty white legs sticking out in the sand.

I miss hugging him, even though he lost the strength to hug me back. I miss the way I'd ask him how he was feeling, and he'd always, always say, "Oh, pretty good today", even when he was dying. I miss the way he'd talk about his golden retrievers for hours on end. I miss the way he could recall with perfect clarity the early part of the century, and the time he told us about the gas lighting that once existed in my home. I miss his crotchety days, and how my aunt and uncle got him a white sweater two Christmases ago, and he said, "I don't like it, take it back," and threw it at them.

I miss the memory of him arguing with my father over politics and raising his voice, as if we couldn't already hear it. It was so deep. I miss the way he'd start his sentences with, "Well.....". I miss the way he'd pour Hershey's syrup all over my ice cream, in such excess that only a child could choke it down.

I miss him terribly, and I'm not angry that God took him away from me, and I'm grateful for his life. But just one more year. Couldn't we have had just one more year? Couldn't we have been a family for a little longer? Can't I see him just once more? Couldn't he be allowed to just let me know that he's still living, somewhere, in a more glorious and divine place, waiting for me and my family? Can't I just be happy for his new life instead of sad for my own loss? Can't I just stop being selfish and human and predictable and have a little more faith?

 

[Bambooki]

Upon reading an upsetting thread in the forum…..

I don’t ask for your pity. I don’t ask for your help. I don’t make excuses and I don’t use this as a crutch. This cross is mine to carry, and I do. No one has been asked to shoulder the burden of my genetic flaws. What help I received, I paid for in the form of a counselor.

And do you know what she didn’t tell me? To get over it.

Do you know what she did tell me? That it’s not my fault. That it’s a disease. That it’s because my brain does not produce enough seratonin and norepinephrine. That the condition was passed on to me by my mother, who suffers and who received the condition from her father. And we are all medicated and working hard.

So fuck anybody who tells me to "get over" this.

I lost six months of my life to this disease and I beat it, on my own, because some scientist invented a drug for people like me. Someone made a pill that fixes the chemicals in my brain. It’s not a pill to make me happy. It’s a pill to make life liveable. I don’t ask for happiness in a yellow and green plastic capsule. Happiness is up to me. And I am. I am happy and successful and loving and loved. I haven’t received those gifts from my pills. What I have received is a chance at starting out in the same place as everyone else. I’ve received the ability to get up in the morning and not see gray. I wake up and want that happiness in front of me. Without those pills, my body starves and I don’t care. I just don’t care what happens to me. How can I “get over it” if I don’t care? How can I evaluate my life when my heart and mind and body are emotionally comatose?

I lost my mother for five years when I was a teenager to this illness. I hated her for it and wanted her to “snap out of it” and “get over it”. To just quit crying and be happy. I thought she was purposely destroying, sabotaging her life and her marriage and her motherhood.

And then I got sick, too. And I understood why she suffered for so many years before her diagnosis. I understood and wished I could take back every uncaring thought I’d had.

If those who poo-poo this disease truly understood, I wouldn’t have been inspired to write this post by their thoughtless words. I wouldn’t feel reluctance to say, “Prozac” in a loud and clear voice when the nurse asks me what medications I’m taking. I wouldn’t feel the stigma of depressed person, a person suffering from the most fashionable of diseases these days, a “Who’s your therapist?” or “What are you on, Paxil or Zoloft?” affliction discussed over cocktails. I am like you in every way, with one difference. I put a pill in my mouth every morning just before I brush my teeth. Don't treat us like we're deserving of pity, and don't treat us like we're incapable of recovery. And don't treat us like we're using our conditions as an excuse. Everyone has hardships. Depressed people are not special, they're just doing the best they can.

Opinions are not fact. Thank you Lori Sunshine for that statement. Until you’ve walked a mile in the shoes of someone upon whom you pass judgment, shut your hole. I too am guilty of the same, and I learned the hard way that my mother’s shoes were painful to wear, and never her fault. Maybe I wasn’t caring enough. Maybe you aren’t, either.
Don't offer us your wisdom. Let us take our medication. Let us take care of ourselves the best way we know how. I guarantee you’ll never spot me in a crowd of people who genuinely “earned” their happiness the hard way.

Hope you caught the sarcasm, there.

EDIT: I realize I went a little off-topic with this and took it a step further than it went in the OT Forum. Fuck you if you've got a problem with it.

 

[Bambooki]

Yeah, that's right. Nice, sweet Bambooki who always goes out of her way not to offend people and stay out of forum arguments and write unabrasive posts said, "Fuck you."

News for Us.

 

[Bambooki]

Two hours we crept along,
lines in the water,
taut against fall's bronze light.

Trolling.

I caught
a cold.

And Dad slept
on the bow
in a moldy plastic chair.