FEAR Realized

Dial “H” For Help

NaysWay — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 17:04:10 +0000

Twelve years ago, I tried ending my life. I was in a deep, dark place. No one could talk me out of it because no one knew. I didn’t look for help because I didn’t want it. I had been dating BFam less than a year and was almost positive this would send him over the edge. I wouldn’t drink because my father was an alcoholic and I saw what it did to him, but I smoked until I couldn’t feel my lungs anymore. Anything to destroy myself made me feel better.

A year after my initial attempt, I tried again. BFam was suffering from insomnia at the time. We were in Columbus living in a small town home. Young, dumb, and wondering what life was all about. Neither of us were happy with how the start of our adulthood was panning out (me being 21, he was 23). We were both taking turns fighting our own personal demons, and failing miserably. A nearby University campus doctor prescribed sleeping pills to BFam to help him get a good night’s sleep. In a normal world, the pill had good intent, but side affects were awful, leaving him jittery and more nervous than normal. You see, the normal world and prescription drugs are not nice to BFam’s system. What should have been nightly doses turned into one night, and BFam toughed it out instead. Of course this meant his pill count was unmonitored… and, boy, the Devil loves idle hands, lemme tell you.

People talk about guardian angels all the time. I must have had one that night because the pills wouldn’t stay down. Chasing them with a cheap wine cooler, it wasn’t long before I wanted to lay down on any hard surface that would have me. There was no plan after I’d emptied the bottle, no next step to my wanting to take a permanent dirt nap. BFam’s battle with sleep deprivation was part two to my blessing because his tossing and turning made him alert to the stirrings of the house. Our stairs were carpeted yet I apparently made quite a riot, flopping like a fish out of water up the stairs, intoxicated, because he was standing over me in minutes and I don’t know how he got there. Details between that stair well and me on all fours in the grass of our backyard, giving my insides back to Mother Earth, are a blur. That night… well. That night. Later, I’d be in the ER drinking a charcoal and chocolate milk cocktail from a Styrofoam cup - a cocktail I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

Suicide is a selfish act. So is depression. The sufferer doesn’t set out to be selfish on purpose. There are no forests or trees to see the difference between. Just you and those pills. That razor. That tall building’s ledge. A (wo)man on an island. I don’t know if you ever stop feeling this way once it starts, but if you get to the place where it gets a little better (a place I hope I’m dwelling in at present), you start to see you aren’t alone.

I frequent sites to help me remember how much I’m not alone.

It’s comforting. And still… sometimes I wish I were.

Daddy’s Girls

NaysWay — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 20:04:54 +0000

When I was out in the land of dating, oh, so many years ago, I was blessed not to wander out in that wilderness long. Had I not met BFam, I have the feeling I would still be single right now. I don’t think I’m a hard person to love, I’m just particular in my likes and dislikes. These are my personal staples, mind you, not any attribute that would make up my potential suitor. (Although I’m particular there, too. Mama don’t take no mess.)

Coming from a household where the biological male counterpart couldn’t quite get his act together, I was still fortunate enough to see what type of man I wanted in my grandfather who more than stepped up to the challenge of being the male role model in my life. The most important quality he could have ever shown me was being there. Piano recital? There. Volleyball game? Yep, there, too. Sorority-sponsored cotillion? There, dancing, grinning and sweating bullets. My grandpa was, and still is, a hard act to follow.

When I met BFam, he was the oldest of the six children in his mixed families. Four sisters, two brothers. During our courting period, his sisters would visit us in the summer months while we both attended college. They are now either over twenty, or have children of their own, but this was ten years ago. I am an only child, so I never really had to take care of anyone but myself. I would tell him, “I can braid hair… but you expect me to braid all their heads? I mean, I love you, and all, but that’s asking a bit much.” To my surprise, he’d had the hair braiding, dressing, bathing, and anything else covered. And if someone was on their womanly time of the month? Big brother would run to the store for pads. It was strange and surreal to watch, especially the sanitary napkin buying. Granted, he bought mine if he had to. Not sure why I didn’t think he’d do it for all the women in his life.

While my family is small, none of us spawned boys which is why I prayed long and hard the good Lord would bless me with penis-packing children. After Mooter, I bet double or nothing on the next munchkin. God either has a great sense of humor or knows something I don’t because he gave me another screeching banshee sans wee-wee. I’m not sure why - maybe it was the epidural - but I apologized to BFam right after they pulled Booger out of my belly. Right there on the operating table. Now, ladies, I know. I had the kid. Carried it for nine months. WHY AM I APOLOGIZING?! I know, I know. Sounds crazy, right? Especially when BFam tells me, just as he did when I apologized those two-plus years ago, “When did I tell you I wanted a boy?” We didn’t have that conversation?

So here’s to the man with the two non-boys I gave him, that he loves until his teeth hurt; that is still being graded by the standards of my grandpa (even though he doesn’t know it) and passing; that would do whatever it took to make his girls happy. Even this:

If I Were President

NaysWay — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 20:20:40 +0000

Image by Callie Shell, Getty Images

This wasn’t the post I’d had planned for today, but what are plans, really?

The world must really be ready for Barack Hussein Obama to take office. I have never seen so much coverage about one person just coming into town - not taking office, not being inaugurated yet, not serving Day One of his presidency… just coming into town - than Mr. President-Elect. Every e-zine, every newspaper is in a lather over this one man. I haven’t been alive very long, but I don’t remember there being this much fuss over an incoming President such as this. It’s nice to be excited about politics. I’ve documented my tendency to obsess over things I like, and this could easily be no exception. Because of this, I’m trying not to watch or read much on the upcoming inauguration, or the problems the new President will inherit.

All that aside, I can’t help but admire the Obamas and the way they’ve handled their family through the transition. I’m especially partial to them because they have two girls (Bet’cha thought I was going to say it was because they were both tall, didn’t ‘cha? DIDN’T ‘CHA?!). While BFam and I are losing our minds just transitioning from Christmas break to going back to the school/work grind, the Obamas have schools, cities, friends, jobs, homes and countless other to-do’s on their transition list. Who has time to run a country?

And the pressure! Oh, the pressure. Barack (look at me with first names) seems cool, laid back and down-to-Earth enough that he can fool you. Is he stressed? Do you know how many times I’d be on the toilet right now? They’d have to do my inauguration from the bathroom.

My kids are really into the Cartoon Network-spawned channel Boomerang. Weird since all they run are old cartoons. Nothing wrong with history, I guess. Last night, they ran this Popeye cartoon and it made me think of Obama. Don’t ask me why.

Made me think of Hillary Clinton, too. Go figure.

So, how ’bout it? What if you were President?

Enough.

NaysWay — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 06:46:40 +0000

Pear Kisses by Richard-

New year, new hangups. This year, my hangups rest firmly on my butt and thighs, and them are some stubborn puppies.

In keeping with my solemn vow to curtail all bitching and moaning to things I can change, I am kicking the “No More Bitching About My Baby Weight” train into high gear. First, I’ll start off by telling you how much I weigh (factoring height into the equation for good measure), then move on into a list of the methods of diet and exercise I either a) have tried, b) am trying, c) deem too radical and would thereby catergorize them as “too scared to try”. While you may think me foolish for listing my weight (because what woman in their right mind would tell the world how much she weighs when it is cardinal rule numbers one and two to keep the weight and age of a woman secret?). Hey, I’m basically giving you an in on my life by telling you I tried to kill myself. Not once. TWICE. I figure we’re good pals by now, don’t you?

Enough stalling. I am 5′ 10″, give or take a 1/2 inch shorter depending on how my body decided to adjust itself when I got out of the bed that morning. You ask my 5′ 7″ husband my height, and he will gladly say 6 feet. But that’s what all pygmies say when standing next to bean poles. And now… on to the weight. I am… (gulp)… 176 lbs. There. I said it. I want to die now, but I said it. Ugh.

You look at those figures and go “Is that it?! Come and talk to me when you’re over 200 pounds!” And I KNOW! You would be totally fair in pulling my bitching card, revoking it until further notice. Believe me. I wouldn’t hate you if you did. But I was a skinny kid. So 176 lbs. is a big deal for me. It is the most I’ve ever weighed without being pregnant. Not the first time I’ve weighed it, but the most. I was nineteen when I began dating my husband, and two years into this weight. I hid it in clothes bought from the Big & Tall Men’s store. (It was the 90’s. All the clothes were big. Don’t judge me.)

I am pear shaped which means my arms and majority of my stomach have no trouble staying small, yet the entire lower quadrant (butt, thighs - I don’t have hips, my father’s fault) suffers. After my first pregnancy, it took me a little over a year to get down to 156 lbs. On me, those twenty pounds made a HUGE difference. Everything about my second pregnancy was different. Although I had girls both times, I was on bed rest the last two months of the second pregnancy and my body took a tremendous strain. I am tall, yes. But my legs are not strong. My grandfather used to call me an ostrich. I have all this height, but I was clumsy, awkward, and have no idea what to do with my legs. They are the first to go should anything happen to me physically.

What do I do now? Let’s start with what I HAVE done. Exercise is up first:

The Firm

Gotta love infomercials. This particular one featured girls who didn’t look skinny, but were obviously in good physical condition, talking about the benefits of a workout routine on a pair of plastic step stools they called “The Fanny Lifter”. I bought it. Twice. Once in VHS, the other I converted to DVD’s. In all honesty, The Firm worked well for me the first time. It is failing me now. Granted, I am not using it like I should… but you probably figured that out already.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: They now have something called "The Wave". Oh, so tempted. Must look away. Must. Look. Away. On second thought, what are the odds I'll kill myself trying to stand on that thing? Never mind.]

Jillian Michael’s 30 Day Shred

The jury’s still out on this one. I’m in the midst of doing it. Stay tuned…

The Bender Ball

My 45 lbs. seven-year-older turns to me and goes “Mommy! You need that one, don’t you? That looks like a good one for your jell-o belly.” I’m going to miss her. While I mourn, I must admit my interest is piqued. Will I try it? It’s $10. Plus I get a bonus butt and thigh DVD if I order in the next ten minutes. I’d be crazy not to give it a go. I’d be crazier if I gave it a go making this the fourth fitness program collecting dust in my catalog. Catch-22. Stay tuned…

Stability Ball

Not quite a fitness program - more like a fitness prop. Sure, I bought it to be used in conjunction with Denise Austin - Fat-Blasting Yoga: 21 Days to a Yoga Body, but that came in VHS at the time, and I’m getting tired of converting all my tapes to DVD’s. At least the ball isn’t going to waste. My kids are getting hours of enjoyment out of it. Those things make great beach balls.

I sense a pattern beginning to emerge. It would seem as though my problem is not finding the right exercise program. It’s sticking to it. Dang that hindsight. Since I’m on a roll, may as well move to my litany of diet tries:

The 50 Million Pound Challenge

This one doesn’t seem too bad, but the things they’re telling you to eat and not to eat are not only things I already know, but put into practice. Seems like no-brainer stuff, but I’ll play along. Stay tuned…

Weight Watchers

I have not tried the actual pay-to-play program, but I have tested their free meal plan (offered on their site). Also no-brainer stuff. Also things I’ve put into the practice. I’ve heard horror stories about their shakes (spastic poop; explosive, uncontrollable gas) to which I say “no, thank you”. I have enough bowel trouble. I don’t need more. Their chocolate chip breakfast bars are awesome, though. I credit them for helping me lose after pregnancy uno.

Alli

This is the only over-the-counter diet supplement I’ve seen advertised that’s sponsored by the FDA, and created by a widely recognized healthcare corporation (GlaxoSmithKline). All this means is I am less likely to have my heart explode while running on the treadmill if I’m using it. A nice quality. Then you read about how it works and there’s this little thing called “treatment effects“. And I’m all nuh-uh, dude. You must be on crack with that one.

This isn’t calculus. People lose weight all the time. The trick is finding the right combination that works for me. I’d love to have a magic ball and know right now so I can get to work on it. But I have a feeling this will be more like a crap shoot than an exact science.

Lovely, Kill Me.

NaysWay — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 06:06:19 +0000

Image courtesy of SPIN Magazine.

My kids love the television station Noggin. It’s good, entertaining television and is what PBS used to be for my age group way back in the day.

During the Thanksgiving season, the popular yet classically overlooked rap group, The Roots, took the unusual step of letting one of their less familiar group members perform a song on a show I’ve grown to hate: Yo Gabba Gabba. I don’t understand this show. The host is I guess what you’d call “eclectic”. At least that’s what I tell my kids he is. Grown-ups would probably call him “gay”. And that’s fine, but dude is super freaky - gay or straight. Like I’m so happy to be doing a kids’ show someone should lock me up-freaky. The other characters are… poorly drawn, I think I want to say? Poorly puppeteered? I don’t know, but their limbs are extra long and swing wildly all over the place. The songs are something you’d find entertaining when you’re high. But it’s quickly becoming a classic among children, almost of Sesame Street caliber. And I have no idea why.

Regardless, they bribe celebrities to visit and sing songs from time to time. The Roots being the latest to drop by. This song was so popular in my house, BFam had to find it online just so the kids could sufficiently watch and sing until he and I took turns wanting to kill them.

Enjoy:

Executive Decisions

NaysWay — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 18:55:56 +0000

For a recession-filled holiday, I’d say my girls did pretty well this season. Unfortunately, buying gifts amid troubling financial times is not breaking new ground in the cycle of poorness. It was just announced to the world we were officially in a recession. That’s old news here.

The economy is affecting everyone. But for my house, that only means poor people are getting poorer. Christmas time is the one time I miss most about being a kid. You’re oblivious to all this recession and bad economy talk. Being an adult means being in charge. Being in charge not only means being aware, but figuring out what to do next. We still have someplace to live, food, lights, water and heat, so I guess we’ve made the right decisions so far. But for how long?

I’ve been on vacation from my regular 9-to-5 for a little over a week. I welcome this break every year, and time it according to my eldest child’s official school holiday break to make sure she gets to spend her free time at home, relaxing. It doesn’t help when her younger sister gets to stay home by default, because who has fun when they’re younger sister is around acting all younger sister-like? I could be wrong. Even in their fighting they seem to enjoy each other. It’s those times when one is throttling the other with their hands around the other’s neck that I begin to wonder maybe, just maybe, this was a bad idea.

In being home with both children I, surprisingly, get to have a little me time. Most of my me time has been spent catching up on personal projects falling severely behind, or reading my favorite blogs I’ve neglected. Most blogs I read are authored by those of the female persuasion - not that I’m sexist, but there are very few men out there blogging about things relatable to my life. Almost all of these women are stay-at-home mothers, or women who run their own businesses. While my blog is nowhere near giving me a payout of stay home status, it happens and there’s tons of examples in the Internet universe. It always makes me wonder how far-reaching this whole recession thing is, and how I must be living my life wrong still working for The Man like I do. Maybe I’m the only one griping. Maybe others have figured a way around the system. Either way, why is no one sharing the secret?

Most dire situations cause people to do one of two things: give up, or re-evaluate. I’ve given up before - to the point of near death - so I guess I’d better try the re-evaluation route.
(That near death one didn’t work out too well.) The first item on my agenda is, why not, money. There’s been a shortage this year, like other years, but next year - as my job has already forewarned - will get so short, I may or may not still be working there by this time next year. Any extra windfall the Company may have received due to its financial success will be null and void which, in turn, means its employees will not get the opportunity to share in said success through things like bonuses. With my family of four and half (hey, the dog gets a cut, too, you know) and their already small income, tack on a recent lifestyle change, add a three, carry the one… before you know it, we’re living beyond our means. What happens when people live beyond their means? C’mon class, you’ve been watching the news…

Things get cut.

The past few days have involved some heavy sit-down talks between BFam and I. BFam is not the type of man who likes heavy talks. Heavy talks lead to heavy thinking. Now, I don’t mean to give the impression I married Tarzan. (Tarzan no like think. Think make Tarzan brain hurt.) It’s just my husband doesn’t have an off switch. He may do everything in his power to make you think his outside facade is just fine. But inside is a flaming sea of internal combustion. A storm, if you will. Heavy thinking means he never stops thinking. Then he can’t sleep. Then he can’t eat. Then he’s in the bathroom every five seconds. Then come the intense stomach cramps. Then the night sweats. Before you know it, he’s a shell of a man, rolling around on the floor in constant agony. None of what I just described are exaggerations. His body doesn’t process stress well. Never has.

And after all this agony and pantomiming, we’re still left with the heavy talking and some decisions to make. Lately, our biggest discussions have centered around the education of our eldest child. She is in private school. Private school costs money. Too much money. Hard cuts call for hard decisions. Hard decisions make for intense reactions and uncomfortable situations. Just like all cuts and actions of intense magnitude and change, you intend to let those around you down gently. But intentions, even the best ones, pave the pathway to Hell. T’is the origin of the old saying, “Damned if you do…”. Well, you know the rest.

While I’m sure the intense negotiations our household will be under these next few months express little to no comparison to what our next President will endure, it’s still daunting and impactful just the same. Who said being in charge was fun?

Yes. Again.

NaysWay — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 04:15:38 +0000

[AND NOW, A LETTER FROM MANAGEMENT]:
Feliz Navidad. Happy Holidays. Seasons Greetings. Noel. And the like. If you’re new here, welcome. If you’re not, yes. I changed my layout. Again. I always say I hope this is the last time, but why lie to myself or, more importantly, you? My one reader.

Let’s face it. 2008 sucked. 2008 sucked hard, raw eggs with tabasco sauce. While New Year’s Day is ideally a day you get to wipe the slate clean and start all over again - a concept I personally love - it is just that. Ideal. And a concept. The same way it has to be explained to Black people that they will still have to pay their bills and go to work after January 20th is the same way everyone should understand New Year’s Day. Everything will still be business as usual. You were poor in 2008? Chances are you will continue to be poor at least at the start of 2009. Unless you win the lottery. Which, in that case, I am a distant relative. Third cousin. Thrice removed. Nice to meet you. Family.

So let’s start fresh, shall we? New look. New year. And, I hate to tell you, the look? It’ll change. I got no better way of putting it. That’s my New Year’s resolution to you. No more lies. Who are we kidding? I like challenges. I’m easily bored. I’m bluntly truthful. Tell you what… I’ll stop changing my site when I find someone who doesn’t charge me an arm and a leg to customize it to my specifications (God help the poor schmuck with that job).

Wow. That felt good. I feel cleansed getting that off my chest. Cathartic. Have a happy New Year and don’t drink too much. Hangovers carry on into the New Year, too.

They misunderestimate me.

NaysWay — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 22:23:26 +0000

23/6 has become my BFF. I love that site about as much as I love Huffington Post. Maybe more.

In the coming days of George W. Bush’s passing of the baton, 23/6 is running a special series called: Why We Can’t Quit W. Countdown - 50 Reasons We’re Sorry to See President Bush Go. To say this series is classic satire at its best is still not giving it enough proper due. So far, this one has been my favorite. I am sad I’d never know this poem to exist, but better late than never. And now it will go down in comedy infamy with me as I’ve sat here the past ten minutes reading and re-reading it, never doing so without bursting into laughter.

Oh mercy, that’s some good stuff right there.

His nuts roasting on an open fire…

NaysWay — Sat, 20 Dec 2008 03:34:11 +0000

Hot on the coat tails of the post regarding my little Christmas spirit problem (or lack thereof) comes the story of one of the only reasons I still let my children believe - Dear Santa letters to the post office. And the one past time that gives true meaning to giving and kindness - that I’m sure would be extended year ’round if people were able - is tainted.

Seems someone got the feeling of holiday cheer in an inappropriate place when reading letters from some of the smaller Dear Santa writers:

Why should anyone have to explain how wrong this is? This is wrong on so many levels, but what makes it worse is this, financially, is the crappiest year to get letters like this. Kids aren’t asking for toys. They’re asking for food, clothes and jobs. For their parents. Jobs. KIDS! I don’t know about you, but that makes me want to roast some ~~testicles~~ nuts on an open fire… just like the song says.

And can we just address the fact that a sex offender is working for the post office. Why is a sex offender working for the post office? Is he relegated to the confines of an indoor station only? Or does he deliver? At hours when children are walking home from school? On his “route”? See where I’m going with this?

I Might Be Going To Hell

NaysWay — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 15:03:24 +0000

Only if I’m wrong. And I am often asked why I don’t like Christmas. I hope this clears things up while simultaneously making me the biggest hypocrite to walk the Earth. Maybe.

Christmas is a sham. Call me a cynic. Call me mean. Call me heartless. Call me a Scrooge. Nothing you call me is something I haven’t been called already. The only upside to my lack of enthusiasm for the man-made holiday (that’s right, I said it) is that I married someone just as cynical as me, who shares my opinion of this if nothing else. Don’t get me wrong, we celebrate it for our children. It goes against everything we’ve come to learn about Christmas by instilling the tradition in their impressionable years, but ye tho’ we walk in the shadow of therapy bills when they are on several medications, shaking and foaming at the mouth because their cruel, evil parents wouldn’t let them worship a big fat man in a red suit. Who wants that pressure? Ye verily, I do not.

So we’re hypocrites, decorating our houses in lights and trees and ornaments and wreaths. We are stupid. And while I often bring up the point of how people don’t want to put Christ in Christmas anymore, or even say “Christmas” so much as “Happy Holidays” or “Season’s Greetings” lest they offend anyone, Christ really has nothing to do with Christmas. Nor does His birth. Now before you pour gasoline on my underwear and send me on a flaming sleigh to the fiery pit of despair, hear me out. I have information to back up my statement. While I don’t list all my sources of refutable research, there are plenty publications out there:

“The birth of Jesus is in the Bible, but not Christmas. The tree is not in the Bible, you know. Gifts—that’s not there either. There’s no place where it says, ‘”Celebrate my birthday,” says Jesus.’ It’s a pagan holiday that the Romans invented that we just do. But everywhere you go, I’m telling you, I’ve seen this so many times, you see a nativity scene and there’s baby Jesus, the manger, sheep, shepherds, Mary, Joseph and Santa Claus right in the middle. Who’s he? Mary’s [birthing] coach? Santa Claus has nothing to do with anything.”

We see that when Jesus was born shepherds were spending the night with their flocks in open fields. In that region, from December to February, though the heat of the day might feel comfortable enough when the human body is covered, the cold of the night was piercing. Thus the shepherds never kept their flocks and herds out in the open country from December through February—it was simply too cold (Alexander Hislop, The Two Babylons, 1959, p. 2). This in itself tells us that Jesus could not have been born anywhere near Dec. 25.

And my personal favorite:

My family loves Christmas. They never gave me the impression it was anything but related to the story of Christ’s birth. And I will continue the tradition of leaving it up to my children to figure it all out when and if they want. The world is a very influential place, and it’s very hard explaining to a two and seven-year old that the concept of their favorite holiday is a farce.