28 posts tagged “me”

Today is my oldest brother's 68th birthday. I'm 42. Yes, that's 26 years between us.

And not the kind I have when I see a cute guy.

My heart has been beating a little funny for a few days now.

It bugged me enough that I went to see my doctor. Mainly I wanted to know if they could feel what I feel. They could. I really don't want to be a hypochondriac, you know?

My EKG was normal, as is my blood pressure.

Tomorrow I am having an echocardiogram and am getting a Holter to wear 24 hours. I'm not in pain, but I do have some of the other odd symptoms.

My doctor thinks it is stress. I hope so, but I'll feel pretty stupid if it is. I just want to be one of those people who can get through things without falling apart.

An actual reader with an actual question.

You know, we're fine. More than fine really.

When I am whining about my mom, I am in a depressive state. When I am fine, we are fine.

Generally, I know when I am whining that it is the depression getting the best of me. But at the same time, it's a real emotion. That I have to express. And better here than to her. She's taken enough of my crap in her lifetime.

I was chatting with some friends recently who all had similar experiences with some pretty dysfunctional parents. I had to sit silently because in my life it was me who was the psycho.

It was my mom who never knew who she was going to get. At any given moment. I could go from happy to angry in a split second. She (we) never knew when my wrath would sweep in, cutting a swath against her heart.

I know she lived in fear wondering what she might say or do that would set me off. Sometimes even nice things would get an "It's about time" outta me.

I've been on medication for six years. Our relationship has done a 180.

It hurt me for a long time. Those moments when I could hear her guard herself against what might be coming. If she was late to meet me. Or early. If she forgot something. Or did something without asking me.

It hurt a long time to know that I was the terror in my mom's life. But I can tell you with all honesty that there was something wrong with me. Something that medicine has fixed.

At first she was very upset when I went on the meds. I'm sure she thought she would get the blame somehow. But the reality is my brain was broken. It was like I had the spark plugs, they just weren't connecting.

I thank God for giving me the courage to go to the doctor that day and admit that something was really wrong with me. I am so grateful that I have this new relationship with my mom. Even though this may be the shortest time of our lives together, I am so thankful that these will be the memories I keep.

There’s been no big change in mom. In fact, her mobility is becoming scarily limited.

She’s still working, but I went to the store for her again yesterday. She’s trying to keep her spirits up, but I know this is killing her a little at a time. If she were to lose her mobility . . .

I’m a worrier by nature. Trust me, if I could find the switch I’d flip it off in a second.

I worry about the now. I worry about the future. I worry that I worry too much.

How often do you call your parents?

That's easy. Mom and I speak every day. At least twice a day, if not more.

When I was growing up, people would tell me how lucky I was that mom and I were so close. Only we weren't. We may have spent a lot of time together, that doesn't mean we got along.

Pre-antidepressants, I had like this split personality. And my mom got the brunt of it. The ugliness of it all. She never knew which me she was going to get on any given day.

If she was late, it was the wrath of me. If she was early, it was the wrath of me. Like asking me to go to the store for her? That wouldn't have happened six years ago.

Yes, just six years ago. My mom lived holding her breath for the first 36 years of my life. Never knowing what would set me off. I remember as a kid getting angry about something and deciding that I would never tell her "I love you" again. I just stopped.  To this day those are three words not easily exchanged between us.

I was shamed by it for quite a while after I got on meds and settled down. I could tell sometimes by something she said or did that she was just grimacing. Waiting for me to react.

I am so grateful for these past six years. That I have come to love my mom and to know her as a friend. To discover that I like her. We can joke and talk in a way I would've never imagined before. I thank God for that.

Gigi came home from the groomer this week with a mani-pedi:

manicure

1 comment

Since I already dress her, I need I get the polish off her lest anyone think I am one of those crazy dog ladies.

Speaking of toes, I went to a podiatrist this week. As long as I can remember, I have always hated my toes. I would never wear shoes that showed my toes. It probably wasn't until I "discovered" flip flop's just a few years back that I would bare my toes.

Basically every toe except for my big toes are malformed. (It is a birth issue, not because of shoes.) Primarily hammer toes. Both #2 toes are pretty bad now. Enough to need surgery. So is the #3 toe on my left foot.

When I was younger, I dreamed of having my toes fixed. Sometimes they would hurt so much.  My mom feels bad that it wasn't something she afford when I was younger. I tried to explain that the surgery back in the day was probably much worse than it is these days (which the doctor confirmed). These days each toe takes about 15 minutes. Surgery on Friday, back to work on Monday.

It's odd to know something yourself, but to hear someone else talk about it was weird. He pointed at my big toe in the side x-ray and explained that those should be the only bones visible from that angle. Hah.

When I asked about a couple whiter spots on right toe #2, he pointed out that I should have three bones in that toe, not two. But see, I do have three bones in that toe. It's just that one bone is almost perpendicular now. It will need a pin to help straighten it out. Ah, so that's why that hurts.

He would like six weeks of no crazy walking post surgery, so because of a couple trips coming up, I won't have surgery until the summer. Late June maybe.

Part of me is thrilled that I am getting some toes fixed. Another worries that I will hate having such long toes after. Mostly though, I wish I could have it done right now!

Mom, "Is it supposed to stick out like that?"

This post title has been clanking around in my mind for a while now. I’ve just not been in the place to write about it. I’ve not been able to figure out how to articulate what I mean by that. Then I read this post over at BaylorGirl and, well, here I am.

I do not feel like I am living an authentic life. I feel like every day I get up, go through the motions and suddenly it’s time to get up and do it all over again. It feels like my life is passing me by.

I don’t know that I know what I am supposed to be doing, but this is not it. Sure, I make a decent living and enjoy the people I work with, but this is not it.

I have this deep need to do something that makes a difference in the world. OK, maybe not "the world" but at least my little part of it.

When I visualize my authentic self, she is not corporate. She’s not someone who works 8 to 5. She’s not a suit. She works somewhere she can wear jeans and take her dog to work. She works with people who are in it to make a difference too. They are collaborative and committed. They are inspired by their work. They don’t care if she has her nose pierced.

She’s a vegetarian who lives a green life. She cooks her own meals. Bakes her own bread. Has a garden in the back yard. She recycles and might even have her own compost pile. She drives a Prius.

Her house is not cluttered. Is neat and tidy. Her wardrobe is simple and her belongings mean something. She travels, but not as a tourist. She takes volunteer vacations.

She is someone who writes. Really writes.

I know she is here somewhere. And I feel like I am making baby steps to find her. But I don’t know if I can ever live a fully authentic life.