Entry 28 - Latent Defect? Nah. Bonus brains.

For whatever reason, I've always felt like I'm inherently faulty. Not necessarily like I'm not good enough, just like I'm not quite right.

This literally goes back as far as I can remember. I don't know if it's because I've always had a health issue, because my oldest sister used to read me Edgar Allen Poe as bedtime stories (which had more positive effects than you might think, but still explains a hella lot), because I was so much younger than my siblings I was practically another generation and, therefore, the odd-man-out, or what. I just never felt totally at peace with the world around me. With my immediate family, sure growing up, sure. With my immediate family now, sure.

But for years, I just felt ... off. Like I had a latent defect, something just under the surface, like there was one thread if someone caught just right, would unravel my entire being and expose me as a fraud.

Kindergarten was hell. At home I did just fine, I could read, I didn't need to nap, I (felt like, anyway) I could effectively converse with all the adults and near-adults around me. But kindergarten was another story. Suddenly I'm surrounded by ... kids ... and I have no idea what to do with them. I made a few friends after a while, and friends I still treasure to this day, but it was hard. I always felt like I was struggling to say what I was expected to say, and not what I wanted to. Well, after I learned to not always say what I wanted to anyway, because that proved real quick to be very offputting to other kids and teachers alike. I shaped up fast. But I still remember being very annoyed in kindergarten that I had to learn how to color, how to paint, how to write my name (I knew all this already, I'm booooooooooored!), and being annoyed at mandated napping. (What? I don't nap. I have no need for such things. Gah!)

I was not athletic or coordinated in the slightest. Which was okay. I had far more fun sorting patterns in my own head than I did running down a field. Sweating felt yucky. I had far more fun playing games with myself like, find a word with all the vowels or words that had letter patterns not ready apparent to others. Like ace! Ace was composed of every other of the first five letters of the alphabet! Not only that, but if you numbered the alphabet, those letters also match up with the first three odd numbers!

Yeah. I'm a dork.

Eventually, though, like I said, I learned to keep this $hit to myself and socialize like a good girl. I learned how to be a people pleaser. Didn't mean I stopped doing this stuff in my head, I just tried a little harder to keep it there. I learned funny, though. If I could pop off with something funny, people would like me, and probably still think I was strange, but in a better way. I would say there were quite a few years, though, where if I didn't say something funny, I just tried hard not to say much at all.

Ah, life lessons in grade school, eh?

This carried through for quite a bit of my life. The games in my head, drawing patterns, sorting my M&M's by color and number of pieces (dark brown was usually the most abundant, and would be the bottom of the chocolate pyramid). And when I focus - holy hot damn, I can focus!!!

Although I have to admit generally, I have a horrific time doing just one thing at a time. I fidget. I glance around the room. I can keep eye contact just fine, but sometimes, if I'm not doing something else as a distraction, I'll start to feel very weird, I'll focus in what feels like too intently on that person's eye, and I'll begin to make myself uncomfortable, and wonder if I'm making him/her uncomfortable, and then I'll fidget more, and I have to wind things up shortly after that, if I can.

There are a few people in my life, outside my immediately family, I've latched onto immediately. And at this point in my life, the folks I grew up with - it's kind of effortless. I can be charming, witty, well-read, etc. Sometimes I can go too far and just be so weirdly pop culture excessive I've alienated my audience, though. I'll never get over the day I brought mashed potatoes to a pot luck, could only find a platter to put them on, so shaped them like a big mountain and walked into the buffet room staring intently at the plate and saying, "This means something." I was so disheartened when no one understood the Close Encounters reference, I just kind of slunk into my chair for a bit.

So, where am I going with this series of vignettes?

As it turns out, our son's been diagnosed with Asperger's. It's on the low end of the autism spectrum, and can make incredibly smart people with difficulty in social interaction. As the psychiatrist is going through all of the information with us, I'm sitting there fidgeting, glancing around the room, sorting things through in my head. A few minutes into the meeting, the psychiatrist pegs my husband as a potential Aspie. Not a shock to either of us. As we're going through further, though, she points out some of my behaviors also. It caught me off guard, but John thinks it actually makes total and complete sense.

And when I think about my history, I suppose it does. I don't think I ever remember feeling anything but awkward. But it's not a bad thing.

At least, now that I have perspective through my son. To me, the boy is perfect. Okay, so he refuses to potty train and he can be a little shit at daycare if he doesn't get his way. But at home, he's so huggy, and loving, and snuggly. He speaks with these wonderful, adorable, very articulate and deliberate sentences. He's amazingly smart. He hums classical music to himself when he plays. He's so mellow and easy-going, I nicknamed him "The Dude." And boy, that boy really pulls the family together.

So if that's Aspie, and if I'm Aspie, then it's not a latent defect. It's far more beautiful than I ever realized.

Entry 27 – Keep Calm and Carry On

Ah, I wish it was that easy.

Cause I’m a worrier, ya know. I worry about all kinds of stuff, whether it merits it or not. Lexapro helped me with that, admittedly. And it’s more fibro-friendly replacement, Cymbalta, has also helped me with that. So overall, s’all good.

But sometimes, sometimes bits creep through and worry me up all over again. And I’m kind of at that stage right now.

For one thing, my mind and body are off balance at the moment. Lovely doctor’s switching my medication to something that hopefully works better for my fibro because I’m having more and more symptoms. Increasing the Cymbalta, and replacing the Gabapentin with Lyrica is taking a bit of a toll on me. Part of the time I feel half-stoned. Part of the time I feel like I’m going to just fall asleep wherever I sit or stand. And part of the time, I’m just flaky as hell. Not much productivity allowed in that schedule, which is pissing the still-functional part of my mind off.

And I’m sure that’s not all helping my worries about my health brought on by new news. Since my symptoms are worse, the doctor did some new blood tests to check, among other things, my ANA and CRP levels. A high CRP (C-reactive protein) factor can indicate inflammation, from things like infections and, what we were looking for, rheumatoid arthritis. Mine was high – positive. An ANA (antinuclear antibody) factor can show if you have an autoimmune disease like rheumatoid arthritis, lupus, scleroderma, etc. Apparently my ANA factor has doubled since 2009 (when it was slightly elevated, but not worrisome).

So, now I’m being referred to a rheumatologist. And I’m freaking out of course. I don’t care what Dr. House says, occasionally it IS lupus. And I already have localized scleroderma, what if I’ve developed diffuse scleroderma?

Kinda weird when rheumatoid arthritis is the lesser evil, eh?

Or it could be nothing. They could be weirdo false positives or some such.

Until I get to a rheumatologist, though, I guess I’ll just keep cycling through feeling sleepy/stoned/flaky/dizzy with undertones of terror, panic and paranoia.

Fun fun everyone!

Oh, and I’ve put on three pounds since I started the Lyrica, HOORAY!

Entry 26 - Step Up

Okay, I’m pointing you back to Entry 3, “The Day I Grew Up,” posted May 14, 2010.
Review, refresh.

Ready? Here goes.

So, I drove Anna to go see Grandma this weekend. It’s a six-hour car trip. Alan came with us – went horseback riding with Uncle Lewis, and has declared himself a cowboy, and for a little while, he wanted to be called “Cowboy Alan.” But I digress (keeping up with the theme of Entry 3, heh).

So, Anna can be a bit judgmental at times. She’s 11. Of course she is. On the way back, she was talking about how sad she was she didn’t get to be there the day Dad died. They were beyond close; Dad had stepped up to the father role for her after my divorce, and prior to my remarriage. That’s the kind of guy Dad was, the kind of guy who stepped up. While Dad definitely had his fun, he always put the needs of his family before the wants of himself.

I explained to her how parents sometimes had to make hard choices, and that I made certain choices after I found out Dad was dying. I chose not to tell her, and I chose not to bring her back with me for the last day. Both were predicated on somewhat selfish reasons. As for not telling her? I knew I could barely keep myself going emotionally, there was no way I could provide her the comfort she needed on top of that. I was looking at a six-hour drive to take her and John home, I couldn’t drive, keep my head straight, and give her what she needed all at the same time. Plain and simple. As for not bringing her to the hospital? The same thing, except throw Mom and Laura in the mix. That’d be all of us in a room with a dying man, unable to keep anything under control. We barely kept things going as it was, we could not have handled Anna in that tiny little room with us, crying her eyes out. Plus, well, Dad was barely Dad anymore. He was basically comatose (although somewhat responsive, through hand squeezing anyway) and 60 - 70 pounds underweight. I did not want my daughter’s last memories of her granddad to be at the absolute worst moments of what remained of his life.

While she didn’t agree with my decision, she ultimately respected while I made it. The fact that I was crying through telling her this, and explaining how I couldn’t have helped Mom, helped Dad, helped Laura, kicked that f*cking counselor out of the room, and dried her eyes at the same time.

And now’s the part where I turn this story even MORE into “all about me” and my barreling weight. Although I suppose that is the overall purpose of this blog, isn’t it? So please don’t judge me a narcissist. I’ve met those. This isn’t it, this is introspection. Or do I protest too much? Hmmm….

Anyway, moving on. Something about talking about that day again, about crying while I described it, brought things back home to me. I already know that was the day I truly grew up. While it was the worst day of my life (and the worst day of several others’ lives in that room), it was the day I had to take control. I could not be the little girl relying on these adults anymore. I had to finally be an adult myself.

And it’s carried through. Since that day, I swear, I’m much more courageous (not fearless, that’s totally different). I keep my family fed and dressed, I put a toddler to bed at night, I make sure my daughter takes her medicine every morning, I’m better at my job, I’m better in a courtroom, I can take responsibility for a mistake at work, I can get our roof repaired, I can pay bills, I can direct a project, I can sue my ex for child support. I can do it all with a stoicism and grace, and a healthy dose of fun and attitude.

But when I was a kid, I could come home crying from a stressful day, I’d get a cookie, and all would be better. And when I’d be home alone if I felt rotten, I could eat a box full of brownies (meant for Dad, and I’d blame it on Lewis – I apologized to him for that this weekend, heh) and feel better. For a while, anyway. So by eating so much now, am I wanting to be that kid, that little person who didn’t have to be an adult, who could eat whatever the hell she wanted because there were always others to blame, always circumstances that drove me to it, always ways to shrug off the responsibilities of the world because as a child, I didn’t truly have any responsibilities yet?

But I’m a grown up now. I’m a mother. I’m a wife. I’m an attorney. I’m the one who had to kick the b*tch out of Dad’s room when she made my parents cry. Whether I should be or not, I’m a role model.

But some days, I really, really just don’t want to be.

I guess it’s not only time to have grown up, but to be a grown up. Dad stepped up. Time for me to do the same. Dad denied himself a lot for the sake of his family. Surely I can deny myself “comfort” food I know won’t ultimately be comforting.

Entry 25 - Gotta Pull My Head Out of My Butt

This is a picture of me from, I dunno, 6 or 7 years ago. I want to look like this again. Mom had this picture, which I'd never seen before, so I copied it.

Here's why this is relevant now. It's another attempt at inspiration. After a shitload of hassle (I'll save that for when I'm not as tired), I was diagnosed with arthritis in my frakkin' foot. On the TOP of my foot no less. It remains consistently red and swollen and painful. Some days, particularly mornings, I can barely walk.

It occurred to me that maybe God was once again trying to get my attention. He tried fibro (which would have benefitted from weight loss) and I blew right past. Then there's weight watchers at work, which I've been blowing off. And a doctor willing to work with me on my weight - whom I've been disappointing. Maybe God finally facepalmed and decided to hit me with something that, the troubles that surround it are so directly affected by how much weight I carry, I can't ignore.

Anyway, I pretty much said as much during the "joys and concerns" sharing part of choir practice tonight. Including the statement that I need to "Pull my head out of my butt" about this. (Thank heavens I'm a heretical Methodist and not a fundie, although I at least refrained from saying "ass," which was my first instinct.)

The music director dialed my language back a bit when he lead the group prayer. But hey, I've got a room full of prayerful singers on my side now. That can't hurt, right?

Be patient with me please, God. I may be a spoiled little pissant, but I really am listening.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Entry 24 – I'm Happy, I'm Feeling Glad

February 14, show the love! The sun is showing us love today. Ah, blessed sunshine, how I missed ye! I've packed some sunshine into a bag for later!

Funny how mood changes with the seasons. And with the help of a good doctor.

I was nearly in tears at the doctor's office last Friday. Most recent weigh-in? I've gained fifty pounds in the last two years. He was shocked, too. So, he's working with me closer than ever to try to bring things down. I'm on a new medication – phentermine, but it's the "metabolism" half of Fen-Phen, and I'm being closely monitored for the next three months. He also lectured me – "You have to work with me on this." A chastisement I needed. Although he also acknowledged some of my fibro meds not only increase the appetite, but slow the metabolism, yay! Double whammy!

What's really amazed me is – I have energy. Holy cow, I didn't nap at all this weekend! When does that happen? And I woke up at 5 this morning and worked out like a champ! And today, I didn't almost fall asleep over lunch or during any meetings!

Wonder if we've stumbled upon a narcolepsy cure here? Ha!

Anyway, I’m useless, but not for long. Things are on a good track. I'm bound and determined not to fail my doctor. I've just been made president of the Midwest chapter of an attorney-practice-area association. And last night – this was just amazing – last night as I'm folding laundry, singing to my iPod and dancing while folding laundry, my daughter comes in and says, "Mom, I love your life. I want a life like yours when I grow up." She even acknowledged all the hard times I've worked through to get to this place emotionally, spiritually, and financially. Seriously, if this is the example I'm providing to my daughter, it's not half bad, is it? I may be in pain every day, I may be trapped in the body of a lumbering giant, but I'm so happy with the things I do have, my daughter sees that more than anything.

Really, what better affirmation can you have that you're on the right track than words like that from a child? A tween no less! Aren't tweens supposed to start hating their parents right about now?

My future is comin' on!

Entry 23 - One can only hope.

Oh, I am a silly, silly woman.

Recently I found myself addicted (whether physically or habitually) to stopping by Casey's in the morning and picking up an energy drink and a small bag of M&Ms.

As time progressed, it became two energy drinks and a "sharing size" of M&Ms, which you can bet your sweet bippy never got shared.

And bear in mind, that would not necessarily be all of the caffeine or chocolate I'd have in a day.

Anyway, I kind of reached a point this weekend where everything just fell apart for me. Not mentally, just … it's hard to explain. I realized by the end of last week that I was afraid to get weighed because I could feel my backfat touching my hipfat. Never good. And I plain ol' felt horrid. I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to get off the couch. Every movement just felt painful, and every touch from anyone felt painful. I was trying to write this off in my head to a trip to Kansas and back, followed by a trip to St. Paul and back. Both of which certainly contributed, but could have been mitigated. I could have been doing my exercise bike every morning again (lately, I just sleep right on through "bike time"). I could be cutting out all the known fibromyalgia aggravating foods like peppers, potatoes, CAFFEINE, etc. But I wasn't.

And now not only was I incredibly miserable, but I was also cleaning between parts of my skin that shouldn't be touching in the first place.

And I went shopping for a dress to wear to the wedding. No, not the dress in an earlier thread. I reached a point where I feared I'd look like a giant crinkly aluminum ball in it instead of the sleek, golden goddess I intended. So I bought a circus tent… er, dress off the rack at David's Bridal. Which admittedly, from the front, looks pretty rockin'. From the side, it looks more like a … um … circus tent. But oh well.

Anyway, I resolved that since this is a quiet week at work, this is when I'd give up certain inflammatories. Caffeine and chocolate are out. Lots of raw foods are in. I also punted milk, because I kept getting a painful tummy every time I had ice cream or a bowl of cereal.

So I'm day two on no caffeine. Okay, if you count the Diet Coke I had yesterday to try to assuage some symptoms (which ended up being totally worthless, so not doing it today), I'm actually on day one, but in spirit, I'm on day two.

And I. am. miserable. My head is pounding so bad. And not just my forehead, it runs this nice little circuit along the base of my skull and around my hairline. I have a heat wrap on my shoulders right now that's helping part of it. I also want to puke my guts up. I hate my iron constitution and its unwillingness to hurl. Instead, I get this stupid guttural air burps. Pissing me off.

But here we are. I'm trying. And hopefully I'll continue to feel desperate enough to keep trying. One can only hope, right?