Where I talk about my hair

I have always had curly hair. Actually, as a kid is was more thick and wavy, but once puberty and hormones hit, it turned into a crazy mess of frizzy, out-of-control Jew hair. I was mocked throughout all of junior high and some of high school because of my hair. I won't go into the names I was called, but coupled with my big-ass eyes (a genetic defect caused by sutures on my skull closing to soon when I was an infant) you can just imagine the fun I had growing up.

My eyes - well, I can't do anything to change them, I have learned to live with them. My hair, on the other hand, with the advent of super-duper straightening irons and miracle salves and balms and such, I've been able to tame my hair into waspy suburban submission. It generally takes me an hour or more to get it stick straight. I've been doing it less and less. Here's what I'm starting to think:

I started straightening my hair in an attempt to fit in and look like everyone else. Straight hair is seen as 'sexy', 'sleek', 'neat', 'polished'. Frizzy, curly, unruly hair is seen as 'too ethnic', 'messy', 'unattractive'. In my attempts to feel good within my skin, this has become an issue with me. So I'm trying to learn to love my hair, as is. I don't look like everyone else ,and I never will. That's not a bad thing. Would I change my looks if I could? No. 

Where I do a grillion loads of laundry, vacuum up hairballs the size of Rhode Island, and put off swinging

On a positive note? I have been slacking on the housekeeping, and I am damn near caught up on laundry, and everyone has clean sheets now. I hadn't cleaned up our room in... awhile. There were freakishly large dustbunnies under all the furniture. So it's all done, clean, beds are made (gasp!) but here it is, close to 4pm, and no swinging yet. I'm doing a monster walk tonight - more out of necessity than straight exercise (it's back to school night, and parking is such a bitch, mom offered to drop me off, then I walk home. It's a hella walk.)- and so I keep going back and forth on the rationalizing. But dammit, KBs and walking are tow totally different activities, who am I fooling? Okay, as soon as I'm done here, no more bullshit.

I've gone off the Zoloft. Pretty much cold turkey. A couple of reasons: 

1. Dad is doing better. Not great, but at least somewhat stable. For the moment.
2. I was starting to feel slightly dulled in the emotional sense. I have heard people on antidepressants talk about this feeling, and I frankly hated it. 
3. When they say under side effects 'decreased sexual desire' - they are not kidding around. For the last 3 months, I couldn't have been less in the mood if I was falling out of a plane. Bryan was getting rather... frustrated.
4. I was starting to feel like it wasn't doing a whole lot of good. Maybe I'll feel I need it down the road, but right now, I want to try to make it without the drugs

So there it is.

* Alrighty, that was yesterday... and I obviously never got around to finishing. Let's see: walk yes, but a fairly short one as I was feeling puny. KBs no, as before, feeling meh. Today? A long ass visit with Mom and Dad to the Oncologist, whom I love, but seeing as she's the #1 Lung Cancer Doc in town, she double and triple books, and we were there for a couple hours. Not a lot of new news, but he seems to be, in a bloodwork stance, tolerating chemo fairly well. He starts the next round tomorrow, which means the next week or so, he'll be down for the count. We took Addie and went to lunch with my brother (who is not as connected with the family, married to a total nutcase, and very self centered. I was not overjoyed to see him.) for Mom and Dad's anniversary. As the long day wore on, I felt crappier and crappier. I've had a cough for a few weeks, but kept chalking it up to allergies. It's gotten worse, and I'm getting that telltale bronchitis tightness in my chest. Son of a bitch. I have a wheezy cough and just feel run down. I went to Urgent Care at 5:30, and after hearing family history (lung cancer, lung cancer and oh, yeah, lung cancer! Three family members including Dad.) said 'let's do an X ray. Like, now!' 

I was glad they did, even though I knew it was too soon for the bronchitis to show up. I know from here on out that I'll be totally paranoid anytime I have an ongoing cough. I didn't realize how much I've been suppressing emotions until the kindly nurse came in and patted my hand and said 'your lungs look great, no spots, no shadows" and I promptly burst into tears. I cried all the way home. I cried for my fear of the future and the unknown. I cried because I'm lonely and frustrated. I cried because my Dad will die someday very soon. I cried because I'm terrified it will happen to me. There is an isolation that goes along with having a dying parent. You have to be strong for them, and so often, people around you don't know what to say or do. You find yourself, in return, building up walls and wearing armor, because you get so tired of being let down and disappointed. People see you as aloof or stand offish, and I want to say 'this is what I have to do to survive each day. I can't let my guard  down, even for a moment. Because if I do, you'll see how fragile I really am.'

The doctor started me on Zpac to head this crap off at the pass. Which is awesome, because I can't afford to be really sick. He also gave me steroids and cough syrup so I can sleep. I'm hoping to feel back to normal by the weekend, then I can refocus on training. It is the only thing that keeps me sane, and when I can't do it, I miss it terribly.

I had a breakthrough moment while walking the other night. I am a typically reserved person, I've talked about my inferiority issues and never feeling good enough. As a kid, the only time I felt good about myself was when I was in ballet class. I took for 10 years, and I was good. It was one of the few things I knew I was good at. When I was dancing, I felt strong and confident and beautiful. I felt superhuman. I haven't had anything that has made me feel that way in years. When I go on a crazy ass long walk, and I am doing free running and parkour- style leaps and jumps and running up a steep hill, I feel so damn strong and good. When I do 500 or 600 kettlebell swings (or 1000, like that one time!), I feel 100% confident in myself. I feel like I know who I am. That's why I love it. It's better than any therapy. And no matter how much the world around me is crumbling, that's something I can control. It's an aspect of my life that I know will only keep getting better, as long as I choose to continue training.

Alright, this entry has gone on way too long and been all over the place.  I'm off to take a shower and wait for the narcotic -based tussin (woot!) to kick in. And hopefully, tomorrow I'll feel better.

Where I go to therapy and have a breakdown, and a breakthrough

"I was taught to desire nothing, to swallow other people's misery, and to eat my own bitterness. And even though I taught my daughter the opposite, still she came out the same way. Maybe it is because she was born to me and she was born a girl, and I was born to my mother and I was born a girl, all of us like stairs, one step after another, going up, going down, but always going the same way. No, this cannot be, this not knowing what you're worth, this not begin with you. My mother not know her worth until too late - too late for her, but not for me. Now we will see if not too late for you, hmm?"

I thought of this quote from the Joy Luck Club while I was talking to my shrink today. I had an immense breakthrough in regards to me having no self worth, no self esteem. I never feel that my love, or friendship, or anything is as good as everyone else's. I don't know why. Maybe it's because my mother was the same. No matter how fast I run, how I high I jump, how perfect I try to be, I will fail. I do so much for people who don't deserve it, in hopes of being loved, being admired, being cherished as a friend. I do nothing for me. I don't typically see myself as having any worth at all. At what point do I walk away from the bullshit of my childhood and say 'enough'? Because I think I'm there. I think I'm done feeling like this. 

Pity, party of moi

As much as I think I could do Anne Sexton better than Anne Sexton (or Sylvia Plath), no I have not taken a handful of pills and sat in my garage with the engine running. My van wouldn't even fit, the garage is too small. I kid, I kid. Dark, ominous, inappropriate kidding. 

Not that I am not in a horrible place, and think bad things. But they're just thoughts, and trust me, I have had my hand on the phone off and on today, thinking "is it time for that 3 day stay at the psych ward?" But I'm not there yet. I am however, taking a wee break from my Dad, who is being incredibly douchy and pissy. My kids have had a craptastic summer, and I have to get them out of the house and to the pool. To expect them to sit in a dark house while my father sleeps off and on and listen to his nonstop criticism of them.... it's just unacceptable. Henry said to me today "Apaa rolls his eyes at you a lot." Yeah, kid, I know. I know. 

It's incredibly hard to go through this. Even more so, alone. I cannot paint a smile on anymore. I cannot be perky for acquaintances who can't handle the truth. And if one more asshole says "he seems FINE!", I am going to cut a bitch. Fer reals, y'all. 

In other news, I let Henry get a mohawk. Well, more of a fauxhawk, but he wears it better than that Maddox Jolie-Pitt kid could any day of the week.

Double angry Henry, looking like the badass he is:

*and thank you all for the comments, I read them and appreciate anyone that take the time to read my crap and write to me. I heart you all.

I just did a big, long, exhaustingly emotional post over at Dad's caringbridge site, and I am too wiped and busy to write anything of substance here. I am busy getting the motherfucking cookies frosted - I have been procrastinating on this for days - and today is a swing day. Hopefully a higher volume than the last time. 

I think my antidepressants are leveling out. I don't feel quite as energetic as I did the first 2 weeks, which is kind of a bummer. I guess the point is to not make me manic, just even keel, but having never been manic before, I have to say, I kind of liked it. But oh well, on to being normal. 

School's almost out. Summer may or may not be here soon. We're still having temps in the 40's in the mornings, and Mother Nature can suck it. Hard.

I'm in a bit of a mood today, can you tell? Pollyannas can keep their sunshiny opinions to themselves.

(ETA: 500 reps, some swings, some double swings, some sets of snatches,  a few double snatches thrown in, and sets of double C&P, one minute on, one off, all sets)

Where I talk about drugs

I went to the shrink yesterday. He put me on Zoloft and Klonopin. I have always been very against the use of antidepressants, but I really hit a wall last week. I felt like I was simply unable to function. One of the side effects of Zoloft is a loss of appetite, which is a bonus. I took my first dose and felt a little queasy for a few hours ( a common side effect) and have not wanted to eat. At all. It's 1pm, and I am not at all hungry. I know I need to eat something, and I will, but it's nice to not have the out of control bingeing going on. 

There's a lot more going on in my head, but I just can't articulate what I'm thinking and feeling. I have a different emotion every 10 seconds, and it gives one the feeling of being on a boat on choppy waters. I can't seem to get my sea legs. I'm much more easily irritated and sensitive these days. I'm pissy at a certain family member who has not picked up the phone to call me. I shouldn't be surprised, I shouldn't care this much or let it bother me, but it does. I have no armor up right now. I am just raw. I hope the meds kick in soon.

I watched 'The Number 23" last night. I liked it a lot. Very dark and weird, and I am shocked at myself for saying this, but Jim Carrey was one hot bitch in it. Yowza. Or maybe it was just the side effect of the klonopin. Hmmm.