Mandetory End of Year Reflection, 2020

Another year with all the hijinks therein.  Deploy the bulleted list!

• We bought a freakin' house!  And we're continuing to add in different touches that make it more and more us.  
• We paid off all our student debt!  I have so many feelings about this. #MillenialUnicorns
• I have entered into the wild world of management.
• Andy has a new project car to work on.
• My eyes are lasered and successfully so, meaning that I no longer need glasses.
• Mike moved in with us.
• We had all kinds of interesting travel, including but not limited to the following:
• Orlando, FL (family vacay to Universal Studios)
• Austin, TX (work but also some hangage with Wendy and Jason)
• San Benito, TX (work)
• San Antonio, TX (work)
• Oahu, HI (family vacay, yo)
• Andy got a vasectomy, which means that we are never going to go through pregnancy in this house--it's been a HUGE relief.

Things we're looking forward to include but are not limited to the following:

• Actualizing some of Andy's plans for the car, starting with outlining the full scope of the changes needed.
• Regarding the house, we are considering making some significant changes to our downstairs bathroom sooner rather than later.  This will include expanding out that space by about four feet, adding an ostomy toilet, and building a closet space for our master bedroom.
• As per usual, I'm aiming to continue to learn new things:
• Riding a bike 
• Taking another class (or three)
• Picking up DuoLingo again for Norwegian, having dropped it for several months
• We're trying this new thing called saving money, with no small amount of gratitude that our situation allows it.

THE LONG AND THE SHORT OF IT is that it's been another unpredictable year.  I think that's the best word for it.  There were a few things that we were setting up for--paying off debt, for example, required some specific, long-term planning, and the family vacations were determined far enough in advance to appropriately ask off for work--but there were all kinds of surprises and timings tossed in the mix.  A number of people in my circle are in this interesting transition time in their lives, preparing and/or anticipating changes.  In some cases, it's retirement; in others, changing jobs and moving are at the forefront in the upcoming year; others still are waiting for clarity in what those next steps are going to be, preparing all things for whatever comes to fill in the gaps.  Politically, too, next year is going to be a doozy.  I'm very much tapping into the anticipation of impending change.

Last year, I felt some similar pieces, that we were collectively preparing for changes, calling it "The Year of the Precipice," for myself at least.  We were very much planning on buying a house at that point, hoping that the stars would align accordingly.  As a result, we did make some big changes this year, taking some significant leaps to do so.  And yet, that anticipation is still present and, I think, more urgent.  I've been trying to re-empathize with the me from last year, to remember myself in that space, to compare, but I'm not certain.  I'm not the me I used to be, which is terrifying and gratifying in the same breath.  

This year, I think I'll go with "The Year of the Shove."  The exhilaration of jumping off of the precipice.  Ready or not.  All that preparation carrying us to where we are and propelling us to where we will be.  Gravity increases the acceleration.  There's uncertainty and a lot of fear from that.  There is also a strange confidence, as we have been throwing pillows and cushions down to meet us at the eventual *ahem* sudden shift in velocity.  Here we go.

Also, I'm already tired of the 20/20 jokes.  

Happy Everything, All!

Not much to say today except some great love and affection to you all.

Wishing you hope where you feel worn through.

Wishing you joy whether you feel like you have a reason to be.

Wishing you peace, particularly in those spaces where you might think you're too busy to feel it.

Thinking warm thoughts to you and yours, my dears.  Rest, celebrate, whatever you need to do over the holiday season.

May you be as snug as a unicorn onsie

Action Mode Beta, Engaged!

So, my eyes are probably my favorite physical feature.  I appreciate the complexity of the blue, how the edge of the iris has that slightly darker edge that stands out against the sclera, and how my smile wrinkles in the edges around them. If I'm thinking about not wearing makeup on a given day, I tend to at least put on mascara, because I enjoy how it makes my eyes pop just that little bit more.  I've worn glasses since the second grade, until (after two swings) all settled after Lasik surgery, so I've invested no small amount of money in them over time.

Whelp, been having some new trouble with them recently.  Post Lasik, I've been a little photosensitive--enough that I always wore sunglasses outside, like we are all supposed to anyway--but something switched over in the last couple weeks where I started wearing them inside, too.  They're angry.  And I have decidedly felt unsafe driving, even at night once we factor in headlights from other cars.  Work has been gracious enough to only make a few polite inquires about the sunglasses, but otherwise not insist I take them off.  Thankfully, I haven't had anything client facing, so it's not been much of an issue.

Got in to see the optometrist, got a script ordered and an action plan, pharmacy was out of stock so I did have to wait another day for what I've been calling my eye-buprofen, but so far it's been a slow turn around.  We're keeping things pretty dim in this household, I'm soaking my eyes in rewetting drops, and we're waiting.

All of the above happened because a particular switch was flipped in me.  For Monday and Tuesday of last week, I was waffling pretty hard on whether to call the doctor.  But then I tried to drive myself home for lunch on a sunny day.  It was a profoundly unsafe ten minutes, but certainly solidified in my mind that this was not okay.  It had crossed one of my specific thresholds, this one being "significantly intrusive to normal activity."

I was very relieved to have that switch flipped.  The indecisive cycles are one of my least favorite places to be, but once the decision is made, it's action mode.  I'm decisive.  I can advocate for myself.  I will have no problem calling the doctor or insurance or whomsoever is necessary to get pieces moving.  I will be reasonable and ask how I can help someone help me, but I am persistent.  I cut a great deal of the emotions and feelings out of the process.  Can't think about it--just have to get it done.

It's my crisis mode.  It's what got me through the mechanics of my major health concerns.  It is not a sustainable form.  I've brought this up before in other blogs, though the contrast with this particular experience is how aware I am of the different steps that are happening.  I am working on intentionally checking in with my body, a skillset I did not have in previous events (in no small part because I was afraid of the answer).  How I word my internal conversations has also shifted.  Sure, I'm very annoyed with my eyes at the moment--the squinting gives me a headache, the skin around my eyes is irritated with all of the additional moisture from the drops, my eyelashes are crusty from the renaments ot previous drops, I'm mildly annoyed at the looks/comments from folks as I wear my sunglasses inside (real or imagined), and the specialty drops get expensive--but I'm ensuring that my verbiage is not blaming my eyes.  I am frustrated at the situation but not my body this time.  Even a more gentle "ah, let's rewet those peepers and keep them feeling good" instead of a huffy "ugh, I have to stop what I'm doing again to take care of this BS" is important to the collective framing of the experience.  That compassion, given to myself as an olive branch of self-love, cuts away at the frustration.  There is pain; I am not the pain.  There is dryness and irritation, and it sucks that my eyes are feeling that--but that part of me is suffering right now, and I need to react with kindness.

A little more rest.  A little more space.  A little more time.

I am choosing to slow down because that's the care my body needs; I am not forced to stop.  ...Okay, definitely still struggling with that particular affirmation.  I do not actually feel that one yet.  There's a very real fear of missing out that I still very much struggle with, because there are many, many things that I've missed out on and there is no small amount of grief there yet to process.

And in the meanwhile, I'll pretend that I'm a starlet trying to evade paparazzi in my $8 sunglasses from Kohl's.  

Locker Room Chicken

I've been getting back into the pool recently, swimming laps again for cardio.  It's been good for my heart in more than one way, where not only am I already starting to re-adjust to the work (acutely aware of how out-of-shape I am), but it's a delight to be back in the water again.  I don't like to run much--I have too many jiggling parts to much enjoy it, I figure--but I hear from those that do run for fun/exercise that there is a point where you just zone out and let your mind disconnect from your body.  I have gotten that with swimming, where I nearly lose track of which lap I'm on in my mile for the day, simply for being lost in my thoughts on something else.  Muscle memory takes over.  I am free in the water and idly plotting what I want to do for the next 250 yards.

But I have new joy right now at the gym that I have internally named "Locker Room Chicken."  After I get out of the pool and shower, I wait until the last possible moment to cover up my ostomy bag.  I make eye contact with people walking by, silently daring them to ask questions.  I still smile, trying to be welcoming in a space where many people feel vulnerable.  I will dry off the bag with a hairdryer, tend to everything else with the colostomy bag prominaently against my side--shameless.

So far, I've had one person ask a question, when we had a quick chat about tattoos.  Most people look away quickly, going back to minding their own business in the locker room.  So, not many conversations yet.  However, the larger goal is to normalize myself in that space.  I want to make ostomies more normal, for a couple hours at a time, not just for myself but for others, too.

It's a game of me versus societal expectations of the locker room.  Where is the propriety necessary?  When does it stop us from understanding?  Where are these spaces open to new ideas?  Should I bring a sign, that I'm open to discuss?  It keeps me entertained, people-watching with that particular lens and wondering how many people recognize me for what and who I am.  Folks who recognize it must have a story as to why and I make up these in my mind as I continue to rinse off the chlorine scent as best I can.  Their stories are invisible in the same breath that I try to make mine more visible.  Their life is as deep and complex as my own, now trying not to make eye contact with a strange woman in a locker room with something strange attached to her body.

Andy suggested maybe it's time for another tattoo...

Be Happy for me, Dammit

Andy and I bought our first house at the end of April.  I've never lived in a house that we owned, growing up in parsonages and otherwise renting once I left my parents' home.  I had no real idea of how much of a process it was going to be, that things like closing costs and inspections and other fees were going to turn a purchase into an event, let alone the shopping process itself.  It was a months-long preparation and planning to make a significant change in our lives.  Even after all the paperwork was finalized, we have to then assess what kinds of projects we wanted to address in the house, arrange movers, decide on and purchase paint, and that's nothing to say all of the surprises that eventually come to light as we start to understand what changes others have made before us and how that can complicate a simple project more than expected.  We've been well-supported in this time, with help and encouragement and the occasional bit of heavy lifting.  And it's still an ongoing process, to which even this last week we added a new shelf and were able to buy a new couch for our main seating area, a place I've started internally calling "the conversation pit," just in time for Thanksgiving.

And yet, when we were able to sign the final paperwork and proudly announce our excitement to friends and family, we went to church that weekend and were asked by maybe two or three people about it...compared to the many, many questions about how it felt to be a new aunt/uncle.

I don't begrudge my nephew his birthday nor my brother and sister their joy in welcoming him into the world; we were excited for this, too.  To be blunt, our success in buying a house was what the two of us spent months planning and preparing for, what was going to be a significant change in our lives--the baby was a change in someone else's.  As far as what was directly impacting our lives at the moment, our success didn't feel validated or recognized. 

I am not aiming to chastise or demand any late, additional congratulations:  the point is that there was a lack of attunement in those moments.  There were assumptions made.  They were not immediately in line with what either Andy or myself were feeling.

We take our social cues in different ways:  when a friend tells us that they're pregnant, based on how they say it and their situation, we know to either be conciliatory or congratulatory.  Certain big events are compartively easy:  new house, new job, new baby all suggest some kind of big reaction.  But there are other things that are big to the person that we don't always take into account.  I can remember my older brother talking about the Ancient Cave, a complex marathon of a video game dungeon that he beat.  He was very proud of this accomplishment; collectively, he got a "whatever" response from the family that I'm regretful of, now that I look back on it.  I didn't have to understand it:  it was a big deal to him, and that was important enough to be happy for him.

As another example:  we paid off our student loans.  I don't feel that many people have a full understanding of that actually means.  We are friggin' millennial UNICORNS to have paid them off, let alone only this far out from ending our degrees, particularly when many, many of our peers have given up hope of ever paying them off.  We were met with a reaction of "wow, good for you!" and then the conversation continued on to something else, feeling like the full weight of that accomplishment was less than it was.  Hell, I'm still sorting out what that means regarding our budget and what we're saving for next.  When I'm reconnecting with people I haven't talked to in a while, having bought a house and paid off our student debt are still the top two things I start with and will continue to be for a while yet.  And yet, I feel like it is generally forgotten from the collective conscious.  

I have three points that I want to make explicitly:

1. I don't think that people know how to be happy for Andy and I because we're not complacently riding the managomy escalator and popping out babies, like it's an easy thing.  In the absence of what is "normal," folks maybe just don't know how to celebrate with us, since we're out of the societally expected path.  We've seen this crop up in a few different ways.
2. If we want to know what's important in someone's life, I suggest we ask.  I'm guilty of this, too, of not creating the invitation for someone to share what they're happy about. Suggestions:  "what's real to you right now?" or simply "what are you excited about these days?"
3. Though something might not be a "big" deal on the surface, you can celebrate with someone even if you don't understand it.  This could also mean that more of a response is desired, too--take the student loans, that we received praise but we were frustrated that the weight didn't feel validated.  Not sure if more praise is required?  Ask.  For example:  "How does make you feel?" or "How does that impact your life?" to at least get a gauge by asking some additional questions about the presented accomplishment.  Checking in later is another great way, too, to acknowledge those joys, seemningly small or large.
   

Not everyone is immediately in tune with what their needs are in the moment, but creating that invitation for folks to voice needs can open that door to greater attunement or otherwise create an opportunity for their own introspection.  I've gotten more comfortable with asking people what they need directly and this I feel has helped in extending my awareness and reacting more appropriately.  In other words, my own practice includes recognizing that it's not fair to be mad at someone for not reading my mind.  The feeling of frustration is still valid, but I have choices in how I want to voice that need.  

Naming the Cliff

I started saying this phrase recently, referring to spaces where I had been feeling a particular body response to some unknown threat or problem and was able to ultimately trace back to what the root concern was.  I call this "naming the cliff."

In those moments, I was a few steps away from overwhelmed, teetering on the edge of an invisible something.  Driving back along a particular path was causing a lot of physical symptoms from an extreme emotional space--however, once I connected what the emotional spark was, why those symptoms were there, I named the cliff.

Naming the cliff is a huge benefit unto itself.  I knew where I was.  I knew where the edges were.  I might even be able to start making tentative steps down from the cliff, talking myself down from the scarier areas with that actualized understanding of that space.  It does not make the cliff dissolve to know its name, but at least I have more tools available to me to tell someone where I am and techniques that I might used before, like places to attach my carabiner put in the wall by a previous excursion.  There is less "unknown" factor, which is a reassurance unto itself.  If this is a frequent cliff that I end up on, there might still be a level of frustration, at least until compassion enters, but not knowing is worse to me than wandering in figurative fog.  The cliff I'm standing on could be just a stump or it could be stemming from a trauma mountain--I know better what resources I might need once I know where it's coming from, after I have recognized it and named it for what it is.

New cliffs might not have any resources there yet, but at least I can survey the area clearly.  Maybe it's like another cliff I've been on before.  It takes practice.  I'm getting more and more practice in interpreting physical symptoms into what their emotional source might be--it has been and will continue to be a process.  The problem, the reaction needs recognition before we can carry forward.

Physical Symptoms of Emotional Trauma

This last week, I had an adventure up to Skyward Corporate Headquarters, up in Stevens Point, Wisconsin.  With stops and traffic, this drive from Blormal I tend to average at five hours, meaning that there is plenty of time to think and otherwise make a lot of headway on a good audiobook.

I do enjoy going up to Headquarters.  There are some amusing doubletakes, and I appreciate seeing people in their context, where everyone is more than their name and a picture in the upper corner of the email or a voice on the phone.  I work with real people outside of my own small office.  The training that I was up there for seemed to go really well, in my estimation of things, and I have some good things to keep thinking about.  However, the part that I want to share today was the drive home.

After about an hour and a half into the trip, I realized that my hands were aching, which in turn led to the realization that I was gripping the steering wheel as though it were anchoring my body to my chair, white knuckles and tensed arms.  I also realized that I wasn't breathing, either holding my breath or taking only tiny breaths.  These tiny breaths are designed to not disturb my abdominal cavity.

A further body scan revealed that I was tensing my legs and lower abdominals, bracing myself for any bump or, in general, against pain.  I took a moment to try to consciously relax these parts of my body, but more importantly I asked myself, gently, what was going on.  I was geared up for survival, for protection.  I mean, the construction wasn't that bad, the weather was clear, and no one was driving with any more assholery than normal.

It clicked a few miles later:  this was the Mayos drive.  My mind wasn't thinking about it at all, but my body knew this drive.  My body knew this path.  Three quarters of the drive to Stevens Point is two thirds of the drive to Rochester, Minnesota, where I have gone many times to the Mayo Clinic.

The drive up there, heading straight up 39, I've had some good associations with that first part of the trip, having pulled off toward Chicagoland for all kinds of adventures and memories with friends and family.  However, once 39 joins up with 90 and even later joining with 94, that leg loses that buffer.  The way home, once I was on 39/90/94 and then eventually 39 all the way home, has no buffer at all--it's there and raw and jarring.  Or so my body was telling me.

I have made that trip with grief, with resignation, with anger, with hopelessness, with desperation, with anxiety, with fear, and otherwise in a great deal of pain.  My mind was elsewhere, but my body remembered that drive and it knew that place.

Sorting out those thoughts, I had three particular impulses that my body wanted to do to discharge those feelings:  cry, curl protectively around myself, and escape.  As the only occupant in the car at the moment, I settled on putting my foot down a little more firmly on the accelerator, the best escape I could manage at the moment.  I still had to pull off to recognize other bodily needs, but I was pretty sure that if I allowed myself a good, long cry or just to curl up into a ball, that I was not going to pull out of it to be home in time for our evening plans, nor would I feel "safe" until I was long enough off of this path.

That drive does a number on me every time.  And I forget it each time until I tune in to what my body is telling me.  My emotions have a physical toll on my body.  The physical toll on my body has similarly built many lingering emotions.  It's all connected, the extreme symptoms of both the body and the mind, expressing through each other.  I think this happens sometimes because we haven't allowed a clear path--intentionally or otherwise--and other times its just the way your body and mind need to experience that stimuli, whether it's grief, pain, or any other overwhelming something.

I did have a good, long cry when I got home that night.  Andy was kind enough to just let me pour out all of the swirling pieces, offering reassurance where I asked for it and otherwise just being that compassionate presence.  I am still growing in this awareness of self, particularly in the physical components, pausing to ask myself where and how I am feeling an emotion in my body as it is happening.  This process is gradually refining through practice to where I work to give descriptions of what is happening in my body, which serves as its own resource.

For example, I have recently felt a surge of inadequacy that for me felt like a weight in the undersides of my forearms and upperarms, continuing into an ache in the bottom of my ventral abdomen.  Depending on the source of a particular grief I might be feeling, I might feel it with a different sensation in a different part of my body--there's a difference in when it rests as a choking weight on my throat and chest as opposed to an impossibly solid wall right behind my eyes or directly in the center of my torso as a radiating dark mass.  It's all grief, but sometimes I need to feel it differently with how that particular grief wave has rolled through.

This timing was oddly appropriate, given that I was up at corporate for emotional intelligence training and more importantly I am now two years with my permanent colostomy.  I don't know what to do with this anniversary.  When a loved one dies, socially past the first year I don't feel that it's widely acceptable to mark the day publicly anymore (not necessarily frowned on, but definitely not openly encouraged).  But the grief waves still roll through; that change in your life resonates with you even when it feels everyone else has forgotten.  My ostomy surgery was a good thing.  It was also something to grieve about.  I'm developing ways that I want to choose to mark it, but my running favorite right now is to choose to make a new change to benefit my body--this November, I'm working on getting back onto keto in earnest, and I am getting back into the pool again.  Lap swimming has a bonus of stretching me cognitively, as I watch my body in suspended space, scanning for those sensations and what I'm feeling in those moments as muscle memory slowly reawakens.

It's practice, learning how to be with your emotions and your body.  It's understanding that helps you connect them.  It's a wholistic "you" that can grow out of it.  Listening to your body is hard, particularly when it is telling you news that you don't want to hear, but it is an invaluable resource, cluing you in to pieces long before your brain can catch up.

Hype Poisoning

I have put out a blog post before about my reluctance to like something just because it's popular, specifically referring to it as a "Hipster Mentality," but there is a piece that I want to better define, something that is actually a more accurate term in my case.  

Hipster Mentality is more toward the idea of X is cool or uncool based on when you were exposed to it (i.e. "before it was cool"), how outside of popular culture a particular something was, and its value fluctuating when its popularity shifts.  There's an element to this in how I approach things, that I don't expect something to be good because it's popular, that I prefer to weigh the opinions of people I trust over a broader public opinion, but then again I do read the reviews on Amazon products before I buy, noting the ones that have more positive reviews.  This is a bit more scientific, running a survey with a large pool of voices to find a mean, but its popularity was probably how I found it in the first place.  And there are still going to be those instances where I want to check something out of curiosity, to see what the fuss is about, such as a YouTube video phenomena.  

I don't think that the things I like are less valuable when other people start to enjoy it--I got on the Harry Potter train just after book three was released, before the big BOOM that was book four.  But this franchise has faded in my mind, not because it got popular but because of the other side of the coin--hype poisoning.  

I think that rather than holding a "hipster mentality," I'm more sensitive to hype poisoning.  Ever have a friend that was OBSESSED with that one TV show?  That one.  The one that everyone else seemed to be talking about?  Imagine hearing about this particular show many, many times, gushing about how you NEED to watch it--maybe from the same source, maybe from different ones.  Checking in with you to see if you have yet because you "will totally love it!"  They quote the show at you even though the references are over your head, smiling at others who get the references in their own little club.  There's a shift somewhere in there, where most anyone would go from willing to give the show a try one of these days to doing everything possible to avoid it.  

For me, that line comes pretty quickly.  The more I am assured that I'll just love it, it's amazing, etc., the further I dig in my heels against it.  There is a way to check in and encourage without flipping this switch; more often, though, people turn me off of the things that they love than I would like to admit.  

Here's my best example:  I have zero interest in the Final Fantasy video game franchise.  Rather, I have negative interest.  A fan of the series with nostalgia glasses immediately balks when I say I haven't played any of these, that the story is just so good and I should definitely give them a try.  Effectively, they've set back that "well, maybe I will give this a try" day back at least another six months.  The longer the conversation and the more didactic it is, the longer that I am assured I will not have anything to do with this.  

Related:  shaming people for having not experienced a book, tv show, know who a celebrity is, etc. does not help the cause of sharing the experience with a new person.  

For example, if someone were to say "I've never seen Star Wars."

Shaming responses:

• How have you not seen that?!
• Do you live under a rock?
• I'm going to make you watch it!

Encouraging responses:

• Oh, you're in for a treat!
• Would you like to watch it together sometime?  I'd love to share it with you.
• That's okay.  There are a lot of pop culture references that would make a lot more sense, if you'd like to see it sometime.

The likelihood of me actually trying out the show/movie/book is significantly decreased by the former, warmed significantly by the latter.  

When something cannot live up to the hype, it has been hype poisoned.  Or maybe it wasn't that good to begin with.  Either way, we're in this awkward place of disappointed.  In other words, being turned off of something entirely is acute hype poisoning.  Something trying to live up to impossible expectations is its lesser form, but certainly the more common one.  

For example, you've been told by so many people that a particular book was great, if it isn't a god amongst books, you may leave disappointed, having your expectations raised significantly.  I try to actively prevent this when I am going on a trip--I don't want to overhype something in my mind that can inhibit my full experience of the trip, trying to compare something against an ideal.  Sometimes, this means I actively won't talk about the details of an upcoming trip, to let it be what it is rather than expand on what I expect it to be.  

So where's the line?  That depends.  If I have been berated for not having experienced something, once is enough, and any subsequent instance only affirms my disdain.  However, telling me how much I'm going to love it, say, four times, even though it is kindly meant and not an order will start to make me suspicious, that the weight of expectation is there and does not allow me to experience whatever it is fully.  In short, hype poisoning can be instantenous or a slowly accumulating condition.  Andy has adjusted to this, knowing that he can only push a suggestion so far before he needs to let me come around to it on my own time; by contrast I've learned not to be surprised when he hasn't seen one movie or another and offer opportunity but not expectation.  There are other times, too, where we will be very direct, along the lines of "this is something that's very important to me, and I would like to share it with you, if that's okay."  This involves a request for consent and a clear intention--if a small gesture can mean a lot to the other, of course we'll weigh that into the decision, but it's still a choice rather than a decree.  

We all like to share the things that we enjoy, but how we share them is still important.  

[Insert Witty Title Here]

Well, it's Tuesday morning, and frankly I have nothing prepared for the blog.

I'm finding a small moment with my thoughts between getting the kettle going and setting up the French press for some coffee (some of the Hawaii coffee we brought back, specifically).  

The truth is (and you may have inferred by the week where I neglected to post anything) that I've been having some difficulty in finding that right writing space of late.  I think, though, that I've at least pinpointed part of the problem:  I've not allowed myself to sit with my thoughts much recently.  The closest I have been was in going to therapy, a fascilitated self-reflection.  

I miss that time.

But with work as busy as its been, the class I'm taking, trying to arrange all the other doctor appointments before our deductible reboots again, a smattering of hanging out, and a two week vacation in a time zone five hours removed, I haven't taken this space.  And, boy, am I feeling it.

As I'm waking in the morning, I prefer to slowly acclimate to the day, a hold-over for when I literally needed an hour for my morning medications to kick in before I could approach any semblance of functioning.  But I like being able to drift through the process of readying, letting my mind wander while I dry off or put on makeup or whathaveyou.  In the last few weeks, I've had something on more or less constantly, a new YouTube video queued up behind the next to keep a constant drone of noise.  It's an escape, but I'm not wholly sure what from yet because I haven't stopped to ask.  

It's not that I need to plan in more "me time;" it's more that I need to restructure how I'm doing it.  

I've let a number of habits go recently.  And there is a natural ebb and flow to other facets of my life, where this might simply be a "season" that needs to pass through.  I've used NaNoWriMo a couple of times to get me back into writing, either by completing it or, as in the past few years of this blog, acknowledging the spirit of it.  I'm trying to pinpoint what other instigators I need to jumpstart those other habits again.  

And it starts with sitting with myself.  No added input.  No directed thoughts.  Between meetings, between conversations, between pauses of breath.  

Adventure, Ho!

Ya'll want to know about our Hawaii trip, right?  I'll give you some of the overall highlights.  After several tedious hours of travel, my initial impression of the room was "yay, flat landing surface," as expected.  It was dark, but we were close enough to the ocean to still hear the waves, even with the porch door shut.  

This was our view in the morning.

The morning view was much more interesting, particularly after some sleep.  We wandered down to meet with the family for some breakfast, and Andy and I eventually meandered to the beach.  We rented some snorkels, and I was happily diving under the waves, chasing after some fish.  I am at home in the water.  Andy needed a five minute lesson on how to use a snorkel, some gentle persuasion, and literal taking by the hand, but conquered a lot of fear in a short period of time, enough to start exploring a bit further out on his own before the end.  That was what I was looking for, that particular kind of difference and experience.

I came back to the shore for some water and then was made immediately aware that something was wrong.  When we got back up to the room, I threw up, several times.  A fever rolled in, the kind where I was burning up but could not seem to get warm.  A few voices assured me it was motion sickness which pisses me off still, honestly, because A) I'm a goddamn fish, B) a fever isn't part of those symptoms, and C) unsolicited voices telling me what I'm experiencing in my body infuriates me.  I had a bug of some kind, further emphasized when Andy picked it up about two days later, no ocean involved that day.  Soooo, unfortunately Andy and I spent a third of our vacation feeling pretty lousy, a level of nausea lingering for the rest of the trip.  

After my day inside, after the vomiting had stopped, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning to the WORST bag explosion I have ever experienced, as in waking up in a literal pool of shit.  I yelled for a towel and Andy was pretty quick to help me get over to the shower, where I jumped in pajamas and all.  He called housekeeping while I was hosing off.  Once I was finally clean with a fresh bag, housekeeping brought the sheets in.  And while I didn't need to explain, it was nice to have the opportunity to--I showed her my ostomy bag, and she immediately started asking if we needed gauze or any other first aid supplies.  She didn't really know what to do, but her concern was touching, particularly as we were handing over the poopy sheets and towels to go with her.  She did bring us some free detergent for the guest laundry services, though, and Andy got a load going while I sat upstairs feeling miserable.  For the rest of the trip, I kept my emergency bag change on my person rather than back in the room.

But that wasn't the whole trip, thankfully.  We had some good family time.  Andy and I had a few adventures down to the village.  We had a lovely massage.  Adam and I (above) saw several turtles while we were doing some kayaking in the bay.  We took in the landscape of Waimea Falls and swam near and in the waterfall.  Another adventure we took to the Dole plantation for about every pineapple treat you could think of, including Dole Whip, pineapple soft serve covered in fresh pineapple chunks.  

KNEEL BEFORE YOUR GOD, BABYLON
(That's coffee)

Andy only came home with two Hawaiian shirts, for anyone wondering.  And, yes, it was weird to come home where the house was quiet again, compared to the constant low thrumming of the waves.  

Yes, he is a strange beast, but I love him.

It was nice, too, to see family around and not be at work for a couple of weeks.  When we got back home, Andy slept for thirteen hours and I slept for fourteen hours--so glad that we budgeted time to recover from vacation into our schedules.  Our next major adventure is still probably going back to Scandinavia.  :)

The Post-Goal Depression

Whenever I finish a book or a major goal, there's a particular kind of depression that sinks in.  I swear, there has to be a German word for it, but I've found it called a "book hangover" or "post-series/book depression."  

I have been so absorbed in finishing that book that it has colored my day, and suddenly that urgency is gone.  Or for a more specific example, our last major goal of finishing our student loans, I find myself listless when strategizing our next paycheck--I looked forward to payday on the hopes that I might be able to throw just a little bit more toward paying them off.  It was exciting to watch those numbers start to go down, to feel that we were finally at a point to start making tangible progress on this particular debt.  This was exciting; this helped tough weeks pass along; this factored into nearly all of our purchases, whether we could pick up fast food on our way home today or buy that ceiling fan for our dining room this month.  This kept us on budget, and it kept us encouraged.  When we hit specific milestones, we had reason to celebrate.

...and that's suddenly gone.

It's WONDERFUL to have checked that off of our list.  But this particular malise is what I'm meaning, that weird depression when a goal or something you enjoyed is completed.

For myself, when it's a book or series that I've just finished, I drift around until I find a new one.
I mourn the loss of immersion in that world and feeling what those characters were feeling.  For our household goals, we seem to have an odd refractory period, where we take a few months to figure out what we're doing next, let the energy dissipate and then pull it back in when we're ready to identify and attack that new goal as though we were surprised by our own success.

I already know what our next house goal is, to pay off the car, but I want to allow myself to feel the absence of the previous goal first.  Post-book, I can take a moment to recognize what I appreciate from that particular media and better assess what I liked and did not like about it, out of the ravenous push to finish it (the goal always to experience more rather than reach the end).  Post-house goal, I want a bit of time to adjust to life with that change, meaning that we'll have a month without that automatic student loan payment, I think, before I reconfigure all the pieces in our budget again.  It's definitely one of the weirder griefs that I can think of, but it is a particular flavor blend of grief and satisfaction to check something major off of the list.

There is rest in those moments.  There is gratitude.  And there is confusion.  And this particular edge of grief.

Good timing for a distracting vacation (and a reason to buy a new book...)!

Student Loans: ACHIEVMENT UNLOCKED

Folks, I'll just come right out and say it:  Andy and I started our marriage with about 65K of student debt and we haVE MANAGED TO PAY OFF OUR STUDENT LOANS.  

WAH-HOOOOOOOOOO!

All of it.  All 65K.  DONE.

WHAT. A. RELIEF.  I still don't fully comprehend it yet!

I'm not going to turn this into a "if I could do it anyone can do it!" kind of bullshit.  There was a lot of hard work, strategizing, and tough decisions that went into this, but there was also a fair bit of luck.  We are both managers at 32 and in a position that pays a living wage that also had a healthcare plan that worked for our needs--this is not a typical scenario.  Having family and friends that demonstrated kindness and support had an impact.  Not having any children, not having a expensive pet, these have also contributed.  Having good credit helped.  Living in an area with a comparatively lower cost of living helped.  

Andy and I are not the norm--Andy and I have beaten the odds.  

While my joy is deep and vast, I feel all the more firmly that I would wish this relief for all of my peers, the thousands upon thousands of Millennials disparing under their own student loans, as well as anyone who went back for a Master's degree after a certain point.  This kind of debt is a recent phenomena and not something that should be continuing.  The burden of student loans is staggering and crippling and crushing and debilitating and many, many people have frankly given up ever paying them off.  The Millennials I know want to live securely, not lavishly, as though I were talking to someone explaining depression-era dreams.  I don't know many that have dreams of millions or a yacht when affordable healthcare and rent is a much more pressing concern.

It is possible, my friends.  I won't say that everyone can do it, because life isn't so simple.  For those that need the hope, it is possible.  For those who have prayed and loved us through this process, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.  

Time to celebrate!

I Found a Grey Hair

Andy and I were coming back from a work conference recently, with all of the punch-drunk after effects that implies.  One the way home, everything was a little bit funnier, decisions were a little bit harder, and we were very much ready to finally get to bed.  Adam graciously offered to drive, which at least took the thousands of pounds of high velocity machinery out of my hands and we steadily bore down the interstate for the few hours home.  Energy began to wane for all three of us, so we elected to stop off and take a bio break.

I popped in line for some fast food and Andy stood behind me.  He reached up to the top of my head and announced "You have a grey hair!"  He pulled on the hair in question, confirming it to himself once again.

My response:  "Okay."

And that was it.  Even in my exaggerated state from the events of the day, I felt nothing about this.  Andy could have been pointing out that the particular beige color on the wall was called "eggshell."  Then, I felt that maybe I should be feeling SOMETHING.  I'm supposed to be embarrassed by this or existential dread or something, right?

Culturally, we're expected to fear getting older.  Signs like these are supposed to trigger an evaluation of self image, that particular pang of realization that everything is temporary.  Understanding our own mortality--even as a subconscious push--gives us the impetus to create, to "leave something behind."  We mark history with plaques, stories, and gravestones, afraid of being forgotten or leaving things unfinished.  We mourn the things we'll never to get do and opportunities not taken in lieu of others we did.  The quest to be remembered is a yearning for immortality, that we want to feel our lives had an importance outside of our experiencing it.

Whether this is something that is at the forefront of your mind or something just outside of your peripheral vision, mortality is a part of human existence.  An awareness of it drives some people more than others; ignoring it similarly drives some people more than others.

I'm aware of the lack of permanency in my life, where even the end of a season (whatever "season" might mean in the particular situation) does not bother me--I still have gratitude for the season that was as I move into the next.  I'm not ashamed of my age or a grey hair, even though there is a pressure to feel something about this.

Huh.

Melvin & Me, Part 27: Bodily Autonomy

Through the trauma of dealing with my disease and all of its fallout in my life, the strategies I have cultivated to keep myself safe and alive have been steadily shaped into some robust protectors.  These voices are invaluable resources when my body is falling apart; however, when things are less dire, these voices become counterproductive, more harmful than helpful.  What I mean by that, as an example, is that the parts of me that are trying to keep me safe make me very fearful to take some chances, such as trying to learn how to ride a bike.  Engaging some of those lower core muscles is VERY reminiscent of different ways I brace myself against certain pains, which puts me in a certain mental space less conducive to learning.  Outside of these emotional elements, the logical components seem to feed off of that momentum, that there are real elements of physical danger when it comes to riding a bike, particularly when you don't know how and I am not keen to break a bone again, if possible.  All told, the sum of these experiences make for a lot of white knuckles, although now at least I'm aware of what cliff to talk myself down from.

Another muscle that Survival!Larissa likes to flex is a fierce protectiveness of my bodily autonomy.  No one will force a treatement on me or make any permanent change to my body--whether it's a medication, procedure, or even a "healthier" choice for lunch--without my express consent.  This will take me from zero to sixty in an instant.  That particular sharpness doesn't give a damn about anyone else's feelings in that moment; it's all about survival.  Even the implication that I might not be doing the right things to take care of my own health will trigger that immediate anger.  "You don't know my case; you don't know the full details of my medical history; you don't know where I'm at emotionally," I scream at the hypothetical person giving me advice.  I am braced for a fight.  

So when it came to Andy's vasectomy, I have had a lot of mixed feelings about this.  I made a decision that ultimately influenced his decision to make a permanent change to his body.  It was a decision for both of us, but the change was to his body.  I feel some level of guilt, but much more gratitude, that he recognized that he was part of the team, that birth control wasn't just my responsibility.  He was the one to suggest the vasectomy--it had scarcely crossed my mind to ask, since I was so focused on protecting my body to scarcely think outside of it for a solution.  This decision helps me enjoy physically intimate time with my husband much better, that I'm not worried in the back of my mind that I messed up the birth control somehow--he has taken that worry away from us and that baggage out of sex.  

I had this same Survival!Larissa tactic flex in another arena recently, when my sister-in-law came into town with her new baby.  She had made the request that folks must be up-to-date on their TDaP vaccine (tetanus, diphtheria, and acellular pertussis [whooping cough] for those curious) before they would be allowed to hold him.  Two things hit me immediately:  1) I can understand completely why she would establish those rules and I respect her choices for her and her child and 2) the veritable roar of my subconscious that was already readying my defenses including walls, cannons, and boiling oil.

I am absolutely an advocate for vaccination.  The proof is irrefutable from any reliable source that vaccines have and continue to prevent disease and, emphatically, do not cause autism.  There are some vaccinations I cannot receive due to my Crohn's--specifically, I cannot re-up my measles vaccination.  I absolutely rely on herd immunity to protect me from these.  Surely I would extend that logic and courtesy to my nephew.  

But logic and courtesy weren't what I was feeling nor what I needed to feel in that moment.  Instead, I was on an immediate mental tirade.  How dare anyone even indirectly imply that I wasn't taking care of myself correctly?  How dare anyone try to impose a choice and change on my body?  If I have to jump through these stupid hoops just to have the privilege of being in someone's presence, maybe I'll just stay at home, thanks.

In short, I had a lot to work through and ultimately had to come up with some alternate reasons to get my booster shot prior to their visit.  I can't even bring myself to say that I did it for Keaton--it has to be for me or I cannot stomach it.  I have to give myself a selfish reason, despite my other beliefs, in order to calm Survival!Larissa voices.  There was no way to allow empathy in when those voices were so loud.  I genuinely cannot see outside of myself in those moments.  I have to protect myself.  I have to protect myself.  I have to keep the castle from crumbling again.  I can't waste away to Crohn's again.  Not again.

Not again.

The rage covers up a lot of grief and fear.  These voices that want to keep me safe, the intentions are good and wonderful, but less useful out of those situations.  I acknowledge them; I have compassion on those parts of me.  There were and are so many reasons for these voices to be here.  But in the meanwhile, I need to feel the rage, to ride it out and see what's happening at the source of it.  I need to understand that trigger better and will only do so if I allow myself to feel it.  

I do not expect this one to go away completely.  I am aware of my medical rights and will continue to exercise them.  Unfortunately, I will be in many, many more situations where they are necessary--I am an active member of my healthcare team and will continue to be.  But better honing in on when those voices are needed and when they are counterproductive, that's the trick.  

People Watching at Starbucks

Unbalanced wooden seat

Silent rain on the window

An enjoyed song played not so loud as to cancel out the rest of the sounds:
--alternate song playing from the ceiling
--coffee order announced
--parent directing their child
--another order taken
--elderly couple chatting quietly
--shuffling feet
--chair scraping
--coffee machine hiss
--friends speaking in serious tones
--student occasionally typing up another line
--rustling paper from a notebook
--laughter from the group that have too many chairs to fit around their small table

Harried and not
Unsure of where to look; watch their phone; chat with company

Wait
Go
Run to the next or wait comfortably

Raindrops pool under the umbrella

Others occupy this same chair, separated by time

Check your watch

Your life is as complex and rich as mine is.  I'm a background character in your day.  Brief proximity.  Quickly forgotten.  I am the color of the wall.

Back to our own world.

Melvin & Me, Part 26: Perks of a Colostomy

So, I did have my colonoscopy a couple of weeks ago, and I have to say it was a pleasant experience.  I know, I know I have a weird definition of fun, but maybe it's because I've had so many of these by this point that it's too familiar to be too much of a bother.

Okay, so coming up to it I was anxious.  Very anxious.  This was the first one that I have done with a colostomy which means that the rules are different.  That unknown is a flavor of unnerving.  I wanted to be in control of the situation, as a means of protecting myself--I tend to assert my bodily autonomy with a practiced kind of force.

But once I was there, I delighted in throwing people off of their autopilot.  A colonoscopy is a pretty standard procedure--however, I do not fit the normal mold anymore, by circumstance and by choice.

The tech brought me back to my room, handed my gown, and gave me instructions to strip down, except that I could leave my bra on.  I started by asking if I really had to take my underwear off, explaining briefly that I had a colostomy.

"And it's completely closed off?"
"Yep, there's no way they're getting in that way."
"...um well..."
"Do you want to go ask someone?"
"Yeah, I think I'll go ask someone."

She came back later apologizing and saying that I probably should.  I complied and then also asked if I could wear the socks that I brought that had the non-stick grip instead of the disposable hospital non-slip kind; I didn't want another pair of these to throw away.  She was also unsure about these, but made the call to allow it.

My actual nurse came in to go over paperwork with me.

"You're the one with the colostomy?"
"Yep."
"And it's completely closed off?"
"It's sealed and permanent."
"Oh, you can totally wear your underwear."
"See, that's what I thought."

The nurse who was actually going to be with me in the procedure came in to join the conversation, get the IV started.  She was talking a mile a minute but not irritatingly so.  I mentioned casually that this is the third ostomy that I've had, and she asked me to explain, which led to a long slew of interruptions where she was assuming my answers and I was patiently correcting her until we had some semblance of the truth, at least.  Finally, we got to the "wow, you've been through the ringer!" point and she seemed to slow down a bit.  I told her that I had ostomy bag changes with me in case they were needed--she suggested that we could baggie one up and bring it in there with us, which I very much appreciated.

Then anesthesia came in to have me sign that paperwork.  After their normal slew of questions and asking me to open my mouth to check my throat (in case emergency intibation became necessary), I threw my second major curveball:  "I know that you said you weren't going to be the person in the room with me, but I want to start this conversation as soon as possible:  I want to be awake for as much of the procedure as I can be."

This was immediately met with confusion, but she was quick to seek clarification and told me that she would make a note and to make sure that I have a conversation with the anesthesiologist in the room.

Eventually I was wheeled into the procedure room.  It's amazing how much more secure you can feel when you're allowed to wear your underwear in and wear your own fluffy (but non-slip) socks.  But I also had my extra ostomy supplies in my hand which helped almost more than everything else.

A tech in there was getting everything ready, wiping down the machines and the like.  Once those tasks were complete, she turned to me and said:  "Okay, now roll over onto your left side."  I immediately asked why.  She started stumbling through an answer and my nurse jumped in to explain that I had a colostomy.  She didn't know, but she was also on autopilot.  I softened a bit and cheerfully explained there was no entrance there anymore and exposed my colostomy bag.

Then, the anesthesilogist came in with "I heard you want to do something a little different."  And he then came over to really talk to me, stating that he wanted to understand what my goals were.  I felt heard and validated in that moment.  What my doctor and I had discussed was a bit of anesthesia to get started, and then having me wake back up sooner, so that I could still see everything and be part of the conversation in the moment.  He was thinking aloud, calculating his values out and I caught "Versed" in the list of medications.  I asked him if that medication was counterproductive to my goals since it stops the brain from forming new memories.  He looked at me again with new eyes, paused, and then explained with a smile that meant I was "in the club" that Versed actually had seven documented uses, which also included anti-anxiety and anti-epileptic (not that they were expecting any seizures today).  Where we ended up was a bolus of everything so I do not remember the insertion, but I was able to be very lucid at the end when they were taking biopsies.

Things were looking good.  And I got to be a part of that.  I am an active part of my own healthcare team.  And it saved my doctor from having to touchbase with me back in my room afterwards, since I was able to see things with her and run my own colon commentary.

It did start to feel uncomfortable right around the end.  I was about to say something when the camera was out.  While they were cleaning everything down, I was congratulating and thanking the team on a job well done and their patience.  I then checked around the ostomy--there was a bit of oozing around it but not too bad.  I asked for the bag to clip back on--the way it had been set down, the contents of the bag had oozed all over itself.  I suggested that we go ahead and just do a bag change.  They assured me that they could wipe it down, but I insisted that I could just go ahead and do the bag change if they could hand me the supplies.  Once again very grateful to be awake and coherent.  It's not that I don't think that they could have put the bag on well, but I know that I will put it on successfully.  Having that control made me feel so much more secure.  

I felt heard.  I felt safe.  AND I got a chance to see that my colon is looking pretty good on the inside as well as I have been feeling on the outside, which is incredibly validating.  

And bonus:  I can add a couple of items to my list of colostomy perks!

• Colonoscopy prep is SO much easier, with minimal sprinting toward the bathroom
• I can wear my underwear through a colonoscopy
• I can literally poop anywhere
• I am entirely desensitized to poop--doesn't faze me at all
• No one can pass the buck on their fart--it's not me unless there's a serious problem, yo
• I have the opportunity to remind people that not everyone faces the same situation
• I have the opportunity to share compassion with others going through significant medical or other life changes with a particular and authentic compassion by identification

And most importantly, I have a significantly improved quality of life.