ruby shoe blues

*Stop Bitching And Do Something About It

At some point today, I finally decided, really and truly, that I am done being everything I don’t want to be.  And as sick as I am of psychoanalyzing myself, I feel like I know why I do things I don’t want to do and silently bitch about it, until I end up screaming at someone who absolutely does not deserve it.

Maybe it was the rude driver who I got into a shouting match with (no, I refuse to turn left while a little old man is crossing the street slowly…I’m in a hurry too, but that is no reason to disregard a life) or maybe it was talking to new friends at work who don’t take shit from anybody, or maybe it was talking to very old friends who remember how I felt and still seem to know me better than most people these days know me. (I have to wonder why I tended to think of friends as temporary, but now I know that answer…someone made me believe that. If I can salvage these friendships, I’ll be very lucky.)  Maybe it is just that I am tired of being unable to look at myself, tired of feeling like I am one person but seen as another, tired of wondering why the hell I am the way I am. Maybe I am just sad that year after year I tell myself I will change, and I have yet to see the difference.

So I just said to myself: “Stop bitching, and do something about it.”

I can’t change the past, no matter how many daydreams and stories and novellas I write about it (damn you, writer of 17 Again, you stole my exact idea) and I can’t change anyone else, but I sure as hell can change myself, and I am done just thinking about it.  I’m going back to school in the hopes that someday I will have an actual career, and trying to make over my entire ideas about organization, and starting my furniture rehab project.  But. What I need to really change is something that has plagued me for years and years and years.  And I am positive that it is why my life so far has gone the way it has.

(Warning: long post ahead.)

I’m sure that if you have read any of my previous blogs, you know that when I was very young (under 10) I thought I had the perfect childhood and perfect family. And of course, I’m sure that most of that was due to the fact that someone (my mother) told me so. All. The. Time.  She was always there. Not in the “smother mother” kind of way, just always there, volunteering at school, heading the PTA, soccer (well, softball) mom extrordinaire, Brownie troop leader, super-theme-birthday-party hostess, and daughter-spoiler.  Which I loved, and thought was good, and normal; I felt sorry for all those other kids who did not have the “room mom” mom and actually rode a bus to school and had to stand up for themselves when the bully came near.

Yeah.

I was also pretty much raised on the “American Dream”  idea.  I had to do two things: be smart and work hard. Oh, and smart I was.  It isn’t conceit, it is just the truth.  My parents saw some kind of potential, and I think it may have gotten a bit out of hand.  I don’t remember many “non-educational” toys.  I remember wanting to play “teacher” all the time.  Barbies? Pound Puppies? I had them all. And they were my silent, attentive students every single day. I had a playroom that my mother practically turned into a classroom, complete with a student desk salvaged from the elementary school’s dumpster. (on a side note, I am pretty sure the F-bomb was carved under the lid, and she never noticed. Heh.)  I had coloring books like other kids, but mine had multiplication problems in them.  I got excited to go to The Teacher’s Store and Bradburn, unlike normal kids who wanted My Little Ponies from Target or something.

And if something bothered me…I feel like I was kind of dismissed. “Oh, those are bullies/that is just a mean old teacher/your dog died but you can get another one.” In my world, those bullies would grow up to be unhappy mean people and that old teacher went home alone at night and fed her 13 cats.

In other words, I don’t really remember anyone ever telling me I needed to look the bully in the eye and tell him to go away, or stand up for myself when some bitchy old teacher accused me of stealing extra meatloaf. (I never even liked meatloaf. And as you can probably guess, my mother packed my lunch every single day, so I never even went through the line.)

Yeah, I know. Stop bitching, deal with it.  But then it gets more interesting.

I always hated the idea that divorce upsets children. I was at least stoic, if not downright tough. I dealt with an almost overnight change with very little (to my 10-year-old mind) upset to my routine; it was just a little pothole in the road.  I grew up, at least in my mind.  Ride the bus. Come home and stay alone until 6pm. Punch boy who steals purse,  rip his shirt, play dumb when his mom asks.  I figured I needed this. I was finally learning to be alone, and that is how it worked. I don’t remember starting to complain until I was a bit older, but I do remember not having a room at ages 10 and 11, sleeping on a sofa in the living room and having a shelf in the hallway, and a little closet in my mom and her boyfriend’s room.  Normal? Oh, sure.

But remember? I thought that my straight-A’s and teacher-ass-kissing would get me everywhere.  “Who cares about now, think of how great your future will be.” Yes, I took that advice and basically told “childhood” to go to hell. It was something to get through, something to deal with.  I had my eyes on the prize, and to hell with everything else.

Sure, I had friends. However, I never really figured they would like me long enough for it to matter. My mother convinced me that they “put up with me” and were evil and out to get me and would turn on me some day for no reason. (Is it any wonder that I never felt secure in any relationship, and probably drove away a few decent guys?)  And like every junior high pre-teen, I went to mixers and skating rinks and parties and sleepovers.

Every. Other. Weekend.

Yeah, lots of kids had to visit the other parent. In my case, though, I had to become someone else when visiting my dad. I am 100% positive that the first time I ever felt “depression” was during those weekends of hell. I had no real peers, no friends, no nothing.  I had to just be quiet or pretend to be having fun. If I wanted to go meet my friends, it was too much of a bother; I was supposed to have “family time.” (Where was my snarky mouth then, and why did I never say that if family time was so damned important, we should have stayed a family?  Because at 12 years old, that is what I was thinking.) I knew that relationships didn’t always work. But I also resented having to live a double life when I was supposed to be growing up and learning about the world.

It took me until I was about 27 to enjoy visiting family on Christmas, and if I am in the wrong mood, I still get that sick sinking stomach feeling and a headache to go with it if I go to a family function with my father’s side of the family. The reaction doesn’t die hard, it just won’t die.

I had a weird situation last weekend. Saturday night, I saw all my very old friends, ones that I have missed since about 1993, if you can believe that.  (I know…haven’t I heard of a phone?) And then the next day, my husband and I were to spend the day with my dad and grandparents.  And the whole thing set off something weird in me.

It made me realize that even though I may not have been able to back then, I really need to do it myself now. And “it” is growing some (figurative, of course) balls and picking up some confidence.  I have a few ideas on how to start doing this, but I need more.  I mean, besides just wanting to enjoy what is left of my life, I’m going to be a substance abuse counselor. I need to do more than just be sure I am giving sound advice. I need to ACT like I know I am giving advice that will help.

I do love my family.  They gave me tons of support (and still do) even if sometimes what I needed was advice. Don’t get me wrong…I’m not just complaining about them.  I could have figured this out on my own instead of being a shrinking violet. My parents did the best they could; they built upon what they learned and experienced, and what else can we expect anyone to do? You have to respect anyone that is attentive and loving to their kids, even if they don’t exactly do it “perfectly.” I’m just bringing it up because I pretty much just now realized that this is a big part of why I never had the same confidence that other kids did (I mean, come on, I still have a hard time correcting a cashier who shortchanges me.)

So now I’m going to work towards things that will give me confidence, and stay in touch with my friends, and make time to go out and make a vow to take better care of myself.

And I’m going to stop bitching, when I can still do something about it.

Interesting, but I still think it’s too soon to be sure.

I’m not going to tell you that I have had my head in the sand for the past year or so.

I have seen friends and familymembers lose their jobs, talked to people who lost their homes, tried to help pets who were made homeless because their families “could no longer afford” them. 

I have taken advantage of ridiculous sales offered by desperate retailers. I have taken advantage of student loan deferment.  I have started paying attention in line at Whole Foods and have gotten over $100 of free merchandise. (Did you know that if something rings up incorrectly, you get it free? Yeah…especially if you buy makeup there, pay attention!)

I am not an idiot. I’m not oblivious to the fact that the US is suffering, according to some, almost as much as during the Great Depression.

But have I freaked out? Not really.

See, as much as I want to complain about the past ten years of my life, I have admit that I felt more prepared to deal with a recession than many of my peers.

After my first three years of college, I kind of “forgot” about “security.” I moved around. I switched jobs. A lot. I made sure that I had time for yoga and my health and my life, sometimes at the cost of “full-time hours.”  I tried a little bit of everything, and ran across bridges with a can of gasoline and a pack of matches still hot in my hands. (Hate something? No reason to do it over and over for years and years.)  I made a lot of contacts, a lot of friends, a few enemies.

I have not had health insurance since 2004. I still get paid a (comparatively small) hourly rate.  I still rent an apartment (not that I care–I don’t want to stay here anyway.)  I don’t have stocks, bonds, IRAs, or a 401-k. 

And although I am working on changing some of that (Yes! I have found my career path, and it will provide me with the security I need!) I can’t say that things would have been better any other way. 

Sure, I hate not being able to immediately buy every thing out of every catalog I receive. I hate that I can’t re-touch my hair every three weeks. I hate that my feet look like  hell and a pedicure seems like a senseless way to spend $35 that could go towards tuition or a fifth of a nice sweater that I will still have in ten years or a few pounds of organic blood oranges.  I hate that if I have a toothache or a neck cramp, I might have to wait to see the dentist or the chiropractor. I hate that buying gas makes me want to cry, because there goes more than 10% of my paycheck. No, I won’t lie and tell you everything is great.

But I seem to have an easier time dealing with our recent economic climate than those who are accustomed to that security.

I have gotten better at saving, but I tend to buy things when I have money, and get creative and NOT buy things when I don’t.  Sure, there have been a few days when my lack of sufficient planning led to making less-than-stellar smoothies with apple juice instead of orange (organic apples are much cheaper right now) while wearing my new Lululemon gear (oh, ha ha) but for the most part, I’m okay.

But I am also quite pissed off.

I might not live in a bubble, but I can’t speak for anyone else.

The other night, a friend was quoting a statistic that 20% of the homeless population in the US hold down full-time jobs.  He got his information from a trusted source, and was able to back it up. I heard someone say, “…but I don’t understand, that makes no sense.” Really? Basically, a full-time job is not always enough when it comes to having a place to live. And, not all homeless people are homeless because they “can’t” or “won’t” work.  I can’t speak for the person who didn’t understand the statistic, but I hear it all the time: Go to school, work hard, get a job, work hard, and you’ll be fine!  This is what is known as “the American dream,’ and it makes me want to run to Canada, or New Zealand, or Scotland. (Well, so do many other things, but that’s another post altogether.)

It simply isn’t true.  Too many other factors affect your success in this country.  (No, I can’t speak for how it is anywhere else, but I do think that the “American Dream” mentality that kids seem to get all the time is unique to the US, or at least the frequency and urgency of that message is unique to the US.)  We have been reduced to Social Security numbers, tax ID numbers, credit scores, job titles, home sizes, car models, status symbols.

I had a recent opportunity to sit and watch some bankruptcy proceedings.  The trustee (a court-appointed person who takes over assets in a Chapter7 case) asks a series of questions and the person/people filing have to answer. How much was your last tax return? Are you currently employed? You have X dependents, is that correct? Do you plan to surrender the 2008 Ford Escape or keep it? Do you receive food stamps? What is the value of (insert anything here–they want to know everything, from your home to your entire closet of clothing). You sold a home, what happened to the proceeds? Etc, etc.  Of course it angered me that those who had no job, had five dependents, wanted to keep their new vehicles, etc. said their entire collection of clothing was worth “$300″ and yet chose to wear brand new Nike hi-top “sneakers” that are good for nothing except costing $100 and looking ugly. Or having full sets of acrylic fingernails AND toenails, complete with a perfect French manicure.  (There is also a place on the “monthly budget” form for “cigarettes and tobacco.” Yikes.) I know I’m not perfect (sometimes I am downright irresponsible)and I know that I have no idea what their situation is. I really have no excuse besides, “This is my blog and I can bitch if I want to.”

Back to my original thought. Sure, I have had to adapt, albeit a lot less than many. I’m definitely working towards being in a more comfortable place.  And whether the economy remains slow or booms in the next decade, I’ll feel better knowing that I am trying to get others to their comfortable place while earning mine.

(Paralegal studies was a close second on my “possible career explorations,” but I know 100% that I am on the right track with counseling. Because if I worked as a bankruptcy paralegal, I’d probably get fired for giving too much advice.  Best to stick with the counseling, so I can get paid to do what I do naturally.)

When you have a more holistic view of your health, you look at the body as a whole system of interconnected parts, rather than a system of single organs. Sounds logical, right? However, many allopathic doctors treat symptoms (or people self-treat symptoms), often leaving you with the cause–which will create the same symptoms (or new ones) as soon as the treatment or drug is discontinued. For example, migraine headache pills are commonly prescribed, and most people who take them just assume they “get migraines” and don’t think too much about WHY. (I used to work in a pharmacy. It was a nightmare, but I learned a lot about attitudes and assumptions about medicine and health.)

Where was I? Oh, yes. Migraines. And the body being an interconnected system. When one part is not working optimally, the other parts are not working optimally. Again, sounds logical, but I don’t think many people see it this way. They want a “fix” and pain relief and then want to get on with their life. They can’t imagine that what affects their digestive system will affect their entire body, or that a pain in your right toe can eventually contribute to a pain in your left hip.

I’m not sure about anyone else, but I want to actually remedy the whole problem, so I can move on and not revisit the same malady over and over again.  Frustratingly, most “medical professionals” (no, I’m not trying to be a bitch with the quotation marks, but I do think they belong there) don’t really seem to want to figure out what is wrong and eliminate it–they want to cover it up and get you out the door quickly. “Here’s a bandage, Jimmy, now run along and play!”

Which brings me to my recent search for a dentist.

For the past five years, my teeth have been wearing down, breaking, and causing me pain. I have visited several dentists, had my mercury fillings removed and replaced, had a molar extracted, had x-rays and MRIs and blood tests and bite tests and had little cameras placed in my mouth to examine my teeth. I never really got any answers, except “there’s no infection” and “you need a mouthguard.”

(Really?)

For some reason, this all still comes as a shock to me. I had perfect teeth as a child. No cavities until after I was 19 years old. Thanks to some creative dentistry, I never had braces. Never had “a toothache,” never had teeth that would not fall out or teeth that grew in too soon. I was told that I was a “grinder,” and that I needed a mouthguard; my mom told my dentist she could hear me grinding my teeth at night. That was all. Simple, easy, no problem. Right?

And then, seemingly suddenly, that all changed when I was about 24 years old.  One tooth got chipped, and I panicked. (I remember, I was eating an apple. AN APPLE, and my tooth chipped off.)  I become an oral saint (oh, shut up) and brushed my teeth four times a day, flossed every night, wore my mouthguard even for short naps, and kept my fingernails and pens and hard foods away from my mouth. And still my teeth broke, still they kept getting shorter and shorter, still they hurt no matter what I did or ate.  In fact, right now, every tooth in my mouth is worn down, chipped, and/or broken. Any kind of water or food causes me pain. The kind of pain you would usually associate with chewing on a ball of aluminum foil.

Not to mention that I absolutely DON’T have a Miss America smile. Not that it really matters, but talk about adding insult to injury…my teeth hurt AND THEY’RE KIND OF UGLY.

This past year, though, has been the final straw. One side of my jaw has become noticeably swollen and larger (noticeable to me, anyway) and I have been beyond upset about it. I refuse to wear my hair back anymore unless I have sufficient pieces hiding my jawline. I changed my part, cut my hair into bangs, and have gone through about four compacts of  bronzer, all to “disguise” the flaw. The first time I tried to get help from an oral surgeon, I was sent to the hospital for a very expensive MRI and blood test…and told nothing. The results on the MRI analysis read “there is a lateral defect in the lower left mandible” but none of the dentists and oral surgeons I saw had any explanation of what that meant. Finally, they stopped returning my calls. (So I stopped paying the bill. But that’s another story altogether.)  I began to base my every decision around “what makes my face less swollen” and found that avoiding yoga, avoiding eating anything solid, avoiding chewing gum, and avoiding caffeine–along with sleeping on one side only, keeping ice on my face for hours every day, and rubbing arnica in my jaw like it was going out of style–made it slightly less noticeable. Basically, giving up things I loved, exhausting myself trying to hide my face, and becoming less and less social.  All while not talking about it, lest anyone actually listen and then begin to notice the asymmetry.

(Yes, in case you were wondering, I do have a symmetry obsession. )

Somewhere in the midst of all this, I got really sick of thinking about it all the time, and made an appointment with yet another new dentist. A small part of me still had hope that I would find someone with an actual idea about this problem, instead of someone who ignored what I said. (No, really. The last time I went to my last dentist, he just made a face like he was listening, and then changed the subject.)   I am sure I could have gotten an appointment the week I called  (in July) but I put it off and made it for September 4.  I guess I wanted the feeling of “hey, I am doing something about it!” but not the disappointment of “Yet another doctor just told me there is nothing to do.”

Well…my appointment was Friday, and I was pleasantly surprised.  My dentist came in and introduced himself.  After that, the first thing he said was, “I don’t know you yet, but you know you, and you know your body.”

Wow. The one thing I have been insisting upon all these years, when my mother and every stranger and every doctor and even some ex-boyfriends kept saying, “…but you aren’t a doctor.” (To which I would reply, “don’t be stupid, that doctor isn’t ME, and has no idea what the hell I feel like.”)

My new dentist is really smart and experienced, and makes a lot of sense.  (He also reminds me of David Hyde Pierce. Adorable!) To make a long story short…my teeth are not falling apart because I grind them, I grind them because they are falling apart. They are worn down from an acidic condition in my body (I will go into this in a later post). Stress aggravates this, along with bad diet (my diet is actually very alkaline, but the stress will kill you every time). And, even though I don’t have symptoms of “acid reflux,” stomach acid wears away teeth.  Someone who has severe digestive problems will generally have acid reflux, even without the common symptoms.  Someone with thyroid problems will often have severe digestive problems.

So…we have somehow gotten from my thyroid to my jaw, and honestly…the whole thing couldn’t make more sense.

Now that my teeth are worn down, they still have to meet in order for me to chew. My jaw has to close more than it is designed to in order to do this, because my teeth are worn down.  The stress of this has my TMJ (temporo-mandibular joint) and surrounding muscles worn out, stressed out, and spasming. So I clench and grind my teeth at night.

What a mouthful (no pun intended, really…I tend to dislike puns.)

At least I have some good news: It seems I have found my dentist!

Next step: I get an NTI splint:

And it is a very expensive little thing about the size of my thumbnail.

Maybe in the next few years I can get a bridge to replace the missing molar, and get veneers so that my teeth look and feel good again.

A long process, but I never expected a quick fix; I’m just thankful to finally be on the way.

Somehow, writing has taken the back burner, and I really wish I could tell you what exactly I have been doing (instead of writing) but I just can’t.

I just can’t, because I have no idea.

I look back for the past six weeks six months year and can’t really tell you exactly what it is I have achieved. Sure, I got a job and decided what to do with my future and kept telling myself I would change, but I still haven’t really achieved anything.  Nothing feels like it is in motion (I hesitate to say “complete” because nothing ever ends…just changes) and I haven’t been able to figure out why.

Tonight at work, I had to clean up the last of the balloons from our end-of-August sale.  The helium had given up and the balloons hovered an inch or so off the ground. They were shrunken and oily-looking, and even though the thought of throwing them away made me sad, I knew I couldn’t take them home. I have enough junk at home that I “just couldn’t throw away.”  (Does anyone else feel bad about throwing things out, almost like…you’ll hurt its feelings?…or am I just crazy?  I know this logically makes no sense, but it is almost overpowering at times.)

I decided to quickly pop each one with a push pin and then rush them to the dumpster.  The wilted rainbow in my hands made me kind of sad.  I pulled a pin out of the wall in the office and went to work. They did not POP like you would expect. Instead, they slowly hissed as they shriveled, sounding and looking like little old men gasping for air.  It made me so profoundly sad, and as I pierced the last one, I realized exactly why I have been so anxious and sad and lazy and self-destructive.

I’m scared.

Nothing is in motion, nothing is complete, and I hate it, because it leaves room for fear to seep in.  I have not yet finished my grad school application so I have no idea whether or not I will be accepted or whether I will be able to afford it. I have not seen the dentist about my asymmetrical face and infected tooth because I am afraid I won’t be able to pay for whatever it is I need done, or worse, that he will say “nothing’s wrong, can’t help you” like the last one did. I have no idea what is going to happen to my husband (long story, maybe someday) so I really have no idea if I should even bother applying to school and loving my dogs and fixing my apartment because I may not have any of those things in a few short months.  I have no idea if “healthcare” is going to get worse, if organic food prices will double, if everything will be GM and irradiated…so I have been telling myself that eating healthy is a lost cause anyway.  I feel gross and out of shape and stupid, like I look like a dumb cow with a dumb look on her face, so I have not tried other forms of yoga or the free Pilates class at my gym.  My anxiety has not let me do anything for months. I have not relaxed at all, my sleep is spotty, and I am always exhausted.  I have nightmares, and even uncontrollable daydreams, that are terrifying and sickening and violent.  I feel trapped in them.  Fear. It’s all just fear.

False Evidence Appearing Real??
Maybe.

But either way…I’m done with it.

I told it to fuck off and that’s it. I’m done.  I refuse to abuse my body, miss opportunities, and feel like I am days away from death because of something completely unfounded, unproven, and FAKE.

If my fears and even past patterns proved anything at all, I should be dead, I should be alone, I should have no education, I should be a smoker and a drug addict, I should just give up.

Instead, I am going to start DOING things and having fun again. I’m going to clean up the apartment and then feel great as I do Pilates on the floor or just lie there with three chihuahuas jumping on me.  I’m going to finish my school application and know that I will be accepted. I’m going to start going to yoga every day again, hug my dogs even more than I do now, drink organic champagne on the weekends, make more time to spend with Ben, carry a thermos of green juice everywhere, sing when I feel like it, go to concerts, ride my bike, and dance.

And speaking of thermoses…I had to choose one at Target earlier. I was looking for the biggest I could find, so I can transport LOTS of juice and smoothie to work. I had to choose between these two…

HUGE MONSTER THERMOS on the left, and green big thermos on the right. That's a whole lotta smoothie.

I loved the one on the left, but it was almost 68 ounces!!!! I chose the 24 ounce one on the right, and decided that once I am in better shape and need more food (more smoothies!!) I will go back and buy the monster one. For now, my new green one plus my 2 old pink ones will be just enough smoothie to last the day, and I can put green juice in my Klean Kanteen (UGH, I hate the whole “k instead of c” spelling, but they make great bottles) and I’m set. Oh. And my super strong organic coffee (shut UP) from Benji. Cause it’s better than a sugary “organic, natural” energy drink which is likely made with tap water and therefore full of fluoride and other toxic crap.

Time to go clean.

Good night:)