The ongoing why the hell can’t I breathe right saga….

I’m getting tired of hearing my doctor try and pin everything on anxiety.

I’ve been having trouble breathing, on and off, since mid February. It came on without any cause so far as I can tell, and lasted well over 3 weeks. It went away. It came back. It went away and is now coming back again.

We did chest X-Rays, I’ve tried inhalers and acid reflux medication and ulcer medication. Nothing. We did blood work an EKG and Ativan, nothing.

Nothing helps. This irritating issue goes away on it’s own, comes back when it pleases. It seems to be vaguely connected to what I eat-I eat too much or too crappy, I bloat and the sick cycle starts again.

Now he’s talking about anxiety again, and how he thought trying an antidepressant might help.

HELL NO.

I would feel anxious, wouldn’t I? I would feel like I used to, terrified and secretly worked up about everything? I would know, right?

He also mentioned possible IBS, maybe Celiac disease, and his own bafflement. Hence his falling back on anxiety, the good ole catch all. Can’t find something actually wrong with you? Must be teh crazy.

I am usually more than willing to accept that, but not this time. I feel no anxiety over anything in my life, aside from occasional work stress, I’m not stressed out.

He wants me to do a stress test anyway.

I didn’t even get around to mentioning the fact that my periods have gone insane. So I’m hoping my PAP comes back clear.

I’m just tired of not knowing, of worrying when this will come back and stay for however long it stays. Feeling like you’re suffocating for weeks on end just ain’t cool.

Apparently, the stairs in this place are evil.

Question on asshatery.

Is it more classist to

-clear the sidewalks around the local low income housing days (i.e. a week) before the rest of the neighbourhood (i.e. the owned homes)

-point out the inherent disconnect on having on specific section cleared days before the rest of the neighbourhood strictly based on their economic base and potential “mobility” issues.

Mogo managed to kick up a dust storm on a local message board complaining about the fact that the low income “project” up the road from us has it’s sidewalks cleaned (and I mean cleaned) at least a week before the rest of the area. The add insult to injury, they’ll  clear 2 blocks of a 10 block street, only clearing the area in front of the low rental.

Is it classist to be irritated that I, a mortgage paying, property tax suffering person, has to wait longer to use the sidewalks than those who aren’t?

I don’t think they should wait longer-I just don’t understand doing only their little area, and leaving the rest of us to walk on the road.

Are we being asshats?

Goodbye NaBloPoMo.

So I made it through November, posting everyday.

Woot me.

Is that really meant to be a huge accomplishment?

I’ve never much believed in the value of “pressure” testing or performance. Aside from sex perhaps. (Then again, that’s a completely different type of pressure altogether) Is there true value in knowing the dates when all the prime minister was in office? Is there value in being able to write 30 days in a row?

I didn’t “win” NaNoWriMo however. I hit a wall of writer’s block, likely caused in part by poor planning, but also by my usual knee jerk reaction of “No one tells me what to do!”

That’s what stuff like this usually inspires in me-rebellion along the lines of 14 year old stubborness. Even if I do it to myself.

But I don’t get it-many sites (and possible even this one) ended up full of meme’s, stupid pictures and blathering that made no sense, or bored a person to tears. Is that a worthwhile contribution? Having a site full of advertisments while pretending to write something interesting, is that a worthwhile contribution? Being covered in tacky sparkly thingies, is that something to aspire to?

Maybe I’m a snob, ok, I am a snob in some ways. But I don’t get the drive to post drivel everyday. I undertook this wanting to see if I could commit to writing something intelligent each day, and for the most part, I believe that I succeeded.

With so many online journals out there, is it too much to ask that others try and do the same?

Regardless, it’s over, and I can go back to posting everyday like I usually do anyway.

An original composition by Vivian

Once upon a time a dinosaur ate his friend and his brothers. Then Triceratops came by and killed him with her horns. Stegosaurus then killed Triceratops. Stegosaurus danced a toopy jig. Brachiosaurus wacked Stegosaurus with his tail. Brachiosaurus picked some flowers for Triceratops.

Methinks we’ll be needing therapy in a few years.

um, er…trying to not freak out.

So let’s say there’s this woman who has two kids. She had a tubal ligation and an endometrial ablation over a year ago. She’s been told she can’t get pregnant.

She’s 3 days or so late on her period. Let’s say she’s NEVER late, and that even if she can’t track the date exactly, she knows about when it should arrive. And it hasn’t.

Sure, three days aren’t much to shake a stick at, but she has never EVER been late before. The only other times she’s missed a period is when she was pregnant. Her body is that trustworthy.

Say what you will, there is always the chance that she could have an etopic pregnancy, or a very very small chance of having a natural pregnancy despite the thinned uterine wall. There is always a chance.

And let’s say that this chick is freaking out, and her doctor is on leave until December. What should she do? She knows that it also might be the drugs she’s on, but she doubts it, since she was on one for three months without an issue, and just switched to a new one that shouldn’t have an effects in this regard whatsoever.

So she’s worried. Not really really worried, but still…..

Being Honest, again

Raise your hands if you think I’m an honest person.

Raise your hands if you think I let you in all the way, if you think you know me.

Amy at Seafoam and Cocquelicots stumbled upon me, and made some accurate points referencing my “Me, 30 Times” list.  My list detailed things about me, but not their meanings.

I thought that was a pretty astute observation not only about my “list”, but about blogging in general.

I am honest in many ways. (and honestly, I don’t know how much of this site she has read). I bear my heart in many ways, talking about my desires for death, my irritation and sometimes hatred of my own children. I’m honest, or becoming more honest, about my past, and what those events meant. But am I completely honest with all of you?

Hells no. This IS a public facade in many ways. The real me is likely meaner, uglier and stupider than any of you can ever imagine. But I don’t want you to know that anymore than I want you to know that the “recovering christian” line is a: a thinly veiled Tori Amos reference and b: an allusion to the fact that while I hold a great deal of hatred for the church, I also envy the belief my mother and so many others hold, and I wish I could understand it.

Like many things, it’s only a piece of me.

If I took the time to explain away every reference, there would be no mystery (and each post would be 4 days long). My stories may have no meaning-they would be the ramblings of someone who wants to make sure that you knew what the color of the rug in my childhood bedroom was (green, so I pretended it was the grass under my little people garage) instead of stories trying to make understood the trials a bipolar parent suffers through.

I choose my honesty. My list is as deep as I want to get on a surface level, a primer, and invitation to those who are new to see if they are willing to dive a little deeper. I would never hand it out as a definitive list of “me”. It’s meant to seduce a reader, or conversely, ward off the unprepared. It’s as honest as a soundbite, for good or bad.

But this did get me thinking-how honest are many of you? I’ve come to realize that many of my “online” friends have lives I couldn’t have imagined from their writings-things they couldn’t talk about, things they barely referenced. How did we become so quietly accepting of our own secrets?

Natural Selection-1, Stupid Human-0

PENSACOLA, Fla. — A Pensacola man died after opening a car door to spit, authorities said.  

The Florida Highway Patrol said Miguel Rogelio was a passenger in a car Tuesday morning when he decided he needed to spit.

The 37-year-old opened his door and leaned out.

He then fell and hit his head on the pavement, according to authorities.

snicker.

I’m still….

…sweaty….the heat wave keeps on keeping on. Sigh. Fat + summer=BAD.

…in hyper organize/purge/nest mode. I’ve never cleaned out this much crap in my life. Is this what normal people do? You know, actually clean up and throw stuff out? Look out world, so I’ll be knocking out walls and shit.

…knitting baby blanket number 2. The babies are already out, but since it’s a fricken heat wave, I doubt she’ll need heavy blankies. I’ll post before I block, since I might muck them up when I block them (how the hell can I tug them AND keep them steady as I iron over a wet towel? WTF?)

…wondering why my granny squares come out all uneven, even when I try to block them.

…hoping that these drugs are starting to work. Please please please.

….wanting to die when I go out in the sun. And wanting to burn my fucking irritating piece of crap from hell lawnmower which dies every 20 feet or so. ARGH!

…amazed at how good Pink Floyd really was. (it’s on the radio-I’m not smoking crack) If anything will make you manic depressive, it’s those guys. Fuck.

…getting old. I’ll be 30 in 2 months. THIRTY. Where the hell did the last ten years go? And Vivian will be FOUR this coming month. Time you fickle whore, where did you run off to?

…awake. Shortly after taking my anti-psychotic, I can doze off like someone in their first trimester. But as the night wears on, I become awake. Weird.

…not caring about Blogher. Sorry ladies. It gives me the heebie jeebies, that much estrogen in one area, that many people in any one place. And the giggles. I can only imagine the giggles.

I know we’re counting calories and all…

but can’t we leave the cat out of it?

We now track calories in CAT TREATS?

What’s love got to do with it?

I’m listening to the radio, wondering…

Wondering why it’s ok to mourn the people you loved and lost, but not the people you love and fear to lose.

Songs, stories, poems, epics to the stars are written about hearts broken, lovers who disappear, love that heals all wounds.

But try and write anything about your children,  about the most primal love out there, and you aren’t taken seriously. Aside from songs about dead children, no one wants to hear that.

But isn’t the love we hold for our children equally, if not more complicated, strange and powerful? The breadth of feeling I can have for my daughters-from swooning love to rage-do they not count for something? Are they not worth singing songs of? Why is it always “just” mothers, “just” children. “Just” a mother.

My love for my children outpaces almost everything in my life. It is huge-it fills rooms and rooms in my mind. Why does it not matter, artistically, socially? Why are there types of love that we allow, and types that must be ignored, or mocked? Why is it more acceptable to lament or celebrate the love I have for my lover, but not my children?

Is it too big? Too harsh? Too much? Or is it something that really matters, and is scary?

By any other name….

Stolen, in part from The Situationist.

Maybe your name has more to do with your interests and passions than you think.  I personally have an “odd” name in real life. I find it’s done two things for me-caused expectations to be different that those for other girls, and also created an expectation that I was “weird”. (Not that I fought that perception all that hard).

The article in question makes the argument that

In a study of 55,000 children, the exam marks of those with ‘lower-status’ names – often spelled in an unusual way or including punctuation – were on average 3 to 5 percentage points lower than siblings with more traditional names. One of the reasons was that teachers had lower expectations of them.

I know that personally, I do have certain expectations of someone named “Phoenix”, and what that person will be good at, or their intelligence. Which, I know, is ridiculous. But we all do it don’t we? Betty Sue will be looked at differently than say, Grace or Dianne.

But is the trouble the expectations of other people, or our own expectations and how we grow into our names? I had to grow into mine. It sticks out, less now than it used to, but I had to become that person who had the “weird” name. I became the freak, the weirdo, the not a girl/not a boy. My expectations were skewed by my own beliefs in what my name meant for me, and what other people expected from such a strange named little girl.

This is complicated for me by the fact that I have a birth name as well. A boring name that I hated from the moment I saw it. A name that, to me, meant someone bitchy and retentive. It wasn’t my name. Maybe it never was. But would I be a different person with that name? Would I be humourless, and good at math as opposed to writing?

What do you think? What say you? Do you think you’ve altered your child’s potential based on what you named them?

Take Away the Weather Network? Are you INSANE?

So the CRTC is “shuffling” the channels available on basic cable, and “The Weather Network” is going to need to fight to stay where they are or be relegated to cable you pay extra for, which means they’ll lose money, and advertising dollars.

The plan is to move stuff around so that “channels contribute to the social or cultural good of Canada”

um….last time I checked, the weather DOES contribute to the social good of Canada-I mean really-you want to talk to someone, break the ice up here, just talk about the weather! There’s always something to talk about-it’s too hot! It’s too cold! It’s too snowy! It’s too….something!

I love me some weather network. I leave it on while I knit. I stay glued to it when storms are approaching (always hoping for a weather bomb). I check it constantly for the local forecast. If we go somewhere in winter, I check the road forecast. My father calls the weekend forecaster,  Chris St Clair my boyfriend. He’s just…he’s funny, he’s personable and makes the weather amusing. He’s more interesting that the local newscasters!

The public comment period is now over (cause I’m SOOO up to date with stuff) but I just wanted to echo what a lot of people are saying, as well as wonder out loud how anyone could question the cultural relevance of The Weather Network to most Canadians.

Here’s the thing

Holidays make me remember my childhood. I remember Easter as new outfits, new shoes, chocolate and Sunday morning mass. Chistmas brings memories of midnight services, beer in the kitchen, the nativity on the mantle (and baby jesus only appeared ON christmas day. To this day it drives me nuts when people put jesus out early, or have the three wise men out before it’s talked about in mass. But I digress)

As much as I do not believe in god, I sincerely miss the rituals of certain times of the year. Lent always amused me, watching people either pick something hard any generally failing, or something easy and feeling superior. Fish on fridays. Ash Wednesday, the ashes coarse on my skin-I had to wait until I got home to wash it off since my teachers got angry the time I did it at lunch. The pure glory that is a church choir, the comforted feeling you get from 100 people saying a prayer in unison.

I miss that sense of community sometimes, where everyone sends themselves into the backround, surrendering to something bigger that they don’t quite understand.

Staring at Vivian this morning, I wondered if I shouldn’t take her to an Easter service. I didn’t obviously, but I wonder if it’s too early to expose her to church, and at some point, to synagogue, and others. Will she get it? Will she be quiet? Should I even bother?

For as much as I don’t need religon, I don’t want to deprive them should they be called to it. And I want to expose them myself, so I can explain the meaning, as well as the truth behind the activites. Not that I can explain why a woman isn’t supposed to be a priest.

The church I grew up in was beautiful. It truly was. If I entered that building now, I know a peace who fall upon me. But it’s the the service I remember-it’s the many evenings my father and I attended, out of obligation to my dead mother, and we sat in the vestibule since we were late, and we talked. Those moments, forced as they were, I remember forever. And they fill me with peace.

I’m thinking a lot about god and religon this month because I know my mother would have wanted my children, her grandchildren, at least exposed to her religon. (Let’s not talk about how pissed she would be to know they weren’t baptised). I think of the comfort it brought her as she died, and I wonder if I shouldn’t allow them to taste what I don’t need. Should I? Or am I mourning a life I can’t have back?

Facebook=Crack

Holee-SHITE. I hae resisted the lure of Facebook for a LONG time, but for some reason, last night I cracked.

And WOW. People I haven’t talked to in years, but always wondered about. If they were happy, had good lives, were doing the things they deserved to be doing. People I haven’t spoken to since Grade 8. Alive and well and living.

I don’t normally have a desire to “reconnect”, since that usually requires on going effort of some kind, which I can’t be bothered to commit to. Hey, I know myself. But Facebook doesn’t require any of that. I can just disappear if I want to after finding all the people I’m interesting in seeing how they turned out.

Weird isn’t it? You spend your school years trying to get away from the very people you end up connecting with.

Yes I’m an atheist and NO I’m not a prick

When I was younger, my mother forced her Roman Catholicism down my throat. I was baptised, made First Communion, did my first confession, and was guilted into Confirmation as her last wish.

I’m not comfortable with religon. I spent my first confession trying to figure out what  did that was so bad that I needed to beg some “gawd” into forgiving me. I pretended to mutter my punishments with my head down at the pew, as I instead told myself stories. I watched my mother drag her tired and beaten down body to mass, having to sit in a small room off the altar since she couldn’t stand crowds since the chemo. I listened to sermons that told me I was a bad person, being a woman, and only fit to be a vessel, or property.

My full rejection of religion came after my mother died. For awhile, I tried desperately to find gawd, to hear a voice speak to my heart. I wanted it to! I wanted the comforts of faith, the blind belief that someday I would be rewarded for my suffering, a solace in the wilds of my grief.

I found nothing by myself, talking in the darkness. I paged through other religions, throwing my voice out, hoping someone, something would hear me.

It came to a head when I tried to kill myself, and all I found was blackness until I woke up.

I raise my children as an atheist. I do not believe in a supreme being. I do not believe that I will go somewhere wonderful, or terrible when I die. I believe that when I die, my body will return to everywhere, my atoms scattering, and the “me” I speak of with either find another reality in other dimensions, or it will cease to exist. I believe that a small part of my mother exists in me as I sit here, her atoms perhaps part of my bulk.

I know that people wonder how an atheist could possibly raise a moral child, since us atheists are all terrible, horrible blind folk aren’t we? How can I have a grip on what a moral ethical person is?

But in my eyes, I have it better. I don’t teach my children the crutch of a faith that makes no rational sense. I teach them to trust their eyes. I teach them that compassion, kindness and mercy are the tools of good people. That we should be good people because we want others to treat us as such. I teach them to love themselves, to respect their minds and bodies. I teach them that being a woman means nothing in the grand scheme of things, but at the same time, I teach them about the magic that is a woman, how incredible and awesome it is to be life givers.

I don’t raise “miserable, cynical children” as I saw someone accusing atheists of being. I’m not miserable and cynical. I’m happy. I lead a joyful life because I believe that’s all I have. I’d love to believe that I’ll be reunited with my mother someday, but I rationally know that I won’t be. So I try and enjoy the days I do have with the people I love.

Why is it that believers so often try and paint the non-believers as monsters? I’m not a monster. I believe myself to be caring and kind. I consider myself a very moral person, based on principals that most people inherently believe-don’t hurt other people, don’t steal from other people, don’t be an asshat. Be a good person. Act as you expect. To me, these are natural beliefs.

I went through many years of catholic school, and while I believe a received an excellent education, I spent a lot of time fighting off the demands that I follow their dogma, and many actions that contradicted the “beliefs” espoused by the school. I wanted so badly to believe in their gawd. I really did. But at the end of the day, believing in any gawd made as much sense as believing that aliens visit us daily, or that JoJo’s Psychic Alliance is real.

I need proof. I need more than simpering platitudes or tsk tsk, you’re going to HELL! dancing around me. I can see myself in the mirror, and that’s enough for me.

She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes…

heh.

I went to see my doctor today, and had my Wellbutrin wish granted. I’ll start tomorrow, since as usual, the pharmacy needs to order them in. (sigh….)

Any reading I’ve done have stated that it has minimal affect on sexual function and weight gain, and that it’s been fairly good at moderating bipolar’s in one study. It can’t hurt. It’s also know to help stop compulsive behaviours, which I can use right now.

Celexa was good for my mood, but man. How can you have a close relationship with your partner when you don’t want them near you? How can you want to do anything when eating any food makes you gassy and explosive?

I weighed myself. Despite my pants being FAR too tight, and feeling bloated as all hell, I haven’t gained a pound in a month and a half. People have confirmed that I look bigger. So what the FUCK?!?!

So I’m crossing my fingers that this will work. I just want my body to do it’s own thing, instead of something else. It seems like anymore, I just end up taking more and more pills.

It’s enough to make me want to grab Rosalyn’s ‘Elmo Bankie” and crawl under the deck.

So, we’ll see. I’d like to get under 250, my weight when pregnancy with Vivian, sometime this summer. It just seems like everytime I start making progress, something messes it up.

Le sigh.

Mogo got a new hat-what do you think?

Only at the dollar store-they also have “I LOVE JESUS!” party favours. Creepy.

Day Care-destroyer of worlds?

To those of you using Day Care, I feel for you. I’m sure some of you have great caregivers. 

Sadly, I don’t think I witnessed that this morning. 

A group boards the bus with about 15-20 preschoolers. The 4 caregivers barely look out of highschool. The kids are being pretty good, aside from the usual few clingy whiners. 

The “beauty queen” in front of me snaps at the whiner in the other seat when he begins to whine about not wanting to sit there “Next time we go on a field trip, we’re leaving YOU behind.” 

Way. TO. Go. 

She then returned to talking about her drunken weekend, and texting someone on her phone. The kids sat around with that slack jawed look I’ve come to expect from day care kids, that look that says “no one engages me all day long. 

I felt sorry for them. I looked around at children who were blank and uninterested in the things around them. I thought about my children, who are endlessly curious in life, and never stop asking me about the world. I tried to imagine them in this day care. 

I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine them looking so dead. 

Tell me, is all day care like this? Because if it is, I want to try and fix it.

What the hell is that Smell?

Broccoli+burps=NASTY.

I smell like a compost pile everytime I belch.

On an unrelated note, any idea why I cannot get wordpress to remember me? I have to relogin everytime-my cookies are fine on everything else.

Zillions of conference calls today, hence the lack of intelligent posts.

We now resume our previously interrupted belching.