doers and sleepers

Some people use their fury as their fuel to do all of the hard things whereas I use it as inarguable proof that I should take a nap. Do-ers and Sleepers is what I call them. I’m pretty sure a poet or someone of historical significance said that it takes all kinds for the world to go ‘round.

I’m sure this will come as a shock but I am a SLEEPER. I DO a lot, too. Though mostly only out of obligation. Owning a business, marriage, and motherhood are a real buzzkill sometimes. But I am a Sleeper by nature— and, more importantly, by choice.

I have never been one of those time to lean, time to clean fools. I married one of those fools. Joe is a DOER. He is always off in some room of the house wiping some substance off of some surface somewhere or folding some article of kid clothing that he washed earlier in the day— an article of clothing that, I’m nearly positive, wasn’t dirty at all and only thrown in one of the seven hampers we have scattered around this house in an effective effort effort to avoid refolding and placing the single t-shirt or pair of leggings into the drawer it came from because it’s too hard. Obviously, this tactic is quietly appreciated by this Sleeper.

His dedication to productivity sometimes gives me anxiety. I’ll find myself saying “Will you just sit down already? It’s Saturday. You need to relax. I can’t relax until you relax because you’re always standing and buzzing around. It makes me nervous.” To which he responds, “The laundry doesn’t do itself, Queen B. But do feel free to step in and assist…” To which I, the egalitarian that I am, say, “I’m good but thank you so much for asking. Plus, you look like you have it completely under control and you’re so good at it, too. So much better than me. I mean, just look at those crisp folds, Joe! I’ve never been so un-wrinkly and kempt. You should quit your day job and become a professional folder! What a life you would live! Anyway, my t-shirts and underpants thank you in advance for your service.“

Then, just when he’s about to respond with an equally infuriating comeback, I politely excuse myself to go take a nap because it is 11am on a Saturday, after all, and what else does one do at 11am on a Saturday? Joe can list a great number of things to be done on a Saturday but this isn’t about him so we shall ignore him and leave him to his chores. The laundry doesn’t do itself, you know!

Joe will sigh loudly in exasperation because I am an asshole and yet so disarmingly charming and cute. Hearing that audible sigh feels like a victory and comforting because I know that, he is smiling and shaking his head as he does it. He thinks I am impossible and he knows that I know that he thinks I’m impossible but we both appreciate the mutual consistency of each others’ ridiculousness.

Doers and Sleepers. It takes all kinds for the world to go round.

the polar express

I haven’t slept well in a few days. I’ve tossed and turned and woken up from a very light sleep nearly every hour, on the hour. I am very, very tired. I have a quick fuse with everything and everyone. I am so frustrated I could cry (and do).

This happens fairly often, nearly like clock work, though I’ve yet to determine just what exactly triggers it or what specific catalyst the cycle operates itself around. Every 4-6 weeks, give or take, I’ll experience a week or so of terribly unsettled sleep— for what feels like no reason at all— and then, like magic, fall right back in line and sleep normally. This never happened to me before I began medicinal treatment after being diagnosed with bipolar II.

Thought tempting, I won’t feel sorry for myself because I know the mere fact that I am able to receive treatment, have the means to pay for prescriptions and doctor’s visits and therapy is a privilege not everyone is afforded which is, in and of itself, a bullshit and inhumane story for another day. However, one thing I know for certain is that pain and suffering is subjective to a myriad of factors and, no matter the degree, to struggle with one’ own suffering is a legitimate human experience. And, the fact is, I am suffering.

When I began treatment for my mental illness nearly seven months ago, I made the mistake of assuming that it would be as easy as taking a pill. I thought I would approach this particular bump in the road just as I had approached my experience with postpartum depression. I would simply fix it. I would literally take the pill and feel like myself again, albeit a more emotionally and mentally stable version. What will come as a shock to approximately no one, it wasn’t that simple and here I am, all these months later, still attempting and failing and attempting again to fix what feels like a very broken self.

I’ve often relegated myself to dismissal of any struggles I’ve experienced post-diagnosis by many a well-meaning reminders that it could always be worse; I could be depressed. I could feel so empty and low again that I’d convinced myself that I was a burden on my family and friends and anyone who was emotionally invested in my wellbeing. I could be waking up every single morning feeling a never-ending existential dread, only making it out of the bed thanks to sheer willpower and the prospective shame I’d feel if I indulged my desire to stay in bed and sleep all day.

It could be worse was often uttered like a mission statement, a way for me to accept the unfortunate side-effects of taking the pill I had previously convinced myself would fix me. I’ve never considered myself a particularly vain person but the fifteen pounds I gained in a month made self-love harder than normal. I’ve always accepted that I am beautifully human and possess inherent flaws but when none of my clothes fit, I rejected the idea that losing control of my body would be added to the list of things wrong with me. So, I bought new clothes. (Privilege, I know.)

Once I finally began feeling more comfortable in my newfound fluffy body, the insomnia began and, as many of you know all to well, not sleeping is its’ own form of hell. And, in an effort to continue fixing myself, I started taking another pill to combat the insomnia. Its’ success rate hovers around 45%. But, just as I’ve done three times prior during the newborn chapters of motherhood, I adapted and managed. I accepted that I’d always be tired for one reason or another. I told myself that I’d dealt with worse— that it could always be worse.

And I was right. It absolutely could.

About two months ago, I started experiencing short term memory loss. Initially, I brushed it off as a result of being exhausted from not sleeping. It hadn’t occurred to me that the magic pill I was taking to fix my life was likely the culprit of making it difficult to remember my life. Then I had surgery— my fourth in seven years— which did not go well ( yet another story for another day). I told myself that not being able to remember what I read in a book or the tv show I watched before I fell asleep the night prior was being exacerbated by the general anesthesia. Maybe, just maybe, my body was still adjusting to this new normal? Then, yesterday morning, I couldn’t remember when Marlo came into my room Monday night when she couldn’t fall asleep and cuddled me for an hour. I couldn’t remember the conversation she and I had or her going back up to her room. Joe, who is nearly always calm and collected, looked at me, concerned and slightly skeptical since I can always recall the most minute details of things that occurred twelve years ago— like what I was wearing when we had a fight at such and such bar and what the fight was about and exactly what he said and when he said it. (The irony is not lost on me.)

Which is precisely when the dam broke.

I excused myself, quickly escaping into safety of my bathroom, and proceeded to ugly cry and physically shake for fifteen minutes.

I can handle having a larger ass and chubbier cheeks. I can manage being tired. What I can not handle is losing the memories of the fleeting and insignificant moments with my family— the fleeting and insignificant daily experiences which will no doubt one day in the future be remembered as anything but insignificant.

I can buy a new pair of jeans or a new dress. I can drink more coffee and squeeze in a nap or two. What I can not get back is time and time with my kids and husband isn’t something I feel I’m willing to sacrifice.

Which brings me to where I am now. With a bigger ass, chronically tired, heartbroken, and wondering when is it okay to declare that the pros no longer outweighs the cons? Could it be worse? Sure. But do I really want to know what’s next? Do I want to continue taking the pills that have seemingly have created more problems than the ones the pill was intended to fix in the first place? Is having to work substantially harder to feel stable— not to be confused with happy or positive— a better option than what I’m dealing with now?

What’s worse— losing your mind or losing time?

I’m not sure.

What I am sure of is that the Polar Express I appear to be riding doesn't shift course as easily as I thought it would. It’s not as simple as popping a pill and praying to the Big Pharma Gods that they fix whatever is broken in me. My destination remains unknown and the journey has proven to be just as nuanced and complicated and messy as the diagnosis itself.

What’s that thing that they say? It’s about the journey, not the destination? Some days, I’d like to call bullshit on that because some days, the journey simply fucking sucks. But, thanks to my tenacious grit and inherent optimism, I will continue to believe that the destination will prove worth all of the work I’ve put in in order to get there— wherever there is.

thoughts on being scared

I’m having surgery tomorrow. Nothing major, nothing life threatening. But, still, surgery. Even though this surgery is not my first rodeo in the ER nor does it possess the same emergency circumstances as the ones that came before it, surgery is still scary as shit.

I’m not so scared of the surgery itself. The risk and downtime both pale in comparison to having my organs removed when we were living in NYC and, after having given birth three times, physically speaking, there isn’t much that scares me.

And, yet.

I’m scared.

It seems silly to worry so much about such a supposedly routine thing— a thing that countless women before me have had with much success and I’ve been reassured repeatedly by my surgeon, internist, and OBGYN of the commonality of this particular surgery. I had no idea so many women needed their internal bits repaired after labor and delivery have had their wicked way with their bodies, giving a pregnancy has the very last laugh— one whose echo can be heard for years as it has in my case. Three years, to be exact. Minus a few days. And, to be honest, I’ve actually looked forward to this surgery. I’ve anticipated this moment for over a year now— the moment that gave me permission to fully reclaim my body back as my own. Three pregnancies, nursing three babies, the loss of SO MUCH SLEEP, the postpartum hell, the physical and mental healing, two emergency surgeries triggered by my first pregnancy, the births, the repetitive gaining and losing of weight, the lack of autonomy. On their own, the work my body has put in doesn’t necessarily amount to much but, cumulatively, they have taken a toll. And after not having it for so many years, I have come to believe that there will be immense power in regaining full agency over my own body again— even if that agency is as basic as not peeing oneself when one doesn’t intend to.

And, yet.

I’m scared.

I remember sitting in the ER on a Saturday night in NYC and then, eight months later, on Mother’s Day in Brooklyn. Those surgeries were, to put it bluntly, necessary in order to not die— a truth I did not not fully comprehend until much, much later. This surgery, while very medically necessary, isn’t being performed in haste or under the looming tick of an expiring clock. This surgery is one being chosen by my own free will. This is a surgery I have willingly agreed to put myself through in order to gain full control over my entire body again, to no longer feel a full range of mild discomfort to unrelenting pain when attempting to do normal things like work out, jump and play around with my kids, sneeze, cough, laugh until I cry, go on an impromptu run, dance around the living room, and— yes— even have sex.

And, yet.

I’m scared.

Maybe it’s all the what ifs and the uncertainty and triggering memories of previous experiences getting the best of me. Then again, maybe it’s completely reasonable to feel this way if only for the simple fact that there are real risks involved no matter how common this procedure is. I just know that I can’t stop myself from intensely watching my kids in all their insanity, letting my eyes linger at each of for for a few seconds longer than I normally would and I’ve fought the urge to burst into tears with each glance. Am I positively crazy to take such consequential and unnecessary risk when I have so much to lose? Is my refusal to accept my body in whatever state it currently rests in inarguably selfish when my body is merely a direct result of having given me what I love most in the world?

And, yet.

I’m scared.

I suppose feelings aren’t always reasonable nor do I believe they always should be. That’s the difference between I FEEL and I KNOW. I know I have every right to do this for myself and to feel comfortable again, both literally and figuratively. We shouldn’t be forced to walk around with our bladders and bits nearly falling out of our vaginas in the name of maternal martyrdom. I mean, I’ve already lost two organs against my will which would lead me to believe that not letting one just fall out of me willingly is a reasonable battle to want to pick. I’d like to think that it’s rational to want my organs to stay INSIDE of my body, regardless of whatever gift they may have given me on their way out.

And, yet.

And, yet.

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See you all on the other side of yet another one of the best naps of my life.

one good thing

I’ve had a string of fairly bad days lately.

Whether they’re an awkwardly shaped piece of my bi-polar puzzle or merely a situational response to the daily bombardment of shitty news upon more shitty news, I’m not entirely sure. At this point, I’m not so much concerned with whether the chicken or the egg came first as I am with merely surviving the bad day regardless of whatever triggered it.

It’s been five months since I was diagnosed with bi-polar II. And, in many ways, my diagnosis has provided a clarity and cathartic rush of relief I didn’t know I needed while, in others, it’s fueled a dread-like sense of anxiety that has woven itself into every facet of my day-to-day life. Accepting the permanence and the indefinite amount of work required of me to live a moderately happy, mostly relapse-free life has not been easy. Hearing the words “Christy, you’re Bi-Polar and is incurable, only managed” felt like an ego bruise on a good day and a life sentence as a day shrouded in darkness. Surrendering to this new reality has not been a flip of a switch, rather it’s been a fluctuating spectrum whose parameters range from full-blown denial to poisonous resentment to palpable anger to mourn-filled sadness.

Depending on the day, it can feel as though I’m existing in purgatory, a level within the game of life that is very strictly governed by the confines of my illness. I’m reasonable enough to understand that it takes time to adjust to this new normal and, as such, finding the right cocktail of medications and lifestyle changes doesn’t happen without adjustment and trial and (mostly) error. But, for fuck’s sake, it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting for every decision I make— decisions I once possessed full agency over— to be dictated by whether or not it will contribute to my wellbeing or serve as self-sabotage.

I recently read an interview with Chantal Miller , once known as Emily Doe, featured on The Cut. Last year, Miller wrote a memoir detailing surviving a sexual assault at the hands of Brock Turner that garnered national attention and scrutiny, watching her perpetrator face essentially little-to-no consequences for his physical violation of her body, as well as the process of putting the physical, mental, and emotional pieces of her life back together. I found the interview (and her beautiful book) to be incredibly powerful. While everyone could benefit from her approach to life and overcoming, it was one particular piece of wisdom that spoke loudly above the rest: When asked how she works through bad days, she said that she forces herself to “go find one good thing.”

Go find one good thing.

Training myself to look beyond the bubble of existential and bleak gloom I frequently exist in and search for one concrete, inarguable instance of good is not only vital, it also serves as catharsis. It is a necessary reminder that even in the midst of being suffocated by feeling overwhelmed and consumed by the nearly-constant internal and external work required of me to feel only mediocre— we’re not talking even moderately HAPPY— I am still capable of seeing and feeling and— most importantly— deserving of good things.

Sometimes that goodness will be superficial. Like today. Today, that one good thing looks like the grey acid-washed Isabel Marant onesie that is not only convenient and comfortable but also manages to create a sense of an active progression towards becoming the fictional lovechild I’ve always dreamed of: a balanced merging of my all-time style idol, Kelly Kapowski, and the queen of witty comebacks and overall Southern outrageousness, Clairee Belcher.

Other times, the one good thing I can find presents itself as another person’ human decency towards another or the sound of my kids laughing together at the same joke in the next room or a neighbor leaving a bundle of fresh vegetables on my porch from her garden. Most days, though, it just looks like being loved. The people who have known me at my best and continue to stand by me while I embody what feels like the worst possible version of myself are the constant good thing and sunshine through all of this.

All of this to say that, five very long months later, I’m not all together entirely fine. I’m better, yes. More emotionally balanced, maybe. Eh, most days, at least. But I’m not what is often taken for granted as normal. What the fuck even is normal?!?! I’m still struggling and still trying to figure out how to deal with all of this and manage it and not let the process of managing it consume me. I’ll get there. I’m sure of it. Maybe not tomorrow but hopefully another tomorrow in the not so distant future.

And until then, I’ll keep finding and being grateful for that one good thing.

thoughts on solitude

I grew up an only child (though I am no longer— my little brother is 13 and wonderful but I was 21 when he was adopted so, only child.) Joe is not. Not even close as he’s the youngest of four (four?!) kids. To say that our adolescent environments were different would be a grave understatement as was what we came to regard as normal. As you may imagine, having three kids— and all the noise that comes along with them— has been an adjustment on my part, less for him as he’s only ever known the claustrophobia associated with having siblings.

For years, I wondered why I’d get so anxious and overwhelmed at gatherings with his family (ten grandchildren, four siblings and their partners—HI!— and the OG matriarch plus a few extra stragglers who often roll in at these get-togethers, too. All in, you’re looking at twenty-five+ people). It wasn’t until a few years ago that I realized I was simply not used to being around so many people at the same time and I most certainly wasn’t used to the resulting chaos and noise and messes produced by so many people.

Ironically, it wasn’t until I had kids that I realized how much I enjoy being alone. (That probably sounds terrible but the truth is often uncomfortable. So.) I crave solitude. There are few things I enjoy more than silence and the sound of my own thoughts. I love starting my day sitting at my desk, cup of coffee warm in my hands, and writing for a bit or reading the news. It sets such a peaceful tone for the day, wreaking of good intentions even if I know that it’s going to be anything but peaceful because, well, motherhood often isn’t. Just like marriage is the opposite of solitude and daily life can be so people-y that I frequently find myself sick of everyone by lunchtime.

The fact is, you can love being alone and still love and be grateful for the people who never leave you alone because they’re yours. You can enjoy solitude and still love spending quality time with your family and feel invigorated by time spent with your girlfriends. You can crave silence while also cherishing few things more than the sound of your children’ laughter and footsteps pounding against the hardwood floors. (Speaking of, how are such tiny feet so impossibly loud and heavy? Please explain to me because I just don’t get it.) You can yearn to be along while also reveling in matrimonial partnership. You can delight in time spent with only yourself and still be grateful that you aren’t alone in life.

I not only crave time by myself, I without a doubt need it. I’m social by nature but require time to recharge after engaging with others. People drain me to the point of exhaustion most days, no matter who they are. Being so in tune with and affected by other people’ energy causes me to feel depleted, leaving little room to feel my own feelings which is a recipe for disaster with someone with so many feelings so much of the time.

Now that I think about it, it’s no surprise why quarantine has been so hard for so many people. Being stuck around people indefinitely is a tough pill to swallow when you just. want. to. be. alone. for. one. single. hour. and I’d prefer it if that hour wasn’t at the grocery store or driving around aimlessly with the windows down and the music blasting because that’s the best you could come up with. Please and thank you kindly.

Why is it that we often feel the need to justify why we are the way we are? We feel the need to preface every aspect of ourselves so that people don’t call us ungrateful, selfish, or, god forbid, a bad mom. We are often made to feel guilty for being the way we are or we feel guilt because we’re conditioned to believe that we should be something else, particularly as mothers. We almost always feel the need to apologize for being that way. We’re led to believe that when we become a mother, life will never be the same and by proxy, we will magically turn into the martyr we must be to raise happy children when all that creates is an asshole and another generation of people who think that their own needs aren’t as important as everyone else’s. 

One wonderful thing about aging, among many others, is the fucks you stop giving about what people think, instead devoting that time and energy to self-acceptance and whatever means necessary required to facilitate that acceptance. Which is how it should be, isn’t it? And how about we start bluntly telling anyone anyone who makes us feel guilty about our own needs to properly fuck off and maybe politely suggest that they spend some time focusing on theirs. Just a thought.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that, like most things, it isn’t either, or. It’s and. We’re dichotomous, nuanced humans with conflicting feelings about nearly everything which is precisely why being a human is so hard. Life isn’t black and white, it’s one thousand different shades of gray. My thought is, if I’m going to be spending so much time with myself, I might as well get to know and learn to love her. What I’ve found is that by listening to my own needs and giving into what I require to feel whole, I ended up liking the person I came to know. And quite a lot. I’m not perfect and I like that about myself. I also like that I have no problem stating and respecting my needs, no matter who they may offend along the way.

And isn’t that what it’s all about? Loving yourself with the same conviction that you shower onto others?

I think so, at least.