Tag Archives: family

Platypus Update: It’s probably the Hormones, Right?


Depending on what I’m wearing, I get the unsolicited question, “How far along are you?”

Now, among people in the know, this does not faze me.  Nor does it bother me when strangers ask if I brought up the topic that I am pregnant.  However, if I have given no indication that I am pregnant (as far as I know), I have to fight the irrational response to be offended by the question.

Girls, you know why.

See, last year, I had an apron that was adorable but had the unintended side-effect of making me look preggers, especially to people who worked with me.  In such cases, the tentative question are you?  would sneak in and ruin my day.  What?  How could you think that?  I mean, I have a bit of a pudge, but that’s mostly the pocket of the apron and the fact that I have a high waistline.  Right?

Logically, I should never have felt offended by the question since it was never meant to offend.  Honestly, I should give mad props to anyone brave enough to pose the question even to someone they know because we have ALL felt mortified by the insinuation that we look so out of shape we must be harboring a human parasite in our wombs.  That kind of misunderstanding is hurtful for everyone.

And now that I am harboring said parasite, I have to turn off the part of my brain that’s all EFF YOU FOR THINKING I LOOK PREGNANT SINCE WE ALL KNOW THAT’S A HUGE INSULT TO A WOMAN.  Isn’t it weird how brains work?  I’ve been pregnant for 5 months now and I’m still in denial.

For instance, I had my second prenatal group meeting a couple weeks ago, which involved a brief check-up (blood pressure, weight, etc.) with the nurse and midwife.  An insidious part of my brain kept insisting that this is all a ruse and that when they went to listen to the heartbeat, it wouldn’t be there.  The universe is playing a massive trick on me.  My boobs are huge and I haven’t needed a tampon in nearly half a year, and yet…

I don’t look pregnant enough.  I haven’t felt it moving much.  I mean, a few butterflies, but that could just be indigestion.  I’m acting on faith that there is something in there that I can’t see or really feel, hanging out, sucking my energy and eating my food so that I feel like I’m always hungry and I absolutely can’t risk real hunger SINCE I WILL PROCEED TO EAT EVERYTHING.  I have to trust that there is a reason I can’t sleep comfortably, can’t stand for more than 30 min without my ribs hurting from holding up my boobs (did I mention they’re HUGE?!?), can’t go an hour without peeing, and can’t decide if what I’m feeling is my normal reaction to a situation or some over-blown hormone-induced response.

I spent the last two days trying to find a boob solution.  You ladies who have bazungas know what I’m talking about.  Finding a bra that fits is only half the battle.  It has to have enough support and has to be comfortable regardless of what you’re doing.  And it has to keep the ladies in check.  Bras are the bane of our existence and when we find one that works, we do NOT deviate.  However, my bras stop fitting month 1.

Things that I didn’t expect to happen the first trimester: frequent urination, mood swings, and bazungas.  Why is it that only thing I expected (morning sickness) wasn’t as bad as I thought while also being worse in unexpected ways?  Who called it “morning” sickness?  Was it a man?  I bet it was a man.

Did I mention that right before we found out about platypus I had just bought several new conventional and sports bras since it was time to replace my stock?  I bet I didn’t.  In June, I bought new bras bc reasons.  In July, they stopped fitting.  Ugh.  August, I went out and got a few more that offered more coverage, avoiding the nursing bras like the plague.  In October, they got bigger.  Now the problem isn’t the embarrassment of spilling out.  It’s the fact that part of my job involves being on my feet for 4 to 6 hours.  Which recently has started causing pain and not where I expected.

It feels like someone has taken rib-spreaders to my side, especially my right side right underneath my right boob.  And I LOVE how inadequate the solutions are for this problem.  Apparently, all I can do is buy more GORAM bras.

If you enter the lingerie department of any major store, you will find all kinds of solutions for hiding your tummy or back or thighs.  Because that’s what really matters to a woman: stuffing everything into an appeasing spandex shape underneath their business skirt or LBD.  What you won’t find is a section for “My boobs are temporarily too big and I just need a tank top that will help reign them in for the next few months until they stabilize enough for me to shell out money on nursing bras – also, it needs to be comfortable enough that I can sleep in it without cramping because this problem doesn’t seem to go away just because I’m not vertical.”  Seriously, that’s all I want.

What I don’t want is to spend hundreds of dollars repurchasing undergarments for the next 5 months.  Bras are expensive and I already have a whiny panic in the back of my head about all the stuff we have to buy for the human being we’re going to be putting up with for the next 18 years.  This is not when I want to be frivolously spending money on myself just because the industry thinks it’s more important to put my girls on display than to have them cinched in and supported.  I swear, if they focused more on back support than tummy control, well, they’d lose money because I wouldn’t have to keep buying more bras.

In the interim, I bought six new cheap sports bras to sleep in.  And I might start doubling up my camisoles.  Thank goodness it’s starting to cool off around here.

Okay, enough boob ranting.

Here’s something uncomfortable I don’t really want to put out there, but I’m going to or it will continue to scare me.

I don’t want to buy anything for platypus.  Earlier I said that I’m in denial still, which is very true.  I look at me in the mirror, I run my hand over my belly that won’t let me suck in my gut, I wonder if that was Platypus or just my imagination.  The topic comes up every day and it still doesn’t feel real.  Which might explain why I haven’t filled out the baby registry or done serious research on cribs and strollers.  It doesn’t, though.

The thought that makes me avoid making direct eye contact with the baby department is a nugget of paranoid fear.  Preparing for this baby is tempting Fate.  Picking out names, painting the nursery, fawning over baby clothes, all these acts are simply begging the universe to change its mind about this baby actually happening.  It doesn’t matter that I just heard its heartbeat a few weeks ago and next week we’re having the second sonogram.  If I make any decisions on the assumption that this is reality, the universe will kill my baby.

Okay, that’s the extreme dark end of the spectrum of this paranoia, I promise.

How about, if I commit to this then the joke will be up and it will all turn out to be some freakish mistake.  All the piss tests and blood tests and machines and symptoms will turn out to be a fluke.  And it’s too late for me to be okay about that because I picked out a breast pump system so I’m invested in this being real.

And I’m scared about it being real.  This is normal, I know.  So normal, in fact, that most of you will say that me not being scared about my first kid would be disconcerting.

What I’m trying to say, badly, is that there are so many things that can go wrong and I’m not sure I can handle it so I’m trying not to get attached to Platypus in order to protect myself.  And don’t say that nothing is going to go wrong.  It doesn’t have to be with this pregnancy or with its childhood or teenage years or adult life or even directly to Platypus.  Things go wrong because that is life.  And knowing that means I will fail this kid somehow.  I won’t respond the right way, say the right thing, make the right decision, whatever.  I will not be able to protect my kid from the world and I know, I know, I shouldn’t want to.  And I know that I have no control over whatever is going to happen and no amount of unhealthy denial about reality is going to change that fact.

So this is definitely the hormones talking.  That’s got to be it.  I’m going to eat some pudding, good night.

 

Stage: 21 weeks (2nd Trimester)

Weight: 145-ish

Boobs: More than a handful, according to Buddy

Mood: Not that great, a complete 180 from yesterday

 

Post Script:

Periodically, we hold little potlucks at work where people leave food in the break room that we shove into our faces during our 15 min breaks.  The last couple of days, the boss decided to do our Holiday potluck since the actual holidays are a freaking nightmare.  They also decided to have a mini-baby shower for me for lots of reasons, including Halloween being my favorite holiday and the other pregnant girl is further along than me (she actually quit right after they decided to do the baby shower, but they chose to do it anyway).

I got some wonderful gifts, all very practical and adorable and I don’t feel worthy of having such considerate and talented people to work with.  And it’s definitely the hormones that are making me tear up right now.

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I am Depressed


I am depressed.

I always hesitate to use that word, like it is a really awful racial slur.  What if someone with depression hears me?  Will they be offended?  What if a normal person hears me?  Will they hide all the sharp things?

Depression is a serious mental illness and I don’t want anyone to think that I’m making light of it.  Understand that being depressed is one thing and having Depression is a whole other country.  Probably Russia.

My uncle died last week.  I wasn’t especially close to him.  The last time we spoke was four or five years ago.  He never accepted my friend request on Facebook.  Though he was invited, he did not attend my wedding.  I have never met his wife.  His widow.

We found out about two and a half weeks ago that he had Cancer of the Everything and that he had a month to live.  Bit of a shock.  My husband came to tell me at work because he didn’t think I should hear about it in a text.  I was going to finish my shift.  Then I thought about my Mom and I almost lost it.  He’s her little brother, says my treacherous mind.  So I went home and called my Mom.  This wasn’t about my loss, it was about hers.

I have told you all before that I’m a narcissist.  I’m not kidding or exaggerating or fishing for assurances that I must care about other people.  The only reason I started feeling grief was by finding a way to make it about me.  What if it was my brother?  My husband?  And once I got that focus, I felt grief and could sympathize with my Mom.

As a narcissist, I do have to remind myself that the pain of others is not done to punish me.  I don’t need this reminder all the time, but sometimes at the worst moments Narcissist Me gets really insistent.

I told my Mom that I would come home immediately if she wanted me to.  She said, no there’s nothing I can do.  She was going on a business trip to Orlando the next week and then heading up to see him and get his financials figured out.

And when she was entering the Marriot in Orlando for the conference, she mistook the exit of the revolving door and when the back door slammed into her, she was knocked to the ground with a broken hip.  So along with her artificial hip (the 3rd, actually, but who’s counting when you’re born short a joint) she now has a metal appliance that runs from her knee up to her hip.

This happened Monday (15 Aug).  The plan was for my Dad and sister to drive down to Orlando to pick her up Saturday.  It’s a two day drive from where they live and they had to get off work and everything.  Meanwhile, my Mom has an operation and the whole week to sit in a hospital alone and I am only 11 hours away, 13 with traffic and rest/gas stops.  So on a whim, I got off work the rest of the week and drove down to be with my Mom.  This is a blend of altruism and narcissism at its best.  I don’t like her being alone and I get to be the Hero.

On the way, the plastic cover under my car came lose and dragged itself to pieces.  When I got to Florida, I used a Gerber to remove the last three bolts holding it up and shoved it in the back of my car because FAMILY CRISIS I HAVE NO TIME FOR YOU.

I arrived Wednesday evening.  Mom was very happy to see me.  I was very happy to see her.

Thursday, I was sick most of the morning.  It’s called travel tummy and is what happens when you drive almost non-stop for 13 hours and eat gas station sandwiches and hotel Cup-O-Noodles.  But then I spent the afternoon leisurely crocheting while Mom and I talked and watched Animal Planet.  I was worried about how much help she needed getting in and out of bed, how slowly she walked to the bathroom (with a walker), how the HELL she was going to navigate her home with its split-level layout (3 staircases and the bedroom and only bathroom on the third floor).

Just as I got up to head out for dinner, she gets a call from my Dad.  We have been getting updates from him and my sister since they started their drive that morning.

The car stalled in Kentucky.  They have to get it towed and get a hotel for the night.  It might not be done until Monday or Tuesday.  But the repair shop is lining up a rental car.

Mom, in her despair (it has been a rather rough week for her), gives up.  They’re gonna just go home.  The hospital wants to discharge me tomorrow and they’ll just go home.  Which is stupid and I told her so.  According to my sister, Dad is super scary when he is driving desperately to reach his wife.

(I have a pet theory that my Mom underestimates how much we care about her because she doesn’t value herself as important enough to love.  This insight comes from my own sinister distrust for the regard my husband has for me.  What is wrong with him that he loves me?  When is he going to realize the MONSTER mistake he made?  Then the thought passes, but this is the kind of evil low self-esteem can insinuate if you let it.)

However, desperation can lead to fast thinking.  I’m in Florida, I don’t have to be back to work until Sunday.  I can drive Mom to them in Kentucky.  Or we can meet them midway between here and there.  And then my sister suggests that we meet at my house.

Remember Narcissist Me?  Its the one who, instead of leaping at the chance of having my family home for a few days, thinks only of the imposition of having guests with almost no warning?  They would be getting there before me.  Would my husband feel put upon to play host to MY family when I’m not even there?  (The answer is no.  When I told him, he just said, “Okay, I’ll get the house ready.”  I really don’t deserve him.)

So I hedged.  You guys head to my place, I’ll get Mom out of the hospital, and we’ll finalize plans when we find out what’s wrong with the car.  If it’s a quick fix, we meet, exchange hostages, and go on our merry ways.  If not, then I suppose my house is big enough for everybody and has no stairs.

And I know I was short and snappish with my sister on the phone.  Because the hospital was taking so long to get everything settled (considering they were the ones insisting on kicking her out) and a part of me was angry that my family had failed to do this in such a way that it didn’t inconvenience me.  Now I had to drive Mom alone and there was so very much to worry about and what if I couldn’t handle it?  Or what if I had to do things I didn’t want to do?  What if something else awful happened and I had to deal all by myself?!?Instead of confronting these ridiculous fears, I lashed out at a natural target (my sister).  Whether or not she noticed doesn’t really matter.  Narcissist Me is still an asshole.

The hospital took forever to check Mom out, as I said, so we didn’t leave the hospital until after 2.  Then we had to go buy her a wheelchair, which took more time.  Then there was traffic.  We got from Orlando to Savannah that day.  It was stressful.  Traffic, construction, and Mom in the backseat (because sliding doors made for easier entry).  Sleeping a lot (good).  Not eating or drinking water (bad).  We learned that the wheelchair was a must for rest stops unless we wanted to face muscle failure on the toilet.  We learned to back down ramps so we wouldn’t slam her bad leg into the ground.  We learned that grocery delis never have fried chicken when you need it most.  We learned that hotels can and will put handicapped rooms on the third floor and put the bed as far from the bathroom as possible (but thank gawd for bathtubs with built-in seats).  I remembered that I’m not squeamish about things like nudity.  (Remember Basic Training?  Showering with a bunch of naked women is only sexy in the movies.  In reality it’s all stretch marks and C-Section scars.)

I learned that it is okay to be stressed by the enormity of the situation, but it is not okay to bring that stress to the bedside of your broken, grieving mother.  Deep breathes.  It is going to be okay.  Or if not okay, it’s going to keep going.  She doesn’t need your negative energy.

Narcissist Me had to be reminded that she didn’t break her hip just to vex me.

Saturday, Mom rode in the front seat so we didn’t need the walker to get her into the chair.  It was nice because it was easier to chat and I didn’t have to worry that she wasn’t getting air from the A/C and could hear the audiobook (I let her pick the new one).  We got home safe, though later than I wanted because stupid Fayetteville.  How can there ALWAYS be traffic, Fayetteville?  And where are your Panera signs?  I know there were two right off of 95, but not a single freaking sign!?!  Rude.

I hugged my husband.  I hugged my Dad.  I lost it a bit with my sister because we kind of bear the burden of responsible older siblings.  It isn’t an evil burden and not one I regret.  One day, it will be up to us to take care of the most important people in our lives, which is only right since they are the reason we grew to be responsible adults.  It’s still not something one likes to be reminded of too early in the game, though.

Mom said, “You shouldn’t have to see me this way.”  By which she meant, so helpless.

I said, “I’m your daughter.”  If not me, then who?

The family left Sunday (21st).  They arrived home Tuesday.  Uncle Ted passed Wednesday night.

And we found out Thursday.  I was at work on my break, finally able to check my phone, though I had heard it go off earlier.

I have an Android, by the way.  My family mostly have iPhones.  When they send a group text, their texts stay in the group.  I get individual texts.  And even better, I actually just get the message “You have multimedia ready to download.”  Every freaking time.  So I get fifty individual texts from all my family that I have to go though and “download message” for all of them, most of which are responses to the original text, which may or may not have downloaded yet.  It is fracking frustrating.  Especially since I can’t seem to leave the group, so continue to get any and all messages sent between members of the group to each other.  Also, I don’t know if when I’m sending a message whether it is to the individual I intend or to the entirety of the group.  Dozens of messages all at once, none of which I can read.  It could be anything or nothing.  Hey, Mom broke her hip.  Just random banter between my brothers.

Anyway, when my phone went off, I looked at the screen.  This is not something I normally do because it’s against policy.  But I had been expecting news of some sort.  My screen said it was my Mom and the message was (MMS), which meant it was another G-D group text I’d have to download just to read.  This was actually a good thing, since that meant I could read it in the privacy of the break room and get all emotional.

I was very sad.  And then I was horrified.  Here’s how we found out that my mom’s brother had died:

A coworker of her other brother, Joe, had seen a post on Ted’s college Facebook page (he was a percussion instructor) announcing his death.  Joe called my Mom.  Mom texted us.  My youngest brother posted on our sibling Facebook group just to make sure that everyone heard.

This is not how anyone should learn of the death of their brother, however estranged.

His widow, who I imagine is not in a good place right now, has not returned my Mom’s calls, so we don’t know when the funeral is.

I shouldn’t be this bitter and angry.  As I said, we weren’t close.  Still, it hurts to realize just how “not close” we were.

I told my siblings to swear that this wouldn’t happen to us.  However far away we are from each other, that is not how I want us to lose each other.  Not through the Social Media Rumor Mill.

So I am depressed.  Sad was that awful half an hour of me crying in the break room.  Because he was family and I missed my chance to be closer to him.  Because I read touching tributes to all the lives he touched, all his grateful students and fellow professors, and I had barely given him a thought until this all happened.

And since then, I have had a weight of grief on my chest.  It is harder to smile and be chipper.  It is a challenge to care about other people and their problems.  I don’t want to hustle anywhere or do anything.  And when people ask me how I’m doing, I have to lie when I say I’m fine.  I’m not, obviously.  But no one wants an honest answer when they’re in line to buy fabric or whatever.  Some of them don’t even respond when I ask them how they are.  (Which hurts, by the way.  Please have the common courtesy to at least look at the person at the register.)  Even with coworkers and friends, I don’t just come out and say it.  I want to say I’m fine so I don’t ruin their day (I think?), but I hesitate because I’m a naturally forthright person.

How am I?  My uncle died.  How are you?

I’m feeling complex emotions.  Grief and remorse and regret and anger and shame.  And I’m taking notes on all of this because I’m a writer and this is good material.

How am I?  I’m depressed.  That is absolutely the perfect word for the stage I am in.  Sad is an adjective with strict boundaries of place and time (in my head, anyway).  And sad is also insufficient and two dimensional.  Depressed, well that can be a verb and so very complex.  It is a heavy cloak I wear that sometimes shrouds me from all light, and sometimes billows out in a breeze of humor, only to settle again moments later.  Hilarious tickle fight followed by an insidious whisper in my head.  Don’t forget your uncle died.  Oh.  Right.

It’s a cloak I want everyone to see without me pointing it out.  I don’t want to tell people that my uncle died and it’s complicated.  I want them to know, obviously, so they don’t worry if I’m not acting like myself.  But I don’t want to have to see their looks of horror or pity or whatever because I’m not sure how I feel about all of this, just that I’m depressed and it will pass.

This is not the kind of attention I crave as a narcissist.  I only want praise.  I don’t know how to handle pity but to shrug it off and lie that it’s fine, not that bad, that’s life, we weren’t that close, I’m not hurt by this loss at all.

I was so depressed when I found out about his cancer that I couldn’t bake.  I bake convulsively when I’m stressed.  Ask anyone who knows me and most of them will blame me for their weight gain.  But the idea of entering my kitchen to do anything was exhausting.  I could crochet, but only because it kept me off my phone.

When he died, after that awful week and the stressful drive (and seeing my Mom in such rough shape from it all), I didn’t think I could even write about this.  Too personal, too close.  I’d have to write things I don’t want people to know about my family, or write things I don’t want my family to know about me.  (For some reason, I can’t sensor autobiographical works.)  I would have to be honest in a way I’m not sure I want people to see.  But my husband, whom I’ve already mentioned as being far too amazing to be stuck with me, assured me that none of this would ever stop me from writing.  Apparently, he knows me pretty well.

He has been very sweet and supportive, reminding me that my family is his family, too.  When it came down to it, my family needed help and he had no reservations in giving it.  That’s how I want to be, and I am after I shut out Narcissist Me.  Bottom line, that’s the lesson of this story.  You don’t have to like your family.  You just need to be there if you can.

Friday, he took me on an “Eff This Week” day.  We went down to the beach and had an expensive lunch and then Cold Stone, because Ice Cream, that’s why.

We got more bad news, but from Buddy’s family.  His Uncle Danny passed last night.  It wasn’t as sudden, since he had been in bad health for a while, but it was still a blow.  He also had a sister who is falling apart right now and family in pain.  And my husband is hurting, though he’s not so obvious about it as I can be.  He will probably be depressed, just like me.  But we will find ways to laugh and move on and remember sweeter times, and eventually hang up the cloak until the next time.

Depressed is not an evil or shameful word.  It is not an admission of weakness.  It is not employed for shock value or because I’m being overly dramatic or seeking attention.  I don’t want attention for this feeling.  I want attention for being awesome.  I don’t use it to illicit pity.  I use it because it is the truest description for my emotional state.  And I’m only using it because I need to explain for some reason.  There’s nothing wrong.  Life happened.  I’m depressed.  It will pass.

And now I can just refer people here instead of revisiting all the awfulness of the last few weeks every time someone wants to know what’s the matter.  Go read my blog.  I’m moving forward.  I think.  I hope.

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Angry War/Grammar Rant


This post is rated NC-17 for strong language.

 

I’ve been more ignorant of the news recently, choosing to listen to audiobooks on my drive than NPR (the only news source I can stomach besides Daily Show and Colbert Report).   Mostly this started because I discovered just how much a treasure trove my local libraries are.  But as ISIS (and whatever else the American Devil is calling them) becomes more and more active and word spreads of terrorist cells and attacks on American soil, I find that I am less inclined to shut off my book (currently Dexter’s Final Cut => yes, I would rather listen to a book about a serial killer than listen to the violence in the news) and catch up on recent events.

Before you start crying “isolationism won’t make it go away,” know that I am perfectly aware of this fact.  Even without basic history to demonstrate this, I’m married to the Army.  Can’t really pretend things don’t exist when they’re knocking at your door with a reminder that soldiers don’t exist for peacetime.   It’s getting serious again so something has to be done and the rumors are already flying about who is up to bat first.  Isolationism isn’t my goal at all.  The problem is that if I’m this angry all the time, my health is going to suffer.  You know, ulcers, headaches, insomnia.  And the jail time for all those murders isn’t going to help anything.  It’s just hard not to be angry when you hear all that craziness.  Especially spouting from the mouths of normally rational people.

“It may be time to take the proactive approach and start rounding them up and putting them in camps or deporting them. Otherwise, they will be doing it to us Christians and Jews.” – Facebook

” These terrorists want to kill us, plain and simple.  We have to kill them first.  It’s better on their soil than ours.” – NPR interview of retired cop.

I suppose what sets me off first, besides the ignorance of such statements, is the obvious errors in grammar.  You see, they both use anonymous, 2nd and 3rd person pronouns.  They, them, their, we, us, ours.  But that’s not what is meant, of course.  When they say we, what they mean is “someone-not-me.”  I recommend to anyone spewing blanket statements of this sort to make slight changes to their pronouns and see if the message still holds.  “I must start rounding Troy up and putting him in a camp before he does it to me.  Because, well, Troy’s a nice guy and a killer bass player, and he was in the Army a while and deployed with my husband.  But he’s a Muslim and I just can’t trust him.”  Doesn’t sound right once I replace the impersonal pronoun and it becomes my responsibility.  Now, you may not personally know a Muslim, so imagination may be your fist step in this process.  I wish I could compare this sort of “proactive” response to the “camps” set up for the Jews (and sundry) in Germany or the Japanese in America, since that would be instantly understood by everyone.  But that isn’t exactly right because those atrocities have a slightly different flavor to them and someone could bring up a valid counter-argument.  The Jews weren’t terrorists and the Japanese weren’t “relocated” because of their religion.  Fair point.  So how about the Protestant burnings of England during the Reformation?  They were also terrorists, a threat to the State trying to bring down the Apocalypse upon the Empire.  Maybe the Hugoenots are more your style?  Or the Catholics?  Do you remember the outcry against JFK because he was a Catholic and his presidency would open the door for the Pope to take over?

There is a lot of pressure out there to sacrifice our freedoms to gain greater safety, but I cannot, will not give up the freedom of religion.  The minute we start rounding up (hear how dehumanizing that phrase is?) Americans based on their religious beliefs and not their actual criminal activity, we lose in every way.  I shouldn’t have to explain this.  Religious freedom means for all, not just those beliefs you like.  If you don’t care for Islam for religious reasons, it isn’t your government’s job to do something.  Get your Bible/Torah/Watch Tower, etc, and start evangelizing.  It is their right to believe and your right to attempt conversion.  It is not your right to imprison someone because an extremist thousands of miles away is committing a murderous rampage, even if that extremist is in this country.  That is all I’m going to say about that.

That second statement needs some changes, too.  “I have to kill them first” works better for me.  But that’s not how it works, is it?  No, when people say “we” in this case, they don’t intend to rush off to the recruiter the next day to join the good fight.  Their “we” actually means “you.”  As in, “You need to send  soldiers into an knuckle-dragging game of hunt-and-peck against an enemy that doesn’t play by conventional rules of war, and can’t even be classified as one coherent enemy, while I sit at home, stroking my hunting rifle and telling my buddies about how if I was only twenty years younger, I’d give those terrorists what-for.”  Sorry for the redneck stereotyping here.  I did say I was angry.

They never mean “I’m going to leave my family for a pointless war we don’t know how to fight.”  “I’m going to risk my life, my health, my sanity, while guys in fancy suits bicker over who has the most patriotic lapel pin.”  “I’m going to come home after a frustrating struggle with no guarantee that I’ll have a job or retirement benefits because some people need to make sure their kids have sufficient trust funds.”  “I have to pray that I don’t suffer injury because there’s no telling whether I’ll have health benefits to cover my medical costs when I’m no longer fit for service because the people getting those benefits are too worried about the long-term side effects of sitting on their *sses and b*tching about how the other side are a bunch of chai-drinking nancies who are too scared of war to send my friends and family to die for their personal jet and thousand-dollar shoes.”

In case you were wondering, YES, I AM PRETTY F*CKING ANGRY.  While those f*ckers are out there saying we should do something, it’s us or them, why don’t they just send in the troops already, I hear something completely different.  Their impersonal pronouns don’t exist for me.  The troops aren’t just vague camo-dressed extras in the back of the glorious war movie.  They’re my friends, my family, closer to me in many ways than my blood-relatives can ever be.  If I was still in, I would still make an uproar, I’m sure, but at least I’d be there with them.  I’d know they were okay, I’d share the daily frustrations and irritations and that vague worry that maybe today the IDF won’t land harmlessly in some open desert space.  But I’m out and those f*cking civilians are demanding that my husband fixes this sh*t-storm when I know perfectly well that he’ll just be another anonymous cog in the war machine waiting to be forgotten just as soon as they get war-weary.

War-weary.  That’s a funny term.  Americans wanted out of Iraq and Afghanistan because they were war-weary.  They didn’t want to do anything in Syria because they were war-weary.  They want to pay ransoms to terrorists because they’re war-weary.  (Note my heavy-handed use of 3rd-person pronouns.  Pisses you off when people generalize, doesn’t it?)  Less than a percent of the US population is in the military and yet everyone is war-weary.  Tired of hearing about it in the news, tired of their hard-earned tax dollars being spent on it, tired because it just doesn’t seem to matter to their everyday lives.  I think the term everyone is looking for is war-bored.  You can’t get weary of something you don’t experience, don’t see the effects of each day.  You can’t get weary when it isn’t you ripped from your family or your spouse is left alone with a new baby.  Or when you deploy just as you start reconnecting with your 8-year-old daughter who hasn’t forgiven you for the last deployment when she was 5.  When you have sat day after day, breathing toxins from burn pits, checking your boots every day for vermin, eating and sleeping and working out because you don’t have a mission and your job is to be there and then go home and shut up until the next time.  When you have sat impotent while your friends went without you and you have wondered if the randomness of this conflict will take out someone you know this time, if maybe that safety you felt when you were there was just complacency and you were only lucky, after all.  Come to me then and tell me of your deep-boned weariness.  Maybe I’ll believe you.

I don’t know what to do about ISIS.  I’m not a war strategist.  I’m not even good at chess.  I don’t think sending in ground troops is going to be effective at this juncture, but I’m not in a position, nor do I have the full scope of the situation, to make that decision.  I just have to hope that the powers-that-be will actually take the time to develop a strategy before they start chucking soldiers/marines/sailors/airmen at this problem.  It is horrific what is happening out there, yes.  But this is not the time for simple solutions like “kill them before they kill us.”  War is not, can never be a simple solution.

What I ask is that you, my individual readers out there, think before you make grandiose statements about this problem.  If you follow my guidelines and become a liar with a simple adjustment to 1st-person pronouns, maybe you should rethink posting it on the Facebook.  If the boots on the ground aren’t going to be your boots, then shut the f*ck up.

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15AM00000082011 · 08:44

Catching Up


Last week, I was in California taking a much-needed break from just about everything.  They say that one shouldn’t advertize vacations on the internets, so I took a break from my writing.  It has been unusually difficult to get back on the habit, so I guess during the next vacation, I will have to do my writing but delay my posting.

While I was away, a lot of things went south.  My mom and my older brother are on (what I like to call) down cycles.  It upsets me a lot when they get this way.  Which is my narcissism peeking out.  Their struggles are not a reason for me to feel sorry for myself because there’s nothing I can do.  So instead of fretting over my own feelings of helplessness, I’m going to turn it over to God because I do not have the training or resources to help them, beyond empty, encouraging comments on their respective blogs.  They know I love them and support them.

My youngest brother is still in the neglectful arms of the Army, waiting helplessly while they decide his future and (presumably) lose his paperwork.  Nothing I can do there either.  Nothing but disappointment and regret and a thin slice of guilt because I convinced him to join in the first place under the mistaken belief that it might be good for him.  Stupid of me to think that, not when all the evidence showed otherwise.  I know lots of people who use the military to pull themselves up and others who use it as an excuse to fall down.  The Army doesn’t make them do anything.  Whatever they become was there already.  I was a bully long before the Army.  Rank just made me better at it.

Oh, and my sister-in-law has been having labor pains for days now.  Which I don’t find out until I see her request for prayers on the Facebook earlier today.  (Again, Narcissist Me is pissed off because I had to hear it from social media.)

This did genuinely make me angry.  I’m really worried about her and my soon-to-be niece.  I’m worried about my little brother because it’s only his second child and this is a little early for her to be getting labor pains.  And I’m really angry because they’re not telling me means (to me) that they don’t think I care.  (Logically, I know they have much bigger things to worry about, but who am I to start thinking logically at this late juncture?)  Last time, I got a text that she was going into labor and then I heard nothing until I texted the next day to see if everything was all right.  See, when they didn’t let me know that they were Braxton-Higgs (false) contractions, I assumed that no news meant bad news.  I spent a whole day thinking that something had gone horribly wrong and they were too freaked out to tell me.  That’s how my mind works.

The other reason this specific lapse in communication pissed me off is because last month I let slip that Buddy might be going to Korea.  I did the equivalent of a Facebook sigh (vague status update that makes people bug you until you respond with answers).  It was dumb, I know, but I honestly didn’t think that many people would respond so quickly.  My sister freaked a bit, which really put me off my game.  I get it now, I guess.  She’s a civilian and doesn’t know what Korea means.  It’s got it’s benefits and inconveniences, but I was angrier about the early assignment change than about the choices (though they were pretty atrocious considering Korea was the best option).  It is really not a big deal.  I really shouldn’t have said anything until we got orders, but I wanted to rant and get sympathy.  You understand.

After explaining most of this to her and my siblings, she let me know that she didn’t like hearing about this kind of thing from the Facebook.  I get that, too.  I just forgot that our levels of importance vary significantly.  Army BS is something I’m used to.  People get shunted off to new assignments at bad times, regulations change, paperwork is lost, etc.  It’s everyday life for us.  I get frustrated, sure, especially when fat cats are stealing funding to line their own greasy pockets, but it’s not worth special announcements until you have the paperwork because nothing is certain until you have orders in your hand.  Instead, I worry about people’s health and well-being, like pregnancies and sick kids and down cycles.  Those are things I can’t brush off as the normal BS.

The short of it is, none of my Army buddies, spouses included, were worried when I said Korea.  It was an “Oh, damn, but that’s the Army for you” moment.  It’s difficult to remember that most of my family weren’t trained for this, so I shouldn’t get offended when they point out that some announcements should be done privately before they are done publicly.  This is me chided.

Obviously, it’s okay for me to hear about difficult pregnancies over social media while it is unacceptable for them to hear about a temporary duty change from the same source.  I suppose I should feel flattered that she was so concerned, especially after I had to beg to find out if her daughters had received the birthday cards I sent (all it takes is a simple thanks via text or the Facebook, just so I know that the card made it and the gift card wasn’t stolen).  Which let’s you know that I can be especially petty when I want to be.  And I have unresolved issues with my sister.

Well, this started as a brief reintroduction and ended up being a terrible introduction to my family.  If it helps, my older brother and I had a very humorous conversation about switch-sporks today which really made my afternoon.  I think I’m in a down cycle, too, so I shall sign off until tomorrow, wherein I will recount my Cali adventures!

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15AM00000032011 · 03:01