Christmas Eve

Hello out there again.

For the first time in... I think forever? I'm alone on Christmas Eve Day. It's been since about 11am. It's weird.

Baby D and the Hubs had a plan to try something new today, but I had already arranged to have a Christmas gift installed on our non-carseated car.

I miss them, but hope they are having lots of fun!

This time of year the true spirit of Christmas has really hit me. I'm so grateful for Baby D. She is everything that is right with the world... her joy, her zest for life, her exuberance, her open heart, her shine. She just SHINES. Even in the face of an emotional mama, in the face of some of the shit out in the world.

She SHINES, and I'm so proud of her.
Proud to be her mama, and so happy that she is in my life.
So happy that the Hubs is such a rock solid Daddy and partner.

I still wonder how the poor bastard wasn't snapped up by some other brilliant University student back in the day. I feel like my life has blossomed and flourished with his caring heart.

I bitch sometimes about perceived misgivings, or little disagreements we have sometimes. But on the whole, it's pretty damn amazing.

And Baby D has a bright future. We both want the best for her... I want that positivity to carry her on. I don't want the patriarchal world to tell her she matters less as a girl, or that she isn't worthy. I don't want her to think her looks/face/body are what defines her. I want her to know that her strong heart, capable body and mind are what make her HER. Make her valuable and special.

That she can do whatever she puts her mind to. That she can accomplish anything with enough practice and patience (and maybe some luck, too). That she can't be kept down, or silenced, or be bullied into acquiescence. I want her to know that, and feel that, and believe it with her whole being.

I love her with my whole being.

We have stuff under the tree and we donated this year. I feel really lucky that we can do that. But it's what's between these walls every day of the year that matters the most.

Shit gets hard. I get sick. Sometimes I'm sicker than others. But the love remains the same.

Merry Christmas.

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Hello Out There

I have approximately six minutes to write a riveting post before I go pick up Baby D from one of her classes.

Okay, a post. Probably not riveting.

I've been sick since the end of September. I did Mudderella Whistler back then, and was awarded with a purple headband, my first obstacle race without a new injury, and a wicked cough that turned into whatever the fuck this is, that's still in my lungs nearly three months after.

It's been a rough year. Although, they all seem to have been for the past four years or so.

I'm really hoping that 2017 is a little better. I've made some changes. I've made some hard decisions. I'm working on my parental anger because I don't want to make Baby D feel like how my father used to make me feel. I've learned that so much of what we do with our own kids is a result of "ghosts in the nursery" where we basically redo the shit that messed with us when we were little. And my kiddo deserves better than that. It's a process, but I keep trying to repeat "only love today" when she does something that makes my anger flare up.

I am on the tail end of the flu. I'm hoping as my fatigue lessens and I start to adjust to my own new skin, I will have energy to get back into hot yoga and the gym.

You should see the state of my house right now. Weeks of illness and fatigue are starting to bury us in clutter and Christmas shit piling up on all the surfaces. I hope that I can get through it and tidy it.

I'm not sure if it is braces, or congestion, or flu stuff, or my nearly non-coffee drinking status that is basically giving me a headache 24/7. Tylenol doesn't seem to help, but Advil cold & sinus gets me jacked in a weird way that I'd rather not experience.

Fingers crossed I come out of this icky health stuff and start to recover all around.

I haven't had any wine since November 5th! Crazy. And so good.

I guess that's it for now.

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Help for Cymbalta Withdrawal - This Could Save Your Life! (Duloxetine Withdrawal)

I promise to return to my attempt at humour after this post.

PLEASE NOTE: I am NOT a medical professional and this is only my personal opinion and experience. Please talk with your doctor for treatment options, and NEVER self-medicate. Stay safe.

This post is a serious one, and it is offering up a possible solution to the brain zapping, shivers, shaking, nausea hell from Cymbalta withdrawal (Duloxetine withdrawal) that I experienced personally.

After attempting to taper my dose of Cymbalta (with my doc's approval and instruction), I was still violently ill. Even reducing my dose by granules left me feeling like I was going to die. Anything less than my full dose made me feel so unbelievably ill.... I wish it on no one. After days of suffering, and a trip to the hospital emergency room, I was connected with a doctor who did all she could to find a solution.

I was literally shaking uncontrollably in front of her and every time I moved my eyeballs, I'd get a brain zapping sensation in my head, like a live wire was electrocuting me between my ears.

Another drug may help and/or shorten your suffering.

The solution to Cymbalta withdrawal for me?
A low dose of fluoxetine aka Prozac aka Sarafem.

SERIOUSLY.

Not a full dose, it was literally 20 mg. And it brought me back from incredible suffering and the uncontrollable side effects of discontinuing Cymbalta.

It is meant as a short term buffer. From all I've read and understand, the worst physical withdrawal symptoms of Cymbalta/Duloxetine last for about three weeks after stopping the medication. I am personally very sensitive... being on the medication made me feel unwell every day, which was a big part of why I needed to get off of it. But I've tried many antidepressants over my lifetime and this was, by far, the most hellish and debilitating to stop. Never mind having to take care of a preschooler.

So please... even if you don't wish to be on another medication long term, consider this gap-stop action to save yourself from suffering. I was at the end of my rope from the physical illness I was feeling from Cymbalta withdrawal. The fluoxetine was a life saver. Just a low dose of fluoxetine (Prozac) was all it took to let me cope. I still experienced some of the symptoms, but at a fraction of the intensity.

So, this blog as a whole has been viewed over 320,000 times. If this one post about Cymbalta and Prozac can help even one person, it's worth publishing. And for those who know me personally and wish to judge me for my candor... well... Imma bite my tongue on that one.

Talk to your doctor. If they aren't familiar with this treatment protocol, ask them to speak to a hospital pharmacist, or a colleague who may be more familiar with Cymbalta in general.

Please don't suffer any more than you already are.

I'm sending light and love and hoping this information can help someone out there.
Any questions, please email me via the address on the "Contact Us" page, though I cannot give any specific medical advice, because I am just a regular schmuck and no doctor.


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Coming off of an antidepressant, with a preschooler, and very little sense of hope

Here I sit. Quite still actually. There are hot tears rolling down my face and I'm pretty sure that my lab is merely sitting beside me out of pity. And you know what? I'll take it.



Say what you will about stigmas, and widespread knowledge of mental health, and acceptance. Say what you want about fighting a good fight, and remembering there are brighter days ahead.

Then imagine yourself curled up in the fetal position on the dog-drool covered couch, face mashed into a blanket, fancy mascara crumbling in a hot stream down your cheeks, too ill to move. Every eyeball shift, every head tilt resulting in a brain zapping hell that can't be described unless truly experienced.

It really sucks because it feels so lonely. The text to your hubby that says you're suffering probably just comes off as melodramatic. The physical pain and the physical withdrawal from the antidepressant Cymbalta.

But add in one more factor.

Have your wonderful, lively, bright eyed preschooler ask you repeatedly to please play with her Paw Patroller toys. You just can't. And then she sees your sobbing, messy face. And wants to know why you're crying.

My feeble attempts to explain that mommy's body is ouchy and that mommy just feels so sick just feel meaningless. I can't explain that this is a long fought battle that seems to keep ending in failure. That mommy is trying to find a way to be happy after a lifetime of hurt from various places, and a chemical imbalance in my brain.

That mommy hasn't slept through the night in over three years, and that Cymbalta has been the culprit for a good 18 months of that. I now see it's made me an angrier person and I've wasted some of her most formative years suffering physically from the effects of the drug.

And it isn't my first rodeo.

And I can't actually walk upstairs on my own accord at the moment, so I listen to her jam away on her piano Gramma bought her, while she sings her own made up song that she wants mommy to be happy. And that she is sad when mommy is sad. Seriously. Feeling low and then lower.

And as I can gut wrenchingly visualize her sitting in her therapist's office 15 years from now, she still manages to get a brain-buzzingly silent giggle out of me as she wiggles her butt to her song.

She tells me I'm a good mommy and all I can reply with is choked sobs. Counting the minutes until my mentally stable husband walks through the door.

Why am I writing this? I really don't know. I guess it's just really painful so I wanted some of it out of my head.

We went to a play date earlier in the day. I've been altering between no medication and a tapered dose. With Cymbalta, you can't just cut pills in half, you just dump granules out of a capsule. I haven't counted, I've just been slugging through. So I didn't want to miss her play date.

In a room full of joyous kids and happy moms and I feel like I'm dying. But I try to smile. I try. I try to joke, I try. The more of a downer I am, the less people want to be around me, for good reason. Everyone is fighting their own battles. No one wants someone in their life that is constantly negative or focused on all that is wrong. I've been told, more than once, that person is me.

It is just getting really old. Exhausting.
I want more for her.

And it hurts to feel so alone.

Oct. 28, 2016.


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Parenting With Anxiety: Park Edition

So, I bet this will probably shock every one of you.
I have anxiety.

I know, right?

You were all thinking that I am so COMPLETELY easy going, and carefree, and relaxed. My writing style, my self love... and BAM, outta nowhere I just hit you with that nugget.

It's true. It's crippling. It's hard to navigate.

Now, try having to deal with that AND a child who fuels/nourishes herself solely on that anxiety. And maybe some booby milk and pasta, too. But definitely lives for thrills.

Those two things combined lead me to be frazzled and fizzled out EVERY.SINGLE.DAY. By 11am.

Here's a look inside my head during a trip to the park.

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*unbuckles Baby D from carseat*

I hope this is installed right. I can't imagine the horror if something were to happen and I had just been too lazy or forgetful or tired to look up the proper parameters and installation. That's probably why I hate taking her in and out of her car seat so much.

Did I just say hate? Like as if I hate having to haul her around? That's just dumb. 

*tells Baby D to be careful and wait a second because we are near a road and she needs to hold my hand before crossing*

Jesus I should have grabbed my wallet first, I hate having her behind me out of her seat. I know if I let my guard down, that'll be when she bolts into traffic. But we've taught her traffic danger. But maybe I need to reiterate it again? Make it scarier so it sticks? No, she'd need therapy later in life probably. Jesus, pay attention woman.

*holds her hand, crosses street toward park entrance*

Uuuuugh. Those after school daycare ladies are judging me already. Do I look extra fat in this? Probably. They'd better not judge my parenting. They will. Who cares? Well, I'm thinking about it, so I guess I care.

*watches Baby D climb high ladder, effortlessly, simultaneously standing close enough to catch her while trying not to be her shadow*

That's awesome this kid is so fearless and agile. I hope she slows down though on that tall ladder. Once she knows she's got it, she looks around too much. Geez that makes me nervous.

*reminds Baby D to watch where her feet are and not to go too fast. Tells her she's doing a great job and that she is soooo strong. Asks if she needs help*

I bet I'm hovering over her too much. But this is a playground designed for 5 and older and munchkin is only 3. But tall. She's so tall. I hope that boys still play with her when she's school aged. I hate all the gender bullshit. She's tougher than kids older than her. She's tougher than me.

*sits on wood edging of playground*

Ah crap... that was close. She's so fast. Why did The Hubs teach her to raise her feet when she's going down the slide like that? She almost flew off again. She loves it, but that'll hurt if she lands on her back on the ground. Friction. Geesh, this kid needs NO MORE SPEED.
My butt crack is hanging out again. I should have worn a longer shirt. I'm so gross. I bet all the skinny moms think I'm just a lazy pig. I guess I kind of am, but I don't mean to be.

If you think this is scary, you should try watching her speed climb a seven foot rock wall.

*shouts for Baby D to STOP! Don't make that 4' jump straight down!*

Oh god. I looked down for a second and she almost fell. I cannot let my guard down. She's so fast and crazy. Man I love her. Jesus my heart in is my throat. That other little kid wants to play with her. Oh man, I hope I don't have to parent anything with the other kid. Especially if she's with the daycare and not her own parent(s). She seems nice enough.
 How can the daycare people watch so many kids at once? Dalia would have run away by now if I weren't here.

Am I creepy? I'm staring at them both. And smiling. All creepster. It's cute this kid wants to play with her, but I feel like most kids can't totally understand what she's saying. But I don't want to follow them around. I have to pee. There are no bathrooms here, dammit.

I hope I'm doing this right. Should I be letting her climb all this at 3? I can't stop her wild, fearless nature. I don't want to stifle her or scare the adventure out of her. Man she's running fast up there. I hope she doesn't bang heads with anyone. Is she too little to be here? She overpowers the little tot lots around here now. She's so tall and strong that she kind of hops and she's at the top. I don't like those older girls hogging the rings. Pretty sure they just told them to go away. Grrr, don't make mama bear step in. Why isn't the daycare lady saying anything? Okay, they ran away and don't seem to care. 

Aw man, I wish that girl would slow down on the curved ladder. Baby D is trying to keep up with her, but she's at least a few years older.

*Reminds Baby D to watch where she is putting her feet. Baby D slips off but gets caught. Regains footing*

Ohgawd that was close. I don't know what I'd do if she got really hurt or broke something. I can't keep her in a bubble but...

*tells Baby D NOT to climb over the 7' tall rock climbing wall railing to imminent injury*

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Okay. That was approximately 7 minutes at the park. Good times. I got super anxious just typing that and it was literally just the tip of the iceberg of thoughts.

I'm so chill.

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Now Is The Time

For what?

Fucked if I know.

I read it on a fortune cookie Sunday night.

It could mean now is the time to get rid of my clutter. In my house and in my mind. One would make Hubby happy, and the other would make both of us happy.

It could mean just give up already, WTF, more attempts at success/health/fun/fitness that resulted in epic failures, so FFS, just toss in the ol' towel already and stop the broken record from spinning like it does.

It could mean the time is right for another glass of wine. But probably not. My poor girlfriends who attended the Eve & Gwen Stefani concert with me could tell you that. Until I clean out that brain clutter, wine might just make me emotionally barf everywhere... and let's just say I'm a VERY ugly crier/emotional barfer.

To put down the wheat-filled fortune cookie?

It could mean it's time to let a family member go. And I'd be okay with that. I know they have already moved along, so perhaps it's time for me to accept it and set the boundaries for my own mental health. Learning at 36 that someone so close to you is the textbook definition of a narcissist is pretty tricky. Kind of completes that HUGE missing link in therapy for the last 20 years, but, hey, WHO'S COUNTING!?!

It could mean I should write a blog post again. But I doubt it. I feel like that fortune cookie probably doesn't even KNOW something like Blogger exists.

Maybe I will at least try to tackle the first point. While writing out the last point.
Now, to play the lottery with the numbers on the back or not....


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Goddammit. All the things.

You have no idea how many times I have mentally prepared myself to sit down at my dusty-assed laptop to write a blog post.

About things. So many things. All the things. ALL THINGS. But then, in my head, I can't justify spending time doing something so purely for myself with no tangible benefit without first accomplishing one of my many failed tasks around the house. So I start by tidying up, or loading and starting the dishwasher...

(which is a masterful skill if you ask me because I manage to fit EVERYFUCKINGPOSSIBLE dishwasher-safe dirty dish in there, if it's the last thing I do. And when I'm feeling particularly risque, I toss in one or two dangerously NOT dishwasher-safe items. I like to spice it up and play Russian Roulette with deadly melty plastic in the components of the machine. Will it melt? Will I ruin the 17-year old dishwasher and HAVE to get a new one? Will it all work out fine? Oooooh, who knows, I am SO living on the edge right now*. 

Usually this thought process is interrupted by Baby D requesting that I help wipe her bum.

But, as I was saying, I'm WILD, y'all).

So, at least if I have accomplished something, then I feel like it's not so bad to sit down and blog.

#nofilter bwhahahaha

Funny thing though, once I tidy the counter minimally and try to get the dishwasher started, my bird brain sees something shiny and then gets totally derailed. And not in the oh-hey-I'm-on-a-roll-Imma-keep-cleaning type of derailment. It's so much like an old forwarded email I read. I see one thing I really wanted to deal with so I pick that up, and walk to the location where I wanted to file/read/call/clean/complete it, and I remember that I need to do something more time-sensitive, like start laundry then while I know I'll be home long enough for the machine to run.

To the basement I will go, but realize I forgot those two items on the top floor I needed, so go get them, and then this process repeats itself until it's time to get Baby D from Preschool, or she needs me in some other form, and tasks are stopped because, well, crazy preschooler.

I manage to never fully complete ANY task, nor do I get started at the laptop. Nope. I get 893,274 things 10, or 20 or 50% completed. I create more mess in the process. I feel even more like a failure for being so discombobulated**, stressed at the mess, and worse off at the end of the day.

That blog post? I remember it as my drowsiness-inducing allergy medicine kicks in, while I am in bed, at a time later than it should be. And the idea dies for another day.

So far, this post has taken one preschool trip, one laundry round, two preschooler negotiations, an indoor dog shit, a urgent foam fill spill vacuuming, and one pee being painfully held in, just to get here.

Anyway, I'm sure that most people who used to come here once and a while and read have given up on me. And I wouldn't blame them. But I really miss writing. I miss brain-vomiting all over this here Blogger page. I need to write more and want to write more. Even if it is just for the sake of cleaning out a dusty corner in the ol' bird brain.

* I am not a completely reckless person. I still make sure that plastic shit is top rack. I'm not a madwoman. Geesh.
** That word is so much fun.


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The End of Nursing My Toddler?

A few nights ago, we'd had an okay day, but I was so grumpy. All the posts I've failed to finish on here have been about my health trials and tribulations since last June. Injury, illness, injury, illness, surgery gone wrong, more illness, then another illness. I was feeling the worst of last said illness.

This last illness is mastitis. Pretty sure it was from my new venture of trying to learn to run properly (as opposed to the clusterf*ck that was me trundling through a half-marathon in September without adequate training...) with my new sports bras. Those puppies squished the girls so much, my milk ducts on ole righty decided to reply with anger and pain. For those unaware, mastitis is basically a brutal boob infection.

The chemical content can change in breast milk during mastitis and the baby/toddler may not like the taste of the milk. While this was surely happening with Baby D, I also felt pretty sure she was approaching self-weaning from my milk. I decided 2 years ago that I would let her decide when to stop nursing, but I felt this sad dread that those moments of our lives would be over soon.

But I digress.

On antibiotic #2 for mastitis, I was so so bloody tired and run down.
Weak, with no patience.
That night I realized all I had done was criticize and basically be a bitch to Baby D all day. I crawled into her bed while she slept so beautifully... so peacefully. I looked at her angelic face and her tiny nostrils flaring, ever so gently, and realized that she doesn't deserve the wrath of my health woes. She didn't ask me to start running, or to lose weight or do anything other than be her mommy. But yet she gets the brunt of my bad mood and short temper when I am once again down and out.

I cried. Like a real little bitch. True sobbing, but the kind a mom does so no one can hear. Like holding a tornado inside of your body. I shook her pillow unintentionally. She roused slightly as I stroked her face and hair. I planted a kiss on her tiny forehead and thought about how she will master this world, that no one can or should keep her down (most of all, ME), that she is going to do incredible things in her lifetime, and I thought of how pure and wonderful and HAPPY she is. And that this would be the last night I put my 2 year old to bed. Maybe the last time my little toddler would nurse had already happened.

I felt sad and scared of the world, yet full of love.

As if sensing my upset, do you know what my fiery little snowflake did, as if on cue?
She dug her finger so far into her nostril that I'm certain she found gold.

AND IT WAS BRILLIANT.
It was what I needed. A reality check. A slap of BE HERE NOW, WOMAN!
And I giggled. Watching her pick her nose in her sleep was just utterly perfect.

It doesn't need to be all about my pre-disposition-to-all-things-depressed-and-extremely-anxious.

It was so cute and fitting.

She rallied up there for a while, then her hand fell back down on the pillow beside my face. Gawd I love her. I left her room with a smile.

I realized that she's going to keep close to me and keep me on my toes, no matter what comes our way. Not much I can do on the health front... I'm trying my best. I just have to remember to keep trying. And remember that she'll be 3, and her place in this world matters far less to her right now than boogers.

And it's kind of wonderful that way.

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1 Billion Rising: Rape Doesn't Work Like That

*Trigger Warning*

In a world where 1 in 3 women will be beaten or raped in their lifetime, a call to action is a must. I do realize that there are female rapists, but for the purpose of this blog I am addressing the male rapist/female victim scenario that is all too common).

I happened upon this short video yesterday and learned about the 1 Billion Rising movement.

Drawing attention to an important issue like that should be commended. However, I can't help but feel rage and disbelief that they could, would and did depict an attempted rape scene as they did.

As I began watching the video, I could feel my body tensing up at the violence on the screen. As both a survivor of assault and rape, I felt the nausea immediately when I saw the man's hand over the woman's mouth as he held her down (among the many other atrocities in the video).

It was sickening, and it happens all too frequently.

The video description reads:

Published on 20 Sep 2012

*Trigger Warning* A film by Eve Ensler and Tony Stroebel.
Please spread far and wide w/this tweet: Rise up on 2-14 to end Violence against Women in a global event!

If you want to watch the video, I've posted the link right here.

My anger stems from the uprising portion of the video. Yes, you read that right.
As women unite around the world, taking a stance against the abuse and assault, there is a projected sense of increased energy; power. STRENGTH.

This is awful. And incredibly misleading. (Source)

It appears that the woman who is being raped frees herself, only when she seems to feel the strength and energy to push harder and be stronger. I watched it again with my husband, to double check, and I thought that perhaps the male becomes unconscious or something, but not clearly defined. He felt it portrayed the same message that I did.

As a survivor, this is what the video tells ME:
- If you want to escape rape you must realize how strong you are and fight back with your power.

READ: Hey, you were raped, guess you didn't fight hard enough/be strong enough/realize you didn't have to be raped, dumbass.

Additionally, I'm pissed off because of the younger kids, teens, and many women who will watch this video, they will watch it once. It may or may not imprint on them, but if it does, what a message to send. What an atrocious message to send.

RAPE IS NOT a matter of strength on the victim's part.
RAPE IS NOT prevented by the victim.
RAPE IS NOT one woman, or many women, or all the women, or all the women in the world's responsibility to stop.

Yes, awareness of this epidemic is necessary. Yes... we, as a united world, men and women need to raise our collective voices to shout at the governing bodies that the sentences and consequences for rapists are not intense enough, that victims' voices need to be heard and respected during reporting, investigation, prosecution, and that society's general silencing of the frequency and seemingly acceptable occurrences are not. Mothers and Fathers need to teach their sons that raping is a disgusting, unacceptable and horrific violation of a woman and her body. Schools need to take it seriously. Every single occurrence. Every single child, girl, teen, woman, man.

BUT,
and I cannot add enough BOLD text or underlining to make this CRYSTAL FRIGGING CLEAR:

RAPE STOPS WITH THE RAPIST. 

I don't give a shit for any "yeah, but..." sentences. Don't imply I should rise above. Don't imply the onus is on me to be stronger. Fiercer. Louder.

If a woman (or man) says NO.... or STOP. Or is too compromised to consent (through intoxication or blackout) (yes, folks, that's also rape).

RAPE STOPS WITH THE RAPIST. 

END OF STORY.

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Ew

Do you ever just look at yourself in the mirror and think... EW.

?

Or Eeeeeeew. Gross.

?

Just curious.

Sidenote: It appears that 2016 is not my bitch. At all. Not at all. It would appear that so far, 2016 is leading me around on a leash. Check back soon. I'm sure that all this malbec, merlot, and upcoming surgery will SURELY improve my chances.

Peace out.

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Goddammit 2016...

So I post about 2016 being my bitch...

And now I've been on and off the toilet for the past many days. And was so weak yesterday I slept for most of the day, and missed a friend's baby shower.

I'm so weak, I get winded changing my toddler's diaper. Mind you, she's a mover and a shaker, but still.

2016 has already bitten me in the ass.

Jeez.


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Indecent Proposal: 2016, will you be my bitch?

I have a quadrillion drafts in Blogger that I've lost interest in and failed to publish.

I've been up and down. And more down. And kind of desperate. And not in any fun fashion kinda going down.

I've been hurt. Injured all but 2 weeks of the last half of 2015. I've crossed a half-marathon off of my bucket list (more to come on that, if I ever finish the post), but my soul has been aching. My constant pain and lack of mobility has put me in the dumps, and made me a worse parent.

However, it's 2016 up in here.

I feel mildly, as well and forever awkwardly, wiser this year, at least when it comes to my own likelihood of injury. All the naysayers said... and were... essentially... correct. But. It's done.

So, I'm putting this out there. And I know that typically, whenever I've had a modicum of confidence or assurance, it comes back to bite me in the ass. HARD. But I'm going to do this anyway.

2016, I'm coming for you.
You're gonna be my bitch.

It's happening.

2016 will be by bitch.


That is all.


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