Day 7: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty

 

 

 

 

Day #7 Question: The worst thing that could happen to me is…

I’ve noticed that as these days are rolling by my posts are getting more and more honest.  This one is no exception.  I must preface this by saying that if you haven’t read the book Your Changing Body, you may want to check it out before reading this post.  Also, if you’re prone to sudden vomiting brought on by unsavory topics, you may want to skip this post and reread the one above about my cat. 

This post is rated TMI.  Parental Guidance is Suggested

Well, the answer to this question is pretty obvious. I think most people will claim that the number one worst thing that could happen to them would be the death, injury, or maiming of one of their loved ones. I am certainly no exception in giving the same answer, however, that response makes for a very short blog, so I will tell you that the number two worst thing that could ever happen to me. The second worst thing that could happen to me is that my body would fail me and forget to go through menopause. At 47, this is something that I’m certainly beginning to worry about, because every month, like clockwork, my little friend is there in all her raging glory, determined to ruin at least a week out of my month. Menopause is something I have looked forward to going through ever since I was twelve years old, and if Mother Nature let’s me down with this event, I’m going to be miffed!

I remember the day that I started my period. It was the very first day that I began dreaming about menopause It was also the first day of spring. I was wearing my very cool green Levis, a Peter Frampton Live tee shirt, and bikini underwear with little pink and purple umbrellas on them. I had long ago read the book Your Changing Body that had been lovingly presented to me by my mother on my 12th birthday, along with a huge box of thick Kotex Classics and a Schwinn 10-speed. While  I was fairly pissed at my mother for allowing me to open such a personal gift in front of my grandfather,  I didn’t think too much more about my own changing body or about the jumbo pads that I’d stashed away in my closet right before going out to ride my new bike. Less than a month later,  still not expecting to need one of those bulky little monsters for quite a while,  I “started” right in the middle of English class.  I excused myself, and made my way to the restroom,  anxiously shaking my backpack, hoping against hope that I’d find a dime for the pad machine in the bathroom. I had no such luck and I knew better than to query any of the girls herded around the restroom mirror, putting on strawberry Lip Smacker, for a dime. “Hey, do you have a dime?” Is junior high code for, “I’M HAVING MY PERIOD!” and the repercussions of that were far more embarrassing than bleeding on my umbrella underwear.  So, being the resourceful girl that I am, I fashioned a make-shift pad out of toilet paper and went on about my day. I had gym, then lunch and right afterward I decided to go to the restroom to see how my new “situation” was coming along. Upon pulling down my cool green jeans, I was horrified to find that my homemade pad was gone!  I was catapulted into a frenzy of panic. I checked my pant legs. I checked the bathroom floor. I asked the girls around the mirror if they had seen a homespun pad. (Just kidding; that would have been social suicide!) It had vanished!  I imagined it hiding somewhere in the school hallway or in a classroom, hunkered down in a corner hoping that no one would find it and reveal its shame. I quickly fashioned a new pad and rushed off to math class, but I didn’t get very far down the hallway before I ran into a group of my classmates playing a jolly game of “Kick the Pad.” “Hey, Sprinkles, look, it’s someone’s gross pad!’ a boy said as he kicked it towards me. “Disgusting!” I replied as I returned the kick. “Who would do something so vile?’ Everyone was laughing and kicking, but I was probably laughing the hardest because I knew that no one suspected it was mine!  Finally, a teacher broke up our little game of Kotex soccer and sent us to class.

Be Prepared!

That evening, over a cup of tea, and with much laughter, I recounted my rough day to my mom, who responded with appropriate empathy. “When will this mess end?” I asked her. “At what age will I go through menopause?” She assured me that sometime in my late 40s or early 50s that my monthy guest would end its visits. So, I guess now, after years of putting up with Mother Nature’s “little gift,” I’m getting more than a little impatient. I’m done with having children. I’m seriously over the cramping, the bloating, the mood swings and the general bitchiness that PMS causes me each month. From my general knowledge of biology I know that eventually my monthly event is sure to cease and desist, but there is one small part of me that fears I’ll be buying Kotex when I’m 89, and that is the second worst thing that could even happen to me!

Day 4: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty

 

 

 

 

 

Day # 4 Question: The worst thing ever to happen to me…

Let me preface this by giving you an update on day number 2.  A Tootsie Roll is no longer the most valuable thing I’ve ever stolen.  I am ashamed to say that I am in the act of thievery as I type.  Our area’s main internet provider, of which I am a subscriber, is out in the tri-county area.  My next door neighbor must feel pretty smug right about now for chosing the number two provider in the area.  I’m also very grateful that he made that choice because I’m stealing his signal to post this.  Sorry, neighbor, I’m only borrowing it for a minute!

One might think from reading other posts on my blog that the two worst things to ever happen to me would be the untimely death of my mother and my youngest daughter’s diagnosis of type II bipolar disorder. As tragic and unpreventable as both of these events were, the most catastrophic part of their occurrence was what manifested in me after-the-fact. Anyone who knows anything about the human psyche knows that a tragic event renders many emotions, and those feelings, if left unchecked, can fester and turn into one, or many, psychological conditions. My unchecked emotion was fear. After my mother died, and I was left to navigate the world on my own, I became extremely fearful. I was afraid that my brother, who drove too fast, would die in a fiery car crash. If my boyfriend was delayed in traffic, I was terrified that he was dead in a ditch somewhere. If I developed a rash, or a cough or even a muscle spasm, I was certain that I was dying from the same awful disease that my mother died from. While I consciously realized that all of these fears were irrational, I couldn’t seem to control them. I had always been a very happy, fun-loving person, but now I was living a life of caution and worry.  The terrible thig was that I was living this life clandestinely, because the thing I feared the most was that someone else would find out just how afraid I was. So, I hid it; I didn’t talk to anyone about how miserable I was feeling. I was my normal, joking, silly, cynical self and no one knew that I was terrified of nearly everything. Soon my fear turned into anxiety, and before long it had festered into full-blown generalized anxiety disorder.

For 18 years I didn’t seek help. Anxiety was my dirty little secret; my flaw.  I went about my day, known by others as the person with a usually cheery disposition who could handle nearly any situation, but by night I was an angst-filled insomniac praying for a few hours of worry free sleep. The cycle seemed endless, and between worry, work and home it certainly didn’t seem like my existence could get anymore stressful than it already was.  That’s when life threw me another curveball. My beautiful youngest daughter began exhibiting signs of mental illness.   Because she was unable to function in a normal school setting, I had to stop working.  With the help of a homebound teacher I kept her as caught up as I could with her studies, in between dozens of doctor visits. The psychotic episode had damaged her brain.  Her short term memory was affected.  Her deep depression rendered her nearly catatonic and doctors urged me to hospitalize her.  I couldn’t bring myself to place her in a psych ward.  I had taught children much younger than her who had been hospitalized for psychiatric illesses.  I knew how violent some of them could be.  I couldn’t imagine placing my daughter in a facility where she might be further damaged.  I was her round-the-clock caregiver.  This was especially difficult because without family in the area, there was no one to give my husband and I a much needed break.   It wasn’t until a year later, that we found just the right doctor, the right diagnosis and the correct combination of medication.  On lithium my daughter soon returned to her sweet, healthy self , but I was still a wreck.  I watched her like a hawk, waiting for the slightest symptom to return.  After coming to the realization that myanxious behavior was hurting her, far more than helping her, I decided to seek help.  Talking to a counselor was very hard for me, at first, because I was so used to holding in any of my negative feelings and used to always presenting a positive exterior to others.   The funny thing is, that all it took was talking to a professional for a few months to quell the beast that had tortured me for so many years. Now, I talk and write about the things that bother me, and I’ve learned not to think in extremes.  I’m happy pretty much all of the time and feel very hopeful about the future.  So, to answer the question (and believe me, I am blogging with the utmost honesty); the worst thing to ever happen to me was being afraid for 18 long years and knowing that  while I was waiting for the worst to happen, I wasn’t using the time that I had on this Earth to live my life to it’s fullest potential.  Now, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do!