Month: October 2010

No Anvils

Five months ago, I decide no more anti-depressants. I get blood work done.

Despite my challenges, I get B12 shots. A shit-ton of them. I start taking 5,000, then 10,000, IUs of vitamin D and a thyroid medication.

I stop eating gluten. My fatigue goes away, but my depression worsens.

I have thoughts. Not suicidal thoughts, but ones like, “If this is what life is, why would I ever want to inflict this on a child?” And feelings. Crushing feelings, which make me stand in the middle of my living room with my hands on my face, unable to move.

Three-and-a-half weeks ago, despite the fact that my insurance doesn’t cover them, I start taking amino acids. My osteopath says, “Take these 14 pills every day, and come back in a week.”

“A week?” I say.

“Yes, a week. You’ll know in a week.”

A week goes by.

Nothing.

“OK,” says he, “add this one, four of ’em, and come back in a week.” Eighteen pills a day. Very expensive pills. Not covered by my insurance.

Another week goes by. Still having moments where I might as well be under an anvil. Times when all the circumstances point to joy, times when my friends are saying,  “Isn’t this great?” And I think, “It should be. But no, it’s not.”

“Right then,” says my osteopath, “take four more of this last one, and come back in a week. If there’s been no change, we’ll do a urine test.” For one hundred eighty dollars. Not covered by my insurance.

I’m still depressed, and I’m mad and sad about being depressed, and I’m hopeless that I’ll ever not be depressed. I continue to swallow 22 pills a day. Very expensive pills.

And then last Wednesday afternoon, at the gym, I smile, genuinely smile. And I joke with the trainer, and I feel a lightness of being that I remember from long ago. I think back. For the previous couple of days, no anvils.

Immediately, I worry that it’s a fluke, it’ll go away, I’ll never find it again. But for an hour, maybe two, I actually. feel. good.

The rest of the week goes by. No anvils.

Last night, I’m at C & K‘s house, gabbing, singing along to “Sloop John B”, warming my back against the fire. And I think, “Isn’t this great?”

Hm.

Dear Neighbors

Where I’m from, on that winding stretch of Old Highway 421 between Boone and Mountain City, we lift a finger. Or rather, lift a fanger.

I don’t mean we help other people, thought we do that too. I’m referring to the gesture we make in our car as another car passes in the opposite direction. We lift a fanger. That is, we pick one or two fingers up off the steering wheel in a modified wave, to greet the other driver.

Old habits die hard. I would lift a fanger at the folks traveling down my country road when I lived in Hillsborough. Often, they would wave back.

Now I live in your neighborhood in downtown Durham, and as I walk the dogs, my impulse is still to wave. But it’s hard. Wrangling 140 pounds of pit bull, and simultaneously acknowledging my neighbors’ existence is hard.

I say all this because I want you to know that if it looks like I’m hoisting a bag of dog poop and slinging it in your direction, that’s just my attempt to be friendly. Sorry if there’s been any confusion.

Your neighbor,

Amy

Chimney Sweep, Crocodile Wranger, Rodeo Clown

After a two-week break, the re-entry into the classroom was turbulent. I had had a fantasy that my fourth graders would spend their vacation days thinking about how their behavior affected others, what they could do to make the classroom more positive, and in what ways they might be more respectful to me.

Nerp.

By lunchtime, I was asking Facebook for career suggestions.

My sister offered astronaut. I’m getting kinda squirrelly about flying in my old age, and that’s just between RDU and Laguardia. A trip to the International Space Station might make me a little wheezy.

Some friends wondered about my being a professional dog rescuer or dog-sitter. Those I could go for…Do they come with health insurance?

Suzanne mentioned pole dancer. Well…I mean, that requires a lot of upper-body strength, doesn’t it? Also, I forget, how do strip joints feel about hip-to-knee cellulite?

Are they pro- or anti-?

Anti-, right?

Moving on.

Though I really like Steve’s recommendation that I become a guru-on-a-mountaintop, that sounds like I’d have to be, you know, wise or something, so I think my sister-in-law had the best idea: bajillionaire.

Now all I need is one bajillion dollars. Pony up, folks.

Happy Coming Out Day, People

Have you heard about New York Republican gubernatorial candidate Carl Paladino’s precious little speech? What a mensch—he just doesn’t want anyone “to be brainwashed into thinking that homosexuality is an equally successful or valid option” as heterosexuality.

Wow.

And apparently, his prepared text had a line which he omitted when he delivered it: “There is nothing to be proud of in being a dysfunctional homosexual.”

That’s true! There IS nothing to be proud of in being a dysfunctional homosexual.

But I know a hell of a lot of functional homosexuals, and I love ’em! I’m proud of ’em! They’re just wonderful!

Do Not Read This Book

My book club just read “Her Fearful Symmetry” by Audrey Niffenegger.

I hated it and will, forthwith, enumerate the reasons why.

Number one: Third person omniscient point-of-view sucks anyway, and Niffeneggar executed it particularly badly in this novel, sometimes writing from different characters’ perspectives in the same paragraph.

Number two: Only one of the characters was remotely likable and had a compelling arc. That was Martin, the upstairs neighbor who suffered from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. As you might have guessed, the upstairs neighbor was not one of the main characters. All the main characters were needy, whiny, pathetic, and/or generally uninteresting.

Number three: The author put all the characters’ thoughts in italics…and there were a lot of them. Here’s a sample: “Martin stood holding the letter. The worst thing has happened. He could not take it in.  She’s gone. She would not come back.”

Take out italics; a little shift in tense…Presto change-o! Tell me it’s not better thus: “Martin stood holding the letter. The worst thing had happened. He could not take it in. She was gone. She would not come back.”

Number four: The “twist” was predictable. It had been done better and, more importantly, twenty-five years ago in a Young Adult novel I read called Stranger with My Face by Lois Duncan.

Number five: The denouement was wholly unsatisfying. I’m thinking she was under deadline and wrote the last 30 pages in 30 minutes. “OK, this one has a baby, the guy leaves her, so-and-so gets a boyfriend, and what’s-her-name finds a crow to fly away on. Done! Whew!”

I could give you more reasons why I hated this book, but I hope that gives you enough to go on.

Thanks for asking.

Dear Future Boyfriend

I’m a pretty flexible person about most things. However, there are exceptions. I’m going to insist that you not wear black and navy together. Also, don’t say, “Bye bye.” You’re a grown man, for crying out loud! (Peter Sagal gets a pass because he’s funny; Neil Conan does not because he’s not.) Lastly, I’m a lid-down person. Not just seat-down, LID-down. Believe me, you’ll adapt, and the next time your toothbrush or iPhone goes clanging off the lid, instead of splashing into the bowl, you’ll come kiss me and tell me you’re glad I changed your wanton ways.

I’m no Victoria’s Secret model, but I exercise A LOT. I eat fruits and vegetables every day. I brush and, most days, floss. I started an IRA when I was 20, and I’m frugal. In general, I don’t buy shit I don’t need. And though I’m prone to clutter and I hate hate hate cleaning, I endeavor to keep my physical space clean and tidy.

I want to be with somebody who attempts to be healthy, financially cautious, and orderly. You’re not an independently wealthy triathlete with OCD? That’s OK—I’m just saying: worrying about your well-being, our finances, and the state of the house takes a lot of energy. Energy that could be used for sex. You make the choice.

Kisses,

Amy

I’ll Be Dancin’

There’s this guy at CrossFit who does all the Workouts-of-the-Day Rx. (If you do the WOD as prescribed, you get a little ‘Rx’ next to your name on the board. For reference, I’ve gotten an Rx, well, lemme see…NEVER. Not even fucking close.)

He’s medium height, muscly, rrrrrrripped but not bulky, clearly about 2% body fat. Wiry, I guess you’d say. Sinewy maybe. If he doesn’t climb rock faces on his day off, I’m a monkey’s uncle.

He not only does the WODs Rx, sometimes he’ll do them twice in a row. Or he’ll finish and go out for a run. (I usually do a half-assed downward facing dog and then hobble to my car.)

Anyway, we’re doing the WOD the other day. A song comes on I don’t recognize, but he does. “Lady Gaga,” he says, in the middle of a set of pull-ups.

He proceeds to sing, “Stop callin’, stop callin’, I don’t wanna think anymore! I left my head and my heart on the dance floor!”

And then he runs to the wall, kicks his legs up, and does 15 handstand push-ups.

These people crack me up.