It Ended with Silence

The funny thing is, nothing about me has changed since the day I cut him out of my life. I am no less the self I was then, only now I have a little more experience under my belt, and hopefully I’m a little wiser. I hold no animosity, though I have plenty of reason to in our case.

Still he tries to have the last word. It’s been nearly two years, and he’s still trying.

Today he tried to contact me on Instagram, under a new account with a new alias. Nothing threatening, just the usual petty remarks about how I look or what a bitch he thinks I am. I deleted the nasty comment after taking a screen shot and saving it to a folder of potential harassment case material. I blocked him. Again. Probably the 3rd time now.

But today was different…

Today I wasn’t thrown into chaos by fear. Today I wasn’t worried about running into him in the street. Today I wasn’t afraid of seeing him. Today I wasn’t afraid of the next attempt to harass me. Today I recognized what all of this was…a show. A show he’s putting on for himself in hopes others will watch and be amazed, only to be disappointed when I refuse to retaliate. Because without my response, he isn’t a show at all. He’s just a man child crying out for attention and making a spectacle of himself. Or worse. He’s nothing if no one notices.

Retaliation means something to play at. Silence means there is nothing but the sounds of angry wails on deaf ears.

Some would say ending my friendship with him with silence was cruel. In his case, it was the only way. You cannot win with Narcissists. They will find ways of blaming you in their own mind and twisting it so they truly believe they are never to blame. So to be silent is the only way to keep him from having reason to retaliate, so if he does harass me, it is entirely of his own choosing.

I keep choosing silence every time he tries to contact me, because with silence I have chosen absolute rejection. When I choose not to retaliate, I ultimately reject his thoughts, his negativity, his bad energy, and his feelings…none of which I am obligated to take responsibility for since ending the friendship. I refuse to acknowledge them. I refuse to be a victim to them.

Still, I wish he would just move on. The only “crime” I committed was out growing him. That’s not a crime at all. As long as this continues I intend to retaliate with silence.

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Diabetes Awareness Month…is a joke.

So November has been diabetes awareness month, and I have to say I haven’t done much posting about it. Why? Because I fucking hate it.

I don’t want to be a diabetic. I hate this disease. I hate being obsessed with food and with counting carbs and needles and all the complications of everyday diabetic life.

I don’t want to make people aware of my disease…I want my disease gone. I want it eradicated like polio and small pox. I want it destroyed.

The problem is, I don’t think there will be a cure in my lifetime. Why? Because insulin is the sixth most expensive liquid in the world. The fifth most expensive is Chanel perfume. If that doesn’t tell you the priorities of common man, then I don’t know what does. Big Pharma makes money off my plight, and I for one am sick and tired of being sick and tired.

There. That’s the awareness I’m spreading. That diabetes awareness only educates people more on how to care for diabetics…care for….not cure. While I appreciate people being aware that I have a disease that causes me to need special attention…what I really would appreciate is a cure and making people aware of how much that probably isn’t going to happen.

Still I hope for it in my lifetime. Not for my sake, but the sake of so many others like me.

End rant.

Panic

As I sat in the waiting room, I suddenly realized that I was the youngest person in the whole room, between the usual patients, some of whom I recognized from the same waitingroom several months prior. We must all be on similar schedule routines.

The scent of musk perfume was overwhelming as more patients entered the small room, which I suspected was once some kind of hospital room now converted. Probably the kind that had 2 patient beds and a curtain between them. The room felt smaller as walkers and wheelchairs piled in with their owners. An elderly gentleman and his wife sat near me, and while they were friendly and made small talk with me, I began to feel a slight sense of panic. The room was filling up, and I began to be uncomfortable in my own skin, suddenly realizing how many of the people there were probably on their last legs with the same disease I had.

I pushed it down. I had no reason to panic. There was plenty of space to walk and move. I wasn’t going to die from diabetic complications. That’s why I was here. To do everything I could to prevent that issue. Besides, people, especially the elderly, are nothing to be afraid of. This social anxiety thing had to stop. I swallowed hard and sighed. Breathing my way through it all.

Thankfully, moments later a nurse came in, and realizing how many people were in the room moved me into another room where I could comfortably take off my insulin pump and fill out paperwork. “This should do just fine until I can get you an exam room.” I looked around. The room I was in now had a table with chairs around it and an examination table in the corner, and I wondered why this room was never utilized as a typical exam room since it was already set for it.

I was glad for the moment to gather my head before seeing the doctor.

The doctor was positive about my progress. My organs were behaving normally. My A1C was high, 9.4, but was positively lower than my last one. I was exercising every day at least a half hour to an hour and while I had gained weight, she seemed positive about me losing it once I got my A1C down and ate more low carb.

For once in my life, I left the doctor feeling like I could actually make even more progress. My goal was to get my A1C down to a 7 in 6 months. I could do that. I knew I could do that. I just had to eat lower carb meals and exercise like I was. All manageable.

I’m going to do it.

Broken Heaters & Bathroom Remodels

On Monday morning, in the very early and dark hours, I awoke with a very cold nose touching mine. When I came to, I saw both my cats laying on me, and realized that my nose, was also very cold. Going to the thermostat I saw we had the heat set to 70 degrees Fahrenheit. The thermostat indicated the actual temperature was just below 60, and sinking.

My heart sank with it.

My husband had the day off and dealt with it, and the repair man came over, fixed the unit, and left us with a $115 invoice to change a fuse. The next morning at 2:45am, I awoke to the house at nearly 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Snow on the ground and a high of 10 degrees Fahrenheit for the day.

This time I stayed home for a couple hours so my husband could go to work. The repair men replaced the entire control panel, slapped me with a $490 invoice, told me how my particular unit was “known for killing people,” and then left reminding me time and time again that my heater needed to be replaced, and really they only put a bandaid on the problem.

To be realistic, any heater can kill people either with Carbon Monoxide poisoning or by fire if old and broken enough, so that didn’t bother me as much as the anxiety of how we were going to pay for a new one as well as the repairs. I canceled plans with friends in anticipation. I stayed at home all week so I wasn’t tempted to buy anything I didn’t need. Between that and a bathroom remodel that we currently had going simultaneously, we were running out of money very quickly. Of course with property tax season just around the corner.

When the repairmen left I went to work, but between my own exhaustion from being up so early, the many projects, a mouse running around my office, and some coworkers who were having rough days and taking it out on others, it was too much for such a short time period. I came home that night to a warm home, and poured myself a cocktail to drive out the thoughts that reminded me how much heating a home really cost.

The bathroom remodel at least was going slowly but smoothly. We had a new toilet, a new floor, and the walls painted. The sink, cabinets (my father is making us), and the trim were the last items on the list, and they were stained and drying in my parents garage. We were going on week 4 of the project, but as long as I had a toilet and shower, I was happy. The kitchen sink was used for brushing teeth, and washing hands could happen in the bathtub or the kitchen. So nothing felt like it couldn’t be handled.

Just the stress was getting to me, having to live with things in a state of transition or disrepair. That and the money it was costing to complete both projects.

At the end of all the stress, I have to be thankful. Thankful I have heat. Thankful that the bathroom has a light at the end of the tunnel. Thankful that I at least have the money for what I need right now even if it I don’t have it for wants or Christmas gifts. Thankful for flexible work hours and my husband being willing to take care of things. Thankful for warm blankets during the struggle of staying warm. Thankful for repair men with 24 hour service. Thankful I have a house at all.

Nostalgic for Another Age

The Lady in Gold by Anne Marie O’Connor holds my thoughts a lot lately as I’ve been reading it. In a time where wealth, elitism, and a hostile environment towards modernism in art and Jewish culture become a chaotic romantic period all its own. I continually think about what it must have been like to be part of high society. To live with papers writing about you and to see painters display portraits of yourself commissioned and hung on gallery walls. To live during a time of revolution and oppression all at once.

I often think about the way things were then. About what being a young woman in society looked like. The oppression of the feminine sexuality in the brink of its liberation. A time when social standing could be both a blessing and a curse to the private and social life depending on the pastime you chose as a lady. The more I read about it, the more I find myself wishing to ah e lived it. To be part of the golden revolution of sexuality and modernism. To go to fashionable parties and meet the artists of the time, talk to hem about their artistry, to speak on political climates and to spend time bejeweled in gowns at operas with friends.

Most days I wish I was born in another era.

What I both love and loath about the time is he way men treated women. Male callers would respectfully call on you and show you a good time, but to be seen as anything but virtuous while out with the male caller would mean the complete destruction of your eligibility were things not to work out. If you were less fortunate, you’re marriages would be arranged, with wealthy older men who probably had mistresses and STDs. Still, the glamor of the wealthy lifestyle would have been nice. To own palaces and fine jewelry. To attend social events regularly at salons to exchange new and exciting ideas. To get dressed to the aces and go out dancing as a single debutante. The thrill of being chased after, and the thrill of knowing you had a chance against all chances to sense the changing tide of female liberation.

Of course, the book I’m reading takes placed during both WWI and WWII. With political anxiety at its height threatening the liberation you so desperately were seeking and the research of Freud was so nearly honoring, only to be swept under the rug of war along with racism. What a trying, terrifying, and anxious time it would be to live in, if we are being realistic. Not something to envy.

Still, I romanticize the idea of living high society life in those days at its glamorous height. I envision myself much like the rebellious women of the time. Sensually dressed in the latest forbidden fashions. Frequenting salons to talk on the artistic and political climate (which only means talking about men, which I would be a considerable advocate of being young, single, and allowed my forgivable ignorance). Sipping champagne and tea on hot afternoons in galleries, alone and mysterious…and stubbornly unchaperoned. Loudly fighting for women’s suffrage and rights at the turn of the century.

Yes, I’ve been daydreaming about it a lot. Wondering why such things no longer take place? Though, to be realistic once again, such lifestyles require not just wealth, but elitism, something most Americans, myself included, would cringe at. That is the unfortunate issue with fantasies like this…they have so many negatives about them that at the end of the day you wonder how good could anyone in high society, then or now, really have it? Still, the shallow part of me wishes being able to dress up and go to respectable house parties Gatsby style wouldn’t be too bad if one could avoid the drama and times were fairly peaceful.

Cluttered Brain

As I stared at the papers strewn on my desk, carelessly threatening to thrust themselves violently to the office floor, I began to realize how bad I was getting again. Lost in my own sad thoughts as I felt the coffee go cold in my hands, I listened to the hum of quiet voices. My manager, and one of our newest IT employees attempting to figure out why I had been constantly kicked out of the server over the last year and a half with no solid connection.

Their language was their own as my thoughts were mine.

The depression had worsened again, and I hadn’t realized the true nature of the beast until I observed my spaces. My desk was more untidy than it had ever been, strewn with printouts of projects long since over, pens found homelessness in the wide open of that rough and cluttered cityscape of papers, or found themselves makeshift homes between curls of white. They seemed oddly arranged, as if you could follow the trail of my indecision and anxiety. Each pen had been lost between thoughts and revisions, and in my unfocused stupor, replaced only to be displaced. My own basket stood empty, naked, and ironic amidst the battlefield of fallen soldiers. A lonely survivor of a brainstorm gone wrong and wild.

Wrong and wild. Like all my thoughts and actions had become.

When I arrived home and collapsed into bed, I noticed a similar scene on my dresser. Copious amounts of makeup was strewn across the black surface of my dresser. Vitamin and pill bottles accompanied it. All stood motionless and telling. The story of a young woman, struggling to wake up in the mornings, take her pills and vitamins, and look presentable at work with only five minutes left to spare. Eye shadows and glitters piled and overlapped like bodies in trenches after a melee between my face and my brain. Diet pills littered between the brushes told the rest of the tale. The war was tiresome between my perception of self and societies perception of beauty. It was never ending. Hopeless.

Never enough.

The clutter was only the physical sign of my depression. The sleepless nights and tired days were more of a silent and unseen / unnoticed battle. I would often lay awake watching my husband sleep and wonder if he would even care or notice if I went into another room for the rest of the night and tried harder to rest without distraction.

If only my brain wouldn’t betray me.

Vacation: Good Night

It was dark when we finally arrived home. Ten long hours in the car had taken its toll, and on the way home every weekend in October on our calendar filled as we replied to the many messages we had ignored while on vacation.

It was raining as we unloaded the vehicle. My husband took the liberty of braving the wet so I didn’t have to. He brought in the suit cases and the left over groceries we brought that we’re not consumed on the trip. I started unloading each bag as kitties wound their way between and under my feet.

When we finally got in bed after an hour of unpacking I was reminded of how empty our vacation bed had felt without two fat kitties in it with us. Their purrs calmed my nerves as they wound themselves between us. One by our heads and the other between our torsos. It was rare that they would sleep in such close proximity, and I was glad to be witness to the occasion, but also saddened by how much they had missed us over the course of our four day vacation.

“I missed this.” My husband whispered with a hand petting each cat. I nuzzled my face into the cat nearest my face, unsure in the dark which one it was until I heard a throaty purr indicating it was our female cat, Shelby.

“Me too.” I whispered into her fur.

Vacation: Good Morning

Lack of coffee. There were two coffee makers and no coffee, and since my triumphant return to coffee drinking after a hiatus with a heart condition scare, I desperately needed coffee. I laid on the couch like a petty child, begging my family to find us coffee somewhere near by. The nearest grocery store was 20 minutes away, and we were warned that it was expensive. Very expensive. I didn’t care. It was a necessity that had been overlooked.

My brain was working overtime trying to process the trip. I was sleep deprived, and over stimulated from the long day and night before. At work, we had a new manager starting for our department, but being an introvert it felt like I was hung over after the first hour of meeting him. There was the welcome lunch which was overwhelming because my supervisor is a hand, eye, and ear full. Then there was the debriefing on the projects I had unfinished, why they were held up, and where they were located on the server, then my day was over and we drove in darkness and rain to our vacation destination.

The trip took 8 hours, 4 close calls with deer, and one wild wolf sighting. We finally arrived at 2:30 am central time in complete darkness. We unloaded our copious amounts of gluten free food and suit cases full of clothing….and medical supplies, which between my mother and I was also extensive with mutual and additional autoimmune issues.

We went to bed in darkness, and woke up to beautiful fall clouds over a bay less than 100 ft from the house, trees surrounding us, and a brisk fall breeze to set the picturesque mood. It was beautiful, and our vacation felt like it could finally start.

Lost

No one warned me that I would become less. Less creative, less beautiful, less emotive. Somehow in the hustle and bustle of life I felt like I started losing myself, but I couldn’t even begin to tell you when or how.

Confessions: I Suck at Beauty Routines

I’m not a morning person. Nor am I much of a night owl. So morning and evening routines are not something I’m very strong in. I know, that probably sounds really strange to say in an era where “self care” is a huge a trend. But I just don’t care very much to set such habits, and I never understood them. I can’t really say for sure why.

My husband, on the other hand, has a very rich morning routine. Somehow he manages to get up early enough to get an hour or two of scrolling the internet reading articles, Facebook, and entertainment news in the film industry. Then he gets to his hygiene: He usually shaves if he needs to. Then he showers, washes/exfoliates and lotions his face and arms, puts on cologne or deodorant, and finishes off with doing his hair while examining himself in our full body mirror. The whole ordeal usually takes 45 min to an hour and puts most women I know to shame. Still, it helps him in some way organize his world, something I never seem to care to do, and always is a precursor to making me my morning tea. A service he provides me every morning when I wake up that acts as caffeinated bribery for committing the sin of having to wake me from my slumber.

I often wonder why he bothers putting so much effort into his morning routine? Is it vanity? Is it habit? Does he find pleasure in it? He must. He must in a way that I did not, and probably will not ever understand with such a lacking in my own routine.

My morning routine starts when his finishes. I usually am asked to get out of bed once my husband completes his hair styling, because I’ll be late for work if I take time to drink my detox tea and take my pills, much less put on makeup if I feel the urge. Which is the extent of my morning routine, a whole 15 min or less, with 5 mins to get to work, which is exactly 5 min from where I live if the traffic light stays green by the time I reach it. So my morning routine of tea drinking and pill popping is usually concluded with a frantic a grand finale of me cursing and kissing my husband while I’m flying out the door to get to work on time.

My showering routine is very uneventful as well. It happens every two or three days a week (to prevent skin dryness and irritation…and I’m apathetic). I shampoo, I exfoliate (as every diabetic really ought to with dry skin), I condition the hell out of my hair, wash my body, and get the hell out of the shower because I’ve wasted time self caring when there so much more important shit to do. I’m lucky if I shave my arm pits…and usually I only shave my legs once a month and remind myself why I just wear pants and don’t bother to shave in the first place. So I lose interest until a month has passed and I’ve forgotten why I don’t shave more and try again…only to remember and start the whole cycle all over again.

The truth is I have always struggled with self care. When I was a teenager my mother had to beg me to take showers, which I hated doing, because my diabetic skin was so sensitive that showering daily was irritating and there wasn’t a single body wash that didn’t dry out my skin so much that I could see dry skin marks and dust on my pants and shirts. Not only that but it dried out my curly hair and made it feel like cotton, no matter how much conditioner it took. But besides the irritation daily showers caused, I had little to no motivation to take care of myself, because I really just was apathetic about the whole thing.

Now that I’m older, I’ve come to realize the importance of presentation in a professional environment, and I have adapted my life accordingly out of vanity and professionalism, and while I do shower much more often than I did as a kid, I really only shower about 3 times a week. I don’t do daily face washing. I don’t spend long hours in the bathroom making sure I’m shaved and primped for the day. I wake up with 20 min to get to work if I’m lucky, because I love sleep and procrastination to a fault. It’s a dangerous love affair, but one that has an exciting amount of risk if I’m going to be late for work or not in the morning. I’m lucky if I remember to brush my teeth in the morning (I’m more of an evening brusher anyway).

Still, what is odd about me is that I often have night every so often where I really focus on my self care even more than just taking a shower which is usually a requirement for basic hygiene in my book. An obligation rather than a luxury. I wash my face, do a mask, shave and lotion, do my nails. It’s like I suddenly get an urge to have a spa night, but it only seems to happen maybe once a month where I really go all out. Sure I’ll go all out with makeup pretty regularly, but even then I don’t really take my makeup off like I should. In fact I’m notorious for the big no no…I’ll wear my makeup overnight and just fix it the next day for work.

It’s a miracle that I never seem to smell bad.