Stressed? Who, me?

Note: I've incorporate posts from the original "Grace Under Pressure" blog into this one. I began mommy blogging so that I could post pictures of Grace for friends and family, but it morphed into a series of mostly cheerful, witty posts that were fun to write but not necessarily representative of my whole life. I started this blog when my husband and I split up, as a way to vent honestly about my struggles. Not surprisingly, it's been a bit of a downer. Perhaps the two will balance each other out. Regardless, Grace is the most important part of my life, which is not always upbeat and cheerful, and it seems silly to exclude her from the big picture.

So, stress. This is a week I haven't been looking forward to. Tomorrow morning, John and I will go through what I hope will be the last round of mediation before our divorce is finalized. BIG! FUN! Then Grace and I will tour the school where she will start kindergarten in the fall. I'm ambivalent about this and have put it off until the last possible day. Yes, it's an exciting milestone, but it's another transition for her, and I worry it will upset the equilibrium (or semblance thereof) we've worked so hard to achieve since moving.

Later this week, I will be visiting my parents in Sequim for the first time since my accident almost a year ago. This will be my longest road trip since then, and I will be driving the same stretch of road for the first time. This will be the first time I'll walk into that house without being greeted by Max, which I can't imagine. Most important, I haven't seen my father in almost a year, and this will be our first visit since his surgery. I can't wait, but I don't know what to expect.

I have been living very much in the present lately, with a vengeance. Grace continues to be the grounding force in my life—when she's here. Since John and I have switched to a more equal parenting schedule, however, I find myself with almost four days a week of freedom to not worry about anyone but me. This is new territory for me, and while being in the moment is supposed to be a good thing, I've managed to do so at the expense of taking care of business: paying bills, writing, unpacking the last few boxes, being thoughtful and deliberate, and deciding what I want my (and Grace's) future to look like. Future? Yes, I know that's a dirty word regarding living now, but a minimum of planning is required in every adult's life, particularly when you're a parent.

I like to think I've made some good moves, rekindling friendships I had neglected for too long, making new friends and generally trying to stay out of my own head when it starts to feel unhealthy. I'm also struggling to feel physically healthy again, but my little bout with food poisoning hasn't finished messing with me yet. I've been told that stress can cause this. Duh. (Apparently, stress can cause anything, most of it bad.)

I know the best way for me to deal with life's uncertainties is to focus on what needs to be done now. When I spin it that way, I can almost imagine a life where I can keep living in the moment, while striving to find that balance between too much freedom (indulgence) and too much worrying (overthinking).

I will wave my magic wand and make it so.

Changes.

I went through my emails the other day, filing those that seemed worth keeping and trashing the rest. Most of the keepers went into one of four folders: accident, divorce, house sale and job search. It occurred to me that most people probably don't have those categories, or at least not all four at once. (On a positive note, I do not have one labeled "brain tumor," so I've got that going for me.) My point is that there is an unusual amount of conflict in my life right now.

I've been encouraged to keep my blog(s) as impersonal and, well, boring, as possible, lest they be used against me to prove that I AM NOT A PERFECT PERSON. For the record, the whole point of this particular blog is that I'm not a perfect person, and it's been a relief to be able to write about my struggles. So I think this sucks.

If you happen to wonder what's happened to all the interesting stuff I used to explore here, now you know. I'll miss the sense of community and catharsis that came with sharing the bad times with the good, but I'll try to keep things entertaining and light without being too terribly boring. No more posts labeled "insanity" I suppose.

Progress, not perfection.

I came across a list I made while on a road trip early this year (January, maybe?). Once I stopped laughing, I realized it was a pretty ambitious list. While my success rate is hovering around 40%, I haven't given up just yet.

- finalize divorce
- sell house
- find new home
- publish novel
- find job
- finish second novel
- find Mr. Right Mr. Maybe
- plant edible garden
- say "I love you" more often
- become THE PERFECT MOM

I look back on this and can't help but notice how goal-oriented I was. Yes, list making is about setting goals, but this particular collection is a doozy, and sort of, well, punishing in it's focus on BIG CHANGES. Now, I would add a few items related to physical health and well-being (thank you, car accident). I would include more truly important, life-affirming changes: spending more time with the people I care about; making time for fun; recognizing the support and generosity from friends and family; and appreciating the good in my life rather than dwelling on the challenges. Things may get worse before they get better, but the point is that THEY WILL GET BETTER. Right?

For you fashionistas out there...

Last week I read "The Gospel According to Coco Chanel" by Karen Karbo (in one sitting), and realized the sad state of affairs to which I have sunk, wardrobe-wise. My basic uniform is jeans and a T-shirt; if it's cold, jeans and a sweater. (The selection criteria are simple: Does it smell bad? Is it stained? Does it fit?) I have a closet full of ridiculously girly clothes that seemed like a good idea at the time, but even when I want to look especially presentable, I just trade out the jeans for black pants. Needless to say, Coco Chanel's style appeals to me, for the simple fact that it's simple.

Last summer I went to The Mercantile with a girlfriend who can afford to buy clothes there, and is on a first-name basis with the staff. The saleswoman helping us (okay, her) was older, maybe sixty, with lovely silver hair and what I judged to be the perfect outfit: an exquisitely tailored, crisp, white oxford, untucked, over slim black pants and fabulous loafers. I told her that if I had her build (tall and lean) I would wear a variation of that outfit every day. (My body does NOT resemble that of Mademoiselle Chanel's ideal model, herself: flat-chested and boyishly lean.) The saleswoman laughed off my compliment, or more likely laughed at the fact that her "simple" ensemble cost more than my monthly mortgage payment. She left an impression, however, one that was brought to mind the other night as I read Karen Karbo's wonderfully enjoyable account of the life and sensibilities of Coco Chanel.

A few days later I was to meet with a woman charged with the daunting task of treating the anxiety that has frequently paralyzed me since my car accident in July. I dressed that day with my renewed appreciation for simplicity: crisp white oxford, untucked, over jeans and loafers. (The stupid black pants didn't fit.) Since the woman's business card included the words "life coach" and "hypnotherapist," I assumed she would be a hooey-wooey type, complete with flowing skirt, beads and, possibly, incense. Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by the (almost) spitting image of the saleswoman from The Mercantile: crisp, white tuxedo shirt, untucked, over slim black pants and fabulous loafers. I thought to myself, "Huh, I think I'm gonna dig this lady." And I did. Not only was her outfit no-nonsense, but so was her approach to healing. No digging around in the past or looking deep within; rather, she encouraged me to look forward and start behaving like the person I want to be. Pretty cool, and I believe quite consistent with Coco Chanel's own philosophy. Strangely synchronistic, and very reassuring for my mental health, not to mention the future of my personal style.

School? Fall? What?

Fall is my favorite season, but this year it snuck up on me and screamed, "BOOGABOOGABOOGA!" in my ear. What happened to summer? I feel a bit cheated, not having spent the last several months having HAPPY! SUMMER! FUN! Instead I was focused on finding a job, recuperating from my accident, legal disputes, blah blah blah. The initial pleasures I found in yard work, trips to the park with Grace, writing, barbecuing and eating outdoors were derailed suddenly by a body and mind that simply couldn't do any of those things. So I'm pissed, both on my behalf, and because Grace got the short end of the summer stick, along with a cranky mommy.

On a positive note, fall is the season that feels (to me) most loaded with the potential for change — positive change. And if there's one thing we could use around here at the asylum, it's positive change. My accident took a big toll on my health, physically and mentally, and until now I've been content to let my medical team deal with the whole mess (while following doctors' orders, natch). But I'm realizing that I need to take a more proactive approach to regaining my health, if only because I can't go on wondering if I'll be able to function tomorrow, or the day after that. Grace deserves more than that, and so do my friends and family. (I do, too, of course.)

Today I spoke with my lovely chiropractor (see "Asula" ad in sidebar), and we agreed that a more aggressive approach is my only hope of feeling like my old self again. I've watched friends go through this for years, and I've toyed with it myself, but always resisted fully committing to such a drastic change. But I've been inspired by friends and, more recently, by my favorite fellow blogger, Girlbert, who has a much larger mountain to climb and an amazingly positive attitude about conquering it (or, more accurately, working in harmony with it). It just feels like it's time.

A gluten-free diet isn't that much of a stretch for me, since I really do love all of the foods I am allowed to eat, and don't ordinarily indulge much in sugary snacks or processed foods. I will desperately miss a few things: yummy bread and crackers, cheese, wine, pasta, seasonal fruits, and did I mention CHEESE? Also, I'm not going to be militant to the point of making myself so crazy that if I have a glass of wine at dinner, I will then fall off the wagon altogether. In my fantasy world, I'll just remind myself that, yes, this is a bad choice I'm making and I will suffer the consequences. Over time, I hope that the results will be motivation enough to do the best I can without feeling too deprived.

This little bit of nasty is Candida. (I searched for an image that would look pretty on my blog.) It is, however, the enemy, and I will not hesitate to kick its ass. I've heard so many testimonials from friends who I trust, I believe it's worth the effort for me to give it a chance. Can you imagine how tickled I will be if eliminating a surplus of yeast makes me feel better? At the very least, it will force me to stop scarfing down what's convenient, and take a more thoughtful approach to eating. I'd like to be a positive role model for Grace when it comes to nutrition, and eating her leftovers is clearly not the way to go about it. Wish me luck; I'll keep you posted, whether you like it or not.

Moody bitch, in flight.

I used to love a good fight. I could present a fantastic argument; even when I was young, my parents used to say I should be a lawyer. (Yes, I know, it's never too late.) After college when I was in my twenties in Chicago, I would strike up a conversation with a complete stranger at a bar just to debate, oh, the atrocity of the Exxon Valdez oil spill. (Seriously, once a guy told me he worked for Exxon, and I spent an hour enumerating the reasons he would rot in hell for working for the man.) Back in those days, O.J. Simpson provided a lot of fodder for heated discussion, as well. And, of course, protecting the environment, which wasn't nearly as popular then as it is now. When I think about it, I didn't love to argue as much as I loved to be right. (In your twenties, you know everything, am I right?) I just couldn't fathom that people had different opinions, and I felt I was doing them a favor by setting them straight. Yes, I was great fun to be around then, particularly since quite a bit of drinking was usually involved.

I bring this up today because I don't feel like I have any fight left in me. Being an unemployed, divorced, forty-two year old mother of my own moody b—, er brat, what the hell do I know? I realized in my thirties that I didn't know shit, and I struggled mightily in my quest for knowledge. I hoped my forties would bring acceptance around this issue, and to some extent it has. But rather than get my dander up when challenged, I now sigh with resignation. We've all heard about the "fight or flight" instinct; I've swung to the other end of the spectrum. I hunker down, run away, avoid conflict and, if possible, take a nap. I hate arguing.

To say that I'm moody is putting it mildly, however, and I happen to be in a relationship with someone who is equally moody but hasn't yet had his spirit broken. When we disagree, my natural response is to think, "Well, this clearly isn't going to work out." And then I fantasize about a future with just me and Grace ("You and me against the world, sometimes I think it's you and me against the world..."), which is hilarious because she's the one who caused all this in the first place, with all that perspective crap. Is Grace happy, healthy and safe? Okay then. Is Grace behaving like Drew Barrymore in "The Firestarter?" THAT'S where I need to focus my energy, not on whether there is a discrepancy in the odometer reading of my new (old) car. Combine that with almost constant physical pain, and I'm having trouble picking my battles, and waging them with a modicum of maturity.

There has to be a happy medium, and I keep turning to the serenity poem. (I'm agnostic.) But it turns out that this tidbit of wisdom has very little to offer when it comes to relationships. It does not address, for example, what one should do when confronted with a close friend who is driving you crazy with criticism, judgement, abandonment or just a bad attitude. So I withdraw. It seems the safest option, when there are battles being fought on so many fronts right now. (Oh, and I blog, which is a thinly veiled cry for validation and support from complete strangers. Hmmmm.) But too much withdrawal will most certainly leave me in a worse place: alone.

I'm seeing a woman next Friday who is a "Personal Development Coach, Clinical/Medical Hynotherapist & Trauma Specialist." I was referred to her by my awesome chiropractor (see ad at left), and can I tell you how much I would not want to be this poor woman? The visual I have is me sitting across from her and explaining the last year of my life, and having her furrow her brow, shake her head and write down the name and number of someone who may be more able to handle my situation.

Disclaimer: I know there are millions of people worse off than I am. I cry for them almost every day and try to remain grateful that I have food, housing, friends, family and, of course, beer.

Starting over again. And again. And again.

I have been itching to blog for weeks, but have allowed a few things to get in the way: the heat in my office, the pain that sitting at my desk causes my poor back, the guilt about blogging instead of doing something productive and the overwhelming nature of the feelings and thoughts bouncing around inside of me. No more excuses: it's cooled off; I've just come, freshly adjusted, from the chiropractor; I've been quite productive and am waiting for others to do their part; and my head will likely explode if I don't vent a bit. Where to begin?

I suppose the best place to begin is with all the new beginnings. For a decent part of the last few weeks I've been chasing my tail, searching for the title to my old car before discovering I never had it because the lender didn't notify us, or the DMV, once the loan was paid. Since the lender was Capital One (yes, that esteemed financial institution), I gave up talking to a human being, without being disconnected, after half a dozen calls and turned to my insurance adjuster for help. She made some magic happen and within half an hour I was assured the necessary paperwork was being sent out pronto, so that I could finally be reimbursed for my car. (I have yet to receive it, but don't get me started.) The point of all of this is that the frantic search for the title forced me to go through practically every piece of paper in my possession, which took me down a very well-documented and organized memory lane. I have a hard time admitting it, but a few times I ended up sitting on the floor of my office, crying and wailing, "I want my old life back."

That's not true, of course. My old life wasn't working, but there were so many fresh starts, so many optimistic new beginnings that didn't turn out as we'd hoped. I think one of the ways John and I dealt with unhappiness was with change, and that change usually came about with a move. Not long after we got married in Chicago we moved into a new condo. To get out of a rut, we took a six-month sabbatical in Central America. When life back in the states got old, we moved to Portland. After Grace was born we moved to a townhouse by the Columbia, and when that neighborhood turned into a nightmare we moved to the new house in Concordia. Even after we split up, the changes kept coming, and we remain in limbo almost a year later. I got a roommate who didn't work out. Michael entered the picture. John and I sold the house and Michael, Grace and I moved into a cute rental and set about making it a home, but the sale fell through, leaving us paying two rents and a mortgage. Finally, Grace and I moved back into the old (new) house for a number of reasons, and here we are, still trying to resolve the legal issues with our dumbass neighbor and wondering where we'll end up next. Honestly? I have no idea, and I've almost stopped trying to figure it out.

In each city and in each house, there were happy times, times when I felt that we'd made good decisions and our lives were on the right path. Life has been more of a rollercoaster since Grace was born; the highs that mark certain milestones are etched in my memory. The stakes had been raised, though, so the lows seemed that much scarier; I tend to put away those memories unless I'm forced to confront them. So all this "I want my old life back" nonsense had to do with the easily recalled happy times when I felt safe and secure, and I knew Grace felt the same way.

I'd like to be settled, for Grace's sake and my own. I want a normal family life that doesn't involve regular contact with lawyers and insurance adjusters and people who ask if I've applied for a job at WalMart. I don't want fleeting moments of happiness; I want genuine contentment. I don't need to be rich or take lavish vacations or live life free of worries, but I'd like to be financially comfortable, and travel from time to time, and know that the difficult times will pass without the specter of financial ruin.

What's up with the fridge? Funny you should ask. I took this picture the other day because I hadn't been grocery shopping since I moved (again), and I had forgotten how disruptive a move can be in little ways. Afterwards, I remembered this post, which was right after John and I made our final new beginning together in this house. I was excited then, certain that we'd finally found the right formula for true happiness. Same fridge, shiny and new, and I was clearly pleased with myself. What the old picture doesn't show is that the fridge was empty.

Letting go.

My last post reflects perfectly my state of mind at the time: muddled. In an attempt to gain some clarity, I took my first road trip since my accident; Grace and I drove to the coast to visit my parents. I was white-knuckled and tense the entire three-hour drive, and when we finally got there my muscles creaked when I climbed out of the car. (Grace was totally chill.)

I was hoping the fog might lift enough for me to connect with my mom and dad, but both my brain fog and the coastal fog were uncooperative, leaving us cooped up in the house most of the week, and a bit cranky. I was also supposed to do a book signing that didn't transpire, and my frustration about that didn't help my mood. I decided to come home earlier than planned, and that afternoon the clouds finally lifted and we saw the sun as we hit the road at dusk.

Something inside me lifted during the drive home, as well. I've been thinking about the illusion of control that generally gets me through the day, the idea that if I do things properly, I will be rewarded with success and happiness. That illusion was pretty well shattered last month, and I've been sort of unnerved ever since. I can drive safely and still get into an accident; I can parent to the best of my ability and still let Grace down; I can find a fantastic job and work hard but still get fired; I can take care of myself and still get sick; I can write a book and promote it like crazy but not sell it; I can try to reason with my psychotic neighbor regarding the land dispute and still wind up in a legal quagmire; I can love my friends and family but hurt them unintentionally. I could go on, but you get the point.

My personal injury lawyer, of all people, mentioned the serenity prayer during our first meeting. I'm not into organized religion, but I believe I'm a spiritual person. Regardless, the idea of accepting things I cannot change is somewhat foreign to me, and lately I've been too wiped to summon much courage for the things I need to change. I have two things working against me: I have some itty bitty control issues, and I struggle with chronic depression. So I tend to spin my wheels when crises arise. Rather than distinguish between what I should work on and what I should let go, I do exactly the opposite. I stew over things beyond my control and neglect my responsibilities. Pretty clever, right?

On my drive home, this tendency suddenly became clear to me, again, and left me feeling unusually peaceful. I'm not sure why I have so much trouble remembering to focus my energy on what is truly important; I suppose that whole pesky wisdom part still eludes me. But I'll be glancing at this prayer (originally a poem, by the way) often from now on, hoping to break old habits and find order in chaos, or just let go and enjoy.

Woman on the verge.

I've been crying a lot lately. People who know me well will probably think, "What the...?" I don't cry often; it gives me a headache and makes me feel weak. But lately, every time I drive by a car accident, or see a puddle of broken glass in the street, or hear the wail of a siren, I well up and wonder what the hell is going on. Today, as part of my post-accident rehab, I had a chiropractic adjustment and a massage, and the release of both physical and emotional tension had me blubbering all the way home, where I took some Advil and sank into a two-hour coma. My hands hurt; they feel as though I've been clinging to something all day, when all I've been grasping, white-knuckled, is the steering wheel of my car.

I want to write about how great and lucky I feel to be alive, but my heart and body just aren't up to speed with my mind, so I continue to chip away at unpacking. Oh yeah, I moved, again. Grace and I are back in the old (new) house, for myriad reasons, not the least of which to make the neighbors' lives hell. So far, so good. (I think I need a sub-woofer.)

It's a strange time in our lives; not just me but countless families, and so in that way I feel sad but connected. It's as though I landed in the gutter, literally and figuratively, and I'm trying to find my way back to where I was headed. I know I'm lucky to be alive, that a combination of timing, reflexes, good luck and my sturdy Subaru are what gave me this chance to be thankful for what I have and reevaluate what's important. That's not something that happens every day, and I intend to take full advantage of this opportunity. Starting tomorrow. Wish me luck.

Third one's a charm.

My personal injury lawyer is only 34. But he went to Harvard, is very cool, and I suspect he kicks butt. Also, he works on contingency, which most do, but I worried about having to pay another person to fight my battles for me, when I'm such a scrappy little fighter myself. ...Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

And then there were three.

Three lawyers, that is. A divorce lawyer, a real estate lawyer and a personal injury lawyer, if he takes my case tomorrow. This is two weeks after the accident, and my face is healing like a superhero's, but the rest of my body and spirit are struggling in a way I never expected. I'm waiting to bounce back, but I hurt, I'm exhausted, my brain is mush.

In the midst of all this, I've noticed that I'm frequently feeling an emotion that used to be quite foreign to me: envy. When I see pictures of people enjoying their summers, unencumbered by financial and physical distress, living normal lives and even thriving, the green feeling I have is acute — and extremely unpleasant. I hear about someone who's gotten a six-figure book deal or has a NYT bestseller, and I have to suppress the urge to scream, "What about me?" I see couples building new houses, adding another child to their already happy family, making plans for the future without fear, and I try to remember what that carefree life felt like. In many cases, they are people who have gone through hell and back before they found their way, and I don't at all begrudge them their happiness. But I want it for myself. I want the hard decisions I've made in the last year to end up being the right decisions. I want things to turn around for me and my family, and for all the other families I know who are going through difficult times. It's not just money; I could win the lottery tomorrow and still be just as lost as I am today (albeit lost while looking at real estate on Alameda Ridge).

What I really miss are those old feelings of success and self-sufficiency, perhaps more so because I haven't often experienced failure. There is a down side to having things come easily to you early in life, and I'm getting cozy with that uncomfortable suspicion that maybe I didn't really earn all the things I used to value; even worse, what if they weren't all that valuable? Now I have to figure out what I really want; what would make me truly happy; what I honestly value and want to share with Grace. Then I have to work my ass off, risking failure on each new front. Hello, real world. My name is Laurel.

Quick update

Before I left my parents' house, I left a message for the off-duty paramedic, David Gurnee, who made my accident so much less frightening than it might have been. I wanted to see him, and give him a giant hug for everything he did for me that day, but he wasn't available. Then, this afternoon, my phone rang and it was him; he'd been on vacation and just gotten my message. I couldn't help but burst out, "Ohmigod thank you for calling me!" We talked for a while, and I hope I adequately expressed my gratitude. He seemed like a genuinely cool dude with an appreciation for Subarus and some good advice for dealing with all that follows when one totals a car and has to deal with insurance companies. He also confirmed my recollection of the accident, that the airbags deployed while my car was airborne, rather than when it hit the ditch. I don't know why this was important to me, but it explains why my face was such a mess; airbags are designed to inflate and then deflate quickly, which means that when my car landed, my airbag had already done its thing. The state trooper was adamant that the airbags couldn't have inflated right away; sometimes I just like to be right.

Anyway, there's nothing quite like talking to someone who was there with you during a horrible experience. And like I said before, HE WAS THERE. I actually laughed about the whole thing for the first time since it happened, which I wouldn't have noticed but Michael did. David seemed like someone I could hang out with and have a beer, and talking with him gave me some closure. Also, his wife is an English teacher, which made me want to drive (!) up the peninsula and talk about books.

There are wonderful people out there. How lucky am I to be able to thank one of them who helped me?

Really, REALLY bad timing.

Here's my car after I was cut out of it July 1st. (News story here.) I like little old ladies as much as the next person, but I don't necessarily think they should be driving unless they can stay in their own lane. She didn't drift into my lane; she turned so quickly, it was like she was aiming for me. I was able to swerve just enough to avoid a head-on collision — which means she nailed me right in the driver's side door. I remember that awful crunching noise, glass, smoke, spinning as if the car was airborne, and airbags. I actually tried to get out of the car when it stopped, because I watch enough movies to know that cars explode when they crash. But I couldn't really manage anything other than dialing 911 on my cell, then handing it to the guy who appeared in my window. Turns out he was an off-duty paramedic, David Gurnee, and while I couldn't pick him out of a lineup, I will be grateful to him for the rest of my life. He started an IV, gave me gauze to hold on my face, had another guy climb in back to hold my head still, called my parents and talked to everyone else who called after that. Most important, HE WAS THERE. I was completely in shock, shaking uncontrollably and not at all comfortable with the amount of blood soaking my clothes. It took the emergency crew what seemed like FOREVER to arrive, and I simply cannot imagine being alone that whole time, or even being with just regular good samaritans (who also stopped). He was my guardian angel that day.

I thought I could blog about this with some sense of perspective, that it might even be cathartic. I was glib about the accident on facebook, probably because of the painkillers. But now that I'm home with Grace and I realize how close I came to never being home with Grace, I don't think I have enough distance from the experience just yet. So I will say this: thank God I was alone in the car and that the old couple wasn't hurt. My face is a mess and my body is sore, but I'll heal; I'm lucky to be alive. I'm not sure when I'll get behind the wheel again. I suppose when I get a car and need to go somewhere.