I'm A Bad Addict

I recently wrote an essay on addiction. It ended up being more somber and science-y than intended, because I sometimes take myself quite seriously when writing for someone else. The gist of it, if you're not one of the few dozen people who read it, is that there is a difference between bad habits and true addictions. I am, it turns out, a failure as an addict, because rarely have I indulged in substance abuse and experienced physical dependence at the same time. I remain ambivalent about this.

So I give you a list of bad habits to which I have mistakenly considered myself addicted over the years. In no particular order of chronology, severity, or significance:

• Diet Coke (my precious)
• cigarettes (I'm gross. Whatever.)
• lip balm (Is this bad?)
• Afrin (yes, the nose spray)
• alcohol (No comment.)
• Bejeweled 3
• validation (Everyone needs this, right?)
• Vicodin (cold turkey, bitches)
• gossip (deliciously naughty)
• caffeine (I'm okay with this one.)
• clonazepam (and this one...)
• oversharing (oops)
• X-Files reruns (I want to believe.)
• toxic relationships (so over that shit)
• spicy cheese grits (mmm...)
• procrastination (It's happening right now.)
• the internet (See above.)

I'm still working on ditching many of these. Not surprisingly, they're the ones that have been with me the longest.

On a positive note, I have some good habits to balance my failed addictions:

• flossing (daily)
• admitting I'm wrong (also daily)
• napping (ditto)

Huh.

Why are bad habits easier to slip into than good ones? Why don't I crave raw fruits and vegetables instead of carbs drowned in melted cheese? Why isn't exercise as tempting as, you know, not exercising?

I need adult supervision, someone following me around asking, "Does that seem like a good idea, Laurel, or a really, really bad idea?" But apparently I'm the grown up around here. I don't know how this happened.

I'm going to take a nap.

Speed bump.

Most of the time I am brutally honest when I blog, because I find such release in writing, regardless of who reads my thoughts, or doesn't read them. I can't do this now, however, because I have a certain sense of crossing a line when it comes to very personal experiences. So, the short version.

I was in the hospital for eight days. I was sick, and then they almost killed me by giving me a drug to which I had a severe allergic reaction. For days, they did not listen when I complained I felt worse. Fortunately, my admitting doctor went on vacation and the doctor covering for him did listen to me. She did some blood work and a couple minutes of research and figured out what the problem was. Once I felt better, I wanted nothing more than to go home, but this was not in the cards, since I needed to be monitored. I almost checked out AMA (against medical advice), but this meant my insurance wouldn't cover my stay, and that seemed like a very bad thing.

The worst part about being in the hospital, other than almost dying? No Diet Coke. The best part? Waking up every morning to the adorable, 22-year-old face of the med student who came to draw my blood. Thank you, Cute Blood Guy, for all the painless pricks and for taking the time to talk to me about books; you will be a fantastic doctor one day.

So that happened. On with life, such as it is.

Laying low.

Dr.: "Looks like you have the flu."
Me: "But I got a flu shot."
Dr.: "Have you been exposed to H1N1?"
Me: "I have a four-year-old daughter in preschool who has pneumonia."
Dr.: "Okay then. I'll write you a prescription for Tamiflu."
Me: "Is it generic?"
Dr.: "No."
Me: "Is it expensive?"
Dr.: "Oh yeah."
Me: "Is it effective?"
Dr.: "It might shorten your symptoms."
Me.: "No thanks."
Dr.: "Okay. Lots of fluids and call if your fever is over 102° or you start to feel worse."

(An hour later, at home, fever is 102.1°.)

Me: "Hi. My doctor said to call if my fever was over 102°. It is."
Nurse: "Call back or go to the ER if it stays there."

The downside of this bug is that my lungs are on fire and my body hurts from head to toe. On a positive note, I may fit into my skinny jeans again.

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.

Before and after.

I'm not really springing back into action post-accident. In fact, I am not at all myself, and my normal self isn't exactly an energetic little ray of sunshine to begin with. According to the Portland ER doc who saw me when I woke up disoriented, dizzy and unable to string a sentence together, this is common with head injuries, but as far as I'm concerned, it just sucks. On days when I take care of Grace, I struggle to find the energy to keep up with her, physically and mentally. She knows something's wrong. Brady knows something's wrong. Even the guy who gave me the rental car must have figured something was wrong, because it took him a full ten minutes to convince me that I wouldn't have to pay anything. I just couldn't comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, because I knew as soon as we stopped talking, I would have to climb behind the wheel of a car (an ivory PT Cruiser!) and drive home. I was actually shaking, and not with gleeful anticipation.

My life seems like a series of befores and afters. Before and after John and I split up; before and after last summer's health issues; before and after losing my job; before and after meeting Michael; before and after the ongoing legal issues with the house; before and after Grace was potty trained (yay, Grace!); before and after Max died; before and after the accident.

Could be the concussion, could be the chemical imbalance in my brain prevailing over my meds, could be that this last year has just been unusually stressful, but I'm having a really difficult time regaining my sense of who I am and what I should be doing. Taking care of Grace is draining, but I know what's expected of me; when she's not here, I'm adrift. Normally, I would write. In fact, I'm dying to get back to my novel. The hurdle? My laptop died, and when I sit down at my desktop computer to write, I feel like I'm working, and I don't want to feel that way about the one thing I love to do. I have nothing against working (my lack of employment notwithstanding); I just want to continue to experience writing as something that brings me joy and fulfillment and keeps me in the moment, endlessly. That may sound spoiled, but I'm funny that way. So tomorrow I will focus on one step at a time: get up, shower, bring desktop computer to The Mac Store, trade in for a laptop. The most challenging leg of this adventure will be the part where I have to shower. It still hurts, and I have to confront my cuts and bruises in the mirror.

On a positive note, think of all the water I'm saving by showering every other day. Also, I'm stationary quite a bit more since I've lost my mojo, which Brady loves. This dog wants nothing more than a warm body to lie on, and the occasional decomposing animal to eat. What would I do without my little family?

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.

It's all relative.

Today I talked to my dad for a while, and realized what a truly ridiculous predicament he's in, with the broken neck and all. From everywhere, he gets conflicting advice. His neurosurgeon tells him to remain immobile and wait for surgery; a friend who is an orthopedic surgeon tells him he'll never heal wearing the brace, and to avoid surgery at all costs. One person tells him it's important to exercise, while another warns him to take it easy. Everyone has an opinion on diet, naturally.

Can you imagine having a broken vertabra, one of the important ones up at the top, one that if you move your head the wrong way might shift and damage your spinal column? Every time I think about this I get sick to my stomach and try to go to my happy place, but my father doesn't have that luxury. So he compromises, wearing some version of a neck brace all the time, continuing to take Max (the main dog) for daily walks to help slow his canine arthritis, all the while quietly freaking out because the Hood Canal Bridge is scheduled to close right around his next visit to Seattle — which means a long, windy drive all the way down to Olympia and back up the other side of Puget Sound. I wish I could pay to airlift him from one place to another, or at least guarantee a safe car ride. But there's not much I can do and it's really not about me. Except that I would gladly trade places with him, because I live in a city with lots of hospitals. Why do people choose to retire to places without adequate medical care? Maybe I'll broach that subject with my parents once my dad can eat without loosening his brace.

I don't drink as much as I used to (mostly because of last summer's unprovoked attack on my digestive system), but tonight I made an exception because I like red wine with my spaghetti and I felt like relaxing. Tomorrow I will pay. But I'll be able to twist my aching head in whatever direction I choose, and make my way to the bathroom without worrying about falling. So right now I'm feeling pretty lucky.

Regarding that last post...

After fielding several phone calls from friends making sure I wasn't referring to them, let me say this: if you read my blog and care enough to call, YOU ARE NOT A FRINGE FRIEND! In fact, I love you all. So there.

Our final round of mediation was yesterday, and this morning I slammed my forehead on the edge of the dining room table while cleaning up after Grace's breakfast. When I removed the ice pack and asked "It's not bleeding, is it?", I saw a look on Michael's face that I can't quite describe. What does this have to do with the divorce? For starters, the head wound was more pleasant than yesterday's meeting. More disturbing is the fact that I probably could have used a stitch or two but didn't even consider going to the ER because I can't afford it. Divorcing a man on whom I was financially dependent, during a recession and a longer-than-expected period of unemployment, and watching my savings dwindle away while I make mortgage payments on a house I will clearly need to sell as soon as possible JUST ISN'T FUN ANYMORE. But for some reason I ended up laughing more than usual today (possibly the blow to the head), and I can't wait to get through this transition and see what's waiting for me on the other side. I'm done with limbo; it's been almost a year. I want to settle down and have a nice, normal, boring life.

To that end, I plan to become a bestselling author, since no one appears to need a finance manager or software developer, or even an overqualified administrative assistant. So let me direct your attention to the upper left corner and make a suggestion: buy my book, love it, and tell everyone you know about it. I'll be launching a full-on publicity blitz in the next couple of weeks, so keep your fingers crossed for me — and in the meantime, give me your money! I promise you won't be disappointed.

Bite me, 2008. I win.

According to a list I found online, the top ten stressors are:
- death of spouse
√ divorce
√ marital separation
- jail term
- death of a close family member
√ personal injury or illness
- marriage
√ being fired at work
√ marital reconciliation
- retirement

I experienced half of these (checked), spread nicely over the last six months. (I was surprised to not find moving on the list, because we all know how exciting it was to sell and/or buy a home last year.) Also, I watched one of my best friends suffer the loss of a parent; I went through the delightful process of kicking a Vicodin habit, courtesy of my gastroenterologist's (the Sadistic Prick) decision to treat my symptoms rather than figure out what was going on with my body (cold turkey, three days of hell); I faced some financial setbacks; I watched the Perfect Roommate become the Perfect Nut Job; I raised parenting anxiety to an art form; and I spent the holidays away from my parents for the first time since moving to Portland. It sucked.

So why am I so happy? I've never dealt well with chaos and uncertainty, but all the recent drama seems to have perfectly illuminated the good in my life. I'm making positive changes; I finally feel healthier now than I have in years; Grace seems to be adjusting remarkably well to her new living arrangements and is gradually transforming from a giant energy drain into a little person who makes me howl with laughter; and, of course, the people in my life continue to amaze me with their support, generosity, patience and compassion. Family, friends (old and new), and even cheerful strangers make me smile every day and appreciate what a fantastic little community I am part of.

I am optimistic about the new administration and the direction our country could take; I look forward to discovering the nuances of Grace's emerging personality; and I remain absurdly hopeful about publishing my novel and making a living as a writer. And as far as this is concerned? Time will tell.

A few steps forward, a few steps back.

Progress has been made. I got a great job that I start in two weeks; The Perfect Roommates (Andrea and Boo, left) finally succumbed to my charms and moved in, so Grace and I can stay put, temporarily; I found childcare for the days Grace isn't in school; and the Obama/Biden team remains focused and ahead in the polls (knock on wood). These are all good things for which I am grateful, BIG THINGS to check off my list (except for the presidential campaign, for which I can take no credit, although we have taught Grace to chant, "Gobama, Gobama"). But the little things threaten to derail me. My colon is apparently "unremarkable", but my ovarian ultrasound, not so much; the kitchen sink faucet sprung a leak that I cannot fix (I pride myself on being able to fix everything that doesn't involve electricity); there is mutiny afoot with the washer and dryer — the spin cycle on the washer shakes the house, and the dryer smells like burning rubber; and I got a fucking ticket for my car's expired tags, something for which Oregon does not send out a reminder. So RotoRooter will be here in the morning, I'll have another ultrasound, I'll exercise my warrantee on the washer and dryer and I'll grudgingly pay that stupid ticket. Annoyances, really.

The emotional rollercoaster is far more intractable. One moment Andrea and I are giddily deciding what to plant in the front yard to make it pretty and drought-tolerant, or what fruits and vegetables to plant in raised beds in the backyard so we don't starve when the country spirals into an apocalyptic depression, and the next minute I'm curled up in bed crying, wondering what the hell happened to my perfect little life. Grace goes from giggling, happy toddler to pissed off, screeching howler monkey in the blink of an eye, and my mood naturally follows. And I either desperately miss the partners-in-crime kind of relationship I used to share with John, or I can't wait for this to be over. I wonder what I could have done differently, how I could have made a success of the single most important thing I will do in my life, and if I'll have a second chance. For Grace's sake as much as my own, I hope the good will outweigh the bad, that I will stay positive instead of giving in to feelings of failure, that years from now I will look back on this and know that we did the right thing, and that Brady will stop eating all of Boo's food and stealing his bones.

I'll live. The Cute Doctor's chances are iffy.

Everyone I talked to who has had a colonoscopy promised I'd get great drugs, would be out like a light and wouldn't be able to remember the ride home, much less the procedure itself. And I believed them. I am, however, a drug-resistant freak, and while I was a teeny bit drowsy for a while, I felt and remember everything from the moment The Cute Doctor arrived at the office in bike shorts and helmet until, well, now. He looked damn good in those shorts, and gave me a disarming grin, a thumbs up and said, "I'm all ready!" All I could come up with was, "Don't change clothes on my account." But that was before I realized he was a Sadistic Prick.

It hurt like a motherfucker. Every time that damn camera slammed into the wall of my colon, I felt it. I tried to be stoic, but I squeaked a few times and they told me to breathe. As if the pain were my fault because I'm a bad breather. Finally I gasped, "You said I wouldn't feel anything." And The Sadistic Prick joked to the nurse, "I think she's calling me a liar." They had a little chuckle, then upped my pain meds, which did nothing. Apparently he was having trouble maneuvering the scope, so they had me roll this way, and that way, then on my stomach. I knew exactly how much progress he was making because I could feel that friggin' thing banging around until it was all the way up under my right rib. I figured we were just about done, but the retreat wasn't much easier. He wanted to be thorough, so he took a couple of biopsies, and even though they kept giving me more drugs, I felt it all. I made sure to breathe audibly while I plotted my revenge. Once he was done, he told me everything looked normal and the biopsy results would be back in a week or so. Then he half-heartedly apologized for my "discomfort" and explained that because I am so thin, my colon is particularly angular, which made it more difficult for him. Then the nurse brought me to the recovery room.

Ah, the recovery room. Never before have I been in a room full of people being encouraged to fart. I imagine Katie Couric had a private room for her recovery (I don't watch whatever morning show on which Her Perkiness shared her own experience), but mine was just a bunch of gurneys with curtains around them. Here's what I know: all the other patients were in a much better mood than I was, had loved ones come in to sit with them, and had no problem farting up a storm. When my nurse promised me juice as a reward for passing gas, I was all, "Juice? Make it coffee and I'll blow a hole in the wall. With half and half, please." At some point the Sadistic Prick came in and asked me if I remembered the conversation we had when he'd finished torturing me, and I was like, "Uh, yeah. Why wouldn't I?" He repeated it anyway, then suggested another procedure if my biopsy came back negative. He seemed concerned that my ride wasn't there yet, but it was probably best that Ella showed up after he was gone. Otherwise he might have overheard me ranting to her about The pain! My God, the pain! Ella was definitely the best person for this job, because she knows me and expected nothing other than me complaining nonstop all the way home. And she brought me a Snickers bar. Angel.