Questioning that decision

Let me tell you a little bit about the role Divorce played in my life up until 10 years ago, when I entered into my own marriage contract...
By all accounts (I am the youngest by 8 years, so I've had to rely on my siblings' retelling for much of this) my parents once had a happy marriage. I do recall a lovely home in Mt. Wolf, home-cooked dinners together every night, that sort of thing.
When I was 8 my father moved the entire family to El Paso, TX following a lucrative career opportunity. It also happened to be where his mistress lived, and chaos ensued. My parents separated & reunited a number of times - each one requiring a "fresh start" - and I found myself the new kid at school after school. At least 6 different districts between third and eighth grade - its a bit of blur.
I don't regret any of this one bit, and wouldn't change this family history for the world - its why I start conversations with strangers at the grocery store, why I've been to nearly every state in the country, why I'm good at sales. Its why I love to travel and why I can pack a suitcase like no body's business. Its a huge part of who I am.
The homelife, however, could've been better. I recall alot of slamming doors, broken photo frames, and crying. I was beyond relieved when my parents told me they were getting divorced - I would've been maybe 12 at the time. I loved (love) both my parents very much and it was clear to me that they could not both live happy, fulfilling lives under the same roof. I can remember very clearly the moment when I embraced this lesson: Its better to have happy parents living apart than miserable parents living together. I internalized that almost immediately, and it has informed every decision I've made in my romantic life since that day.
As a child, divorce improved my life immensely. It improved my homelife, my feeling of security in my parents' love...it solidified for me the idea that everyone deserves to be happy, and that they are committing a sin of the highest degree if they don't do everything in their power to make that happen.
Then I got married and had kids.
I had it all figured out. I was NOT going to make the same mistakes my parents did; I was NEVER going to get divorced. I believed that since I knew first hand how much hard work & attention marriage required, I'd be successful at it. I wasn't one of these over-the-moon, starry-eyed brides-to-be you see in the magazines & movies. I was practical.
First and foremost - and I really can't say how conscious this was - I chose a man who I was absolutely certain would never, never cheat on me. Infidelity curse knocked out right there. And I was right; he never did.
Secondly - I didn't fall for that romance bullshit. Don't get me wrong - there were of course warm fuzzies, tender moments - but I chose my best friend.
On my wedding day before the ceremony, my mother pulled me aside to inform me that I didn't "have to do this". Well-meaning, I am sure. My response to her was very deliberate. "Mom, you married for romantic love and look where it got you. I'm marrying my best friend, so we're in it for the long haul." I cannot tell you how many times I've heard those words in my head over these last few months.
I find myself in the unenviable position of questioning that decision every day. Not that I would take it back anyway - the world would've missed out on two incredible children if I had chosen differently. Outside of that, though (always, always outside of that) I wonder: did my marriage veer off course somewhere, or did I choose the wrong road to begin with?

Merry Merry :)

What a difference a day makes...
I had lunch with a dear friend last week, and was busy enumerating all the many reasons this would be an awful Christmas for me (see previous post, if you must). He - very kindly, mind you - interrupted my pity party to offer a shift in perspective. A much-needed one.
His suggestion was along the lines of this: I should welcome this lonely Christmas Eve as an opportunity to celebrate the difficult & invaluable (yet rather expensive!) gift I've given myself this year: the gift of independence. Of standing (or falling) on my own two feet. Of having no one to answer to, no one to blame. Of freedom.
And he's absolutely right. What a year its been. I spent the whole of it struggling with a gut-wrenching decision that would not only change my life, but those of my husband, our children, our extended families and even our friends. An entire year in flux - at work, at home. Unsettled. Until finally I made my choice. And bore down to ride out the consequences.
And you know what? I should celebrate that. It was brave, and honest. And I deserve it.
So, now I'd like to enumerate the many things I'm grateful for this Christmas:

I truly appreciate each and every moment I get to spend with my children, even the tedious ones.

I have an amazing job in which I am the only obstacle standing between me and success.

I have the opportunity to model for both of my children what a strong, independent woman can accomplish on her own.

I answer to...me.

I can try to help my husband - for whom I care very much and wish nothing but good things - adapt to these changes and find his own way to gratitude & happiness.

I have an amazingly intelligent and sensitive son, and he is responding well to having less tension in his homelife.

I have wonderful friends. They offer love, encouragement & support - not pity.

I can provide a home, food, clothing & humble amusement for my children - which in itself makes me 1 in 100 people in this world of ours.

I work with the most supportive & helpful coworkers I ever have.

I love poetry, appreciate the beauty it brings to my life daily, and can instill this appreciation in my children.

I live in one of the most beautiful places in the world. I am 5 minutes from the woods but can visit any of 3 major cities as a day trip. I am free from worry about earthquakes, tornados, hurricaines, monsoons, what have you.

I can literally free my daughter from pain with nothing but a kiss. Because she believes in me that much.

I'm confident its going to be an amazing year.

Ho Ho...hum

The need to swallow your wallow and deck the halls is probably THE most depressing thing about the Holidays. Wondering if I should even post...eh...fuck it. Gotta bleed it out, you know? Not like anyone actually reads this shit ;)
So I am having a REALLY hard time looking forward to Christmas. The most obvious trigger is the fact that this is my first Christmas without the kids. I'll see them, of course - at 4:00pm Christmas day. I'll spend Christmas Eve alone in my apartment - most likely with a bottle of red and Law & Order reruns. Difficult to get warm & fuzzy about that.
Trigger #2 - money. I am broke. And yes I understand that its not about the presents and yes I understand that its not a competition. But those facts are little comfort when your kids are opening Dollar General toys (and are old enough to know it). So what do I do? Spend too much money and pay the electric bill late. Great. Just what my newly-seperated credit rating needs.
Trigger #3 - regret. In case I wasn't having a hard enough time holding my head up around the office with my less than stellar sales performance, I decided to be THAT GUY and get loaded at the company Christmas party. Well, 'decided' is probably not the word...I completely lacked even my usual too-late realization that I'm not nearly as entertaining as I think I am. Ouch.
Trigger #4 - Social engagements. Picture it: a Holiday tradition of girls-night-out only with the husbands. 13 couples, me, and an empty place setting next to me. Which actually was not that bad...until the pity vibe set in. Nicest gals in the world and I'm sure its at least 70% in my head. But when I got the wine in the white elephant and NO ONE tried to steal...I knew there was some serious pity going on. Didn't even need the "don't steal that - she needs it more than you do!" comment to realize that I was a downer on the whole damn crowd. Made my exit early.
And I guess that's the theme. I feel....contagious. The need to make my exit early so as not to bring down the rest of the world. Depression is lonely. Depression during the holidays is self-imposed banishment. I'm like a leper. Everyone is hoping for snow, cuddling with their loved ones in front of fires with hot chocolate listening to Bing Crosby. Or so it seems. The last thing they want or need is me and my relentless bitching.
I do not begrudge my friends this hapiness. I wish it for them from the bottom of my heart - even if its beyond me. Its not envy - its not that I want that feeling for myself so much as I hate that I'm not contributing to it for my loved ones.
So, I should make some lame attempt to bring this full circle and provide a positive take-away per my usual blog posts.
Well, for one, its real. I mean, I know the few people who read these have experienced this. Depression doesn't have great timing.
There is one thing I'm looking forward to.
I am an absolute sucker for New Year's. Not New Year's Eve - god knows what hole in the wall will find me 5 whiskeys in and sucking at pool that night - but New Year's Day. I'm the resolution queen and I buy it every time (see post "cycles" for some insight on resolutions).
I'll start with the utterly predictable - I'm gonna exercise. I'm trying to be realistic and start with yoga 3 times a week. Seems reasonable. I'll throw the cardio in when it becomes a well-established habbit.
I'm going to reinstate my previous ban on fast food, which has been relaxed in the face of "eating for one". This will be difficult as Big Macs have suddenly taken on the gleam of cocaine.
Mostly, I'm looking forward to routine. That is what I know I need. Come home. Cook myself dinner. Do some yoga. Go to bed and read. Repeat.
Throw myself into work with utter abandon on the weeks I don't have the kids. This will require my ex to pick up our daughter, which will mean a less-than-pleasant conversation. Oh well.
Be honest with myself. Stop buying my own bullshit. If I were that good a salesman I'd be making more money.
Discipline. Stick to it. See it through. Follow up. Quit scheduling tasks and actually do some.
Oh I do love me some New Year's resolutions. I buy it, too - hook, line & sinker. I love it.
So that's the shooting star I'm currently hanging my hopes on. Its a thin veneer but sometimes that's all that's needed.

Losing Control

Many incidents in the last two weeks have me thinking about loss of control, the most obvious being the car accident Anna & I were in last week. Driving in the rain, lots of wet leaves on the road - cell phone tucked away in my purse, both hands on the wheel, and in no hurry. I was doing pretty much exactly what I was supposed to be doing. Nevertheless, lost control around a curve and hit an oncoming car - both vehicles totalled. No injuries beyond scrapes & bruises, thankfully - but a terrifying experience.

Earlier this week I spoke with a friend who struggles with depression and was spiraling. I imagine her thinking to herself 'pull up! pull up!' like I do in those times - thinking it but being helpless to make it happen.

My husband and I recently separated, and split custody means I go an entire week without having my kids under my roof. During those weeks I have no say in matters of diet, discipline, hygiene, what have you. Its not that I think he'll do a bad job - I know he won't - its the loss of control that's hard to swallow.

And today my Sam had 'an episode' - which are occurring with increased frequency and passion these days. Reading over this now...it sounds like I'm about to lament the fact that I can't control these episodes - I am not. I lament the fact that he can't control them.

This evening it was about football jerseys. His (Eagles, of course) has seen alot of action on game day and at recess the following Mondays - the Eagle head and letters are wearing a bit here and there. A bit. If you look at them under the microscope, you can see it. But his friend at school has an Eagles jersey which is in mint condition apparently (or "fancy" in Sam-speak). Just like Sam's - mind you this is the NFL sanctioned, official, $60 for a yard of mesh jersey, not some Walmart knockoff - except that none of the letters or numbers are cracking. Sam is dismayed. He must get a fancy jersey in order to save face at school (he's a 7 year old boy, btw, not a 14 year old girl). All evening this was bubbling up and his father and I were tap dancing, hoping to keep it from reaching the surface. We tried the "your birthday is less than a month away" angle - no luck. I explained to Sam that its much cooler to have a worn jersey cause it shows you've been a fan a long time (a la my circa 1993 DMB concert tee) to no avail. We even played the Santa card. Sam was struggling to hold back tears the entire evening.

Luckily, or so I thought, we had a belt test at karate to keep his mind engaged. While we're at it, I decided - let's walk there! Who cares if its dark - its only 4 blocks away and relatively warm outside. So I grab the stroller, Anna & Sam and head off to Tae Kwon Do (pretty sure I've misspelled that). Belt test is stellar. Sam does all the moves, the hits, the kicks, even breaks a thick wooden board with his fist. He's beaming. I couldn't be prouder. He runs over and hugs me like he just took the gold at Sydney. AMAZING 3 seconds. Walking home, we must pass 'Instant Replay' - sports apparel. He pleads. Can we just look - for his birthday maybe? He worked so hard. I relent - a huge mistake. There's a jersey, its $60, he must have it. Now, I'm thinking too much, which I often do as a parent, and in this case I'm thinking there's a larger lesson here. His jersey is fine - its a want, not a need. Perhaps he could earn it by doing some chores around the house or displaying exemplary behavior for a set period of time? Um, no. Meltdown ensues.

But 'meltdown' means many different things to many different Moms. (Disclaimer: yes, there are times when my son throws fits in order to manipulate me and get what he wants. I know the difference. This is not one of those times.) Tonight, it looks something like this: Sam is crying. Real tears, not fake ones. He is fixated on this jersey. He is sobbing almost violently and is in very real danger of hyperventilating. I hug. I cajole. I promise everything will be okay. In his mind, this is the end of the world. He keeps saying "I'll never get a new jersey and I'll have to live with the beat-up one i have until I'm 100 years old and i hate it and its not fair. and its because I'm a bad boy, if i were a good boy you would get it for me. I'm a bad boy and i hate that I'm a bad boy and i hate myself." At this point I have to physically restrain Sam, on the street mind you, because he is punching & scratching himself. (See it: I'm on North Franklin, with the brakes on the umbrella stroller and Anna saying 'look at the moon mommy!' as people on their porch accross the street wonder if there's "something" wrong with my kid, whose hands i have pinned to his side to keep him from doing any real damange to himself.) The anger turns on me: "I hate you. I wish you weren't my Mama. I wish someone would tie you up and leave you in the road and a car would run over you with a bomb and blow you up and i would get a new mama." This, surprisingly, is easier to take. I would so much rather this horrendous rage be directed at me than himself. Then the regret: "Mama I'm so sorry and i love you and I'm just a bad bad boy and i hate myself for it." This I can't take. This is the part where I turn and hide my face because it will only make things worse for Sam to see me crying.

The four seconds between realizing I was out of control of the car and the impact felt like an hour. I recall hearing my father's voice say "turn into the skid!" But nothing I did with the steering wheel or brakes had any effect on the vehicle's trajectory. I recall thinking "land in the cornfield to the right!" But no amount of wishing made it so. I remember chastising myself for the fact that Anna's car seat was expired (yes, car seats expire) but there was nothing I could do about it now. And I could paint you a picture of my face the moment I realized "I'm going to hit that car." All that in four seconds.

I don't remember the impact. I went straight from "I'm going to hit that car" to "The air bags worked. Anna is crying. Is that other girl okay?" But it doesn't matter. Nothing is scarier - not the cop, not the fact that I just totalled a company car, not the spike my insurance is going to take, not even the fact that I now have a 30-day supply of muscle relaxers at hand ;) - nothing is scarier than that loss of control. Than knowing that there is absolutely nothing you can do to affect the outcome of a situation.

Depression, of course, is the same. You can read the car's instruction manual cover to cover (insert self-help guru of your choice here). You can purchase additional insurance coverage (read: meds). You can take pre-emptive measures like avoiding your cell phone and keeping both hands on the wheel (exercise, meditation, blog - what have you.) At the end of the day when you're spiraling - there's simply nothing you can do to affect the trajectory. Even knowing what to do is miles away from bringing yourself to do it.

Talking to Sam at home this evening, after he finally calmed down...i tried to explain, in 7 year old terms, about thinking something in your head before you say it out loud. when you have the impulse to hit someone, for instance, if you stop yourself and think first "is it a good idea or a bad idea to hit this person? will it get me what i want? will it get me in trouble?" That space, that thinking ahead leads to making better choices. And then we don't have to feel so bad about our choices later. (not bad about ourselves, bad about our choices - which i fool myself into believing makes a difference for him)

And it occurs to me - what utter bullshit. Its like someone saying to me "why didn't you turn the wheel? why didn't you pump the brakes instead of slamming them? If it happens again, turn into the skid..." Its completely fucking irrelevant. I watched my son this evening - his eyes, his physicality, his jaw, the tension...he was terrified. he is as terrified by his inability to control his reactions to his emotions (because no one can control the actual emotions themselves) as I was by my inability to control my car. We are, all of us, spinning out of control and terrified by our inability to impact our trajectories.

4:45 Tuesday afternoon found me standing outside an Exxon station at some random exit off of 83, drinking a Frappacino and smoking a Marlboro Light 100. I had just bought my first pack of cigarettes in over 7 years. If I was looking for rock bottom...something tells me I'm headed the right way.

Now, I don't know if its because I was in Maryland, or if this is just what you crazy kids pay these days, but $7.50 for a pack of smokes? How long has this been going on? I didn't care. Took 'em outside and started packing them - whack whack whack - on the side of my left hand. 3 whacks, turn the pack, 3 whacks. Pulled the top plastic off, opened the pack, and did away with the front foil. Pulled out the second to last cigarette in the back left, turned it upside down, and put it back in to save for last. Do adults do that?

There was no conscious thought involved in this ritual, it was like...what athletes call 'muscle memory'. My hands so easily remembered how to hold a cigarette, how to flick the ash and bring it back between my thumb and forefinger like a joint, have another hit, and nestle in between my first two fingers. flick, grasp, suck, nestle. flick, grasp, suck, nestle. Without a blink.

Immediately following the heavenly cigarette buzz (around hit #4) I start panicking. Seriously panicking - like "what the hell are you doing Jeanine?" I'm sitting there, in my professional skirt, blouse and heels, on a curb at an Exxon trying not to flash the people getting gas and smoking a cigarette. I watched it in my mind, like a scene from a movie. Flick, grasp, suck, nestle, sip...who is that girl?

The reason quitting was so hard the last time (which was, say, the 12th time) was because "smoker" was such a big part of who I was. Wife. Daughter. Poetry Lover. Mountain-pie Maker. Smoker. Student. What have you. And to spite every trick in the book - including meds & hypnosis - I couldn't break the habit until I began to build an self identity as a non-smoker. Not even ex-smoker - that's a perilous condition - but a non-smoker. And with one purchase...poof. Up in smoke.

5:10 Tuesday evening found me driving home, having my first-ever, true-blue panic attack. Now, the cigarette so lovingly eulogized above was probably the 12th I've had in the last 10 days or so, so I can't really blame this on a physiological response. I'm driving (back on 83 now) and I can literally feel my veins constricting. I realize my heart is racing and figure the Frappucino, my 7th 'coffee' of the day, is to blame. But while my heart is racing I'm simultaneously SO sleepy all the sudden. Barely able to hold my eyes open. Then I realize I'm sweating. So as I turn the AC to max and put on some loud music, I realize that my hands are shaking.

I can't really put words to the thoughts that were going through my mind. I vaguely recall blaming the cigarette, the coffee, the long drives. I remember feeling sympathy for my husband, thinking "this is a panic attack? this is what it feels like? this sucks! how does he deal with this?" I ended up pulling over and meditating for 10 minutes (yes, on the side of 83, next to an "emergency stopping only" sign).

So, while I'm lamenting the lack of clearly marked "Now entering Rock Bottom" signs, I'm grateful for the arrows along the way. They line that 1-lane highway that divides 'flirting with addition' from 'addiction'. Stay tuned, I'm thinking maybe crack next week.

Down. I am just...down. And while I'm down I know that sometime in the hopefully-not-too-distant future I'll be up again, or at least even. And when I'm there, I'll look back on here and say things like, "If I would've stuck with my exercise routine, that would've helped," or "I forgot to take my pills on that camping trip and I think it threw me," or "when I started drinking 4 glasses of wine a night I should've seen that as a sign; I should've known I was heading into a spiral."

The thing is I did know. But till you recognize the spiral you're usually too far into it to pull up.

I don't really want to, either. Pull up, I mean. This is what really gets me - really gets to me - about Depression. Not 'depression' but 'Depression' - this is how the character of Jeanine interacts with the character of Depression in the play that is my lie. I know we'll have it out but honestly there is something inside of me that just...requires that I see it through to rock bottom. Like the tragically, mythically unhappy housewife that can't bring herself to leave because things "just aren't that bad yet." And of course there's the children. (Not the real children; I'm referring to the children that the characters Jeanine and Depression share.) I love the children and if I leave, I have to leave them: Martyrdom. Booze (a nice name for a girl?) Identity. And the beautiful Excuse for those things at which I fail for lack of trying because - lucky me - ambivalence is a classic symptom of depression. ('depression,' not 'Depression')

So I don't 'pull up' - I really prefer to ride it out to the bitter end. For one, it makes a much more believable excuse that way. A much better crutch. Can you really claim to be struggling because of your depression if you never hit a slump, ride a low or go on a binge?

It's part of me. It seems...somehow...dishonest, I guess, to try to disown it. I'm so many things - mother, wife, daughter, friend, employee - and woman with depression. This was the case before I started the blog, though I suspect that...cements it, a bit. And lucky me I can claim, with some honesty too, that battling the stigma of depression is important enough to me to continue with the blog anyway. Throw a little more honesty at it, though, and it's likely just the self-absorbed ramblings of an egomaniac that likes to pretend that people connect with what she has to say.

I see this in my son - this need to hit rock bottom. It's an anxiety thing for him. For example, he's currently obsessed with Lego Star Wars on the Wii. When I way 'obsessed' I mean, quite clinically, 'engaging in obsessive behavior'. So we only play Wii on the weekends and after a warning or two about keeping our cool (yelling, throwing the remote, etc) we lose the Wii for the day. Funny thing is anytime you even glance at the kid he asks, in a freaked-out, anxiety-ridden voice, "Did I lose the Wii?" This goes on for quite awhile until he actually loses theWii. Then, following a short tantrum - no more anxiety. It's gone. Because worrying about losing the Wii is worse than actually losing the Wii. He needs to hit rock bottom.

So I am with my spirals. I almost welcome them because I've been worrying - when's my next Bout going to show up? When will Depression and Jeanine have it out again? and when it shows up...well, I don't have to wonder anymore. And that, honestly, is a bit of a relief.

And, since I'm being brutally, sadistically, humiliatingly honest here - come on. I loves me some melancholy. It so plays into this "oh I'm such a misunderstood genius" lie I like to tell myself. Virginia Wolfe, Sylvia Plath and me. We're quite a bunch. Imagine what havoc Zoloft would've wreaked on the literary world had it been available to Virginia and Sylvia! Imagine what we would've missed out on!

This is the part where I romanticize Depression. "Yes, I know he beats me when he's angry," I say, "but he really loves me and I'm usually asking for it." This is the relationship Depression and I share. Its not a disease to feel things more acutely...it's an...artistic bent. A necessity. I suffer for my art. (Really, dear reader, you're supposed t laugh out loud at that.)

So, bring on the spiral, though the timing sucks. (When is a good time, really, for a Bout?) It makes me feel...honest. Real. Flawed and Human and Genuine. What would I be, really, without it? Is it possible I've become addicted to Depression?

potential

There are few double-edged swords sharper than that of "potential".
My whole life I've heard that word. I have potential to spare. So much, in fact, that its seemingly impossible to live up to. Semester after semester - the bane of my report card: Does not work up to potential. Fails to meet potential. Does not meet expectations.
And potential is directly linked to expection, isn't it? My potential dictates your expectation. Your expectation is, really, your assessment of my potential. Which is why I must get much better at that old customer service hat trick: managing expectation.
Webster's (okay, dictionary.com) defines potential as "a latent excellence or ability that may or may not be developed." Through nature or nurture, I've somehow come to view it as "the opportunity to dissapoint." Which is, in itself, dissapointing as I of course pride myself on my positivity...
This week I became one of people that didn't lose their jobs in my company's layoff of 15% of their employees - which is odd as I've been in my current sales position about 6 months. At this point, I've cost the company more in locksmiths and replacement blackberries than I've actually brought in in sales. A senior rep was let go, as was a fellow newbie (but one who had been with the company for 10+ years in another role). The same question keeps rolling through my mind like a mack truck: Why do I still have a job? And the same sickening answering keeps rolling through my stomach like a cement mixer: Oh dear god they think I have potential.
Its terrifying.

Preemptive Pain

Last week found me in my absolute least favorite place in the world - the dentist's chair. There are a number of things I learned from this experience: Nitrous is not nearly as fun as it used to be, I really should floss, lying down on my back with my mouth open while an old guy hovers above me is just way to submissive for my liking, and there is value in preemptive pain.

So first the nitrous. It wasn't that long ago that I actually looked forward to at least that portion of a visit to the chair - took me back to my younger youth. Memories of buying a dozen cans of whipped cream and a chocolate bar come to mind...only I was much more relaxed then. Now, the internal dialogue goes something like this: "okay so the thing's on my nose...do you think that's just oxygen or did they start the nitrous yet? I hope they didn't start the nitrous yet because I'm still really tense and if they did start it its not on high enough. Oh - okay, a little floaty. But still pretty tense. Maybe I should ask them to turn it up? If I ask them to turn it up will they think I'm a drug addict? Maybe, but if I don't ask them to turn it up then I've squandered my one opportunity this year for whipits. Wow so does that mean I am a drug addict? oh shut up and just listen to the muzac." This disappointing experience was followed by 2 days of vague headaches and somehow getting carsick while I'm driving.

I think the flossing is self-explanatory.

Okay, the creepy submission thing. First let me say that it took 20 years but I did find a dentist I actually like. But still - you're lying there, you have to be perfectly still for fear that if you flinch that drill will somehow slip and permanently disfigure you, you have to choose between keeping your eyes open (which means seeing the creepy magnifying glasses the dentist wears, which always remind me of something out of A Clockwork Orange) and closing your eyes which, let's face it, is even more submissive. You're on your back, there's a spotlight shining on your face, and I have a sneaking suspicion that both the dentist and the hygienist are making judgments about your personal hygiene. AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT. Frankly, childbirth is more dignified.

Then there's the shot. One of the reasons I like my dentist is that he takes a cotton swab and numbs my gum before he gives me the Novocaine shot (my last dentist insisted this was only done for children). Of course the shot still hurts, but not as much and you know that in the long run you're avoiding greater pain.

I do this in life. I pick an irrelevant fight with my sister to avoid the heavier topics we should address. If I sense my husband getting annoyed with me, I find a reason to get pissed at him first. And I occasionally push friends away when they get a little too close to whatever tender spot I've been hiding lately. These are all little shots of Novocaine for my psyche - but since the hard work isn't being done (I'm not the 'drill baby drill' type) the problems continue to build. Its like putting on a crown without performing the root canal first.

Cycles

"Making resolutions is a cleansing ritual of self-assessment and repentance that demands personal honesty and, ultimately, reinforces humility. Breaking them is part of the cycle." Eric Zorn said - or wrote - that. Some columnist for the Chicago tribune. Smart guy, I reckon.

I've got cycles on the brain these days. How they can be so predictable yet...somehow I'm always surprised. The merry-go-round - it doesn't go anywhere. You're gonna pass that same brass ring everytime, and if you've never grabbed it, chances are you never will. But every time you pass it - the same cycle. Hope. Anticipation. Effort. Dissappointment. (Denial, Anger...oh, wait - different cycle. Kind of)

I work in sales and that is a cycle. Lead generation, cold calls, initial appointments, proposals, rejections, cheaper proposals, and (I'm told, from time to time) closes. At this point I've cost my employer more in locksmiths and replacement blackberries than I've brought in, so apparently this is a cycle I have yet to master.

Parenting is a cycle - a one step forward, two steps back sort of cycle. In that case, though, giving up on the brass ring is just not an option.

Marraige - mine, at any rate - cycle. Things are okay. Things are annoying. Things kinda suck. Things suck bad. I'm looking up lawyers on my lunch break. Big fight. More couples therapy. Things improve. Great weekend. Things are awesome. Things are really good. Things are okay...

Depression. Ugh - such an obvious cycle. Stimulus is unpleasant/stressful/reminds you that you were never breastfed/what-have-you (pick your theory). Your brain, dopamine or seratonin deficient, reacts with anger/ambivilance/insomnia/fatigue (pick your symptom). In so doing it creates a neural pathway which it becomes, sadly (pun intended) very comfortable with. The more times you're presented with the stimulus, the more worn in the neural pathway becomes, the more predictable your response.

Medication - beyond cyclical. Start at 10mgs, wait 6 weeks, go to 20, add (excruciatingly overpriced) Abilify...still not working? Perhaps a mood stabalizer...at any rate - it's an efficacy/tolerance/efficacy/tolerance cycle that frankly scares the bejesus out of me because, you know, at some point you just run out of new shit to try.

Throw in the fact that every depressive episode makes another depressive episode more likely...meh. cycles.

So here's my question - why can't we master the cycles? I mean they're so obvious, so predictable...why can't we head them off at the pass? Offer a cheaper proposal to begin with? Skip right to the great weekend? Go straight for the crack?

I'm guessing Eric knows what he's talking about. It's the process. It's the 'cleansing ritual of self-assessment and repentance'. The journey, not the destination. The ride, not the ring (pick your cliche).

I think he's a smart guy, but I get the nagging feeling that I'm missing something. I get the nagging feeling that, perhaps, I should be conisdering new resolutions rather than making and breaking the same ones in a, well, never-ending cycle.

Running on Empty

I have a sneaking suspicion that the best way to combat that feeling you have when you see someone running and think "man i wish i was that kind of person" might just be to get off your ass and run. Even if you're really, really bad at it.
Let's be clear. I'm not striving for Olympic marathoner here. More like...Forest Gump Running on Empty maybe? Forget it. The point is, on more than one occassion now (and let's just leave it at that) I have gotten off my ass and run. And, utterly predictably, gleaned some seemingly life-changing (but no doubt short-lived) lessons from the ordeal.
A favorite quote, which I've seen attributed to Oprah of all people, states that "Luck is a matter of preparation meeting opportunity." I am not a lucky runner - I have FAR too much opportunity and no preparation to speak of. My first run, in fact the first time I did any kind of exercise at all in the last 6 months, was a 5K two weeks ago. Upon arrival I realized I forgot my still-good-but-nicely-broken-in New Balances, and considered myself lucky to find a beat up pair of Nike's in my trunk (previously relegated to 'unprepared for hike in the mud' duty). Nikes which, by the way, I BEGGED my father to buy for me...for tennis season...in eleventh grade. Are you familiar with Plantar Fasciitis? All my friends are. Intimately. I haven't shut up about it since. Apparently I'll never be able to wear flip flops again? I digress...
A couple of things about my 5K experience. First - I didn't run the whole thing. I ran as long as I could, then I walked. Quickly. When I caught my breath, I ran some more. I never really expected to be able to run the whole thing, so I wasn't dissappointed. (Life Lesson #1 - Manage Expectations).
Also, I went with family who do this sort of thing alot. They have best times they like to try to beat and whatnot. I made it clear to them in advance that they should go for it, and not feel obligated to slow down for me. They were out of my sight before I finished the first block - it was a very lonely 3 miles - but they cheered me on at the finish line. (Life Lesson #2 - Root for your friends, even as they leave you in their dust.)
I have no concept of distance, never have. Even in a car. The idea of 3.106 miles is as forgeign to me as...well...Plantar Fasciitis was 3 weeks ago. So I didn't worry about it. I looked up, and saw a stop sign. "I'm gonna keep running till I get to that stop sign," I'd think. Then I'd put my head down and do it. Sometimes, when I got there, I found I had a little left, so I looked up again. Saw a 'No U-turn' sign. Thought "Ha. That's ironic. Anyway, I'm gonna run until I get to that 'no u-turn' sign." You get the point. (Life Lesson #3 - Tackle the race one block at a time.)
Throughout the race, I imagined myself bringing the house down at the end - sprinting. (I was a sprinter - in high school. Its over quick and doesn't require much commitment. I felt good at it - which isn't to say I was good at it.) I held a little in reserve that whole 3 miles, thinking how good it would feel to burst into a full run at the end. Only..."the end" was preceded by 4 blocks of steep up hill. So much for my reserves. (Life Lesson #4 - Whatever you're doing, do your best the whole time instead of trying too hard to make it look good.)
Those 4 blocks sucked. I almost walked them. Some stranger - a lady who looked to be in her mid-fifties but in MUCH better shape than me - said "we're too close to quit now. Let's keep at it." (Life Lesson #5 - random acts of kindness and support make all the difference in the world.)
Life lessons 6 - 9, in case you're interested, are that sometimes spitting is just necessary, youth really is wasted on the young, and no one - NO ONE - has figured out how to make a decent sports bra in my price range.
In the end, I ran it in 37:28, for an average pace of 12:03, which I'm told is respectable for an unprepared newbie. Today I did 2 miles on my own with an average pace of 12:59. The difference? No audience. (Life Lesson #10 - An actress must never lose her ego - without it she has no talent - Tom Lehrer.)
June 5th is my next 5K. Working on that whole 'preparation' thing. (Life Lesson #11 - just keep running.)