Roo was recently diagnosed as bipolar. Last week, she invited people to ask her questions about her diagnosis. She called it “Ask a Nutter.” (I love her for that.)
Her post where she answers the questions and describes what it’s like to live with this diagnosis is truly insightful and moving. I can’t recommend it enough for someone who knows or loves someone with bipolar disorder or for someone who just wants to understand it better.
It’s brave, honest, wrenching, and unselfish.
Our anniversary is coming up on Groundhog Day. It’s one of those multiple-of-5, kind of a big deal ones.
So I came up with this idea.
I thought I could keep it a secret from MB, but I couldn’t. Well, I could, but I actually couldn’t for practical reasons.
Back in December, I stumbled across this site for wooden rings. Sounds kind of weird and quaint and who but a hobbit would want something like that, right?
Oh, pippa. Not so fast.
Look at them:
(Juniper heartwood with greyed maple interior)
(A tapered Blackwood ring with narrow greyed maple inlays)
(Hawaiian Koa Wood with birch interior)
(I like the simplest ones or the ones with the knots the best. Go check out all of his galleries.)
They’re pretty much breathtaking, don’t you think?
I went through all the galleries on this site, drooling over this man’s work. On New Year’s day up at my brother’s, I went through all the galleries again on his laptop, with Original Banshee sitting next to me. Every time I clicked on a new image, she proclaimed her approval or disapproval. Literally, before I’d even opened my mouth to render my opinion, she was making declarations loudly in my ear. Precious, you’re snuggled right next to me. It’s okay if you don’t shout. I promise.
We liked exactly the same ones every time. Exactly. Without me saying a word first. I’m beginning to think we’re more alike than not.
So, basically, all December, when I should have been shopping and decorating and baking, I was on that site, drooling and dreaming and pining for a pair of those rings. MB had lost his ring recently and he was a bit allergic to it anyway. My ring is a ruby ring — my birthstone — not a band, and I was suddenly jonesing to have matching or complementary wooden rings. It just seemed so “us.”
Really, all I wanted was to live in a hobbit hole, grow hair on my feet, and smoke pipes whilst wearing not some pain-in-the-ass One ring but a gorgeous, simple wooden ring.
That’s all I wanted.
But, sadly, I didn’t have the moola to purchase a pair of these rings and become a hobbit.
Then one day, a possible solution hit me.
Dad.
My renaissance man dad.
My tie-dying, rock-stacking, stained-glassing and wood-turning dad.
Dad could make the rings. Okay. True, he’s never actually made wooden rings, but I know two things for sure about my dad: He loves a project and he loves a challenge.
So I sent him a proposal immediately. He accepted. I offered to pay him. He refused.
Instantly, he became like a little boy about the whole project. He talks to me in excited tones about things like lathes and waxes and mandrels. He talks about thickness and edges. He talks about angles and degrees. I have no idea what he’s saying. All I know is he’s in full-on GO mode. It’s kind of adorable.
At first, he was so over the moon about it, he wanted to keep it a secret from MB. The ensuing conversation went like this:
“But Dad, MB lost his ring. I don’t know his ring size. How am I gonna get that secretly?”
“Just cut a piece of thread and wind it around his finger while he sleeps.”
“Dad, that’s not gonna work.”
“Why not? Sure it will.”
“It’s not very exact. What if he wakes up and sees me wrapping a string around his finger? Yeah, that’s not weird at ALL.”
“So what?”
“Okay, genius. What do I tell him if that happens?”
“I dunno. You’ll figure it out.”
“Oh, thanks. You know, I think I’ll just tell him.”
“Okaaay.”
And when I did, MB was over the moon about it all too.
Dad is using wood from a tree in my parents’ yard. I love that. I love that my dad is making them and I love that he’s making them from one of our trees.
The meaning in these rings ……… I can hardly stand it.
Tomorrow we have a “fitting” with our designer.
We are so excited.
My list of 20 critters that would be discontinued in heaven, if I had my way.
Because they are past redemption. Beyond hope. I do not like them. For significant or flimsy reasons. It doesn’t matter. My hatred has no logic.
These are not terribly specific. Some are just broad categories, meaning I will most likely be intolerant of any version of this critter in my presence. I reserve the right to add to this list at any time, should some critter frighten or upset me or just bother me in irreparable fashion. (Actually, there are more, but let’s just go with 20 for now.)
In no particular order, they are:
1. Spiders
2. Camels
3. Hyenas
4. Sharks
5. Crocodiles/Alligators
6. Cockroaches
7. Rodents
8. Possums
9. Hairless cats
10. Hairless dogs
11. Chimpanzees
12. Crows
13. Any ugly bug-eyed fish from the deep deep bottom of the ocean. These were obviously made from leftover parts. Admit it, God.
14. Dung beetles
15. Chihuahuas
16. Komodo dragons
17. Snakes
18. Bats
19. Ear wigs
20. Warthogs
Please feel free to post your own similar list in the comments.
I feel better just saying it.
Enough already with the constant updates on Gabrielle Giffords.
Seriously.
It’s annoying me. I’m sorry she was shot in the head. It’s horrible. I’m amazed she’s alive. Maybe she’s the Antichrist, like one of my friends suggested. (Friend was serious, alas.) But who knows? If she suddenly becomes very powerful, I guess we all need to watch out. It’s gonna really piss me off to waste all this energy hearing about her recovery and trying to care only to find out in the end that she’s really the devil incarnate. “666 for you. 666 for youuu. 666 for youuuuu.”
So that’s why I’ve stopped caring now. It’s a preemptive strike against potential Antichrist-ism.
Honestly, I got fewer updates on my BIL when he was in the hospital post cancer surgery AND I WAS THERE. I was family. It was sometimes hours and hours between updates or visits from an actual doctor. The guy was in the SICU for several days, he wasn’t doing well, I was there, and still, I knew less about his condition than I know about Head Wound Hattie. I don’t need to know when she opens her eyes and when she blinks and when she stands and what color the pee in her catheter bag is.
I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m kind of … not. The channel is now changed the minute I hear her name. The more they talk about her, the less I care.
I have recovery fatigue.
Plus, she’s probably the Antichrist.
Get Ricky Gervais. I love him.
There. I solved it. You’re welcome.
I refuse to let others’ treatment of me be the setpoint for what I think I’m worth.
Last night, out of the blue, I said that to MB, and he said, “Finally. Thank God.”
For various reasons, all the events of last year and the actions of The Outing Person did a real number on my psyche. I haven’t talked about it here because it’s too damn embarrassing, frankly, how badly it all messed with me. It was a cumulative effect for me of too many of the same kinds of things over too many years. That situation was a kind of last straw. I became this open wound that couldn’t be touched or healed. I faked my way through everything, even this blog. I did my schoolwork and that was it. On typical days, I rarely went outside of the house and I rarely spoke to others besides MB. That’s the truth. There were family things — many things — that required my presence and my care, which I tried to give, but I just didn’t have enough. Or I felt like I didn’t have enough.
For some reason, the weight of all the crap from Christians over the last decade finally came crashing and crushing down on me and left me feeling — pardon me — like a piece of shit.
But this year I renounce that. I rebuke it. I realize now that all of these things — these same types of things for YEARS — are spiritual attacks. And I’ve just allowed them. I haven’t fought them. By that, I’m not saying I brought them on. No. I’m saying that on some level, once they happened, I simply believed I deserved it. I believed I deserved to be treated as if I’m worth only gossip and judgment. That I deserved to be treated as if my humanity was somehow less than that of others. That I didn’t matter so neither did my hurts and wounds. That I wasn’t even worth being spoken to. Or worth an apology. At the bottom of it all, I believed I was simply the lowest thing, the least thing — nothing.
When that enemy of our souls whispered to me over and over that I was a piece of crap, I was weak and weightless and simply said “You’re right. I agree.” It became hypnotic. The repetition of that lie.
I repeated his mantra, told myself “I am nothing,” and spent an entire year of my life living that lie. I let that enemy of my soul, my heart, my spirit paralyze me. The weight of the lies became the most substantive thing about me. I imagine he watched, triumphant, as one by one, I let myself become each and every one of those lies.
But not anymore. Not anymore. The spiritual disabilities of others are not my responsibility. I will not let them paralyze me anymore as if they’re mine. I will not let them own me anymore. They are not mine. They are not mine. That’s a lie straight from the pit.
What comes from the pit needs to back to the pit. That’s its home. That’s where it belongs.
I am not your home.
I am not your home.
I refuse to believe the lies anymore. I will fight you with whatever I have.
Because I refuse. I refuse.
I refuse to let others’ treatment of me be the setpoint for what I think I’m worth.
I REFUSE.
So my anthem for 2011.
I found this a while back on a photographer’s site that featured, among other things, photos of expectant moms and couples. There were a lot of the traditional hands on belly photos — the mom’s hands, the dad’s, the siblings. All soft focus and boring and benign.
And then there was this.
Nothing says “We eagerly await our baby’s arrival” like performing a naked handstand, mooning the camera with your eerily hairless man butt while gouging your naked man heels into your baby mama’s sore boobs.
I mean, one assume she’s your baby mama. If she’s not — if you’re just a very agile and very sick second cousin or something — well, it’s worse than I even thought.
Whose idea was this? How do people reach these ill-advised artistic epiphanies? How?? I must know.
And, seriously, that’s the smoothest man I’ve ever seen. It’s messed up is what it is.
Still, I can’t stop looking at the shadows this photo creates.
I can’t stop.
There’s a problem at my in-laws’ house in the deep dark middle of nowhere.
That problem is me.
Well, really, it’s not just me. I don’t know why I’m heaping this all on myself like some glittering martyr. That’s really unlike me. So let’s spread this problem around more equitably.
Yes, the problem is me and the fact that it’s way too easy for me to see certain people not married to me in various stages of undress and, turns out, I really don’t care for that and that’s how I’m a problem, I guess.
It comes down to a logistics problem, really. Well, that, and a me being second generation Amish-by-association problem.
I blame it all on the room with the clawing tortoise in the drawer. This room, lacy and pretty to cloak all the scraping desperation, is at the end of a short little hall. If I stand in front of that door about to enter, my in-laws’ bedroom is immediately on the left, a bathroom immediately on the right. All these entrances and exits are separated by mere feet. Mere feet, pippa. And for me, that short little hall is all about feet. How there are way too few in terms of space and way too many in terms of appendages.
Lots of human feet. Taking up space. Doing things. At night.
This too-close door to my in-laws’ room is flung wide open at night while they’re sleeping. I have issues with this that I won’t get into here. There’s another door on the other side of their bedroom that they also keep open, a door that doesn’t border the short little hall, a door that leads to the kitchen and the other bathroom on the other end of the house, a door, sadly, they never seem to use at night. Basically, their bedroom has more than your typical number of bedroom doors, with everything wide open, lots of options for entering and exiting, and yet these options are not as maximized as one might hope, in my now-traumatized opinion. On top of that, all this free-swinging openness extends to all the doors to the house which are left unlocked at night so that any number of serial killers roaming about the deep dark middle of nowhere could have easy access to them in their sleep.
You see, they’re hospitable people, my in-laws. Well, sometimes I’m not sure if it’s genuine hospitality or an alarming lack of personal boundaries — I dither on this point — but their whole philosophy basically is “Come in anytime. Chat. Eat. Drink. Chat some more. Stay forever. If you’re so inclined, kill us while we sleep.” I imagine this is true of all the lock-shy neighbors in this trusting little town.
Oh, the small town hubris, thinking they won’t be bludgeoned by a hungry, thirsty, chatty serial killer!
But, eh, I don’t care about that. I got me some bigger issues. Cramped hall. Overpopulation. Open door with a view to the sleeping inlaws. I mean, serial killers are the least of my worries in the face of all that.
Besides, there’s the kicker:
My FIL sleeps in his unmentionables.
Look, I’m sure many FILs sleep in their unmentionables. That’s fine. Sleep in whatever you want, FILs. I’m not a sleepist.
However.
The presence of another woman in your home who is not your wife and who is, in fact, married to your son means you need to sleep in some pajamas — or better yet, clothes — for, oh, 4 days out of the year. I’m sorry. You just do. That is the rule. The law. Didn’t Obama just sign that bill? Well, if he didn’t, he needs to get on that, Crackie, because recently, in the short little hall with too few and too many feet, my FIL and I shared a late night, half-dressed moment.
And that just ain’t right.
The fact that I know my FIL sleeps in his unmentionables is something I should not know. I can honestly say that in all our years of marriage, it’s never come up in conversation with MB. Or my FIL. I’ve never inquired or even thought to inquire “So, hey, Dad, what do you wear when you sleep?” because it’s just icky and creepy and wrong. Since I had no interest in ever learning this tidbit through simple conversation, I think it’s safe to assume I would never ever want to learn this tidbit from firsthand experience. But it seems God and my FIL’s bladder had other plans for me.
MB and I had gone to the local 2-screen multiplex to see a movie. We came home around 11:30. While MB headed towards the kitchen, I headed down the short little hall towards the lacy bedroom. At that precise moment, the door to the bathroom opened and my father-in-law, all 6-5 of him, stepped into the hall, resplendent in nothing but his tighty whities.
It was dark in the short little hall. Those tighty whities lit up the place like a torch. The world went very white then very black. I froze in place. There was nowhere to go except backwards and I didn’t want to seem rude or as if I were retreating in blushing terror from his virtual nudity, so I just stood there. Like a statue. A frightened deer. He, in turn, instantly clamped his hands over his nether regions and stood there too. Neither of us fled because we didn’t want to acknowledge that this was an urgent flight situation, which it obviously was. No, flight would have forever labeled it as something horrible and embarrassing that you speak about only in whispers and never to each other, which it obviously was. So there we stood, two frightened deer in the short little hall, one clothed, one in tighty whities, in a standoff of courteous horror. Hours passed. The rooster crowed dawn. We didn’t breathe. We didn’t speak. The only sound was the distant clawing desperation of the tortoise in the drawer.
Finally, my father-in-law, an unfailingly courteous man, spoke to me, his large hands still clamped over his nether regions like a little boy.
“Soo ….. Trace-ums, how was the movie?”
Oh, sweet baby Jesus. There he was, the world’s nicest man, standing there in his tighties asking how the stupid movie was. I wanted to die. I stared at the wood plank floor. My body was aflame with embarrassment, but I managed to choke out an answer.
“Uhm …… good, good. It was good.”
I nodded my head like a crazed woodpecker.
“Oh, that’s good, Trace.”
“Uh-huh.”
I just nodded and nodded and stared at the floor. I cursed the very existence of the short little hall. But he spoke again — the world’s nicest man — and that night I learned that politeness is much more knee-jerk to him than even modesty, which I suppose is kind of sweet, despite feeling that my formerly useful brain was turning to utter swill from the wrongness of this late-night encounter.
“Well, good night, Trace-ums. See you in the morning.”
Oh, Lord. You mean I have to see him again?
“Yes, uhm …. good night.”
At that, he ducked into his bedroom and I bolted into mine, hot with embarrassment, and plopped onto the bed waiting for the irregular pounding of my heart to either stop or hurry up and kill me. In the silence while I crossed my fingers for death, I heard the soft insistent scraping again, and suddenly, I understood him, that tortoise.
And we were one, the tortoise and I.
The short little hall was now my own dresser drawer and I would never stop clawing, clawing, clawing to get out.
Not to become my own personal Raiders of the Lost Ark, as is clearly evidenced in this accidental self portrait.
Disturbing. But the camera don’t lie.
Must try to keep myself together in 2011.
One mountain range
The other mountain range
Me in the middle between two parallel powers
Hope you’re all having a wonderful Christmas!
Stories to tell, pippa. Stories to tell.
