My Intentions Are Good
I can’t believe we’re already a few days into 2023. I swear, just last week I was prepping for 2022. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me how quickly 2022 flew by. It was a busy year with lots of things involving family, friends, and rescue.
This year saw the much-anticipated return of Whiskeys for Whiskers for one thing. And WOWZA, it was a biggie. Almost 200 people came together to celebrate three amazing animal welfare organizations. It was exhausting but exhilarating. Austin Puppers was one for the books and we’re wholeheartedly looking forward to Showdown at the Bow Wow Corral in 2023!
Other than Whiskeys for Whiskers, the year brought lots of ups and downs in all facets of life. I faced the dreaded COVID in January, watched family members battle illnesses, sat with friends while they fought their way through their own crises, and struggled through a few of my own.
I am not going to lie: 2022 had lots of lows. It was a tough year. AGAIN. I feel like I’ve said that every year since 2020 and it doesn’t appear that things will make a major turn for the better in 2023. There are just too many contraindications to happiness. But 2022 wasn’t all bad and I can guarantee 2023 won’t be either. If I can find some resolutions to some major roadblocks I am currently facing, it may even turn out to be a good year. Fingers crossed.
One thing I can say about 2022, I had my most successful word-of-the-year ever. My 2022 word was “worthy”, and the theme threaded through so many things - like all the things, both the good things and the bad things - all year long. Self-worth is something I have struggled with and will continue to struggle with. You don’t hold yourself to an unattainable standard for 45 years and then get over it because you made it your word-of-the-year in your 46th. BUT I did catch myself practicing negative self-talk many times and was able to pivot and reframe more times than not. I also had several affirmations of my worthiness throughout the year, one of the big ones being an award I won at work back in April. That was a big one, but there were little ones too. Like when a friend gave me a necklace that literally said “worthy” on it. It’s something I’ve worn quite a bit this year and it really comes in handy on those days when a lot of things aren’t going right.
I can only hope that my 2023 word is as successful as 2022 was: intention. Intent: a resolve to do things with purpose. You may be thinking that the last thing I need is another reason to put pressure on myself to achieve based on decisions I make, but it’s actually the thing I need most. All my life, I have pressured myself to do everything for everyone for every reason and do it all at 125%. This year, with the knowledge of my worth fresh in my mind, I intend to half-ass everything. Kidding. You know that’s not true. But I am going to be more conscientious of where I place my efforts. It’s time to start looking at tasks and events individually, weighing their impact on my life and the lives of those I love, and begin putting more effort behind the things that matter. Not that I am going to ignore everything else, because of course I’m not. But it’s time to ask the question “why am I doing this?” and then follow that with “how much effort does it require and how much of a difference will it make?” and then decide if my intentions match my efforts and expectations. If they don’t, I need to adjust.
As the wise words of Toad the Wet Sprocket go: “It's hard to rely on my good intentions, when my head's full of things that I can't mention.” It’s hard to do the things that matter with focused intent, while there are a million things that don’t matter running through my head, eating up my energy.
In 2023, I hope to do important things with more intent and not let the less important things overtake my ever-thinking mind.
What Is Whiskeys for Whiskers?
Totally bought this today so I had to update my blog post!
If you’ve been Facebook or IRL friends with me for a few years or more, you’ve likely seen my posts about Whiskeys for Whiskers. I think I’ve mentioned it in several blog posts, actually, and, if you’re fairly new to my life, you probably wondered what the hell I was talking about.
Well, the time has come. You may remember reading that I started volunteering in the world of animal rescue back in 2008 after I adopted both Apollo (in 2007) and Phoebe (in 2008). During my time as a volunteer, I joined the board of directors of a local organization. I started out as a volunteer coordinator but also dipped my toe into some event planning. Most of these were small-time, but while I was in the process of putting together a dog prom (complete with canine king and queen!), I caught the attention of a rescuer who volunteered for another organization, named Melanie Vergas. Melanie, who sadly passed in March of 2020, changed the course of my life. She was dramatic, loud, funny, and an all-around wonderful person. Some of my current closest friends are in my life because of Mel.
Alli, Mel, Me, and Jenn - the original Cosmos crew
Melanie approached me one day about an event she had seen an out-of-state rescue do called “Martinis for Mutts.” She said, “hey, I want to do something like this, but I don’t think we have enough of a following in the Greenville area to pull off such a large-scale event” and then asked if the organization for which I volunteered wanted to join. They did.
I’ll confess. I had no freaking clue what I was doing. It was Melanie who spearheaded the event, asking a couple other organizations to join, finding the venue, and getting the ball rolling. We called the event “Cosmos for Critters”, my idea because I didn’t want to alienate our feline friends. “Cosmos,” as we affectionately called it, was a huge success. I learned so, so much from Mel that year. A few short months later, I held the dog prom (Tuxes, Tiaras & Tails…I have a thing for alliteration!), and it was also a success. I was hooked.
But even as I was hooked, I was killing myself. Event planning was my drug of choice. After our second year of Cosmos, I realized I’d better get myself clean, so to speak, before I literally died from overextending myself. And, as this was before I made so much progress in therapy (not for lack of trying – shoutout to Cheryl!), my mindset was “all or nothing”. If I couldn’t do events, I couldn’t do anything. I left the board and stepped away from volunteering altogether.
That was in 2011, and I didn’t start talking about going back to rescue until late in 2016. During my hiatus, I still attended a bunch of events, most notably a monthly Saturday afternoon event called “Yappy Hour.” Yappy Hour raised funds for and honored a different organization every month. Through those events, meeting other rescuers, and generally learning more about our rescue community, I started to see just how huge the need was, how many people were giving their all to help, and how much help was still needed.
I am not sure why I thought of it or where it came from, but I had an idea for a fundraiser. After spending five years out of the thick of things, I knew I didn’t want to commit myself to just one organization. I like whiskey (although I don’t drink it in mixed company. There really is something to that “whiskey makes me frisky” saying.) I noticed there were distilleries popping up all over. I talked to some of my Cosmos friends, who were all basically taking a hiatus as well, and Whiskeys for Whiskers came alive.The first W4W took place in April of 2018. There were plenty of hiccups, but we managed to clear around $10,000 for the rescues we chose as beneficiaries. We did very little advertising because we couldn’t afford it, so the majority of that revenue came from word of mouth. We learned a lot about what worked and what didn’t work. Several of us had been on a cruise in 2016 and we attended a speakeasy party complete with fringe dresses and fishnet stockings. Since we loved it so much, it became the W4W theme as well. It was Year 1, and we didn’t even know if there would be a Year 2.
But Year 1 was a success. Sheri Taylor and Jamarcus Gaston joined us as our contest judges and, I think it’s fair to say, they had a fabulous time! Everyone had a great time. It was the high that I’d been missing for so long. Sending the money to the beneficiaries was one of the greatest moments ever.
We decided to hold a Year 2, and in May of 2019, we presented Ruffdell High - a Grease-themed Whiskeys for Whiskers. Again, we cleared about $10,000. We, unfortunately, chose a weekend when we ended up competing with Mother’s Day and a HUGE local event called Artisphere, so we were disappointed with the lack of increase in funds but still pretty proud that we matched the prior year while facing those obstacles.
As soon as Ruffdell High was completed, we started planning the next W4W – Austin Puppers: International Meow of Mystery. While we were planning that, we were approached by a local comedy group and turned out a mini event called Doggone Funny featuring Never Decaf Improv.
We started making real plans for our future. Those plans included obtaining our own 501(c)(3) designation under the name “The Whiskers Foundation,” adding additional events throughout the year (there are many options running around this brain of mine!) and making changes to our signature event (W4W) for a kick-ass profit in 2020. Yeah, in 2020. A couple weeks after we released our ticket sales link for Austin Puppers, you know what happened. Covid.
Since then, we’ve been in a holding pattern, moving the event several times. We’ve put off obtaining our own 501(c)(3) and put the brakes on any other events we had put thought into. In February of this year, we started cautiously and quietly planning once again. Now we’re really revving up and Austin Puppers is finally happening on August 20, 2022. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get that charity designation next year, and we can start fulfilling the rest of our dreams! I am incredibly lucky to have the best freaking people putting in their blood, sweat, and tears into this.
Jenny Waller – Social Media & Website Content Coordinator & Volunteer Coordinator
Jan Todd – Community Outreach Coordinator & Chief Advisor
Debbie Elliott – Silent Auction & Raffle Procurement Coordinator
Shane Elliott – Logistics & Tech Coordinator
Kelly Redding – Décor Coordinator
Heather and Scott Harris – Provide remote support when needed in all areas
And me? I am the Chaos Coordinator. No matter how much planning we do, no matter how many “what if” scenarios we run, no matter how many of us brainstorm and review, there is always chaos to be had. This event is a huge undertaking. It’s a passion project. It takes not only the names I listed above, but dozens of volunteers from the benefiting rescue organizations to pull off. The payoff is so worth all of the craziness. Seeing people smiling and laughing and enjoying each other’s company, while also raising funds for animal rescue? It’s like a dream: a dream I didn’t know I had until it came true. We couldn’t do it without the support of the community, our families, and our friends. Special thanks to CHEF360 Catering and Razz Bartending for being with us from the beginning, keeping the bites and swigs going and to the distilleries who have participated and allowed the foundation of this event thrive.
If you think this sounds like a good cause (and, duh, why wouldn’t you) and you want to learn more about the event, please visit our website at www.whiskeysforwhiskers.com. There you can find information about sponsoring (yes, we ALWAYS need more sponsorship funds) and purchasing tickets. We’d love to see you at the Marketplace at Taylors Mill on August 20, 2022, at Austin Puppers: International Meow of Mystery for some booze tastin’, booty shakin’, yums eatin’, and a big ol’ celebration of the hard-working rescuers in North and South Carolina. Still have questions? Email us at whiskeysforwhiskers@gmail.com.
It’s a Party!
Recently, Kelly and I hosted a housewarming party to celebrate the home we co-bought back in November. It still wasn’t 100% ready for show, but I was anxious to have the party and invite people into the new space: to cook for them, to give access to my extensive bar and wine selection, and to have the people I care for see the happiness that is growing there.
I love to host a good party. “Wait, what? Don’t you experience social anxiety?” Why, yes. Yes, I do. It’s funny. Of the two of us, Kelly is far more social than I am. She talks to strangers like she’s always known them. She is the reason we are friends. We were both in college “round 2” and she kept talking to me until I gave in. Not because I didn’t think she was a perfectly lovely person but because: stranger danger. But being surrounded by people I love in a space that I love, it’s a safe and wonderful feeling. At the party someone commented on how into the party I was, and I was kind of taken aback by how happy I actually was in that moment.
This isn’t going to be a long post (my last one was long-winded enough!). I’d rather tell the story with photos. I am looking forward to hosting another soiree in this space again soon! Stay tuned!
Open the Boxes
One day it was good and then it wasn’t. A previous job, almost in a previous life, but not so far in the distance that it doesn’t still affect me almost daily. I don’t speak of it often, preferring to put it in one of the boxes in my mind that are covered in dust from years of being closed tight and shoved in a corner.
I worked at a medical office in reception and had been there for a year or two, I guess. One day I got a call from the billing office: they wanted to promote me. I was thrilled. I had not heard great things about the working environment in that office, but everyone was just so lovely to me when I started. I didn’t have a lot of friends in the area then and they often invited me to lunch or drinks, and I was invited to the homes of more than one person in the department.
I went through the typical learning curve and was slower than those who had been there for years, of course. A couple months after being promoted, I found out I had cancer. It was thyroid cancer to be exact. I don’t know how much you know about your thyroid gland, but for being such a tiny little thing, it sure does a lot of really important things. Basically, I was a mess. Nothing in my body worked right. After my second surgery, I took a couple months of leave to recover.
While I was gone, the department took up money for me. The cancer had done a number on my body and all my pants were falling off me. I was so grateful to be able to buy pants that I didn’t have to tie on with a belt! It was such a kind gesture, and it made the awful months ahead almost unbelievable.
When I returned to work, I pretty much had to learn everything all over again. I was starting from scratch. This time, brain functioning a little better, I seemed to pick up things a little faster. I was thanked and praised for my work.
And that’s when it all started to fall apart.
Out of the blue (it seemed at the time, but I am sure it was well-calculated), the department manager started posting stats on individual’s collection and posting rates. I came out on top of the list. A lot. Many of those people had been there far, far longer than me and, well, let’s just say it wasn’t received well. I started noticing that the others no longer said hello in the mornings. And then I’d notice that the whole department, manager included, would go to lunch, and leave me sitting there by myself. I surely was no longer invited to gatherings at peoples’ homes. Things I had told these women, who I thought were my friends, suddenly became common knowledge within the company, all the way up to the CFO.
Fortunately, I had stayed friendly with the reception ladies. I went from having lunch with them (they ate at their desks and worked through lunch) once a week or so, to having lunch with them every day instead of watching everyone get up and leave at the same time, not speaking to me, leaving me sitting there alone.
There were two girls in the department who were still friendly with me. One of them I could tell was kind of the others’ “spy”. I was very careful what I said to her, what I said to anyone, really, but I could tell she was trying to get more dirt to fuel the fire. We’ll call her Christy. The other was friendly with them but also had a backbone of steel and did what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to be nice to me for fear of being ostracized. We’ll call her Sarah.
One day, while, once again, everyone left for lunch, I was about to leave the office where we all sat together when I heard someone tell Christy there was a snake on the patio. I am terrified of snakes. Like, TERRIFIED. I know, it’s nonsensical and blah, blah, blah. You don’t have to tell me all that. It is what it is, and I have far more important issues to deal with than to conquer my fear of snakes.
I had a complete meltdown. I didn’t even see it, just knew it was there. I was so stressed already that I think it was a tipping point for me. I sat down in the nearest chair and had myself one hell of a panic attack. It was bad, really bad. I couldn’t breathe. My whole body was quaking. I was sweating. I was beginning to black out. Christy must have heard me hyperventilating and rushed in. She got me calmed down enough that I could function…and then quietly spread the word of what happened.
Sarah told me later (we ended up working together at another job and became quite close) that the ladies in the department, including the manager, approached her after that incident and asked her to find a live snake to leave near my car door one day so I would encounter it when I, and everyone else, left the office. I guess they were all disappointed they missed my panic attack and wanted to watch. Sick. When Sarah refused, they said OK how about a rubber snake. She still refused. Like typical bullies, they didn’t want to do it themselves, so fortunately they never got their show.
I guess since that plan failed, they became even more vicious. I was called into the CFO’s office and reprimanded for disturbing the receptionists while they were working during their lunch hour. I was to go upstairs no more, further isolating me. I was called into HR about some of the rumors that they took the liberty of spreading. Based in fact, they took things I had told them in confidence but made them much juicier for the gossip mill, until I was an unstable slut who stalked and/or had sex with several men in the office.
I was already dealing with anxiety and depression, having been diagnosed years earlier, and the whacked-out thyroid intensified everything. Having this happen on top of everything else was so painful. I looked for a new job. The first one I was offered, I jumped at. That turned out to be a huge mistake but that’s another story for another day.
So, what’s my point in saying all this? Well, my word this year is “worthy”. I think this is one of the major events in my life that lead me to feel as if I didn’t deserve recognition. It’s not like when they began posting the stats, I walked around holding up a banner saying, “I am the best”. I was pleased, at first, but then I was embarrassed: ashamed of doing well. At my current place of employment, I asked that things be kept quiet when I was promoted several years ago. I quietly updated my email signature and that was it. One coworker with whom I was very close noticed and was offended that there was no big announcement. I told her that’s not what I wanted, and I don’t think she understood. Maybe she’s reading this now and can understand better.
Every year when it’s review time – heck every two weeks when I meet with my supervisor – I expect there to be a problem of some kind and am always relieved when there isn’t. I constantly expect people to secretly (or not secretly) hope for my failure. It’s why I feel that nothing I do is ever good enough. It’s why when I make a minor mistake, I am terrified it’s going to be the end of my job. It’s why, when I do well, I don’t want anyone bragging about it and I’d rather be told privately. It’s why, now that my job duties are shifting again, I am scared that someone is going to complain about me and how they should have been offered the tasks I am currently learning. It’s why, when I feel the spotlight hit me, I feel like I should shrink or disappear.
During this year of accepting my worthiness, I hope that all gets better: that the echoes of the Mean Girls in that past job quiet down, along with the echoes of the Mean Girls from middle and high school (stories for another day!). I’ll learn that doing well isn’t shameful. I’ll stop being terrified every time I have to meet with my boss. I’ll learn to appreciate my kindness and intelligence, and not cringe as I am typing or saying the words (like I did just now). Truthfully, learning and accepting my worth is going to be a lifelong project, not just one for the year 2022. This is the year, though, in which I will start to open the boxes I so carefully and completely closed throughout my life. This is a year of worth.
For What It’s Worth
After my last post, I went back and read my 2021 word-of-the-year blog and found that my word was “rely”, not “hope” as I thought. And “rely” I did! I leaned on a lot of people in 2021 for support and it was great. Did you know that friends and family don’t mind if you ask for help? And it doesn’t make you less of a person when you ask? (Queue explosion sound here!)
I was having a heck of a time coming up with a word for 2022. Not because I think that I am perfect and life is perfect and I don’t need to have any goals or aspirations, but because my life is so perfectly imperfect it’s hard to choose one word.
It could have been “love”. Learning to better show my love and also seeking romantic love could be a good thing. I have spent more than my fair share of years looking for love in all the wrong places. It could have been “fight”. There are a lot of things worth fighting for, are there not? Even the Beastie Boys say so. Oh, how about “fun”? There are certainly many fun activities regionally about which I have said “one of these days I am going to go there”. I am always looking for fun activities to schedule a girls’ day (and sometimes I even include guys). There was also “travel”. I have a big Southwest credit to use from the 2020-cruise-that-wasn’t. Hhmm, I am due a ‘Burgh trip and would love to fly to Naples to visit my aunt and uncle too. Alas, although awesome, none of these words seem to feel word-of-the-year worthy.
Wait, “worthy.” WORTHY! That’s a great word! That’s an aspirational word. And it fits. I recently discovered I am up for an award at our yearly appreciation event at work. My immediate response was “why me?” Most people would be excited, and I am, don’t get me wrong! But I am also perplexed. I don’t feel like I am anything special…certainly not award worthy. My reaction made me contemplate some inner “stuff”. You know the stuff: the stuff you ignore until you can no longer do so? I see a new area of exploration coming in my next therapy session. Until then, I am going to self-analyze.
I am not saying that I am UN-worthy. I have just never though of myself as special. And, like a lightning bolt, it recently hit me that being worthy and being special are not, in fact, the same! In fact, being “special” can mean different things to different people. Everyone is special. None of us are exactly alike. That fellow zodiac sign who always seems to be on the same wavelength: still different than you. That random stranger you met and became an instant friend having bonded over the situation you were in at the time: still different than you. That sibling or cousin that you’ve always understood on a deeper level: still different than you. Carbon copies only exist on paper. And thank God for that!
Having said that, even as we’re all special, all different, we’re ALL worthy. I am not sure when I began to feel unworthy. It’s not something I realized until, well, until like 10 minutes ago when I started writing about being worthy, but I can pinpoint an example. I had boobs early (I know, hard right turn, but stay with me here). I had boobs early, like fourth grade, and quickly that became something that defined me. It defined my worthiness with the boys and defined my unworthiness with the girls. I was treated differently by different people for the same reason, and both of those reactions had a negative impact on my feelings of self-worth. How quickly it became something I felt I needed to hide! I was a dancer growing up and had very straight posture as a result. I was constantly accused of sticking out my chest when I was really just standing tall, carrying my body. It seems so silly and obvious now. That simple little thing, a thing that I had absolutely no control over, that made me question my worth as a woman and as a human.
I could go on with the other examples that have flooded my brain since this realization but then this would be a book, not a blog, and ain’t nobody got time to read my life story (nor do you want to!). For now, it’s enough to know that I have value, and so do you. My life has value. My love has value. My feelings have value. I am worthy of goodness and light, no matter the mistakes and choices I make or the mistakes and choices of the people surrounding me.
Worth isn’t defined by being special. Worth is defined by being a human with a soul. And that’s worth talking about!
It Ain’t Over
It’s been a year, 2021, hasn’t it? And, while we can see the finish line, we’re not quite there yet. A lot can happen in a few weeks. In my case, yet more changes are planned and, boy howdy, my anxiety has yet another chance to celebrate this year.
Although unintentional, my word for 2021 ended up being “anxiety”. I think I started out with “hope” or something. Clearly, the word didn’t stick since I can’t even remember it! No matter the good, bad, or ugly, it ALL caused me anxiety this year.
I started the year with a very close family member having a very serious surgery. The “C” word had come along and wrecked the lives of many of those I love. It was a tumultuous few months of being scared, relieved, scared again, panicked, cynical, followed by more scared, and then, finally hope. Even the hope is mixed with a little fear, and I suppose that’s the song that will play continuously for months or years to come.
As if that’s not enough, another very close family member had a serious surgery early this summer and continues to battle chronic health conditions that doctors haven’t been able to help with thus far. Again, there is hope, but it’s frustrating and tiring for all those that love this person.
A coworker I am close to dealt with a lot of loss this year. She lost three people very close to her within eight months. I truly don’t know how she’s still standing. I am continuously torn between feeling such deep empathy for her and feeling guilty for being relieved it’s not me in her shoes. Her situation is unbearably painful and it’s one I feared I was going to be in several times this year. While I am thankful that I am not, I have seen a small glimpse of my possible future…hopefully distant future, but we never can tell, can we?
It hasn’t been all sad this year for me, but even the happy and exciting things notched up my anxiety-meter to levels that left me feeling edgy, tired, irritable, and touchy. Once again, I found myself so thankful for the power of counseling and the ability for medication to take a little madness out of the situations I was facing.
Part of my year was spent renovating my first house, getting it ready to sell. Let me clarify. I, myself, was not renovating. I wanted the house to still be standing at the end of it all. I hired someone to do it all for me, mainly Fernando, who has truly been a blessing. He fixed my back porch a few years back and I thought I had lost his info. After some digging, I found what I thought was his number and texted it, hoping it wasn’t the number of some weird guy I might have met in a bar in my younger days. Thankfully it was Fernando. He spent about two months at my house nearly every day. Since I was mostly working from home, I got to see the transformation as it was happening. It was nothing short of incredible. My home with the badly scratched baseboards, holes in the drywall courtesy of a little gray doggie, and worn and tired flooring, became quite the showstopper.
All that was good, but there was so much turmoil that came with it. First, the purging. Oh, the purging. Before Fernando went from room to room, so did we, boxes and garbage bags in hand. After 13 years, the “stuff” had piled up. I lost count of how many times I said, “why did I keep this?”. The local thrift store, Miracle Hill Ministries, was practically fully stocked by the Great Purge of The 106 of 2021. For every five things that were easy to pitch or donate, there was one thing that elicited deep emotions, most of which I hadn’t tapped into in quite some time. The belt buckles from my Pap Pap, the doll clothes made by my Grandma, the bell I got for my Gram from some long-ago trip, the dance awards, the old collars from Apollo and Phoebe. I had to do a lot of letting go both physically and mentally. Couple that with my entire house being turned upside down and inside out and my entire spring and summer were an exercise in anxiety control (or sometimes not-control!)
After the reno, came the listing and sale and then the buying process. None of these did anything good for my psyche. Creekpoint sold quickly, which was great, but then I didn’t have anywhere to go. After SO. MUCH. LOOKING, we found the right house to buy and two days later the contract on Creekpoint fell through. So now we had a house on the line we couldn’t afford because the other hadn’t sold. There was a serious depression for a few days thinking that the house I finally fell in love with wasn’t going to be mine. The roller coaster was not one of the ones that I could ride with my hands thrown in the air screaming and laughing.
Moving is stressful. Zero stars. Do not recommend. But it’s also great to be in a home more open and with a layout more conducive to entertaining. In the end, now that we’re moved, it was worth it. It just took a while to get to that feeling. Next time, I am going to do it like they do on HGTV and have someone else do all the renovating, moving, and decorating. Kidding. I am not a butterfly farmer who also names the clouds in the sky for a career with a two-million-dollar budget! For now, though, and for the foreseeable future, I am going to enjoy this beautiful new home!
Now, after 21 months of mostly working from home, we are returning to the office. Last week was the first week back. Fortunately, my bosses are very understanding of my anxiety issues. I am being allowed to ease in to coming back. I am very, very fortunate and I realize that. But, again, still anxious. Sigh. I have the full support of my therapist, who has coached me on my return strategy and offered to write me a letter for HR if needed explaining my diagnosed anxiety and the measures we are taking to get me back full time. I did better these last two weeks than I expected I would, but I was also grateful to get to work from home when I needed a mental and emotional break.
It’s not all bad. It’s not all good. It’s life and I am living it the best I know how with a solid backing of family and friends, a great job, a new and beautiful home. Getting back to the office full time will be a challenge, but I will get through it. I sure will miss my favorite coworkers though. If ever there was a cure for all the things that ail you, it is a softly snoring rescue pet who is experiencing love and safety after starting their lives with trauma and fear. If only they could join me at the office….
Apollo’s 106
I am sitting here looking around at The 106 just over a week before I lock her doors for the final time. My eyes roam over the surfaces that have changed so much, yet stayed the same, in the thirteen-plus years of my time here. I arrived to her cream-colored flat paint covered walls and beige carpet with my hand-me-down furniture and mishmash of cobbled together accessories of life and am leaving her with smooth, vinyl flooring, brand-new carpet, and new appliances. I am taking with me my purchased, matching living room furniture and plans for a new dining room and a custom-made platform bed. It’s been a long road. A sometimes-hard road. I am so very excited for this new adventure…but I am also a little sad.
One thing I didn’t mention, I arrived at The 106 with Apollo. I bought this house for him. He was a young, thriving two-year old Lab who loved to run and was especially good at being silly! The corners of these rooms, the shadows of the trees in the yard, the street that brings you to the driveway out front: they all hold images of Apollo.
When I first moved in, a neighbor had a small, black rooster that flew around, teasing Apollo with every flap of his wings. Oh, how he wanted to catch that pesky thing! One day he and I had been out and about, and we returned in the car. I was distracted by a large group of people gathered in front of a home up the street – clearly a party breaking up, everyone outside saying their extended southern goodbyes. I didn’t notice the rooster in the front yard of the home next door. But Apollo did. I opened the car door and before I could grab his leash, he was off like a sprinter at the starting line of the Olympics. I took off after him as he took off after the rooster, with never a hope of catching up because he was lightning quick. The rooster flew, Apollo ran, his leash flapping behind him, hopelessly waving further and further from my grasp. Fortunately for the rooster, he made it over a fence at the end of the road and fortunately for me, Apollo was stopped by said fence. He turned to me with the biggest, goofiest grin like he was saying, “did you see that mama? I almost had him.” It had rained earlier that day and his legs and belly were covered with mud, the leash was sopping wet, and I was soaked nearly to my knees. I wanted to kill him but couldn’t help but laugh. I grabbed his leash and headed back toward home. The gathering of people was staring us, slack-jawed from up the street. I waved.
That first summer here at The 106, Kelly was visiting. It was before she moved into the first-floor bedroom that would soon become her home. She let Apollo into the backyard (this was pre-doggy-door) and yelled at the top of her lungs. I took off toward the back door to find a groundhog in the yard snapping his huge front teeth at my boy. Kelly and I started trying to shoo away the groundhog while trying to get Apollo back inside. Neither listened very well. The groundhog kept chattering and Apollo was jumping around it like a fool and looking back at me as if to say “mama, why won’t this funny looking little dog play with me?” We finally got Apollo distracted enough that the groundhog was able to retreat. Once our hearts started returning to a normal rhythm, we laughed our asses off. But, damn, that was a close one.
When I cooked bacon or watched football, Apollo would go hide in the back bedroom. Once the doggy door was installed, he’d plant himself in the backyard, rain or shine, sitting still as a statue until he decided it was safe to come inside again. He loved to sit at the side door when it was full glass. Once when I told him his Gramma was coming, he refused to leave the door until she arrived.
He was life and energy and love, and he is the reason for this house. I, no doubt, will walk away that final time trying to hold onto every one of those memories like photographs in my mind.
I told my mom that I was afraid Apollo would feel like I was abandoning his house, but she reminded me that he lives in my heart now. As does Phoebe, and a piece of Pooch and of Duncan as well. This is a house where dogs were well-loved, where they were treasured as family members, where they recovered from their previous lives as broken beings and learned to thrive. This is a house where nuggets of love are imprinted on the floors and in the walls. Now it’s time for another first-time homeowner to wrap himself in the love we left behind.
Don’t worry, we’re still taking more than enough love with us…to a new home where, without a doubt, dogs will be well-loved, new dogs will begin to recover from past lives, and where nuggets of love will be sprinkled among the walls, floors, and deep into the grooves of the foundation. And Apollo will still live in that special place in my heart, where he resided even in life, and where he’ll reside forever.
Dark Corners & Closed Doors
Earlier this year, I read the book “Into the Darkest Corner” by Elizabeth Haynes. Loosely summarized without giving away any plot details, the book is about a woman’s slow decent into an abusive relationship, her subsequent psychological trauma which led to severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, and her ultimate steps to recovery. The psychology in this book is FASCINATING! You may not know that my first college major was psychology. Sometimes I really regret abandoning that major, but, if I am being honest, I wasn’t in a place emotionally to really devote myself to the study.
Not long after reading Haynes’ book, I read “Behind Closed Doors” by B.A. Paris. In this book, a woman who looks after her mentally disabled younger sister falls in love with a man and marries him, only to find out afterward that he is a barbaric monster. He uses the woman’s younger sister as a pawn to keep her in line. It was so disturbing I almost didn’t finish it, but the writing, and, yes, the psychology behind it, was amazing.
These books spoke to me, not only because of the psychological aspects, but because of the emotions it evoked in me. Most everyone knows someone whose life has been touched by domestic violence. How many times have you heard, or even said, “why doesn’t she just LEAVE?”
Gosh, if it was only so easy. An abusive relationship doesn’t typically start off that way. The beginning of the relationship is just like any other: all flowers and rainbows and sunshine. An abuser knows how to gradually begin introducing abusive behavior, starting with things that seem innocuous or things that can be explained away:
“Oh, he was hurt in a prior relationship so he’s just feeling a little insecure.”
“He just wants to be sure I am safe, so he checks on me often.”
I know because I’ve said these words before. My last relationship, which was long, long ago (in a galaxy far away 😉) started off great. We’ll call the guy “Guy” because that seems original. Anyway, when I first started dating Guy, he seemed perfect: opening doors and other gentlemanly things, supporting the considerable time I devoted to animal rescue, understanding my large group of close friends and my busy social life. I remember him saying that he’d “never stand in the way of my work with animals” and that I should go out and enjoy time with my friends as much as I liked. Before that relationship, I hadn’t been in one in a long, long time (in a galaxy even further away), so I’d become accustomed to doing things my way on my terms on my timeline. I explained that to him and told him it was going to take time for me to remember what it was like to compromise.
I think he took that as a challenge to step up his game. Soon, I started noticing little things and explaining them away. I forgot my phone at home one day and he’d been texting me and couldn’t reach me. When I saw him that evening, I apologized and explained what happened. At that moment, I realized I could have called him from my work phone and said as much. Instead of “yeah, honey. Next time that would be great” I was made to feel stupid for not thinking of that before. Never mind that I was at work, um working, and maybe not thinking of the fact he’d want to be able to reach me. Previously, I hardly heard from him during the day. Instead of telling him to piss off and not talk down to me, I found myself believing that I’d been wholly inconsiderate and selfish.
After several incidences such as that, things came to a head. One Saturday, I was having furniture delivered. I took the Friday before off and spent the entire day moving out my old furniture and scrubbing the living room within an inch of its life. After the furniture guys left, I tidied up the rest of the house before testing out my new sofa. I fell sound asleep. I slept so hard I didn’t wake up until he rang my doorbell. Bleary-eyed and disoriented and looking like…well, like I’d cleaned my ASS off for two days…I answered the door. He took one look at me and started searching the house to see “who” made me look that way.
That was something I couldn’t explain away. I realized how many times I’d defended him to my friends, defended myself to him, and saw that I was in a heap of trouble. We’d only been together a few months. I broke it off. He was not happy. For months afterward, he would drive past my house slowly. That year my outdoor Christmas lights mysteriously stopped working. Upon closer inspection, I saw a line was cut. Since he lived nearby, he found reasons and ways to “bump into me” or to ask for my “help” for months afterward, and it still happens occasionally to this day.
Thankfully, although I didn’t see the signs early on, I saw them in time to get myself out of the situation before I was in too deep. I was lucky. I had been in therapy for years by that point and had started to build up my confidence and had increased awareness of my own emotional cues, which I had spent years trying to stifle after being told I was “too emotional” for most of my life.
I actually started this blog post months ago but this whole year has been pretty freaking bananas (more on that in a later post). With the recent tragic events in the news regarding Gabby Petito and Brian Laundrie, I started reflecting on this blog post again and decided I should finish it. I have heard a lot of disparaging remarks about Gabby staying in an abusive relationship and also quite a few folks ponder if the abuse was the reverse: that Brian was the abused. I am not here to debate that. I am not even here to talk about them, I am just using their story to explain why I have published this post after not posting for almost a whole year.
What I am here to say is that it’s not as cut and dried as you would think. If you’ve not been in the situation, you really don’t know what it’s like. In this, as in all things, please take the time to show compassion. You can still be enraged. In fact, you should be enraged. Abuse, in all its forms, no matter the severity should make you MAD. AS. HELL. But don’t judge the abused. I can guarantee she (or he!) has had enough of that to last a lifetime, no matter how long, or tragically short, that lifetime may be.
Happy Birthday to Me
The sun was trying desperately to shine through last Friday afternoon when I started writing this. After days and days of being shrouded in thick, damp clouds, I was ready for it. I was feeling melancholy Friday, and the sun, or lack of sun, had a lot to do with it.
I’m turning 45 this week. That also contributed to my recent subdued mood, even after a few days of sunshine. I have several friends that are hitting or have hit 40 this year. Understandably, they are experiencing the oh-shit-I’m-forty blues. And I get it. I don’t remember feeling that way about 40, but maybe I did. This 45 shit, however, it’s hitting me hard.
Recently I dug through some old photos and did some reminiscing. I found myself thinking back to when I was 15 and still in high school. Unlike many others, high school was a terrible time for me. I remember having an adult tell me back then that I was experiencing the best years of my life and I should enjoy them and I thought, “well if this is as good as it gets, why am I even here.” Clearly, that person had a much different experience than I did.
Thankfully, I made it through that time. During high school, I began to build a close group of friends with whom I worked. After graduation, that group blossomed even more, and those people became my extended family. Many of those friends became such a part of my life, and the life of my parents, that they didn’t even knock when they stopped over. They’d just come on in like “honey, I’m home!”
While my friendships were blossoming, I made some terrible choices in love. Some of it was purely “unluck” but a lot of it was my desperation to find that someone. My friends were pairing off and finding love and I thought that was the way things were supposed to be so I threw myself into lots of relationships (and I use that term loosely) for the sake of having someone. Being a highly emotional person, but not understanding anything about being a highly emotional person, I was often with guys who loved my passion for life but didn’t know what to do with all that emotion coming at them. To be fair, I didn’t know how to direct that emotion either. Loving big comes with the responsibility of being able to understand people who are unable to handle it. I wasn’t there yet.
When I was 25, I moved to South Carolina and experienced a culture shock that I never expected. I lived in a more rural area of the upstate and to say I was not like the other women my age in Seneca would be a major understatement. I had a hard time making close friends those first few years. I was quite the anomaly, being in my twenties and single. Some of the ladies my age were already on husband number two by then. I am not disparaging them; it’s a cultural difference, and one for which I was woefully unprepared. As a result of my single status, people tried to set me up. The thing was, I didn’t want to get in a relationship at the time. Because, guess what, if I was in a relationship, then I’d gain all kinds of friends…HIS friends. Then if something happened, I’d be out a significant other and all those new friends too. I know that seems extreme but it’s also pretty realistic. I didn’t want to find myself back at square one with no friends and feeling like a fish out of water all over again. That was something a lot of my new southern acquaintances didn’t understand. I needed time to acclimate to my new world without the burden of holding up a relationship.
When I was diagnosed with cancer at 28, I really began to reevaluate my life. Shortly after recovering, I finally got my own apartment, something I never thought I’d be able to do. I did a backward slide emotionally for a few years until I got myself back into therapy. That’s when I really started digging in and understanding myself. Finally, in my thirties, I began taking the time to understand and accept my thought processes instead of fighting them so I could be “normal”. It’s why I am such a proponent of therapy and I firmly believe everyone should try it! I am so glad to see the worldwide mental health conversation open up. I saw a commercial with Michael Phelps the other day and he was talking about his struggles. Ten years ago, heck, even five years ago, that would have been incredibly taboo. It gives me hope.
If I had been told at 15 or 25 that this is what 45 would look like, I would have scoffed. Although I never wanted children, I surely thought I would be married. Like any young girl full of hope, I pictured a fairy tale. Well, I did get a fairy tale, just not the one I expected.
I suffered through a few rainy, gloomy days, but the sun has been shining most of this past week both outside and in my heart. I realized that facing 45 isn’t so bad. Birthdays still mean surrounding myself with loved ones, getting to do things that make me feel good, and CAKE! I like cake. So, goodbye gloom, hello 45, and let’s eat cake! Happy Birthday to me!
I Forgot to Pee
Say what? Yes, you read that right. Forgetting to pee, eat, move, and not acknowledging the world around you: these are all consequences of hyperfocus, an often undiscussed (and unofficial) symptom of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).
A few years ago I had a doctor tell me he felt I had a touch of ADHD, something I had never heard in all my life, despite all of the doctors I have seen for depression and anxiety, and the multitude of providers assigned to diagnose and treat my thyroid cancer in my late twenties. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of doctors in my life. The diagnosis wasn’t something I gave much thought at the time but, looking back, I see all the signs.
During my school years, my mom would get frustrated with me for having the TV on while I was doing homework. She didn’t get how I could do homework with the distraction of the television. Well, for me it wasn’t a distraction, it was a way to maintain focus. I know it’s counterintuitive but it’s the way I was then and it’s the way I am now. Working from home this last year, I have had the TV on all day, every day. There were a couple days last year when my former television broke that I didn’t have it on (obviously), and they were tortuous. I did turn on the radio and that helped but it wasn’t the same. At the office, there are others around and there is always chatter, and I can’t work without it. I do occasionally plug in my headphones and listen to music or a podcast while working, but mostly I need that outside activity to keep me going. I tune it out, but it grounds me at the same time. Doesn’t quite make sense, which is basically the theme song of the Life of Me.
While all that chatter is happening, I work. And work. And work. And I kind of forget there is something going on outside of that. I always knew I tended to be hyperfocused, but it really hit me how bad it is when I was staying with my parents last month. I was working at their kitchen counter, right smack dab in the middle of the house, while my Dad was watching TV and/or snoring, my Mom was puttering around, cleaning this and that, and the phone was ringing (the landline at their house rings a LOT, mostly spam calls). I would sit at the counter, start working and then my Mom would appear across the kitchen counter from me and ask if I wanted lunch. “Lunch?” I would think. “Like, it’s 10 am. No, I don’t want lunch.” Then I’d realize I had to pee. Then I’d realize it was noon, not 10 am, and not only did I have to pee but, damn, was I hungry.
Oftentimes, when coming up for air after being hyperfocused for a time, I realize that I had a thought some time ago that I was hungry (or thirsty or had to pee). Maybe it was an hour ago or two hours ago: I have no idea because I have been hyperfocused on the task at hand. The thought would flit into my mind and then flit away because I could do “one more thing” before I head to the kitchen/bathroom or to get the mail or to make a call. If I can just finish this reconciliation, then I can insert-activity-here. Then I finish that reconciliation but while I was doing it, I remember that I wanted to update a schedule so I can just “do that really quickly” before I insert-activity-here. Then while I was updating the schedule…and you see how this goes. Suddenly, my bladder is about to pop, I am so thirsty my tongue is dry, and I realize I haven’t eaten and it’s way past lunch.
I think I pull myself into this hyperfocus mode to combat my natural inclination to live the life of distraction: the “squirrel syndrome”. There was an animated movie – which I don’t actually think I ever saw – where a dog would get distracted from his conversation or task because he saw a squirrel. I feel that so much. When Apollo was alive, he would leave the kitchen when I cooked and hide in the back room. I am a decent cook, but I tend to get distracted while cooking. Like the stuff is on the stove but then I see that there are dishes that need washed or there is something on the counter that needs wiped up, and before you know it, I am in the living room looking for a recipe on my phone because the spot on the counter reminded me of that Pinterest post I saw the week before and I’ve forgotten about the stuff on the stove. And if I got the bacon out…poor Apollo was in the backyard, as far from the house as he could get. I like my bacon crispy, like just this side of burnt. It takes some time to get to that point so you can imagine all the things I can get into while bacon is on the stove. I’ve set off many a fire alarm when cooking bacon; it’s no wonder Apollo would hide.
I think that’s why I found baking so calming when the pandemic began. I’ve gotten through that manic baking phase (thank goodness because my jeans were telling me it was time to move on) but I was pleased to find something to do in the kitchen that I found to be soothing. All that measuring and mixing gives me something to (hyper)focus on and I still get to eat at the end of it! 😊 I have to set the timer to remind me to get it out of the oven. Sometimes I have to set more than one timer in case I ignore the first one.
Timers and alarms and lists: they are my life. I send myself emails, some from work to home so I remember to do something at the house. Some from home to work if I remembered something in the evening or over the weekend that I need to get done at the office. The pest service is coming later this month and I’ll have to put a calendar event on my phone to make sure I remember to unlock the gate from the inside so the guy can get in the yard. It’s something that I used to get really frustrated about; it was another one of those things that is “not normal” about me that I thought I needed to fix. Really, though, it’s just a thing about me, a thing that makes me, me. There is nothing wrong with having ADHD. Or depression. Or anxiety. Or whatever it is you think is “wrong” with you. You just have to learn to manage it in a healthy way, like with counseling or medication or yoga or whatever works for you. The point is you manage it, and you ask for help when you need it. Like when someone reminds you to eat. Or when you have to pee, like now, and you should stop writing on your blog so you can go do that.
I write about my anxiety and depression not to seek sympathy or get attention or whatever you naysayers might believe; I write about it because if there is just ONE person out there who reads this and says “I am not alone and I can get help” and picks up a phone to call a therapist, a suicide hotline, or a trusted friend or family member then it’s entirely worth it to be vulnerable.
Rely on Each Other - Ah Ah
Sorry if you now have “Islands in the Stream” stuck in your head but this song has been playing in my mind on a loop for weeks. RELY. Such a short word with such powerful meaning. When you rely on someone, you are giving up your control to another person. If you think about it, that’s HUGE. “Rely” is also my word for 2021. I know we’re halfway through the first month of the year already but it’s been a crazy couple weeks so I am just now getting around to this post.
My blog has taken a back seat recently, along with so many other things. There are events happening in my personal life that are taking precedence. I know I am usually an open book, er, blog, when it comes to such things, but this time I can’t be because I am protecting the privacy of others.
That brings me back to “rely”. Wow, that’s a hard thing for me. I don’t do it well. I am a control freak. And when I can’t control, I shut down. I am shutting down like one of those metal gates on a mall storefront right now. Everyday, I try to open the store back up, but it is getting harder and harder to do on my own. And so I must learn to rely.
Right now, I am relying on my sister-from-another-mister, Kelly, to take care of my beloved Ava and the house while I am away helping family. I am also relying on her, my sister-sister, family, and some dear friends for much needed emotional support. I am going through a lot right now and I sometimes cry for seemingly no reason. The other day, I was six minutes late for my hair appointment so I cried from the time I was placed under the dryer, all the way through my shampoo. That was gloriously humiliating. Fortunately, I have been going to this salon and seeing this stylist for quite some time, so he talked me through it and even made me laugh. I can always rely on Clay for that.
I also find myself relying on my managers and coworkers more. I hate leaving my work for someone else. I am a perfectionist. I, by no means, am the only person who can do my job well. However, I have been doing my job for a long time, and…it’s mine. To take time off, or to not be fully present at work, especially during an accountant’s most hectic time of year, is to have to rely on others to pick up my slack. I don’t do slack. Except, now I do.
And now I have to rely on people for one more thing. When I keep shutting that gate to the storefront, I need someone to help me open it. The reason I cry during hair appointments is that I don’t feel. I know. It’s confusing. My last post I talked about how I feel in a big way. But, you see, that’s the problem. Feeling big is scary as hell. People like me who feel big take a lot of time and energy NOT to feel big. I know, right?! Showing feelings in a powerful and noticeable way is criticized. Think about it. Ever said someone was being “dramatic” when he or she showed emotion in public? Or even in private? I know I have. Pot, meet kettle.
Here’s the thing. It’s hard to feel. It hard to not feel. Because being human is hard. It just is. That’s why we have to rely on each other (ah, ah) to help us, collectively, be better humans, capable of dealing with life as we know it, or life as we don’t know it yet.
Stressed and Blessed
Merry Christmas! It’s down to the last week of this dreadful year we call 2020. And dreadful it has been. Not only has the pandemic been life-altering, whether minor: having routines turned inside out, learning to work in a new environment, being denied hugs - or major: losing jobs, losing families, being ill, but so many other things have happened this year. I hesitate to even use the word “other” because can “other” really describe racial injustices being exposed like never before and the incredible unrest that followed and still lingers, rightly so, today? Can “other” describe the unprecedented number of hurricanes, the Australian brushfires, the wildfires in the western US, the tornadoes right here in our backyard that devastated our neighbor’s homes and places of business, the volcanic eruptions in the Philippines, and the floods in Indonesia? I am quite sure I have forgotten a number of natural disasters from 2020 as well. On a personal note, I lost a lovely and kind friend that I met through rescue, to a sudden, deadly heart attack and my dear best friend from high school, with whom I lost touch but thought of often, also lost her life unexpectedly. Kelly lost her precious Duncan, who, although he wasn’t “mine”, he lived under my roof and in my heart. Additionally, we received some terrible news about a close family member who is facing a long and arduous battle in the coming months, the impacts of which will ripple through our family like crashing waves in the most fierce of storms.
Gosh, that was super depressing. I mean, this year has sucked. Hard. But….
I remain grateful. As terrifying and sad and painful as this year has been, it’s been a year of learning so very much, so many hard lessons, so many easy lessons which I never took the time to learn.
First, I am so grateful for my job. Yes, it’s a job, and, yes, there are days when slapping people around seems the best and most fitting way to handle things (but I don’t). But truly, I am so blessed to work for a company run by people who care for their people, first and foremost. The way they have handled this pandemic has been graceful, fair, tactful, and with the physical and mental health of their employees at the forefront of their thoughts, policies, and processes. I truly couldn’t ask for more supportive coworkers and supervisors. Truthfully, at the beginning of this year I had some very mixed feelings about my place of employment, where it seemed the only constant was change. However, at the beginning of the pandemic, and then through the emotional upheaval that I began experiencing shortly thereafter, I was reminded why I have been with this company for eight years.
Second, I was reminded that family and friends are everything, and I mean everything. Not being able to interact with loved ones in normal ways…wow, painful doesn’t begin to describe it. My people are my life, my breath, my heart. I don’t think there is a way to elaborate on that. As wordy as I am, well, what else can I say?
Also, I was surprised to learn things about myself; things that I always thought were truths were, well, not. I always saw myself as more of an introvert. Truth be told, when the pandemic started, I was stoked! Stay at home with the dogs, don’t put on makeup, wear my pajamas and my yoga pants everyday. Yes, please! Then I started to seriously lose my shit. I cried a LOT. Connecting with people was way more important to me than I ever thought. I learned the term “ambivert” and realized, with astonishment, that the black and white world of introverts and extroverts had a, GASP!, gray area where people like me live. A gray area. A GRAY AREA. Mind. Blown. Turns out I do like people. I like MY people. I still need time to be alone and internalize and decompress, but the aforementioned people - those family and friends who are my everything - I actually NEED them. It’s hard for me to rely on other people. It’s hard for me to ask for help. I mean, I can’t say that I am better at these things than I used to be, but I can say that I am trying to be. Expressing myself, expressing my truest, deepest emotions, is like really, really hard. I am an emotional person but most people only see the surface. I feel deeply, painfully, heartfully, and BIG. I hope, more than anything, that I can continue the biggest and most important thing that this year has taught me, and that is to feel. To feel and connect, and love and be afraid and be sad and be gloriously, uninhibitedly HAPPY.
There is so much MORE. This year has been MORE. More everything! But, in the interest of expressing my true feelings, I am tired and I am feeling very emotional after writing this. And I need to go lose myself in a book about murder. Hmmm…maybe there are a few things I should still keep to myself. Ah, hell with it. I read about murder to relax.
Yep.
Merry Christmas!
I Am a Steelers Fan
Wearing one of my bazillion Steelers shirts at a local Greenville area event a couple weeks ago!
I am a Steelers fan, not a football fan. And, yes, there is a difference. When you grow up in Pittsburgh as I did, you are basically trained to love the Steelers from birth. Like sometimes I wonder if I only got black and gold baby food. I can almost hear my mom saying, “Bob, she gets prunes and bananas. That’s it.” Never mind that prunes aren’t black; they’re the closest thing she could find. Baby food doesn’t come in black bean (thank God).
I jest (sort of) but truly: Pittsburgh is a sports town, and most of all it is a football town. When I lived in Pittsburgh, I didn’t really pay attention to football. I cheered for the Steelers as was expected of me. I think I even went to a game once. I went to a few hockey games and more baseball games, but I never really “got” the whole football thing.
I remember a guy I dated trying to explain football to me. He may as well have been trying to teach me how to conjugate verbs in Russian. I have no affinity for learning languages either. That relationship didn’t last long. Not because I couldn’t understand football, but because we were a terrible fit for one another.
Anyway, my friends from Pittsburgh won’t remember me being in front of the TV every Sunday during football season because I wasn’t. I imagine that when I post something on social media about watching the game, they’re probably perplexed.
It wasn’t until several years ago that I started watching Steelers football and following them on the regular. I am not sure how it happened or when it happened. Possibly when my aunt lived up the street from my parents here is South Carolina? She and mom were/are both big fans and I enjoyed spending time with them; the empath in me fed off that enthusiasm. When I moved into my apartment, I would watch the games and yell at the TV like I knew what was going on. I didn’t. Trust me. (If you don’t trust me, ask Kelly. I can hear her rolling her eyes.) I am still easily lost on the field but do understand it much better now than I once did.
I don’t love the game of football. Like, you know, some people watch every game, have the TVs with all the blocks on the screen so they can watch several at once, pay for a special subscription so they don’t miss any, and watch reruns. I am not that fan. I only care about watching the Steelers. I don’t care about college football. I don’t care if any other NFL team is playing. I watch the Superbowl for halftime and the commercials (unless the Steelers are playing).
I think I became a game-watching, black-and-gold-bleeding, screaming-at-the-TV fan because it makes me feel closer to home. I love Greenville; don’t get me wrong. But Pittsburgh will always be my hometown. It’s a great city and I have a lot of loved ones there. Watching the Steelers somehow gets me closer to my memories of warm family gatherings and legendary parties with friends. And lady locks, pierogis, and pepperoni rolls. But mostly family and friends. Mostly.
Gratitude is the Best Attitude
I have this little book on my desk that says “Gratitude is the Best Attitude” on the front of it. It’s supposed to be a journal, but I don’t really use it for that. Recently, I moved desks and floors at work, and I had the opportunity to either keep the book on my desk, file it in a drawer, or take it home and find a new purpose for it. I had fully intended to take it home but, this move wasn’t expected, and it happened quickly. It wasn’t a bad move, just shuffling people around in our ever-growing company to make the most of the space we have, but it did cause some grumbling. As with any change, especially in a work environment where change can often be scary, people were worried about being in a new space, next to a new department, on a new floor. I was grumbling, too; I’ll admit it. Our department has had its share of ups and downs over the last few years so facing yet another change did wake up my anxiety quite a bit.
Anyway, back to the book. I decided to leave it on my desk. My new cubicle isn’t as large as my old one was, and I don’t have nearly the wall space I had before. As a result, I could not hang all my photos back up. I slid those photos inside the cover of the book, intending to take the whole thing home. Then I realized that I just put photos of people and animals who are very important to me inside a book that says “Gratitude is the Best Attitude” on it. It seemed a little, I don’t know, cathartic. Here was this little book that had, quite honestly, grown rather dusty. In it, I placed photos that I loved looking at every day but didn’t have room to hang. I am getting a little lump in my throat as I am typing this….
I know life is super hard, especially right now. There is just so much…STUFF. It’s overwhelming. It’s really hard to remember to be grateful when there is so much ugliness in the world, smacking us in the face every time we turn on the TV, open our social media, read an email, or even converse with people. This week is bringing even more STUFF, personal stuff, world stuff.
But I AM grateful. I am so grateful.
I am thankful for this little reminder: this little book with the big saying and the photos within.
A Writer Who Is Not a Writer
Someone asked me recently how I come up with the things that I write about in my blog. Truthfully, I am constantly writing in my head; it just rarely made it to paper until recently. My brain is constantly composing short articles and poems. My first college degree is in English writing. My thought was that I wanted to write for a magazine. My niche is short articles based on real life issues. I write about what I know: my life and the lives around me. I have also dabbled in poetry. I am not going to take the poetry world by storm (yes, I voted for Brandon Leake on AGT!) but it is definitely an emotional release for me. So, if I love to write so much, why I am not writing for a living?
Well, there were no blogs when I graduated college the first time for one thing. Also, to write the kinds of things I wanted to write, I would have had to make a move to New York City and try to get in with one of the major magazines which is NOT an easy thing to do! Plus, I am so not a big-city girl. I grew up next to a corn field, people. I couldn’t imagine living in a concrete jungle.
Shortly after graduation, I got a job in customer service for an internet retailer. I hate the phone. Like hate, hate. Answering the phone all day was a special kind of hell for me. Answering emails, unsurprisingly, I was totally fine with doing! I worked there for about ten months before I decided to hop on my parents’ moving wagon and see what southern living was like. Southern living was like…totally for me. My birthday is in February and my first birthday in South Carolina was spent outside washing my car. While that’s not a reality every February here, it’s not even a glimmer of an option in Pennsylvania. Ever.
Finding a writing job in a small southern town (I lived in Seneca, SC when I first moved south) was just not going to happen. I went back to school and got my accounting degree. Unfortunately, that left my right brain seriously lacking an outlet. It was fine (not really but I didn’t realize that) for a while. Suddenly, in 2004 I started writing mountains of poetry. I was going through an emotional time and poetry is often where I go when I can’t make any logical sense of things. I had fallen for a guy who was completely unavailable to me, but this emotional swing seemed…more…somehow. I don’t know if that makes sense. I was disproportionately upset about the situation. I wrote a LOT. Someday when I am feeling super brave, maybe I’ll share some of it (don’t hold your breath; very few people have seen that body of work). It turned out that I had thyroid cancer and my hormones were all swirly whirly. The cancer diagnosis another story for another day. Ever since then, I connected my best writing (yes, my best poetry is some that almost no one has ever seen) with an unstable emotional state. So, I didn’t write, as in put pen to paper, for a long, long time. I sometimes mourn the loss of all the words I only wrote in my head.
Every time I thought about writing again or starting a blog, I was overwhelmed with this feeling of panic that I was going to fall down the rabbit hole of paralyzing depression and anxiety. A decade-plus of consistent therapy coupled with the solace I have found in yoga, has brought me to where I am today. I can find joy in writing again, and in sharing that writing with people. Ironically, I am once again hopelessly in like with a guy who is, if not physically unavailable, is most certainly emotionally unavailable to me. Even more ironically, that was probably one of that catalysts that finally got me off my ass and behind my computer. Well, I am still actually on my ass as I am writing this, but you get it.
I know everyone enjoys the Ava stuff because, like, she’s really cute and there are a ton of pictures. If no one reads my personal page, I will live, but I do hope that someone out there reads this and understands that he or she can use their creative outlet, whatever that might be - writing, music, dancing, drawing, painting – to slough off some of the emotion clogging up his or her system. You don’t have to share your work with anyone if you don’t want to; just don’t be afraid to own it and DO it!
Here With Me
At night, I crawl into bed
Your shoulder is where I’d rest my head
If you were here with me
While I sleep, warm and deep
In your arms is where I’d keep
If you were here with me
In the morning, when I wake
I think of the love we would make
If you were here with me
You could teach me how to appreciate the rain
I could teach you how much you are worth
We could both learn how to love again
Both flying high and down to earth
If you were here with me
If you will give me the chance
To hold your hand and dance
And if you will give me the time
To show you that you're mine
When night falls
When dawn breaks
You would be here. With me.
Paddle On!
Two weeks ago, I did something new. I went stand-up paddle boarding for the first time. For those of you who know me well, I am sure that sentence was enough to send your jaw to the floor.
First, you know how, um, accident-prone I am. The girl who fell off a one-foot tall stool and had to get her ankle x-rayed probably should not be the same girl standing on a board in the middle of a lake. Second, new experiences, while they thrill me, also completely terrify me. And third, I have body image issues. See this recipe for a disaster coming together into a big, bountiful meal? What made me say to myself, “Self, let’s do something new! In front of strangers! That may cause death by drowning! In a bathing suit! With a boy!” I mean, really. What the flock-of-seagulls was I thinking?
Well, here’s what I was thinking. I was thinking that I love the water. It makes me happy. Being in, around, or on the water is like a caress to my soul. I love the smell of water: the crispness of a lake, the warmth of an ocean, the cleanness of the rain. When I was little, my parents had to drag me out of the pool in the summer to eat, shower, and sleep. I spent hours swimming, floating, doing tumbling tricks, and dancing in the pool. Now, y’all remember from “And So I Learned About Rescue” that I was alone a lot as a kid, so many of those hours in the pool were spent with me, myself, and I but that didn’t bother me at all because: water.
Having the chance to be on the water, exerting energy, using my muscles, pushing my body while giving my brain a chance to rest just sounded GOOOOOOD. I had been longingly watching people for years on various beach and lake real estate shows on HGTV hop on boards and skim across the top of the water. When I found out that I actually knew a certified SUP teacher, Matt, (like how did I not know this already?), I saw my chance and I grabbed it.
So as for issue number one: my nearly-world-famous klutziness… I figured falling in the lake would not be as bad as some of the many (many, many) other mishaps I’ve had in life. I’ve hit the water pretty hard before (hello, Mt. Dew rock). I mean, I could still technically hurt myself, but the chances were pretty low when compared to, say, walking and chewing gum at the same time.
Issue number two: stranger danger + new activity. OK so Lake Jocassee is busy, even on a weekday. I knew there would be a high element of “unknown”: both people and circumstance. Enter Matt. I already knew Matt as a patient and kind teacher through three years of taking yoga with him. Also, he and I have become friends and he’s been exposed to my special brand of crazy. Most importantly, I knew that he would laugh with me rather than at me when I came up sputtering from the inevitable crash and splash!
So far, I am knocking out those excuses I had come up with every other time I’d thought about looking into paddling lessons.
There was just one left: body image. Honestly, I was so damn excited for the opportunity to learn how to paddle board that this one kind of escaped my radar…until the day before we were set to go. Suddenly, I realized that when one paddles, one usually wears a bathing suit.
I talked to a couple of friends, fervently wishing for them to tell me to rethink going. Much to my dismay, they are good, honest friends, who told me to shut the eff up and go to the damn lake already. I spent time staring at my bathing suit options wondering which one would make me look like J. Lo at the Superbowl. Answer: none. She works out like eight million hours a week and I, well, I do not work out like eight million hours a week. I finally just picked a one-piece that sucked in what it could and didn’t spill my boobs all over the place. After I put on the suit in the morning, I threw a tank and a loose pair of shorts over it and off to the lake I went. I was nervous and I think I talked the poor girl’s ear off while I was waiting for the guy to come and get me to take me and my rented board to the water. I kept asking her if I should wear my shorts in the water. She was so patient with me and convinced me it was OK to leave my shorts in the car, so I’d have something dry to put on when I came back. I ran them back to the car and then it was time to go so I didn’t have more time to freak out.
And then….
And then, nothing tragic happened. I got on the board. It didn’t sink. No one asked me what a fat girl like me was doing trying to paddle board. Matt got on his board in the water after me and then he taught me how to maneuver around. I didn’t do a perfect job. I actually bumped into Matt’s board a couple of times (oops) and I was sloooooowwww as molasses and he had to keep pausing for me to catch up. Oh! And I didn’t even attempt to stand up; I did the whole trip on my knees or sitting. I didn’t make an ass of myself. Matt was patient and kind. There were no wardrobe malfunctions. What DID happen is that I was happy. I was loving the water: being in, on, and around it. I was using muscles. I pushed my body a little and relaxed my brain a lot. And I had the most amazing experience drinking in the fresh air, cooling off in the water, and enjoying the company.
So, anxiety: TAKE THAT! BOOM! I heard you, I saw you, I acknowledged you, I battled with you. Am I going to be terrified next time? Probably. Yep, probably going to do this same dance all over again. But next time it will be less scary. And the time after that it will be even less scary. And eventually I’ll just be excited-anxious, not terrified-anxious. And I will paddle on!
I write about my anxiety and depression not to seek sympathy or get attention or whatever you naysayers might believe; I write about it because if there is just ONE person out there who reads this and says “I am not alone and I can get help” and picks up a phone to call a therapist, a suicide hotline, or a trusted friend or family member then it’s entirely worth it to be vulnerable.
Vacation Anxiety (Yep, you read that right!)
Vacation: getting away from it all and playing all day. Such a joy! And, for people like me, the vacation is even more well-deserved by the time we get there. Being an obsessive-compulsive perfectionist planner (OCPP!) is TOUGH. I do it to myself, but I can’t seem to stop, even after a decade of therapy. At least I don’t actually pack my suitcase a month in advance anymore: PROGRESS.
Before leaving for a vacation, I have a list of must-do’s that would make the average person never want to go on vacation. For me, it’s all I know. Right now, it’s one month until I leave for vacation and the vacation nightmares have begun. Last night I dreamed the only thing I packed was the formal dress I was planning on taking on the cruise-that-didn’t-happen back in May. Swimming in that was not easy, even in my dream.
I guess the first thing you need to know about is the extensive pre-vacation checklist:
1. Make a very detailed packing list.
a. Pair together outfits to include shoes and jewelry.
b. Outfits should all coordinate with the same color shoes so only one pair needs to be packed (except, of course, the beach/pool shoes, the tennies, and the 2 other pairs I will take just because it seems like packing two and wearing one could not possibly be enough.)
c. Count out enough underwear for two pairs a day and then add about five more to the count for good measure. (I ran out of clean underwear on a trip in 1999 and the underwear anxiety has been a huge problem since.)
d. Count out enough socks for one pair per day to wear with the tennies that will probably never actually be on my feet.
2. Check health & beauty bag for content and list out things to purchase that may be missing. Check the bag about five more times before actually packing it. Pack it. Take it out of the packing, check it again and repack it.
3. Rewrite packing list.
4. Keep a budget with a per diem for food, an estimated number of gas stops, souvenirs, dog sitting fees, pre-vacation beauty treatments (haircut & pedicure!), car repairs and prep (oil change & car wash!), accommodations, and any pre-vacation products like foods, paper towels, napkins, etc.) Review the budget countless times for no reason.
5. Rewrite packing list.
6. Make instruction sheet for dog sitter. Revise at least five times.
7. Be sure there is enough dog food as well as make double batches of the dogs’ vegetable mixes and set out cans in case the vegetables run out before the vacation is up.
8. Rewrite packing list.
9. Portion dogs’ food into baggies by day by dog for the whole trip.
10. Rewrite packing list.
11. Clean entire house top to bottom, change sheets, leave fresh towels
12. Rewrite packing list.
13. Rewrite packing list.
14. Rewrite packing list.
Now I finally get to pack and leave. Are you stressed out by my list? Imagine living it!
I know it sounds like I have a screw loose (or maybe the whole damn toolbox has left the building) but this is the mind of anxiety, or at least my anxiety. Everyone who lives with an anxiety disorder does so differently. When I read this, I realize it’s irrational but, like I said, it is what it is. I have learned to deal with it as well as I can.
While I write this tongue-in-cheek to give you a chuckle, know that this is pretty close to my reality. One of my coping mechanisms is to poke fun at my incredibly complicated general anxiety disorder. That’s not because I think it’s funny to struggle with mental illness, but because years of therapy have given me the ability to see it from another’s perspective, acknowledge the unbelievable complexity of emotions that get tangled in with the most simple of tasks, chuckle, and do it all anyway! Just as I pick my battles in relationships with others, I pick the things to battle in my relationship with myself. Not being able to try a new activity, go shopping alone, talk to a new person: those are the things I work on changing. If I have to make 22 packing lists before vacation, well, it’s just not worth the energy to fight it.
I write about my anxiety and depression not to seek sympathy or get attention or whatever you naysayers might believe; I write about it because if there is just ONE person out there who reads this and says “I am not alone and I can get help” and picks up a phone to call a therapist, a suicide hotline, or a trusted friend or family member then it’s entirely worth it to be vulnerable.
And So I Learned About Rescue
One of my passions is companion animal welfare and rescue. When I tell people that, I am often met with a sneer and am asked the question “what about all of the people who need help?” I always ask the “sneerer” where he or she volunteers his or her time. I either get an answer, a dissertation on why he or she doesn’t have time to volunteer, or a blank look. If I get an answer I thank him or her for the service to the community. If I get the dissertation I nod thoughtfully and say “I understand.” If I get the blank look, I smile and give him or her a minute to recover.
In all cases, when I get a look of derision I say “If we would all volunteer for the cause for which we are passionate, this might be a better world.”
We pass judgement on others every day. We all do; don’t deny it. We see an overweight person and assume he or she is lazy. Someone walks by without saying “hello” and we assume that person is rude. You get the idea. Unfortunately, it’s human nature. With all of the judgments we pass, do we have to degrade someone’s volunteer choices too?
It’s silly. And mean.
Did I mention it’s silly?
Anyway, I wanted to write a bit today about why I am so passionate about animal welfare. As a child, I grew up fairly solitary. My sister is ten years older than me and moved out of the house before her 18th birthday. Even before she moved out, she was into teenage stuff and I was just a kid. Although we love one another, our childhoods didn’t run parallel like most siblings. My first cousin and my nephew didn’t come around until I was between six and seven years old so I didn’t have any extended family close to me in age either. The nearest neighbor kids were two boys a few houses down. We played sometimes but, well, they were boys. Ha! The one constant companion I had was the family dog, a Lhasa Apso named Buttons.
Me with Buttons as a little girl. He hated to have his picture taken!
Buttons was a good dog. He wasn’t overly affectionate nor was he particularly playful. He was just there and that’s all I really needed. When Buttons went to the bridge I cried and cried. I was in middle school and I remember taking a day off of school because I couldn’t get it together. The loss was very painful for the family. It wasn’t until a few years later that we got another dog. Those early years with Buttons as my pal left an imprint on my child’s mind and heart.
When I (finally) left the family home and moved into my own apartment the family dogs at the time, Jake and Gretchen, stayed with my parents, of course. I went a whole year living dog-free. I ached for a dog though. I didn’t know how badly I missed having a dog until a friend of mine needed a sitter for a day and I took little Maynard to the park and he slept in my bed for the night. During that dogless time Jake passed away. Jake was a chocolate lab and a complete goofball.
Dad, Mom, me, Jake (chocolate) and Duchess (golden). Duchess had gone to the bridge by the time I moved into my own place.
Gretchen. She was blind but never let it stop her. She could do anything any other dog could do…but mostly she just wanted to be lazy.
Aching from Jake’s passing and newly dogspired by Maynard, I started searching for a dog online. I knew a little about animal adoption but not a lot. I knew enough to know that there are many dogs out there that need a home. I also had a random nugget of knowledge floating in my brain about black dogs being the last to be adopted. So in the fall of 2007 I went to Petfinder.com and searched for black dogs in my area that needed homes. The output was a bit overwhelming. Eventually I saw Apollo on Concerned Citizens for Animals’ website. It was love at first sight. Or site. Well, both. Anyway, he was wearing a big goofy grin and his eyes sparkled in the photo. I contacted CCA and started the adoption process. It was way more involved than I anticipated and I remember getting a little frustrated at one point. The adoptions counselor, Meg, told me that they had many adoptions not get approved because the conditions the applicants were going to keep the dogs in were atrocious. I was skeptical. Looking back now, I am embarrassed about my naivety but at the time I was just another dog lover. I had no knowledge of the world of rescue.
Apollo on the left. Phoebe on the right. Apollo was long and lean and Phoebe was short and stocky. They weighed almost exactly the same, believe it or not!
After spending a few months with Apollo, I learned so very much about dogs. Most especially though, I learned about humans and how they treat companion animals. I learned that not everyone is so kind to their pets. The more I learned, the more I wanted to help. I began my volunteer days at CCA and on my very first volunteer outing I met Phoebe, a sweet little black dog who became a mom of 8 before her first birthday. Her story melted my heart. SHE melted my heart. Her first year was rough, having lived on the streets for most of the time. CCA had healed her physically and tried very hard to heal her mentally but Phoebe was a “people dog” and the shelter environment was very hard for her.
I applied to adopt Phoebe. Her first few years with me will probably be a blog post of its own. Suffice it to say, it was a struggle. Through that struggle I was exposed to the world of animal rescue and welfare like I never had been before. I met amazing people (and some less than amazing people), heard heartwarming tales of overcoming adversity (and the horror stories too), and learned about breed-specific legislation and tethering laws (or lack thereof), among other things.
Phoebe on the right. Apollo on the left. Hands down my favorite picture of the three of us together. Phoebe didn’t care for the camera but Apollo was a HAM!
I’ll tell the stories another time but loving companion animals became my heart because of my experience. From a somewhat lonely little girl with a little white dog by her side to a homeowner with dogs of my own, animal rescue and welfare became my driving force. It keeps my heart beating and breaks it too.
The Pixy and the Nerd
As I said on my “About” page, I tried my hand at blogging a few years back and abandoned the project after just a few posts. At the time, I had a lot going on at work. The blog was supposed to be my creative outlet, but I was too tired to care about being creative once I left the office for the day.
Well, that’s not my whole truth.
I have spent some time recently thinking about my truths, learning about them and embracing them. I am trying to have the courage to let my vulnerable side to show ala the fabulous Brene Brown. I learned about Dr. Brown via my therapist (who is equally as fabulous I’ll have you know).
But back to the truth of the failed first blog. My entire life has been a bit of a war between the polar opposites of my soul. I have the one who I have come to think about as my pixy soul. My pixy soul is the creativity in me. She is the writer, the terrible painter, the event organizer, the animal rescuer, the optimist. She is the one with the gregarious laughter and the appreciation for how music can speak to people; the one who desires human connection and love and acceptance. She is the one who is a little crazy. Or maybe a lot crazy.
The other half of my soul is the nerd. The nerd prefers order: arranges her clothes in the closet based on type, makes lists for just about everything (and fails miserably without one), matches her underwear to her shirts (when no one is going to see them!), and counts the stairs every time she climbs them. She is the accountant who works hard and loves to make numbers match. She obsessively checks her email, texts, and other notifications and does her best to keep those “new message” indicators at zero.
You can see why the pixy and the nerd butt heads.
For a good portion of my life, the nerd has taken control. The pixy likes to buzz around her head and fly through her legs but eventually the nerd catches her, slaps some duct tape over her mouth and silences her wings. Then the pixy will get loose and the process starts again.
I just realized I made myself sound like a complete crazy person. While that’s probably true, it was not my point.
Anyway…the pixy was flitting around when I started the last blog. The nerd shut that shit down. The nerd knows the pixy is a little flighty (pun intended!)! I guess what I am trying to say, in all seriousness, is that the pixy soul is so free and light that it makes the controlling nerd really nervous.
So here I sit at the computer, trying again. I think the pixy and the nerd actually have a lot in common. It’s time for them to stop warring with one another and start working together.