Same Panic, Different Disco

Life has been a little overwhelming of late. The entirety of November got taken hostage by various illnesses, and after the flu came finals, Christmas preparation, and the insanity that is the holidays.

We're fine. We're all fine here now. How are you?

What I found was that I was able to keep myself pulled together through all the challenges and chaos. I even managed a better-than-perfect score in my class this fall. But once it ended, I suddenly felt swamped by anxiety. It was like agoraphobia but with my time. I suddenly had no structure and all the things I had postponed either since summer or just since the final stretch of the semester suddenly loomed and demanded my attention. 

I froze.

I couldn't even return the overdue library books on my coffee table, because the task felt too overwhelming. I am not one prone to anxiety (depression is more my cuppa) but this crippled me.

It took some mighty praying to get my feet back under me and a plethora of lists to begin grasping all I needed to do. The load actually seemed more manageable when I saw it written out, despite the absurd length. At least it wasn't stuck in my head, running randomly and causing traffic jams with other information. I got it out.

I have tried to organize my time based on importance and urgency. Some choices might seem peculiar at a glance, but I prioritized my tasks based on what would give me the most mental relief. Up first, I took control of my environment. I reorganized the basement after Michelle moved out and vacuumed the hell out of that carpet. Cat hair, gone. Allergies, still present. Feeling unwelcome in my own home, gone.

Each day, I start by reading scriptures alone in my office (well, ok, I start by getting my kids out the door and THEN I retreat upstairs) and making my daily to-do list. Sure, there are the cyclical things that will never go away, like laundry and laundry and laundry. But I have gotten out of the way many one-time things, even finishing all my Christmas shopping to my satisfaction. My list hasn't really gotten shorter, but the anxiety has completely dissipated. 

I even returned the library books.

One Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

The last time I got the flu, I was in college, living with Nora. Up until that point, I had assumed the flu was, essentially, a bad cold. Catching it was a rude awakening. Nora and I lay on the couch, moaning and taking turns getting the medicine. 

I have not missed a flu shot since. Not until this year, and it was really only a matter of having not gotten it yet. I was too late.

This time seemed worse, or maybe that's just the effects of memory and fifteen years.

I have been miserably sick for the last ten days. The coughing began a week ago Wednesday, and the body aches the day after. I had to max out on pain pills just to function, and by "function" I mean sleep without pain. I crawled out of bed only to get the meds. I soaked in a hot bath as often as possible, and I slept around the clock. The fever and pain eased up on Sunday. I went to the ER Monday night/Tuesday morning, when my throat closed in what I've learned is a laryngeal spasm. An albuterol inhaler and resuming ibuprofen for the inflammation has eased my ability to breathe, but I have continued weak, fatigued, and coughing since. 

Let me tell you, school has not been fun this week.

While my family has all contracted it as well, they've all recovered already. It's been a blessing that the flu touched my children so little. A day or two of fever and pain, and they were back to normal. 

Though Kevin got sick, he reacted better to medicine than I did, and he has taken care of everything. He has the week off work, by pure random happenstance, and it has been such a blessing. While I lay and moaned, shaking or sweating, and coughing up a lung, he made all the meals, went shopping, put kids to bed and got them out the door the next morning. He did laundry and cleaned. As miserable as I have felt, I cannot imagine having to do this without him. He was my hero this week.

Today, I finally feel like my mind is less foggy, and, though my chest feels tight and fragile, I am coughing less and might be able to function normally in the next couple of days. 

Next year, flu shots in October. 

I Don't Want to Be Like Dad

My dad was a very kind man, but he was also rebellious and irresponsible. Couldn't or wouldn't keep a job, blew through money, and never, never listened to doctors. Taking responsibility for anything, but especially for his health was way out of character for him. He used to say that he didn't want to live longer if it meant following all those damn health rules. He wanted to go out with a Pepsi (later Coke) in one hand and a Snickers bar in the other. 

The problem is that his chosen lifestyle did not result in his early death, being not quite James Dean enough. Instead, he spent twenty years in his recliner, unable to have a life, while his health grew worse and his body grew bigger. He opted for a wheelchair over physical therapy and soon required the care provided by a nursing facility, despite being twenty years younger than most residents. 

His rebellious insistence that he not follow the rules took away his autonomy and independence. He was miserable for twenty years. I want to put a stop to this pattern before my teeth fall out and my knees collapse and I can't buy clothes at common retailers. I do not want to go out with Coke in my hand. I want to live a long, active life and die surrounded by great-grandbabies. 

Barbie (2023) - The Revelation Monologue

Fat

I have always been about body positivity. I used to make my roommates compliment themselves three times for every disparaging comment they made about their appearance. We were fresh-faced and fancy free, and the idea that any of us then was fat or ugly gets ever more ridiculous with time. We were young and healthy and happy. Our childish bodies were beginning to turn womanly. Our lips were still naturally pink, our skin was taut, and none of us was losing hair. Most of us didn't have any gray yet (I started going gray at 18). We were immortal.

I try to continue that body positivity with my children. They, who are built so differently, need to accept their natural shape and not covet another. "Fat" is not the f word. I use it openly to describe myself these recent years, because, while I have come to hate the amorphousness of my own body, I know that fat shaming is a cultural phenomenon of this time and place. My body used to be coveted. Children are pure and honest. Them saying I'm fat is not judgment; it is observation. It does not hurt my feelings. It does not shame me. 

I am far more confident in every way imaginable than I was at 18, including about my body. Yes, I was 70 pounds lighter than, but I covered my stomach with my arms as though to hide myself from others' eyes. Now, I feel no such fear. For one thing, I have great boobs.

But I do want to be skinny again. 

Yes, I want to be healthy, to have knees that don't shriek when I go down the stairs, to be able to run a mile straight, to reach the floor or stand up without saying "oof." But I also miss the superficial pleasure of liking how I looked in the mirror. I want these things back.

The problem is that I've never successfully lost weight. Not by diet and exercise. It takes commitment, and I don't mean the time and effort. I'm good at those. I mean the mental and emotional commitment to hating my body. To constantly remember why each small sacrifice is worth it. I guess I have always been too vain to hate my body that much. 

The only times I have ever lost weight was moving to college, where I walked everywhere and didn't have enough money for food, and then breastfeeding my babies. The fat went straight from my thighs to theirs. I hit my pre-pregnancy weight by my six-week checkups. 

I gain weight when I am depressed or stressed. I eat my feelings. My father's love language was food: he rewarded good behavior and expressed concern, approval, apologies, and love with food of various unhealthy sorts. 

I gained weight when Michelle moved in, but lost it when Matthew was born. I gained weight after the miscarriage. This was followed by six months of preparation to move to Colorado. Not only was it a stressful time, but a busy one, too. Drive-thrus became my new best friend. And the numbers on the scale just kept rising. 

I hit 200 lbs just over two years ago, and, damn, was it a rude awakening. I made changes and kept my weight steady for a year, even with moving my dad to a care facility, Kevin starting in the Bishopric, and me getting my CNA license. I quit Coke for six months.

Then my dad died. 

And my sister's liver failed.

And school began. I sit in a chair almost full time, while still feeling drained and stressed. I was chugging coke to keep going.

Then I got the invitation to my twenty-year high school reunion. You know, I really thought that would motivate me to finally lose weight. But it just made me anxious.

I started therapy thereafter. This was a year ago. I wanted to learn how to handle these emotions without resorting to a spoon. But my therapist was more interested in my nightmares than my waking habits. I went to my doctor for help. She suggested exercise. I tried Noom (which I loved, but dropped the ball on) and Walking to Mordor. I have asked for help from friends and family, but to no avail. School got harder. Then, Michelle moved back in. And the numbers have kept. going. up. 

I hate my reflection. I hate how I look in pictures. I am always frumpy and lumpy and tired. In the last year and a half, I have gained twenty pounds. I think Kevin is not attracted to me. And that just makes me more depressed.

I cannot live like this. 

I am not built to hate myself. I have always loved my body. Katie comes by her vanity honestly. But it seems I have finally gotten to the point where it requires less mental work to try to lose the weight than to love myself the way I am. I never thought I would get here. May this wakeup call be one to last.

Miley Cyrus - Used To Be Young (Official Video)

Open Road Song

The dominating thought after imagining "what ifs" was not a desire to follow a road not taken. I'm not longing to undo the past or redo my choices. There are days that I want to know the endings to all the lives I didn't choose, but I will never know if they would have been better. Besides, what good would it do me to know? I cannot go back. Only forward. 

I was struck by the sheer number of choices I once had available. Almost limitless. Life was an open road, both figuratively and literally. I could have gotten in a car and gone anywhere as long as I had enough gas. I did just pick up and go a few times, taking unplanned adventures with friends, or escaping to the mountains by myself.

I moved to Austin with no job, knowing no one. I could have gone anywhere. I had my pick of the undergraduate offerings of a prestigious university. I could have studied anything, become anything. The future was vast and fluid.

Awaking to my current life, I felt the inexorable advance of the walls closing in around me. Choices no longer possible, roads closed off by decisions of the past. I have only very rarely felt this way as a stay-at-home mother, but I know many other women who feel trapped in the role. For me, family has been my ambition. With Katie starting kindergarten, however, even that path is closing off, narrowing in around me, about to disappear.

In so many ways, it feels like my life is over, winding down. But it's only one chapter. Or maybe one book in a series. I am only 38. I am literally at the midpoint in my life expectancy. I guess that makes this my midlife crisis. It's time to start the next chapter in my life, and coasting on my current path is no longer an option. 

I am at a crossroads for the first time in over a decade. It is freeing and terrifying. Do I revisit old dreams, resurrect the past, right wrongs and regrets, or try to find something new? I am worried I will pick the wrong thing, that I will look back in another twenty years and list all the things I should have done differently now.

Kevin's Love Language

Kevin's primary love language is service. An oft-quoted Jeff Foxworthy quote in our house is, "I did it for you, sweet pea." 

If I ask Kevin to do something, he will do it--either right then or by setting a reminder on his phone. He has his tasks that he does without fail around the house, because I don't like to, such as taking out the trash and killing bugs. When one or both of us is angry, he cleans the kitchen. Actually, he cleans the kitchen a lot now that I'm in school. When he's on a call where he's not needed, he brings his computer downstairs and washes dishes while he listens. It's his way of showing support for me during my busy semesters. He folds the laundry at bed times, and he tries to fix things that inconvenience me. 

He also views his job as a service he performs out of love for me and our family. He puts in stupid hours of work to make our lives comfortable, to provide stability and safety. It is a matter of no small pride for him. And in my mind I understand that.

However.

My top two love languages are touch and quality time. For me, when he is working, I do not feel loved. I feel forgotten. For one thing, he is constantly compartmentalizing. If it's not front and center, it's not in his head. So, I am, in truth, forgotten. And I have struggled with this for more years than we have been married. 

Quality time is not one of his love languages.

When he sits down on the couch with his legs up and a computer on his lap, I feel ignored and slighted. I call it his fortress of solitude. While the kids can still watch him play computer games by crouching by the armrest or laying across the back of the couch, I am held at a literal and figurative distance. With his headphones on, he is in a different world, where I cannot come. And I hate it.

We do not do anything together. We do not make dinner together, fold clothes, grocery shop, exercise, work in the yard, go walking, or anything else together. We do plenty of things for each other, and we both express gratitude and appreciation, even for the routine things, like taking out the garbage and making the kids' lunches. But we don't do anything together.

We don't go to the temple together. We take turns. We don't go on dates. We don't read scriptures or pray together just us, one-on-one; though we are good at doing it every day with the kids. We don't get ready together, or even go to bed and wake up at the same time. We exist independently.

It has gotten better since he started working from home. I, at least, get to see him when he breaks for food or to fill me in on the inanities of his office politics. I drop by his office to update on my day as well. For him, filling me in on work projects and deadlines while he's microwaving chicken is quality time. If he gets to talk about scriptures, that's even better. 

But then he puts on his headphones at the end of the day, and I go to bed alone.

Implications

I did the math. Had I withdrawn instead from the classes I quit attending, I would have never been on academic probation. My GPA would never have dropped below a B-plus. This isn't even like a fantasy "if I had been a better student" scenario. If all else was the same, same dropping the ball, letting things slide, failing to learn and then learning from the failure, not learning to work harder earlier...I would have still had a B-plus. I just didn't know. The possibility of success was very real, and I just didn't know. I am so sad for my past self. 

I am also concerned looking at the implications of several events around my relationship with Kevin. So many of the poor choices I made, done differently, could have led to me not marrying Kevin. I still may have, and they way I imagined it in my insomnia-induced day dream, I did. I was just more confident, more accomplished, and more independent. It may have happened differently, though. It's possible, even probable, that Kevin would have made no advances of his own. Daydreams aside, I have never been the type to get attention, to be wooed and pursued. Maybe things would have ended differently than they played out in my head. Maybe I would have ended up with Jared, or even Jon, or someone else entirely.

I also found it upsetting how much joy it gave me to imagine these scenarios. Happy, confident, and thriving in my youth. That joy, and the mourning when it ended, fed fuel to my current crisis, which I swear to explain at some point. First, the preliminaries. The causes, before the effect. This rewriting of history is one of the causes. 

What If, the Second

The next time insomnia hit and I decided to try to chase it with musings, I began to imagine how things might have been different in the past. A wise professor once told me that all decisions must be forward facing, that you can't look back and wish you had known then what you know now. It's a waste of emotional energy. You will never know then what you know now. You just have to do the best to make each decision with what you know at the time.

The thing is...There are plenty of decisions I made in my past, where I made the best choice available to me with my knowledge and understanding at the time. But there are plenty of others wherein I chose poorly with the knowledge I had available at that time. It's not that I know better now, but that I knew better and should have chosen more wisely then.* 

Orientation 

I should have gone to orientation. This one definitely falls under the "I didn't know better" category. But I should have known better. Not because of myself, but because someone should have made sure I knew better. See previous rant. 

Editing

I went to BYU with the intention of being an English major, although I was officially undeclared. Unlike my husband-hunting roommate, I kicked ass at English. Which ended up being a problem. My first grammar course, required for the major, was too easy, so I dropped it. I did not know I could test out of the class and continue in the major. I could have still gone into editing. I ended up loving Sociology, but not majoring in English feels like a choice that was made for me, not something I chose to do. Maybe I could have double majored. 

Going Home

My mom wanted me to go home for the summer after freshman year. She wanted to make things right with us. It felt like the right thing to do, to accept the proffered olive branch. But I should have just visited. I was expected to get a job, despite not having access to a vehicle. There was nothing in walking distance. I don't know what she thought I would do. Instead I slept odd hour and succumbed to depression. My mom likes to blame my nightmares on Kevin dumping me the first time; but, one, I dumped him; and, two, the nightmares started when I went back home. It's been almost nineteen years of nightmares since.

I should have stayed in Provo and gotten a full-time job on campus. I would have been better off financially, socially, and emotionally.  

Withdrawing

This one is a big one. I did not know that you could withdraw from a class after the drop deadline at the beginning of the semester. Tuition would have still been forfeit, but the grade would have been dropped from my GPA. I didn't know this. Not ever at school. I should have asked.

My first semester, I took accelerated Spanish, every morning at 7 a.m.. It got too hard, I fell behind, and I grew too anxious to keep going. If I had withdrawn, I would have maintained a B average and still had enough credits to keep my scholarship for another year.

The worst that I ever felt at college was the discovery that I had missed my economics exam by a day. Wrote it down wrong in my planner. I had been doing well, but there was no way to come back from that: I had definitely failed the class. I did not know I could withdraw. I fell apart because of this. Maybe I still would have dropped the ball on my other classes that semester, but maybe not. Maybe I could have pulled something good from the semester. Maybe avoided academic probation. 

So many things fell apart because of that, because I fell apart.

Kissing Jon

A few days after Kevin dumped me before graduating and moving to Texas, I kissed Jon. I shouldn't have done it. I was rebounding and wanting to feel wanted. I don't know if I had feelings for Jon, but the timing of the kiss made a relationship impossible. I was heartbroken and terrified of being emotionally vulnerable. And then we both behaved badly after the breakup, burning bridges with abandon.

Maybe the kiss itself wasn't a problem. It was under the stars in the mountains in spring. Romantic, actually. But it should have just been a kiss, not a contract. I should have talked to him and been honest. I owed it to both of us. Maybe we would have kept being friends. 

Part-time Semester

I was afraid of failing another semester and being kicked out of BYU, so I only went part time that next fall. I shouldn't have. I had already proven myself capable of doing well. But I was scared. As a result, I lost access to the perks of full-time students. I couldn't work on campus, I couldn't get free counseling, and I had to ride the bus two hours every day to a retail job in Orem. I should have trusted myself enough to stay and work it through. 

And I definitely should have continued going to counseling, for as long as it was available to me.

Emailing Kevin

When Kevin dumped me in 2005, it was pretty permanent. The week before, we had gone for a walk, and he had brought up the number of kids I wanted. He couldn't imagine going above six. Well, okay, I could maybe compromise to six. He also mentioned that he would be in Texas and wondered could I even afford tuition. I reminded him that I was a resident of Texas and got in-state tuition. I realized after the fact, too long after, that he was trying to break up with me then; but he was trying to use reasons instead of feelings, and it wasn't working. He had to do it better a few days later. It blindsided me, because what I now know to be his awkward attempt at a break up, I had seen as an awkward attempt to feel out the future of the relationship. Were we going to talk about me following him to Texas, working toward marriage? I kept a rock from that walk to remember it. I was an idiot.

At the end of that summer, after months of silence, I sent him an email wishing him luck on his new job. It reopened communication between us. I was always the one to reach back out to Kevin after we broke up. Every time. It was never him. I'm not saying that I should never have spoken to Kevin again. And, of course, I'm glad for how things worked out in the end. But I should have had a little dignity. I should have exercised a little selfcare. I should not have been so eager to bring him back into my life, when I needed to get my shit together. To this day, I wonder if he ever would have reached out to me on his own. If he had, it would have made for a healthier relationship.

Had I been in counseling at the time, I'm sure my counselor would have talked me out of it. I should have been healing, not heeling. Setting and maintaining healthy boundaries. 

Dating More

I should have dated more. As awkward as I was and will ever be, there were opportunities. Maybe I could have casually dated Jon, without a relationship. There were the window washer boys from work who asked me out. Maybe I could have encouraged Chris, instead of fearing Julie. Or flirted more with Aaron. Or said yes to Joe. Hell, even dating Danny was good for me at first. You know, until it wasn't. Yikes. Casual dating would have been good practice for me in building relationships, communicating feelings, building confidence, etc.

Then again, I tended to run away from those who showed an interest in me. As Groucho Marx said, "I don't care to belong to any club that will have me as a member." See also, why I was getting therapy.

Moving in with Nora

When Nora moved back to Provo to go back to school, she initially lived with Jason. But when he got engaged, she had to look elsewhere. She asked me to live with her off campus, so she could keep her cat and not have to have roommates. I love Nora, tons and tons, so this one is hard for me to admit. I should have said no. 

Living in that house was expensive, twice what I was paying at the Riv in the summer. It was also very isolated and far from campus. I grew lonely and depressed. I, who struggled every time a friend left, should have known better than to move away from my roommates. Friendship was an obsession of mine. I needed my friends, and I knew it. I had been too lonely too long. 

Have I mentioned that I shouldn't have quit therapy? 

I should have stayed with Emilie, or moved with her to another apartment. I should have let Jason keep my furniture. I would have invited Nora to live with me, and that would have been great, but if not, there still would have been Sunday dinners with the family. 

Moving to Texas

Another hard one to admit is that I should not have left school to move to Texas. I'm proud of myself for being so adventurous--what I did was brave--but it was also desperate. What I did wasn't necessarily the problem, but why I did it sure was. 

Kevin had told me that he loved me. The afternoon waiting for the locksmith the day of Tarythe's wedding, and that night waiting outside her mom's house for others to arrive, had been emotionally intimate. Romantic. When Kevin came to Utah and told me he loved me, it felt lifechanging. However, then I returned to my lonely life in my isolated house. I wanted to escape, and I thought moving to him would mean something for our relationship, a future wherein I wouldn't be lonely and isolated.

I told him that I wanted to move, and he told me about Lori. 

That I still went is incredibly pathetic. I should have finished the school year, at least, maybe gone to Austin for the summer, flying down instead of bringing a moving truck. The result to our relationship would have been the same, only he would have been too busy to see me for fewer months.

Not kissing Jared

Days after I broke up with Kevin in Austin, Jared took me to the movies. On the way into the theater, he pushed me up against the wall and leaned. Because of that damn movie Hitch, which was all the rage among our cohorts at the time, he did not kiss me. He just stared and waited. I froze, also waiting. I remembered Jon and how kissing him too soon had ruined our relationship, and I panicked about doing that to Jared. So I didn't. He eventually stepped back, and we watched the movie. 

There were other opportunities, but that was the one I remember most. And regret. I honestly think it was a pivotal moment in my life, one of those rare moments where a single choice has a huge affect on subsequent events. I loved Jared, one of only two men I ever loved other than Kevin. If I had kissed him, something would have happened, though of course I don't know what.

I learned the wrong lesson from kissing Jon. I learned that I shouldn't let my emotions make me impulsive; but I should have learned honesty and emotional vulnerability. Even if I hadn't kissed Jared, I could have at least told him how I felt. I never did. Even when he later flew to Utah to see me, uncertainty stopped me from making a move. 

Not moving back to Utah

After Kevin and I broke up, and I was left in Texas once again isolated and lonely, I should have gone back to school. My apartment contract ended at the right time, I was still enrolled for the fall; I could have gone back seamlessly. But it felt like giving up. I delayed another semester, which meant reapplying to school, having to sell my lease, moving in winter, etc. 

I did manage to mend things with Kevin, but I still didn't see him except for Thanksgiving. I could have done the mending from the distance. Or seen if he would have made the effort himself. Thanksgiving was a nice romantic weekend. Kevin told me he wanted to marry me, though he immediately backtracked, clarifying that he wasn't actually proposing. It was a nice weekend, but we might have spent the holiday together even if I had returned to school. After all, I had flown out the previous year. 

I should have limited my level of commitment to his. Let his behavior be my guide. I should have set healthy boundaries and prioritized my own needs during that time. I should have been in school and working on me. I should have taken the time to be selfish.

Graduating Early

I should have remained at least another semester at BYU, graduating in spring instead of December. I could have finished my economics minor or retaken more classes to up my GPA. I could have finished the Honors requirements. I should have taken time and lived deliberately. There were internships and travel abroad and so many other opportunities that I gave up by deciding to leave early. I had taken the GRE and done really well. I should have seen where that would have taken me.

Instead, I went back to Texas. When I asked Kevin if he was going to propose, he asked, "What, you mean right away?" And, no, it wasn't right away. It was nine months later. I should have stayed and finished strong. Given myself the chance to be the most important person in my life for a while. Then, I could have gone to Austin, if he still wanted me to.

There were so many ways that I could have done better in college my first time around, taken advantage of opportunities for growth and fulfillment. I should have had more confidence in myself back when I was young and immortal and the world was my oyster.

* For anyone concerned about the paradoxes or whatnot, obviously each of these is dependent upon all previous decisions having been made as they were in life. Each is an independent thought without conjecture regarding their effect on later decisions I've revisited.

Tangent

I got distracted writing my next post by the tangent I had to make to explain my total and complete unpreparedness for college. I tried to remove it for concision sake, but I couldn't. I felt too mad; the injustice of it still infuriates me. I cannot let it go, and so it has earned it's own place here, an explanation before moving on. 

My senior year in high school, nobody talked to me about applying for colleges or taking the standardized tests required to do so. I took the ACT blind. I only learned about college applications, because, come December, my classmates began wondering aloud whether they would get accepted and how soon would they know. Most of the application deadlines, it turns out, were December 1. BYU had a deadline later in winter, and so was the only school to which I applied.

The spring, my parents announced their separation and, later, divorce. During that time, Mom began seeing Bob and being secretive about it. When I asked her about it, she cut me off financially. "I don't think you have any right to criticize me if you're going to be taking my money." I had never had a job, and hadn't applied for scholarships or financial aid. I didn't know what to do. I started by getting a job in my local movie theater. The scholarship followed. Apparently, all incoming freshmen were automatically considered. 

When it came time to go to Utah that fall, my Dad decided to come too. My parents had been divorced since May, and he just kept living in a bedroom upstairs. Jason was in Provo, so Dad decided he'd go there. He packed a U-Haul, and I added my stuff, and we drove across the desert together. 

I moved into my apartment by myself. I had no help. I didn't get school clothes and my pantry stocked, like my sisters had. I was just kind of dumped and forgotten. Jason helped pay my rent. Friends gave me money for food. All because I had asked my mother about her affair.

I didn't go to orientation. I really should have. There was so much in my college career that would have been made easier had I understood the resources available to me. I didn't know about academic advisors, financial aid, free tutoring, testing out of courses, on-campus employment, or even withdrawing from a class. That alone, instead of getting an "incomplete," would have kept my scholarship, at the very least, for another year. 

There was so much I didn't know and, worse, I didn't know that I didn't know it. I fumbled and stumbled through my first two years. I fell through the cracks, and it made everything so much harder.

Just writing this, I feel so much anger. My parents just dumped me when I turned 18. I was an ignorant, overwhelmed kid, and they just didn't give a damn. They couldn't be bothered. I should have had help. I should have been taught where to go, whom to ask, how to study, how to manage time and money. But my parents were too selfish, and I was just one of the faceless masses in a large university. 

My college career would have been very different with a little adult help. My life would have been different.

High School Reunion

I think my twentieth high school reunion also contributed toward my recent existential crisis. I mean, how could it not? I don't know if there is an event more dedicated to reliving the past.

I skipped my ten-year reunion. I chickened out. I drove all the way to Dallas, but ended up just getting dinner with my high school best friend, Alyessa. Fried pickles seemed far more friendly than old faces. High school had not been a great time for me, and I wasn't eager to relive bad memories. 

This time, I went. I embraced it. I even organized a lunch the day before with the kids from seminary. I found that I have many more happy memories than I thought. More people I wanted to see than to avoid. I actually had a really great time catching up with people, even those who weren't necessarily my friends back in the day but who have grown into people I like. I'm sure they'd say the same about me. 

In high school, I was awkward, shy, and very insecure. I compensated by being a know-it-all, repressing my feelings, and resenting my peers. It was fascinating to hear that I had been viewed as smart and funny. I think time softens rough edges of our memories. Or maybe I hid my angst well.

How to even unpack this? Let's see if I can summarize what I have learned in years of therapy.

Much of my unhappiness in high school was untreated depression. Grief, even. September of my freshman year, my parents left the church very suddenly and without warning. To say I struggled would be an understatement. They divorced in May of my senior year, leaving me with all four years of a contentious home life. 

My parents loved me, and they provided a safe home. But emotionally, it was all me. They were not involved in my life at all, didn't participate or help, and I didn't have a first clue what I was doing. My older siblings had moved away from home, and I was left, feeling responsible for holding together my parents and my increasingly-dysfunctional little sister.

At the beginning of high school, I was part of a tightly knit group, the four of us inseparable, as we had been since seventh grade. Then, sophomore year, Rachel moved to Germany, and Niki left us over a boyfriend, Niki, to whom I had been closest. I felt heartbroken for years over our estrangement. 

Alyessa and I remained best friends. After high school, we even ran away to Disneyland on a road trip. I also had a few other friends, did occasional social things, usually in small groups. But often it was just me. Just me and books.

What I remember about high school was being lonely. 

Going back and facing that felt amazingly cathartic. I no longer felt invisible and insignificant. I felt confident and friendly, and forgiving of who we had all been back in those years, even myself. I had missed out on friendships with some great people, and I found myself wondering how could things have been different, if I had opened up to these people then?

How would my life have been different if I had made better and healthier decisions for myself back when my whole life lay before me? 

Love Language

Gary Chapman asserts that there are five love languages, or ways that people demonstrate and show love. According to a super-valid online quiz, my top love language is physical touch, followed very closely by quality time. Acts of service is next but down more a ways. Words and gifts don't really register at all for me. I probably would have put time and touch in reverse order, myself, but it still comes down to those two things.

This might be one reason why I actually like spending time with my children. I can understand the frustration with being climbed on all the time, being grabbed, and followed. But it is very rare that I actually feel this way. I want the handholding and the cuddles and the hugs, and I don't even mind being climbed on the second I sit down. I like when they sneak into bed with me at night, even though I hardly sleep because they are rolling over on top of me. 

I like that while I am doing school, they are in the same room, doing art or listening to music. I even feel loved when they are annoying in their persistence: when they follow me into the bathroom or want to run errands for me, or insist that I do their bed time. I have cherished, even while painful, the nighttime wakings wherein I hold and rock them. I enjoy watching them play, listening to their make-believe and silly insights. And I absolutely love tackling a task together: gardening, cooking, laundry.

Cuddling while reading books and singing songs is my ultimate happy place. 

That's how I show my love, and it makes me feel loved in return.

Why Nursing?

I got my undergraduate degree in sociology, with a minor in English. I have always wanted to be a writer. So, why, you might ask, am I working toward a degree in nursing?

Well, it wasn't my idea. 

Moving here, we discovered the there is a university in town. I have always wanted to do grad school, and Katie was approaching the age of starting school herself. I began to look at grad programs offered. Specifically, I began eyeing the writing or sociology programs. 

But I kept having a feeling, all fall, that I should become a nurse. I laughed off the idea. Me, a nurse? Lol, nope. I watched my Dad's care and thought that there was no way in hell. I could never do what these people did. I don't have the patience, the compassion, or the desire. But the thought persisted.

Then, Nora, sparked by watching the same care of my Dad, said offhandedly that she could never be a nurse, because she couldn't deal with other people's bodily fluids. Immediately, I replied, "I could handle amniotic fluid." 

A light went on. I could be a labor and delivery nurse. I began looking at programs quietly, wondering. And it just seemed to be the direction I was supposed to go. I told Kevin, and I registered for the local community college, because of course none of my existing undergrad was geared toward this kind of career. 

It has been almost two years since that prompting. I've gotten my CNA license, and I am on my final prerequisite course for the nursing program. I have applied to two schools, and I have a perfect GPA. I'm pursuing the course, because I believe it is the one the Lord has set for me. It is one that will give me marketable skills that are in high demand should I need to support my family. The skills will also be useful in an array of different scenarios, from sick kid home from school to stitching wounds in the wilderness. 

And I want to have these skills. I do. I just don't know if I want to be a nurse. 

I don't know if I would actually like the work, and I definitely won't like the hours. I want to be home when my kids walk in the door. Maybe I can be a school nurse for their years at home.

But I will cross that bridge when I get to it. I have nearly a year before the program starts, two after that for my RN, another one for a BSN, and maybe two more after that for my master's. Meanwhile, I do love school. I just don't want to look at what comes after. 

In that way, this degree is remarkably like my first one.

Mom-me

Another big contributor to this feeling of angst is the fact that Katie started kindergarten this fall. Even though her being gone makes my school and errands easier, I miss her. 

More than that, however, is that my children define me. For twelve years, I have been a stay-at-home mother, a housewife, a primary caregiver. I've always known in theory that when my hypothetical youngest started school that I would have to decide what I want to be when I grow up. But somehow none of that prepared me for my actual baby starting school. 

It feels like I've been robbed of much of my purpose. Katie comes home by noon and my other babies in the afternoon, and I will still be their primary caregiver when they are home; but that is so little by comparison. I'm reduced to making dinner and singing bedtime songs. 

I am not ready to stop being a stay-at-home mom. I don't feel ready to be done with babies and toddlers and especially preschool age where they are the absolute funniest cuddliest creatures in the world. As much as I love going back to school, I don't want to switch careers yet. I'm not ready to not be defined by my motherhood. But I've been given my pink slip.

What If, The First

The comically offensive dream about Jon preceded some nights of insomnia. And what better use of nocturnal waking than creating elaborate stories? That's what I always do. Always have. Can't help doing, in fact. Usually, it's one of my stories, my would-be but won't be novels. Those nights, I explored the questions raised by the dream. 

What would I do if Kevin died? (And may I take a moment to pause here and say that I really really really hope that he doesn't.)

At first, I confess to spending the life insurance money. Morbid? Maybe. Kevin and I often have similar discussions about how we'd spend our imaginary lottery winnings. I'd first pay off and then spruce up the house, getting it just the way I want. Pee-yellow tile in the bathroom? Not anymore! I'd get the yard landscaped professionally, with a blue spruce in front and flowers basically everywhere they can fit. I would pay tuition as I continue through school, getting marketable skills and whatnot for the eventuality of supporting my children by myself. (Dream big!) Luckily, the insurance money would grant enough breathing room for that to happen. 

Eventually, though, I'd have to work. And a nurse doesn't have the most flexible hours. Either I'd be in a hospital setting, doing twelve-hour shifts where I don't see my kids at all unless I work nights. And, what, leave them home alone? Or, I'd be in an office working 8-5 and leaving my kids to come home from school to an empty house every afternoon. 

What happens when Andrew starts seminary, and Matthew and Katie ride buses to different schools at different times? How would I get everyone out the door in the mornings? What happens when a kid is sick and needs a day at home? What happens when extracurriculars conflict? Would every meal be a choice between takeout and something microwaved? I'd have extended family around to help, but...

I don't want to be a single mother. 

I'd have to remarry. I pictured an arranged marriage--to a widower with his own kids, probably--and going through the ridiculous process of trying to become a blended family. In my house of course, because, flowers. I didn't fantasize about anything physical, except to wonder how awkward would it be to marry someone else. Would we decide to marry first and take our time building a physical relationship, or would we rip the Band-Aid off on the wedding night? So awkward.

But I did imagine other things, things we did together, he and I. We'd have to go grocery shopping together, because we each know what our own children will and will not eat. Same for making dinner. We'd work in the yard together, each kid getting their own garden box to cultivate for the summer. We'd go on family adventures to the mountains or maybe just the park, but together. Then, when we weren't together, he'd call, because he wanted to see me and wanted to be with me. 

That's when I jerked back from the daydream like from a hot stove, as though my innocent "what if" had mutated into a dark lust-filled fantasy. I felt overcome by guilt and shame. For what? For wishing that if I am widowed, left alone in this life, I can find someone who will want to spend time with me? 

I think it's because I wish I had someone who wants to spend time with me now, and somehow that felt traitorous. 

Meh-rriage

I do not have a bad marriage. In fact, I often have quite a good marriage. It has its ups and downs just like anyone's, dry spells followed by not-so-dry spells. The best of times and the worst of times, and all that. On the grand scale of marriages, in the history of this planet, we've been blessed. Then, sometimes, comparing what we have to what we want, we'll occasionally come up short.

Things have been...had been...really good. 

Almost two years ago, Kevin got called to the bishopric, right at the same time, same week, that I decided to go back to school. We worried it would be hard. But, damn, did that boy step up his game. Or rather, step down his games. He spent more time on things that mattered and less time on post-apocalyptic multiplayer computer games. He spent more time with the kids and more time helping me get things done. 

It fell off recently, and while I can't be sure about some things, others I can pinpoint at three months ago. 

He's still supportive, still shoulders his share of the workload that comes of having a home and family, still gives me support when I need it. But he has disengaged. It seems like the only thing he does "with" the kids is let them watch him play computer games. And he and I do nothing at all together. Forget dates, we don't even do chores together. It feels rather like parallel play. Like we're business partners and roommates. 

Our marriage isn't bad right now. But it is meh. We're in a rut, without the rutting; a holding pattern without the holding; a stalemate without the mating. 

And when physical intimacy falls off, as it does in times of stress, all my old insecurities worm their way to the surface. I end up feeling rejected and undesired. Unloved. The thing is, I think he does too, which is why things go from meh to bad. And I need to stop that from happening.

Kevin

 You might ask, diving into my psyche, whether I have discussed any of this with Kevin. Some. 

He knows how I feel about Michelle, and we talk about getting her back on her own two feet and out of our house. Does he recognize the connection between her presence and his stress? Knowing him, not likely.

I told him about the Jon dream the following morning, while it was still funny and not a catalyst for my midlife crisis. The biggest takeaway was that neither of us could remember Kristin's last name, and I finally had to text a friend in Texas to get the answer.

The rest? No, not yet. For a couple of reasons. The first is that Kevin takes my emotionalism as a personal attack, and I didn't want us fighting on his birthday. Additionally, he is up against deadlines at work, critical enough that I am currently on a family vacation at a mountain lodge with the children, and he is not. I plan to talk to him when I get home.

If there's one thing I've come to respect, it's his busy times at work.

Oh, wait. Did I say, respect? I meant, resent. 

The Dream

A month ago, I had a dream that Kevin and I ran into Jon at some event. He was accompanied by Kevin's ex-girlfriend Kristin (the blond ca. 2007) whom he was courting. The awkward double-ex encounter grew only more comically uncomfortable as we spoke together. 

Jon's wife had died and he needed a replacement to take care of his kids. He even asked if I was available. 

"Um, no, I'm married to Kevin." This with a gesture to my husband standing right next to me and participating in the conversation. 

He and Kristin both responded with surprise and even incredulity. "Still? You're still together?"

"Huh, I don't think anyone expected that."

Burn.

Had such a scenario occurred in real life, I probably would have been singularly amused. However, as this came from my own mind, it left a more lasting impression. 

The M Factor

To start, I need to explain Michelle and how she ties into this emotional crisis I am facing.

Michelle is my adopted daughter. We adopted her in 2014 when she was 17. She lived with us for a year through her senior year of high school. Our relationship with her was mostly that of safety net as she transitioned to adulthood. She had been in the foster system for thirteen years after being taken from her abusive parents. She grew up in a group home on a ranch, and went to school in a private academy on the property. She was a good kid with some mild behavioral and mental health issues, but she was eager to be placed with a family, and she was instantly a very kind and attentive sister to Andrew.

And I hated her.

She did nothing wrong, certainly nothing to deserve it, but I could not stand her. She was a loud-mouthed hick who tried to prove she knew everything and could one-up everyone. She had a penchant for telling her listener what she thought they wanted to hear or what would impress them the most. She was awkward and hulking. I couldn't stand the way she chewed, the way she talked, the way she smelled, the way she walked. I cannot stress enough that she did not deserve this. She was eager and kind and obedient. I just couldn't stand her.

And the worst part was that she lived in my home. I couldn't ignore her, I couldn't get away from her, and my obligation made it to where I couldn't express what I was feeling. In all of my interactions with her, I had to second-guess my every action. Was it rational? Was it appropriate? How would my mother have treated me in this situation? I had to bury every instinct and exercise a tight leash over my words and actions. So I resented her, and I began to be horribly angry and suffocated as I tried to hide it. I also had some bad feelings toward God for a while.

I doubled my antidepressants. Kevin went on them for the only time in his life. 

We got through it, and my resentment of her waned with time. I have even felt fond of her and proud of some of her decisions. 

Then, recently, at age 26, she got into a bad roommate situation that seemed pretty inescapable through no fault of her own. It felt like the right thing to do, to invite her to move to Colorado with us and live in our basement for a few months, until she saved enough for the upfront costs to get into her own apartment. 

She arrived at the end of June. She has been clean and respectful and independent and responsible, and, as always, a very kind and loving older sister. 

And I find myself hiding in my bedroom to avoid her. I feel tense and angry when she's around. Kevin is exhibiting signs of depression once more. 

None of what follows is her fault. None. But the feelings may be the result of the depression I feel from the stress of having her in my home.

It's Time

 It is time to start writing in my blog again. It has been over eleven years since my last entry and even more time since I published regularly. I am certain that there is nobody left to read it. But it has never been about readership. It has been about having an outlet for the things I can't say out loud. Right now, it feels like there is so much that I cannot say out loud. And it just feels right, to publish it here. So many of the themes and thoughts that I am currently wrestling have root in the events and feelings of fifteen to twenty years ago. The blog feels like an old friend who would understand my current state far better than any new friend might. In fact, I have also reached out to old friends and my sisters to discuss my recent emotions. People who knew me when.

So, get ready for a little drama. It's been too slow around here.