What Batsh*t Crazy Looks Like

Bat:  any of an order (Chiroptera) of nocturnal placental flying mammals with forelimbs modified to form wings
Sh*t:  feces
Crazy:  full of cracks or flaws

being out of the ordinary                     

Some phrases in our culture have derogatory meanings or references but are used commonly without most knowing that it is rooted in some ugly, awful part of our history.  I admit, I am fond of the term “batsh*t crazy.”  It is humorous, cathcy and beyond logic when you break it down into what each of the words alone means.  Literally, to call someone batsh*t crazy is to say they are a nocturnal placental flying mammal with forelimbs modified to form wings full of cracks or flaws and being out of the ordinary slinging feces.  Now, if you really think you are a nocturnal flying mammal this may qualify you as mentally unstable (aka crazy).  That’s a whole other blog complete with a diagnostic manual to help us figure that out. 

This doesn't make any sense.  People are not so stupid to refer to people as flying mammals. This led me to research the origin of the phrase.  According to a very “reputable” website (aka Urban Dictionary which also enlightened me to the various meanings of the term “double stack” one night as I worked a case involving an overdose of a double stack of ecstasy.  Let’s just say don’t look up “double stack” if you are eating).  According to Urban Dictionary:

The phrase has origins in the old fashioned term "bats in the belfry." Old churches had a structure at the top called a belfry, which housed the bells. Bats are extremely sensitive to sound and would never inhabit a belfry of an active church where the bell was rung frequently. Occasionally, when a church was abandoned and many years passed without the bell being rung, bats would eventually come and inhabit the belfry. So, when somebody said that an individual had "bats in the belfry" it meant that there was "nothing going on upstairs" (as in that person's brain). To be BATSH*T CRAZY is to take this even a step further. A person who is batsh*t crazy is so nuts that not only is their belfry full of bats, but so many bats have been there for so long that the belfry is coated in batsh*t. Hence, the craziest of crazy people are BATSH*T CRAZY.

This seems more plausible because when my illness is not under control my thoughts run around my head like a bunch of bats often bumping into each other and some jumping right out of the belfry into the things I say or do.  It’s a real mess up there at times. There are plenty of anecdotal stories of me being “out of the ordinary” and “full of cracks and flaws.”  Obsessive relationships, an impulsive and risky first marriage, tattoos that were not so well thought out, mountains of credit card debt (thank you to my AMAZING husband for climbing that mountain with me and effectively destroying it in just a few short years), verbal outbursts full of hurling insults and screaming for no reason, uncontrollable urges to jump out of car and beat the crap out of the driver who just cut me off, hiding in my closet for hours to avoid hurting anyone else with my out of control emotions. I have three hospitalizations under my belt from age 18 – 25 because I was dangerous.  Some of you have firsthand accounts of my behaviors for which I apologize.  Most of you have stuck by me through these less than fun experiences which made me able to pull through some of the darkest times. You literally saved me life. Some people are afraid of bats and walked away because it was just too difficult to handle.  I hold no ill-feelings towards those who walk away.  In fact, I thank you for being brave enough to check-out when you knew you didn’t want to on this journey with me. 

Unfortunately, baby bats have inhabited my baby’s brain since he was about 4 years old.  He was always an active baby with a smile on his face. You could tell from an early age his heart was warm and his emotions pure and strong.  The terrible twos brought out the mischievous side.  There are stories of a dog covered in syrup and a piggy-bank heist leading to a chase through our house with the end result being a shattered piggy bank and the beginnings of a tumultuous brotherly relationship.  Then came the f-cking fours which made us long for the days of the terrible twos.  Misery engulfed our family.  People were giving us all kinds of parenting advice.  I questioned if I had done something wrong and felt tremendous guilt for not being a good enough parent.  He was the child who never outgrew the temper-tantrum stage.  In fact, his tantrums grew longer and with more intensity than I could have ever imagined.  The moment I realized we had more going on than age-typical tantrums and poor parenting was when he went into a rage and tried to destroy his bunk bed at age 4 and attempted to jump out of the car on the interstate.  He would go from an uncontrollable rage to maniacal laughing several times within the hour.  Days would pass where he had only slept a couple of hours each night only to wake with seemingly unbound energy.  The tears would follow, both from him and us, as we struggled to find some peace within our family.

Little did we know we had yet to see the full extent of what his batsh*t crazy looked like.  We trudged between doctors hoping to find some relief from this disease that was torturing his brain and his soul.  By second grade he was dangerous to himself and others.  We moved him to a self-contained classroom for children with emotional disabilities.  It was one of the hardest things in my life to accept because it meant he was not healthy and happy.  It turned out to be essential to his road to recovery.  The teachers deserve medals of honor for what they went through with him.  During this time, we tried a homeopathic approach combined with psychotropic medications.  Nothing was giving him relief.  He believed he was a werewolf.  In a store one day he announced loudly that his mother let him hunt and eat raw meat by tearing it with his teeth.  He stuck his head out of the car window to howl at a full moon.  He woke his brother by howling out of his bedroom window.  It was hard not to laugh at these things but the laughter was only to ward off the tears.  The absolutely lowest point came one night after a long rage when he attacked us and tried to jump off the balcony saying he wanted to die.  Sitting on the stairs, I held him close in my arms when my heart shattered.  He was clawing at his skin, begging me to make it stop and asking to die.  To this day I cannot think of that moment without tears streaming down my face.  To be feel so hopeless and helplesss at 8 years old....wow.

Our journey continued, with both he & I having symptoms that made us nearly impossible to live with.  My husband and oldest son have scars from those years.  They lost long periods of time of having a mother, a wife, a brother and a son because we were both so ill we were not safe for human consumption.  I will always carry the guilt of not being the best I could be because I wasn’t healthy.  I had been treated for depression since I was 18 but it wasn’t until I was 33 that a new doctor finally diagnosed me with bipolar II disorder (bp II is when people have hypomanic or “high” periods without incredibly dangerous behaviors followed by episodes of depression.  It is a pendulum of emotions that never quite swings out of control but gets close enough to the edge to make it scary).  A new medication regime was introduced and my life changed with a few days.  I am now able to use the coping skills to manage the hiccups in my emotions because the medication takes out the huge upward and downward swings.  The first time my oldest son told me I was easier to deal with was a victory to me.  I can be the parent I always knew I wanted to be, something he was deprived of for many years because of a missed diagnosis. 

We began seeing a new doctor for my son as well.  The homepathic treatment was stopped and an aggressive psychotropic medication regime was started.  We saw improvements almost immediately but weren't out of the woods yet.  He no longer wanted to die or do dangerous things but school was still a huge struggle.  After several tweaks in medication, he hit his stride last spring.  I received a call from the teacher after 4 weeks of school asking who the kid was who showed up to 6th grade because it wasn't the same kid who left 5th grade.  With relief from symptoms finally setting in, he made the honor roll for the first time in his life.  I sobbed tears of joy for him and he celebrated his accomplishments. 

This year will mark the first holiday season since 2005 with everyone in our family healthy and happy.  There have been no threats of revoking presents or the need for consequences for outrageous behaviors in school.  I am almost skipping through the stores as I shop for presents without the fear of the holiday being ruined by my irritability or elaborate fits of rage from my son.  I am fully present and accounted for with both of my children and my husband.  Above all else, I’m happiest that my son is healthy and happy.  He feels good about himself.  He is smart enough and been through so much that he understands the nature of the disease.  He has stopped blaming himself and accepted it as a medical condition.  He knows when he needs a break to take care of himself and when he needs to see the doctor for adjustments in medication.  He tries to educate others about mental illness (sometimes to strangers so he may have a future in advocacy and public health education).  He has been through more in 11 years with bravery and resilience than most people go through in a lifetime. 

Even if we never have another holiday season of good health and happiness for everyone in our family, this one season will always be in my heart.  This is what recovery looks like.  This is what batsh*t crazy looks like.  We will always have bats in my belfry, but now we know how to clean up the mess. 

Warrior Dash 2012

I'm not an active person despite being incredibly active in high school nearly 20 years ago.  I have visions in my head of returning to my former, active self and somehow find a way out of it.  I had a nice romance with a very nice gym for about a year where I frolicked in the pool with old ladies during water aerobics, gave a whirl at spin class (the old man recovering from knee surgery survived longer than I did in that class), fell in love with yoga, and a bunch of other random things that made me feel as if I was really doing something (we will not count the time I was using one of the weight machines backwards feeling like a superstar only to realize everyone was laughing at my ignorance).  I've had my share of flying off treadmills and making a fool of myself in aerobic classes.  But in the last few years, I have done nothing more than take the occasional flight of stairs at work and walk like a mad woman on Black Friday to get the deals.  

Being inspired by some pretty amazing women in my life who are fearless runners, I caught the fever to start running.  I "ran" cross country in high school as a way to train for basketball season.  It didn't go so well.  After my first race my dad told me he could have walked the course faster than I ran it.  I was the only girl on the team for a couple of years.  By the time I would finish my measly 2 miles, the guys would have finished their nearly 3 miles, cooled down, stretched, had a snack, packed up, went to China a back and were waiting for me at the bus.  It never stopped me though.  I had drive. If someone said I can't, I did.  At 12, my brother told me I couldn't detassle corn with him because I wasn't tough enough.  He lasted 3 days and I lasted 3 years just to prove a point.  

One of my fearless runner friends has this amazing ability to convince me anything is a good idea and that I absolutely  freakin' can do it if I want to.  It's a darn good thing she leads me down the right path or else we would be running a large prostitution ring out of the basement of our house all the while claiming it was a "great entrepreneurial exercise."  About 10 days ago I get a message saying we should do the Warrior Dash on the 11th  together.  Why not I say.  It had been on my list for a long time and I had just started officially training to do a 5K. Seemed pretty soon, but okay.  September 11th gives me a few more weeks to be ready.  Um no.  August 11th Warrior Running Goddess says.  Here's the point where I could have bailed.  Any logical 15 year veteran couch potato would have said no.  And then the magical powers of Warrior Running Goddess kicked in.  Without saying another word she had me convinced I could do it (I have no idea how she obtained these magical powers, but if I can figure it out I want those same powers to convince my kids to do their #@!%$ chores). So, I did my usual self-doubting routine which only fueled my determination to do it.  Again, if I shouldn't I will is my motto.   

I give a modest attempt at "training" by running a mile or two in the 10 days leading up to the event.  I initially thought I was sure to die from exhaustion during the Dash but pushed ahead anyway.  I think I ran a only 4 times during those 10 days for a total of 6 runs in the last 8 kabillion years of my life.   The morning of the run I am preparing like I'm a bad-a$$ runner, fueling up on protein and stretching like my life depends on it (I was actually wondering if my life was on the line but threw caution to the wind anyway).  I have my pink tiger striped knee high socks on and am ready to run.  

We wait patiently until our turn to run and then we are off.  A nice slow jog for the first 1/2 mile or so leads us to a creek of water.  I splash through, initiating my shoes in the mud.  The course was supposed to feature 11 obstacles throughout the 5K, with the first being a "large hill."  We discover it is not only a large hill, but has multiple brothers and sisters of hills that we have to battle as well.  We slip & slide.  Warrior Running Goddess is being a cheerleader despite planting herself face first up a hill into the mud.   On the 600th  hill (who the hell knows, there were probably only 4 hills but it felt like forever) I try to navigate the descent down and gravity takes over.  My legs are moving like Wiley Coyote's in a fast circle while my body is no where near keeping up.  Then it happens.  I wipe out, rolling down the hill and landing fast first in the mud.  I look up to see a bowling-ball sized rock just inches from my face.  At this point I'm giggling (maybe just inside because my abdomen was too tired to actually move up and down to laugh out loud) and thankful I didn't get a face full of rock giving me "summer teeth" (some are there, some aren't).  In a strange way, that made me feel fierce rather than embarrassed and we forge on.  

I don't remember much of the obstacles in the middle of the race.  Some tromping through mud again, some walking across tight ropes over a creek, etc.  By about 1/2 the way through it I feel like a complete beast.  Rocky music is playing in my head.  I don't feel like a 35ish year old mother of 2 who does very little to take care of herself.  I feel like Jada - the one who has her fight back.  We come up to a series of small hills which send you plummeting into pits of cake-batter like mud.  Mud is in places it shouldn't be.  Every inch of your body is covered, including my teeth (note to self:  don't scream while sliding down hills).  In perhaps my favorite memory of the day, Warrior Running Goddess says "I think I just douched with mud."  You see, this is one of the reasons I love her.  She's not only fearless, she's funny.  

We tackled all of the obstacles, with only 1 being too tough to finish this late in the race.  The final stretch was swimming into the middle of pond to climb over stuff, leaping over fire and then a belly crawl through the last mud pit to the finish line.  I don't think my body is what finished that race for me today.  It was my gut, my grit and determination to do what I'm not supposed to do.  We had planned on taking an hour and a half to two hours to finish the race and came in right around the 57 minute mark.  

I learned a lot about myself today and the very special friendship I have with Warrior Running Goddess.  I'm really struggling with my transition from a very hands-on mothering role to watching two young men become independent.  I've always been a mom and am terrified of who I will find in a few years when I take a part-time role as mom and full-time role as myself again.  I caught a glimpse of that person today.  She's tough, she's stubborn, and I like her.  As for Warrior Running Goddess, she inspires me.  She calls me on my BS and gives me a wedgie with my big girl panties just to remind me to quit being so irrational.  She pushes me to grow, be my best and never sell myself short.  I needed that swift kick in the butt to get me into this race.  I thought I would finish, get a medal and a fuzzy warrior hat and go home.  But instead I found a piece of my tough, driven self again.  And for that, it was all worth it.  

PS - Ask me again tomorrow if I think it was all worth it when I can't get out of bed!!  

My Comedic Protege

In honor of Nicolas' 11th birthday this week, I wanted to take a trip down memory lane (or memory freeway as fast as kids grow up).  He has no physical resemblance to me, in fact, my cats look more like me than either of my children.  However, Nicolas was cursed and lucky at the same time, inheriting my personality and quirks.  He's funny when he's not trying to be and overbearing when he's trying to be funny.  He makes others laugh when all he is trying to do is be the best Nicolas he knows how to be, enjoying life.  He has faced many difficult situations in 11 years and he is as resilient as any kid I've ever known.  Some of these less than typical experiences have resulted in the best "Nicolas Stories."  At one point, his adventures had become so amusing I would have people asking me what he had been up to lately just for a good chuckle.  So, here you will find a brief compilation of my favorite "Nicolas Stories."  

Syrup Bath

Starting at a young age, Nicolas had a very curious and creative mind.  There wasn't much he couldn't find a way to work through, around, over or under.  He was the kid who would be out of the crib so fast he could be sitting on the couch waiting for you as you left the room thinking he was in bed for the night.  One morning when he was about 2 years old, we were having a chat with Tanner at the kitchen table over some inappropriate behavior.  All of our attention was on giving our best "you should know better" lecture, which was more for our benefit than his.  We hear a dripping sound coming from around the corner.  I get up to find Nicolas giving the dog a "drink" of syrup and by drink, I mean a head to toe bath in syrup.  He just stood there, smiling as if he was being a kind hearted soul helping the thirsty dog.  It took a good hour to get the dog clean and for us to stop laughing.

The Great Heist 

At about the age of 3 both boys had receiving ceramic piggy banks for Christmas.  Nicolas managed to break his shortly after Christmas, but Tanner's sat safely on his shelf stuffed with his meager savings.  Once again, we hear a commotion.  I walk into the living room to see Nicolas, clad in footie pajamas, running wildly towards his bedroom with a ceramic piggy bank in hand while Tanner chased him.  As Tanner closed in on him, Nicolas decided to "ditch" the evidence by throwing the bank onto the hardwood floor outside of his room.  

The Best Time to Wash Your Hair is In Wal-Mart

As I prepared for an out of town business trip I needed to stop at Wal-Mart for a few hygiene items.  Tanner had just been dropped off at Tae Kwon Do so I had just a few minutes to accomplish this.  Standing in the shampoo isle, I turn my back to Nicolas (about age 3) to make my selections.  He seems to be content moving bottles around on the shelves and I could tell he was still right behind me.  As I turn around, I see him with a head full of bubbles.  His little hands were fully into the scrubbing of his head making an abundance of lather.  I burst into uncontrollable laughter, then realize I have to somehow get him out of the store AND still make my purchase.  Thankfully, he wasn't tall enough yet to be seen above the counter but I was in tears trying to hold in my laughter.  Again, he has no clue that this is anything other than normal (maybe he was onto something back then and is really the mastermind behind People of Walmart).  When I get to the parking lot, I call my mom to tell her story.  I am still experiencing body shaking, belly hurting laughter.  I spring into my story as soon as she answers but she thinks I'm crying and there is a crisis.  It took me a few minutes to calm down enough to get my story out.  I then have to take him into Tae Kwon Do classes (after managing to wipe out most of the obvious evidence).  When we sit down with the other parents, someone says "Something smells really clean."  Um, you don't say!

Please Tell me I'm Adopted

Nicolas has seen his share of doctors and needles in his lifetime.  He pays close attention to what the process is at each visit, often asking lots of questions about what is going to happen next.  We went to a new laboratory one day requiring me to fill out paperwork.  I pull out the insurance card to fill out the forms. Nicolas is glaring at the paperwork and then glances back to the insurance card.  Then the questions start.  "Mom, is that my adoption card?"  Huh.  Odd question, but no.  "Does it say I'm adopted?"  Well, no it doesn't.  "Please tell me I'm adopted."  No sweetie, we didn't adopt you if that's what you are worried about.  "No, if I'm not adopted then that means you have had...you know what."  I'm still engrossed in the paperwork and blindly ask "It means what Nicolas?"  He loudly replies "S-E-X and that's just gross."   I can see this is traumatic for him so I try to relate my own thoughts on parental sex.  I tell him it's okay if it makes him uncomfortable because I am uncomfortable thinking about  my parents having sex.  Wrong.  I have now spiked an emotional overload.  "NANNY AND PAPA HAVE SEX?  OLD PEOPLE SEX?  THAT'S DISGUSTING" he shouts.  Oh Nicolas....

What Sounds Like Meditation but is WILDLY Inappropriate to Do at the Dinner Table

As you may or may not know, kids with mood disorder can have a sexual preoccupation at a much earlier age than their typical peers.  This isn't because I've exposed my kid to endless hours of porn or other weird stuff, it's just something about how the brain is wired.  Songs with the word "sexy" in them make him squirm in his seat until I turn the station.  He's got super sonic radar ears when there is any hint of a sexual conversation going on, even if it's a fact-based conversation.  But somehow he missed the boat on a very important word about the activity of self-pleasure.  As we sit around the table enjoying a nice dinner and conversation, I look over to find Nicolas seated with his legs criss crossed and his palms pressed together in front of him.  His eyes are closed and he is taking deep breaths.  It's odd.  He never sits still.  So I take the bait.  Again, wrong.  His response to my inquiry about what he was doing was "I'm masturbating.  It helps me relax."  My super mature, incredibly serious family-mates (Jason & Tanner) erupt in laughter, prompting Nicolas to open his eyes with a questioning look on his face.  I then explain that masturbating is perhaps not the word he is looking for, but yes, that would help him relax too, just not at the kitchen table please.  

Everyone Wants Armpit Hair Made Out of Cat Fur

Nicolas used to have insomnia.  He would sleepwalk (we once found him peeing in the litter box while a very confused and ticked off cat looked on).  He would often wake for no reason in the middle of the night with some crazy idea in his head that he just had to execute right that second.  One night, round 1:00 a.m. I hear some commotion coming from the hallway.  I see a light on in the hall bathroom so I go to investigate.  Maybe one of the boys are sick I thought.  (Why do I always have such rational thoughts after all this time with Nicolas).  Again, I was wrong.  Instead, I find him stark naked in the bathroom standing in front of the mirror.  He has one arm raised above his head with the other hand firmly pressing into the opposite armpit.  When I was finally able to convince him to move his hand I discovered yet another wonderful Nicolas invention.  Faux armpit hair fashioned out of gum and cat hair.  Ohhh, that makes sense.  Everyone wants a furry cat under their arm.  Now, you may be thinking "where did he get that idea" or "how did he get the cat hair."  Come on people, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS REASON OR EXPLANATIONS IN THE WORLD OF NICOLAS! (haven't you been following along in this blog!).  I ended up having to use Goo-gone on his armpits to release the gooey concoction.  If you ever need to get something to stick really, really good to skin, ask Nicolas.  He somehow has a special technique to warm the gum in his armpit and then use his fingers to spread it as thin as possible.  Jason's keen observation was we were lucky to have discovered him before he finished the arm pit hair and traveled south on his body.  

These are just a tiny, tiny sample of the great stories we have with Nicolas.  He often says things that are soooo close to what he actually means yet so far off base they crack us up.  His view of the world is just as tilted as mine.  I have no idea what makes his mind tick.  I know his mind works in ways that only famous or infamous people's minds do.  The neatest thing about Nicolas is along with the wonderful approach he has to life, he also has the kindest, biggest heart.  He thinks of others first (most of the time).  He can read emotions like a book.  His teachers often comment that he asks them if they are frustrated way before they even realize they are frustrated.  Hhe responds to other's emotions in very appropriate and considerate ways.  He once asked the teacher if she needed a time out because he was "really annoying her" and he was sorry.  He gives the best hugs and isn't afraid to admit he is a Mama's boy.  I still get a hug every day when I pick him up from school right there in front of his friends.  I've sometimes wondered why Nicolas is sick or is just plain out different than most kids.  I've finally come to realize Nicolas is perfect just the way he is.  If he didn't have humor or have a mind that bends around things differently, he wouldn't have survived what has been thrown at him.  I have learned so much from Nicolas that I could never have learned any other way.  That makes me a better mother, a better person, and a much better social worker.  

Happy 11th birthday my sweet boy!  

Feelings are Not the F Word

I love my husband.  He's wonderful, very talented, and a great provider.  He has a sense of humor that possible outlasts mine and is the ultimate planner.  Like everyone, he has a bit of deficit in one area.  Empathy, emotional responses and especially, medical know-how.  I'm not concerned that he doesn't know how to conduct in-depth therapy or determine if a mole is cancerous.  It's the basic, everyone-should-know-this kind of stuff that makes me laugh (and drives me bonkers). 

If you are thinking this is a story about husband-bashing you couldn't be more off base.  These deficits are the quirky oddities about him that make him who is he and who I love.  Just like I don't have money sense and am not a planner AT ALL, two qualities he has mastered, these are areas in which we balance each other. 

We often joke (okay, I often joke) that he thinks feelings are the "f" word and therefore, we shouldn't say them, acknowlege them, or even reference them...ever.  (Strangely enough, he isn't shy about releasing a barage of the real f-word while dismantling a video game or working on a complicated home project.)  But start talking feelings and he gets this uncomfortable, almost fearful look in his eyes that tells me he is about to check out of the conversation.  Maybe it's because I tend to leap into full-out therapy mode, analyzing everyone and everything in my path looking for an underlying message in their behavior.  Just because he doesn't put the toilet paper roll back on just how I like it (over not under) doesn't mean he is harboring secret feelings of contempt towards me.  His typical response to my expression of emotions is "I'm sorry you chose to feel that way."  He is being as genuine as he can be with this methodical, pre-programmed response to my emotional-meltdowns but it somehow feels automated and detached.  Then I realize, he is analytical and a planner.  That does not leave much room for free-flowing interpretation of situations to warrant anything other than his standard, safe response.  So, it's not his fault nor an attempt to disregard my feelings. It's simply how his mind works.

Now, what does this have to do with medical know-how?  Just last night I rammed my toes into the corner of the couch leaving me with throbbing pain that would not subside.  After about 30 minutes (okay, maybe 10) I am in tears and certain something is broken.  Things are swelling and bruising and throbbing and sending signals to my brain that something isn't right.  I manage to hobble down one flight of stairs and to the top of the basement stairs where he is involved in an intense battle via XBox live.  When I finally manage to get his attention, I whine that I think something is broken.  His response?  "There is some demoral in the cabinet.  Maybe that will help."  Oh thank goodness.  That makes me feel comforted and really important.  No need to spring into "my wife may need me for emotional support" mode, but a calculated, solution focused reponse.  The same type of way he would have responded if I said the toilet was clogged.  Problem + solution = no more problem.  I shouldn't have been surprised.  Over the last ten years, he has never strayed from this approach to any type of situation. He is predictable and that makes me feel safe. 

When the tables are turned though, he turns into someone entirely different.  Every year, and I mean EVERY year, he gets a cold/sinus congestion/something that yields basic symptoms.  He comes to me with the came complaint.  I don't feel good.  I respond with "how do you feel" and get a basic list of symptoms.  Congestion, aches, sore throat, drainage, etc.  My next quesiton is always the same -- have you taken anything for it?  His response, after 10 freakin' years is also the same.  "I didn't know what to take."  Now, I know he doesn't have a long history of medical care.  He didn't get sick much as a child, was only injured a handful of times and each time, didn't get medical care.  It was always a "tough it out and it will get better" approach.  But after a few years of this same dialogue, I finally made a special container in our medicine cabinet labled "HEY JASON  - COLD & SINUS MEDICINE.  THIS IS WHAT YOU TAKE."  Who knows if this approach will work as I just implemented it a few weeks ago.  Why hadn't I thought of this sooner?

All of these cooky things about him are perhaps odd to me because I ooze emotions.  I leak emotions all over my life, often thinking this is normal (ha.  Nothing about me is normal!).  People who aren't open and forthcoming with emotions or who do not have an emotion laden reaction to what I think are emotionally important situations are somehow stiffled and in denial in my world.  Then I realize, if he were a highly emotional person we would be a hot mess.  My emotions often leave me with the inability to make a decision, even about simple things.  He not only makes decisions, he is confident in his decisions.  He is meticulous in his planning, resulting in us accomplishing things I would never dream possible (erasing a mountain of my debt in 4 short years and landing us into a home nicer than I could ever imagine for our family).  Our vacations are jam-packed with day-to-day activities, including a list of must-dos and places we must-eat.  I've never been disappointed with our vacations and he gets all of the credit for that.  Even though he doesn't say the "f" work (feelings) he shows it through his planning, he thoughtful actions that brought us to where we are today.  But I sure would have appreciated an appearance at the top of the stairs last night to carry me to couch while I whined and complained of my "it needs to be amputated right now" foot.  He would have appreciated if I had planned ahead and wore shoes in the house.

An Idiot Abroad - My Bucket List

One of my new favorite shows is "An Idiot Abroad,'' starring Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant who send  their friend, the close-minded and simple Karl Pilkington, on outlandish adventures that are commonly found on bucket lists.  Sounds enjoyable, right?  Except Gervais and Merchant always add a twist, producing more anxiety in their already laced-up-tighter-than a corset friend.  Swim with dolphins?  Great. But change that to swim with sharks and Karl nearly dies of a panic attack.  Visit a group of natives on an island?  Interesting.  Be named the God of the natives and made to dress in traditional attire that includes a hallow stick as your penile covering while they dance around and worship you? Slightly uncomfortable.  Or as Karl continues to remind them while trying to negotiate his way out of this, "My parents are going to be watching!  I can't do this to them!"  Part of my amusement with this show is Karl's unwavering hesitation about the adventure his pals have planned for him.  He hem-haws around, making absurd "what if" circumstances seem very real and then goes through with the activity with much trepidation.  I almost feel voyeuristic watching as Karl nearly has an emotional break down every episode while Gervais and Merchant howl in laughter each time they phone in with more details of the adventure.

I have also been an idiot abroad once.  Not in the sense that someone else planned my adventures and I blindly followed.  In 2009, I had the amazing opportunity to visit Germany with the IU School of Social Work for a conference on civic engagement and social learning.  I have never left the country, never really traveled on my own.  Before I decided to go on the trip, I had this burning question I had to get answered -- how is the food?  Now you all know I'm a big girl and I eat like a big girl.  But I'm a big MIDWESTERN girl and don't venture too far off the beaten menu path.  I had to know if I would be able to emotionally eat my way through home sickness and other unfamiliar feelings while half-way across the world.  Once that was settled, I readily jumped into this adventure feet first.  I think I did fairly well overall, but there were a few set backs.  For example, when stepping off the plane in Germany I had no Earthly idea how to 1) buy a train ticket 2) read the sign to buy a train ticket 3) exchange money to have the proper currency to buy a train ticket or 4) know the right language to ask someone how to buy a train ticket.  Me and a few classmates wandered throughout the airport thinking we could figure this out, but the sight of security with HUGE rifles threw us off our game (not to mention jet lag).  And all I could think about was my dire need for a Diet Coke - it consumed my mind.  Good thing I had planned ahead for this trip, right?  Because everyone speaks English and is enamored with American travelers.  Another faux pas was also because of my lack of German speaking/reading skills.  My roommate & I were super excited to find an Aldi's grocery store on one of our ventures into the small town.  The store was closing soon.  We made our rush through the store grabbing candy, chips, and liquor for our evening's festivities.  We return to the hotel, pleased with our goods.  Except we have no idea what the bottle of orange, thick liquid is we bought.  We assumed some type of fruit drink mix for daiquiris or margaritas, but just aren't sure.  We traipse down to the friendly wait staff we befriended earlier in the week with our bottle.  He bursts into laughter and asks us why we bought egg nog.  Egg nog?  Really.  Well, really.  We should have noticed the picture of the chicken and egg prominently placed on the label but we didn't.  Germany was perhaps once of the most growth-filled trips of my life.  I came back looking at things differently and appreciating differences in people and situations like I never had. 

I long for more adventures like Germany, but I don't want to leave my bucket list in the hands of twisted, evil friends who like to watch me suffer.  So, here is my bucket list.  It is sure to evolve as I do, but just in case my end is near, I figured I better get something on paper and leave nothing in the hands of others.

1. Live & work in a European country for a brief time.  I feel more educated and sophisticated in a scarf and messenger bag slung over my shoulder while walking on cobblestone streets.  Europe is just the place to do this.  Jason refuses to add this to his list, so we may have to do a lot of Skyping. 
2. Meet my grandchildren (but not too soon!).  I don't want to die without watching my children become parents, if they so chose.  I'm sure I will enjoy the grandchildren, but I will be in awe watching my boys learn to become fathers.  They have certainly had an amazing example of what it means to be a father through Jason, who chose them as his children.
3. Major social events - Super Bowl, NYE in Times Square are two of my ideas, but I'm still thinking there may be others to add to this list.
4. Fearlessly be myself - I should be able to do this now, right?  I'm not there, but I'm growing towards it each day.  One day I will officially have the "I love myself and don't care if you do" attitude and REALLY mean it.  
5. Renew our wedding vows.  I'm thinking something classy, like Vegas (jk).  I guess anything would be classy compared to our first circus wedding. 
6. Be famous.  I have this little girl dream to be famous, perhaps a musician or performer. I really dig the idea of being idolized and adored by masses of fans (footnote -- see #4 for an explanation why).  
7. Road trip with my family.  This one will actually happen this summer as we travel to Buffalo, NY; NYC; Boston; and Jersey Shore.  But this can't be the last!  I have visions of extended family road trips with my children and their families, with cousins and friends.  I can never be surrounded by enough of the people I love.
8. Take a cooking class.  I once made a chicken-pot-pie so awful my kids think chicken-pot-pie is a dirty word now.  I'm pretty good at heating things up though.
9. Let go of past mistakes.  So what if I had that unfortunate accident in the pool at age 8 (for the record, there is no documentation of this event so you can't really prove it was ME who left what was mistaken for a penny on the bottom of the pool floor) or if I stuck my foot in my mouth on more than one occasion. 
10. Write a book.  No surprise here - I love to talk. And write.  This perhaps ties in with #6 because if only I can turn my words and thoughts into something amazing, I will become semi-famous. Ohhh, I could sign copies of my book with some unreadable signature.  
11. Botox.  Either my mirror was swapped with a fun house mirror or I am getting wrinkles in undesirably places (note - all wrinkles are undesirable unless you are a Sharpei dog.  I mean, we use a hot iron to get wrinkles out of fabric so obviously they are ugly).  I would also go for a tummy tuck, nose job, and boob lift.  Boob lift first because I don't need a built in hiding place for pencils or lipstick on my chest.  
12. Become BFFs with Donnie Wahlberg and Peyton Manning (come on, did you think we would get out of this list without the mention of Donnie or Peyton?).  Better yet - I would get both Peyton and Donnie together so they can both tell me how awesome I am only for them both to realize they are rivals.  Donnie proclaims his love for all things Patriots/Tom Brady, while Peyton defends my honor as a Colts fan (or a Cardinals fan.  or a Dolphins fan.  Or maybe I'm crying now, so what?).  

So there you have it.  My bucket list.  Nothing exotic or crazy.  Nothing terribly exciting either.  I'm sure I could make the list go on and on because I'm just not ready to quit living.  Good thing I wear a seat belt and sunscreen, right? 

To My Friends...

Today, a tragedy took the life of a dear friend.  It's unfortunate incidents like this often make us stop dead in our tracks to evaluate the important things in our lives.  Regrettably, I had grown apart from this friend as we became adults and went our separate ways.  But I have some great memories with her - some devilish, some heart-warming.  I won't divulge many details about those memories here, as she and I went to great lengths to disguise our shenanigans from our parents back in the day (or so we thought).

I tend to spend my time finding the humor in life, but today I will reflect on how we chose what is important to focus our emotional energy on and who we let into the most intimate parts of our lives.  Also, because mental illness was the driving force behind this tragedy and I have been touched by this disease as a mother and personally, I want to take the time to provide some education on this often stigmatized, misunderstood disease.

Living far from family and most of my friends I often feel like I am alone when in reality, I am connected to so many great friends who are important to me and who I am important to.  I find these relationship worthy of my emotional attention because we have weathered many storms together, they have seen me at my worst, and yet our relationship carries on.  They are forgiving, choosing to focus on the things I have to offer rather than my misgivings.  They bring comfort and humor to my life, often giving me permission to have my quirks, or as one of my friends said to me my "processes."  Things like always putting back at least one item from my cart each time I reach the check-out or my relentless need to have photographic evidence of our time together.  When someone who reaches out to me, whether it is for help or to check in or just to say hi, I am reminded that I exist in their world.  As you may or may not realize about me, I thrive on my usefulness and importance to others.  I think it's the reason I have Cupcake, my 2nd cat who I adopted after fostering her through a false-pregnancy (turns out she was just fat).  I don't like long-haired cats and didn't necessarily want another cat.  The day I picked her up, she wrapped her little paws around my neck and nuzzled into me.  I was her protector, I rescued her from a life of neglect.  She made me feel important and useful.  (Now she could really care less about me because she is no longer scared).  At this time in my life, I was toying with the idea of another child for very similar reasons.  Cupcake filled this void for me. 

I also have family which are more like best friends and best friends that are more like family.  I'm not sure how that happens, but I know this to be true for many people.  When we pause in life for whatever reason, we often evaluate those relationship which we may be overlooking or forget to tend to.  Thankfully, most of these relationships in my life have been the most resilient of plants -- I could not water them for months or years but they grow back to life and are more beautiful each time.

I am also struggling knowing my friend was in great pain, tormented by her emotions.  Some will say this is weakness or a cowardly way out, but as a mother who has held her son as he begged to be let out of his own skin and not hurt anymore, I get it.  I've felt the this way before, putting my mother through the same pain I felt when holding Nicolas on so many nights.  The fear of reaching out for help because of the very real possibility of being shunned or judged complicates the situation ten-fold.  When our society recognizes that mental illness is not a choice, a personal failing, a result of any of our own decisions but rather a brain based disease which we did not create, then people may be comfortable seeking treatment in the same way they would for diabetes or cancer.  I have been somewhat reluctant to talk publicly about my struggles with mental illness, but I try to be brave to show people that very real, functional people can be touched by this disease.  More importantly, I want to show that recovery is possible, leading to an enjoyable life.  I had to come out from behind the curtain after watching Nicolas search for answers about why he was ill, often blaming himself for being "worthless" or a "failure."  It was my job to set the example for him that this is nothing to be ashamed of. 

If you are reading this, I consider you one of the best parts of my life.  You give me purpose, bringing joy into my life when I need it most.  Please hug your family & friends, tell them that you love them as much as you can.  Rethink your perception of mental illness and emotional struggles, if you haven't already aligned yourself with the understanding of this as a brain-based disease.  I can provide research and online resources to help you gain an understanding.   

Most importantly, thank you for being my friend.

Today, I am going to tell you about little Tanner's first experience at the post office.  We are going to go waaaaayyy back to when he was 15.  Fifteen!!  How the heck did he make it fifteen years in his life without knowing how to mail something??  The first clue that he needed this lesson came when he was mailing in a rebate for a drum set he bought.  He tried to put the return address on the upper right corner, the recipient address in the middle (1 point, kudos!) and had NO IDEA where the stamp was to go.  While he is going through this little exercise, he is baffled as to what to include in the envelope and why the whole process wasn't done online.  This makes sense,  given he has grown up in a technology saturated generation.

A couple of months ago I was under the weather, but needed to mail a small package.  I was barely able to move, let alone get dressed and go to the post office.  So, I enlisted the help of Tanner, my incredibly smart yet clueless about day to day life son.  While I stayed in the car in my pajamas and "I slept on my head" hair, I asked him to go inside, use the automated postage machine, and select priority mail. Simple enough, right?  I mean, after all, kids his age understand technology and processes which involve as little human interaction as possible.  (remember, this is the kid who will text me "good night" from his bedroom upstairs.)  He thinks it's a simple enough process too.  In he goes, package in hand.  Once inside, he is waving at me asking which machine to use because there are two of them.  GASP.  Two identical machines, so I see how this is a tough decision.  After me waving some "I don't give a rat's patooty" gesture (use your imagination kids), he picks a machine.   A few minutes later he comes bolting out of the building with a perplexed look on his face.  He asks if the package contains liquids or explosives.  Are you freakin' kidding me?  Yes Tanner, I packaged my own urine with a small explosive inside that little box just for kicks.  That's exactly what I do with my time when I'm laying on the couch deathly sick.  I'm pretty sure I said something like this in a loving, supportive tone "ARE YOU SERIOUS??  REALLY TANNER?"  I think he was paranoid that somehow, he would select the wrong option and we would be added the no-fly terrorist list by his simple mistake.

Back inside he goes, confident he can complete this task.  I think we are all set, when I look out the window and see him heading back towards the car, package still in hand.  If my head hadn't hurt so bad at this point, I would have beaten it against the steering wheel.  He now wants to know if I want to add insurance, because after all, my urine & homemade explosives have so much value we must insure it.  I shake my head no and send him back in.  This time, he finally manages to get the postage on the package.  Hallelujah.  I'm one step closer to being back home and in bed.  Then he starts the frantic waving again.  Crapsicles.  He wants to know which slot to put the package in.  Now I'm pretty sure he had one of those cube toys as a child where you match up the shape to get it inside the box.  And I'm pretty sure he mastered it, figuring out that each piece will only fit in certain slots.  But somehow, this connection is not happening for him.  He's perplexed and apparently can't decipher the hieroglyphics on the signs above the slots.  Out he comes again, as I can't really communicate through the glass window any longer.  At this point, I consider going inside myself but the place has become fairly busy.  After gently explaining which slot to put the package in ("COME ON TANNER, SURELY YOU CAN FIGURE THIS OUT!! You are a flippity-floppin honor student!" is probably how it went.) he is successful.  He comes out with a huge grin on his face as if  he expects a "good dog" pat on the head and treat.  I'm pretty sure he is exhausted at this point from all of the mental work he just performed.  And I'm completely exhausted from worrying that my 15 year old son will never find his way through life once he's an adult without the assistance of  Google. 

This experience made me realize that a whole generation of kids won't know the importance of the postal system or appreciate the hand written letter that arrives in the mail from a distant friend or family member.  They are reliant on instant gratification and convenience mixed with limited human interaction. Tanner was clearly uncomfortable with this level of decision making without the assistance of Google.  Everything from banking to buying a car can virtual be done without ever speaking to a human being (heck, you can even "date" online).  Does this mean their interpersonal relationship skills are never going to full develop?  Will they know how to handle confrontation or know how to interact with store clerks, postal workers, and others who provide services?  Will they need step by step instructions when away from their electronic devices?

I'm sure every generation goes through some sort of transformation which has their parents and previous generations scratching their heads.  The microwave changed the way we cook, leaving some to wonder if we would ever know how to cook on a stove top or in the oven.  I remember when we got our first microwave, my grandpa was reluctant to eat food out of this magical box for fear of what it could do to his body.  Boxed mixes and pre-made cookie dough (or other foods for that matter) leave some of us who have never mixed up flour, baking soda, and chocolate chips for a treat.

In the end, I am glad I had this experience with Tanner.  While no one likes the "when I was kid" stories, they are important for us to hear and learn from.  To see how far we have come and how that changes us and the way we live our lives.  Maybe by the time Tanner is a parent (if that ever happens, thanks to the hefty influence of the neighbor kids he babysits) he can find an instruction manual with the help of Google to parent the child.  

I Need Insurance....Let's Get Married

In honor of Valentine's Day, when we are all supposed to be magically transformed into romantic couples professing our love for each other, I am reflecting on my relationship with my (mostly) wonderful husband.  More specifically, how we become legally bound in a very unconventional way.  Let me explain, to me, family is defined by the intimate relationships we have with people who have somehow made a dent in our lives and managed to stick around long enough despite the flaws of the relationship.  Biologic ties are important because you can't chose who you are related to so you just find a way to enjoy them for all their quirks and good qualities.  But just as important to me are the relationships I have with those who I have chosen to become my family -- they fill a space in my soul like no one else can. 

When Jason & I met, we were both working in the same department which happened to be fairly small.  Shortly after he was hired, he informed our boss that he was "something like a job whore" while wearing flip flops and shorts to his first day on the job.  One of our initial conversations went something like this:  "You know, I'm genius.  Really I am."  At this point, I didn't know he was trying to impress me.  I thought he was just a random weirdo making conversation.  Despite the oddity of this conversation, I found myself laughing (Rule # 1 to be in my family -- you must make me laugh & allow me to fill your world with humor).  He eventually convinced me that we should hang out and watch tv because he was tired of sitting in his mom's basement at night watching tv by himself.  Just to tell you how clueless I was about his interest in me, I wasn't even phased by "I live in my mom's basement" because I wasn't thinking of him as a future partner.  He arrived at my house that evening with flowers for me and a gallon of chocolate milk for the boys.  To this day I never let him forget that he slammed Nic's fingers in the hinges as he came in the door, something which he adamantly denies.

Fast forward a few years -- we had moved our family to Indianapolis for better jobs and schools.  I was making a transition to a new job which did not offer group health insurance.  After looking for a few weeks into private health insurance, we realized we couldn't afford the coverage.  So what does any rational couple decide?  To get married of course.  Because we don't believe politicians and antiquated laws should define family, we were not in a rush to make our relationship legally binding before this point.  But this changed things -- we had to figure out a way to get married in less than two weeks before my insurance ran out.  I was in charge of the arrangements -- something simple with a few family members.  Now, here is where things get very interesting.  I am horrible with details -- I can write things down and never find them again.  And I LOVE shopping the day after Thanksgiving, which happened to be the day we picked to get married.  So on the morning of our wedding, I was up at the crack of dawn and out shopping.  By the time I came home, I had not allowed enough time to properly prepare for the wedding and was in a rush.  We pull ourselves together and bolted out the door to where I thought the wedding was to be held in a local government building.  Nope.  I was wrong, dead wrong with our parents following along behind us.  We drove, and we drove, we yelled and I cried.  Finally, we return home to try to figure out what to do.  After all, I NEEDED insurance no later than Monday.  Mr. Resourceful decided to go to the internet to ordain my mother and his mother to perform the ceremony in our tiny apartment so we could get our marriage on paper.  As they prepared for their impromptu role of officiating a wedding, I come out of the bathroom with my dress tucked into my panty hose, marching around the living room ranting & raving about my mistake.  My father-in-law was trying very hard to tell me about this faux-pas but I ignored him for a good 3-4 minutes while showing way more than any girl should to their father-in-law.  Finally, the phone rings.  If we can meet the pastor at the RIGHT building in 30 minutes, he can perform the ceremony.  Once we rushed to the court house, my mother-in-law decided she wanted to sit in the judge's chair like Judge Judy to take pictures.  Unfortunately, she had purchased a new pair of 4 inch wedge shoes to wear to the wedding and took a flying face-plant onto the stairs as she made her way up to the chair.  We are all laughing at this point at the absurdity of this whole event.  We go on to say our vows and I somehow forget to add an "s" to the word "arm."  Jason still  teases me that I only promised to hold him in my "arm."  (hey, I may needed to keep my options open and use that arm for someone else later).  As we arrive at the part of the ceremony where we kiss, Nicolas becomes enraged (after all, I was HIS, not anyone else's.  This was also the stage of budding mental illness for him, and his emotions were on overdrive).  He begins pushing and flipping over chairs while yelling like the Hulk.  My mom intervenes and crisis is averted while the pastor looks on in horror.  I'm sure he was thinking this was a marriage destined for doom.  However, in our eyes, this whole crazy event only confirmed we were perfect for each other and as a family. 

From this point forward, our lives have been filled with unbelievably crazy moments.  There was the time Jason tied our king-size mattress to the top of our mini-van so we didn't have to rent a moving truck; a trip to the middle of Ohio to pick up a vehicle we purchased off eBay (that's another story altogether) only to arrive and see several of the features of the vehicle were mysteriously "stolen" the night before.  Then there are the tours of timeshares I always manage to talk Jason into in Vegas, just to score free stuff.  We play this game of good cop-bad cop just to toy with the salesman's emotions.  During one of our "performances" the only way I could break Jason's insistence that we were most definitely buying the timeshare was to blurt out "I'm pregnant."  He knew I had won this round of good cop-bad cop.  The look on the salesman's face was priceless because he was caught in this make-believe awkward moment that he didn't know was make-believe (he was also missing his front tooth which he claimed had fallen out of his dentures only earlier that morning).  We spent the entire bus ride back to the Strip laughing uncontrollably, while the rest of the bus watched as if we were a tragic train wreck they couldn't look away from. 

So there you have it.  That is how Jason became my family.  Maybe, just maybe, I will finally commit and give him my other arm this year.  No promises though, I heard Donnie Wahlberg may be calling.

Better late than ...I was too busy putting an ABP out on Manning to get to posting this before the SB hoopla started.  Enjoy!

In a few days, the unimaginable will happen.  Something I somehow never thought of as a possibility, yet it was a strong probability all along.  And I'm dreading it like I've never dreaded something before.  The world's most over rated and ugliest quarterback of all-time will arrive in Peyton's house.  He will pee in Peyton's toilet and probably wipe his sweaty man giblets with Peyton's towels.  I despise Tom Brady and the entire notion of the Patriots.  Since last Sunday when they won the AFC championship and I realized Tom & Co. would be invading Indy, I have cringed.  Not simply in a "oh I don't like this" kind of way.  It's a skin-crawling, constant agitation I feel about this and I dread it.  Let's put it this way -- I would rather give birth to an elephant while getting a root canal surrounded by a ginormous fish tank than think about the Patriots coming to town for the Super Bowl.  I've been trying to figure out why the mere mention of Brady & the Patriots gets me so riled up, why it makes my blood boil and I become fiercely territorial (note - if you see me peeing on anything in the next few days, you will know I'm just marking what's mine and NOT his).  So between my seething rants about my displeasure of the Patriot invasion, I think I figured out what's going on.  Normally, I am a middle of the road person - I avoid taking sides because I dislike arguments and jockeying for position.  Don't get me wrong, I hold my own opinion about everything, but I respect that it's only my opinion and everything is multidimensional making various opinions valid.  But I am steadfast on my love of Peyton & all things Colts (except Jim Caldwell, but that's another story) and proudly tell anyone who will listen.  Then today as I drove past my long-time bank, I figured it out.  I defend Peyton (and the Colts) because my nature is to be loyal, to stand behind those things which are important in my life regardless of their successes and shortcomings.  Now, let me circle back to why my bank sprung this crazy discovery today.  We have banked at Fifth Third since moving to the Indianapolis area 6+ years ago simply as a matter of convenience.  Since my current employer has apparently never heard of anything electronic (don't you know simply checking your account online means the whole world can rob you blind?) I trek down to the local branch once a week, see familiar faces and go on my way.  A few years ago, Jason suggested we change banks due to better incentives, rates, etc. and I balked... a lot.  You see, every year on May 3rd the teller with the bad kindergarten bangs smiles out the window at me and tells me "Happy 5/3 day" while sending out a 100 Grand candy bar.  Now I know they do this to every customer, but in my jacked up little world this is only for me.  It's my special day, that silly teller somehow saying thank you for Jada N. Svoboda's business.  It's like I'm in a special club because I AM SPECIAL darn it!  And that was my argument to Jason as to why we couldn't change banks.  Who would that teller give her candy bar to on May 3rd?  Would the new bank appreciate me like this?  I had to be loyal to my bank, it was the right thing to do. 

Then I started thinking of my other, um, obsessions which I have stood by in good times and bad.  Now some may say I can't let go of the past, but you see, it's not about that.  It's about my loyalty.  Back in 1989, I stood on the steps of Deer Creek music center (now Verizon Wireless) in my frosted denim shorts & bad-screen print, over priced concert tee proclaiming my undivided love to five men.  (Ok, they were boys back then, but let's not argue trivial points.)  As I jumped up and down with my famous red "Sally Jesse Rapheal" glasses on, I screamed "I LOVE YOU [insert one of five names here]" repeatedly  until I lost my balance and fell down the steps, and then I simply got back up and did it some more.  From that day forward, I was devoted to those five men, even when it wasn't popular.  Life happened, kids came along and my focus shifted so I thought I was "over" these imaginary relationships I had created in my mind.  Then along comes 2009, a reunion tour, and it all came flooding back with more intensity than I ever imagined. In fact, I may or may not have dribbled a little bit in my pants when I they came within 10 feet of me while singing in the audience. I am only slightly embarrassed by my cyber-stalking of all things NKOTB, of my endless vault of knowledge of their every move and of the hundreds of dollars (okay, we are over the $1k mark, but let's not tell Jason) I have spent to show them my loyalty as their #1 fan.

My loyalty isn't universal - for example, I am not loyal to a brand of shampoo or a particular restaurant.  In fact, in non-people relationships I like change... a lot.  But I am fiercely loyal to people in my life, those who I personally know and those who are on my imaginary BFF list.  I dream of  moving to a warmer place, but want to care for my parents as they age like they took care of me growing up; I have two very close friends from my childhood who have drifted in & out of my life over the years, but would lay down in front of a train to protect them (or just to amuse them) on any given day regardless of how long it has been since we last talked.  I wrestle for weeks, sometimes months before "breaking up" with a hair stylist.  I once continued my relationship with a stylist for over a year after she unintentionally cut my hair into a buzzcut (literally).  You see - it's not about change or familiarity.  Loyalty to me is about a continuation of a relationship with another human being; an acknowledgement that either they enrich your life in some way or there is a mutual benefit of the relationship.  Loyalty means I scream "I LOVE YOU DONNIE WAHLBERG" so much at commercials that my 10 year old honestly believes I love Donnie more than him (as of the time of this blog, I cannot confirm or deny my son's allegations).   Loyalty is my comfort blanket, my honor, my word.  It's doing what is right because that's how I want people to treat me.  It's about being the same for someone whether it's pouring down rain or sunny & warm; whether they make your day or hurt your feelings.  It's feeling proud of someone simply for who they are rather than what they do or don't do on that particular day.  It's why in the end, I will always love Peyton, regardless of how many interceptions he throws, the name of the teams he plays for, or how many times he fails to call me after a game to thank me for being his biggest fan. 

I've mulled the idea of starting a blog for some time now.  I just have so much to say -- I've always been the talker, often apologizing for my constant stream of inter dialogue that somehow ends up making me almost like a quarterback calling football audibles (kudos to my mentor and best quarterback of all time - critics can shut it - Peyton Manning).  Much like Peyton, and yet entirely nothing like Peyton, I ramble endlessly about how I am going to orchestrate my next move and what I see around me.  Often, I don't expect or anticipate a response from others.  I just must.get.it.out.  These thoughts cannot stay contained within my own mind.  Besides, if they did, there would never be any room for the constant birth of new thoughts that run around like untamed toddlers trying to escape their cribs. Perhaps this is where I finally, unabashedly disclose the driver behind this constant stream of thoughts - mental illness.  There is no doubt I'm the nuttiest of the nutties, but not because of this.  It doesn't define me, it doesn't limit me.  It makes me better, with more depth and breadth than I could possibly muster on my own.  And I have to admit, I love the constant turning of my mind and the crooked tilt of my head as I look at life.  When properly medicated, my thoughts aren't nearly as rambunctious or tilted.  Somehow over the course of the last 17 years of enduring this disease, I have held onto some of those characteristics which are problematic when not well contained with pharmaceuticals.  I've just learned when it's okay to let them out to play and when they should sit quietly, like well-behaved children.

I'm not sure what the flavor of this blog will finally be or where in my life it will take me.  It could be the past, present or someplace entirely unknown.  It will most certainly contain humor, as that is my BFF in life, but will also share struggles & processes which make absolutely no sense. 

So, there you have it.  Stay tuned if you wish, duck out when it no longer interests you.  No offense, but this blog isn't for you -- it's for me and those untamed thoughts wanting to come out to play.