Feeling "Better"

Well, Hubby says I must be better, because I'm starting to complain...

It wasn't, actually, a complaint, just an observation I made, concerning his driving this morning, on the way in to work.

See, he had both hands on the wheel.

This is an unusual occurrence, for my Hubby, you see. Mr. "I've-been-to-skid-school-and-I-can-drive-like-a-maniac" usually only has a finger on the wheel, much less a complete hand. He never checks his blind spot and regularly guns the engine if, heaven help them, some poor pedestrian happens to be meandering across the road against the light...

But I digress. This morning I was startled out of my usual morning stupor/reverie by the sight of BOTH his hands on the steering wheel. I quickly assumed the crash position - with Hubby, a wise precaution - but there was no crash. We changed lanes, and the windshield wipers moved.

"Oh," I commented. "You were signalling to turn AND washing the windshield at the same time! I wondered why both your hands were on the wheel..."

"Phbbllt" was Hubby's reply. "You must be feeling better..."

And so my day began. I've been sick for a few days actually, lying on my side, heating pad clutched to my tummy, groaning "Oh" and "aaaw". Either stomach flu or food poisoning. Trouble with me is, I never throw up. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times, since I've been an adult, that I've laid at the foot of the Great White Throne.

No, I just FEEL LIKE throwing up, for hours, days, weeks.... For as long as it takes. Outside observers might say I have a strong constitution, that it's difficult to poison me, that I'm - ha-ah - lucky in this way.

Lucky, eh? I wouldn't put it quite that way... The urge to die can be quite strong under these kinds of conditions, and "lucky" is not the first word that leaps to mind...

However, while lying in bed waiting to die, I had plenty of worrying time on my hands. A member of my family, Someone very precious to me, is having relationship difficulties, and I sympathize very much and worry about what's happening. I too, have had my share of relationship difficulties, both in and out of this particular marriage, and I can certify it's no joy when someone you love does things that mess with your state of being.

It FEELS like about half your world has been yanked out of your chest and bludgeoned on the floor.

No matter how independent, strong, flexible, forgiving, or cautious we think we are, no matter how hard we've worked to have our own identity, our own lives, our own interests, when our significant other exhibits behaviour that is unacceptable, stunning, belittling, dramatic, or inconsiderate to the point of being astonishing, our reality is crushed. Warped, along with our feelings, our sense of security, of purpose, of self.

For me, the reaction can be extreme, due to the mood disorder. See, whenever somebody acts completely out-of-character to me, the first question I have to ask is "Is it me?" As in, "did I ever really know this person to begin with?" Did something I did or said cause this? Is this appropriate considering our interaction?

Lots and lots and lots of self-doubt. So, in a way, it's almost easier for me to suffer these kinds of things, because I at least have that little bit of distance, wondering if maybe I brought this on myself.

My Somebody, on the other hand, has no such possible explanation. This happened out of the blue, a thundering gob-smack to the side of the head, an abrupt and unprovoked scene, a total lack of understanding, and no further communication.

This is very lonely territory, and I'm grieving about it, because the Somebody is desperately trying to get through the day and doesn't need me boo-hooing in their ear to make matters worse...

As my faithful readers know, I've been struggling in my marriage for some time, trying to figure out if I'm happier within it or not, trying to figure out what I'm going to do... Trying to figure out at what point loving teasing becomes a rasp against my self-esteem, against my soul. Trying to figure out if I'm the real culprit in terms of the mess in the house, or if it's unreasonable to expect teenagers to help out.

Trying to choose between occasional unacceptable behaviour versus usually sweet and fun.

And here my sweet Somebody is now going through the very same struggle, and the hardest part for me is -

I have absolutely no advice.

I don't know what the answer is, how the future will work out, one way or the other.

All I have is past experience, and the answer I draw from there isn't pretty.

"You will be strong..."

I remember being in my twenties and hearing those words, meant as encouragement, and the shudder of horror I felt upon hearing them.

The platitude "That which doesn't kills us makes us stronger," isn't as forthright as it seems. Firstly, because it DAMNED WELL NEARLY kills you. I mean within an inch of your life, of your sanity. Yeah, Life will teach us, for sure and IF, and it can be a big "if", IF we survive, we will be stronger...

Backbone, maybe. Stress causes problems in the body. I may be what is generally thought of as a "strong" woman, but my joints are on social security. Oh sure, I can survive leaving this relationship, selling my home, starting over... Oh, I'll be alive. And I'll be "stronger" - right now I have a mood disorder, fibromyalgia, recurring depression and thoughts of suicide, chronic sinus trouble... I wonder what it'd be AFTER I leave this relationship, sell my home, start over?

Because there is always a cost, no matter what "they" try to tell you. You decide to stay, to "put up and shut up", and the stress will wear away something in you that you thought would never go. You decide to take off, to take your chances, and you'll have support where unexpected and you'll make it through... but there will be payment required in some form. A part of your soul, maybe. Or a part of your spirit.

Today, on my way into work, Hubby announced I must be feeling "better".

Because I didn't die.

Rotten Moods...

I have a mood disorder. I'm on meds, and I take them.

Here's what it's like, living with someone with a mood disorder.

It's like living with permanent teenager. Some days.

I get cycles, 3-5 days long. A period of feeling okay, playing music loud, dancing around the room while vaccuming, singing while sweeping... Followed by a day or two of feeling like a disgusting pre-reptilian lifeform that crawled out from under a stinky rock, followed by an angry outburst, followed by wallowing in bed wishing either I, or everybody I know, could just drop dead. Repeat ad nauseum.

It killed my first marriage, although, to be fair, so did my ex.

It scared of a bunch of men when I was madly dating.

It wrecked hell with my family and quite a few of my friends.

You could say I'm hard to love.

I'm not as noisy now as I used to be - most of the time, I mean. I can still crank it up past "Jet engine" when required. But, by and large, I'm a lot quieter than people think I am. I have a reputation, you see, so now not everybody gives me a chance to really get going - they prefer to shush me before I open my mouth. Sometimes I feel like Basil Fawlty (Fawlty Towers) when the deaf old bat Mrs. Alice Richards walks into the room and says "What!" See, she thinks that's his name. He replies "I haven't said anything yet!" Sometimes it feels like that. But I don't really blame anybody.

Along came Hubby, my equal in many ways, and my equal-and-total-opposite in others. He's just as stubborn as I am. We can lock horns for HOURS. Days. Months. We've had arguments we re-start periodically for thirteen years! For example, he insists that pedestrians crossing against the light do not have the right-of-way. Driver's ed taught me otherwise. And no amount of argument or reasoning or facts or evidence gets in the way of this continuing argument.

He's my total opposite in the length of time it takes him to get mad. I'm zero to ballistic in under one millisecond. He's zero to zero-plus-point-five-seven in roughly three years, give or take a decade. To say H is "calm" is to say the Great Wall of China is "calm." Any calmer, and he'd slip into a coma...

When I take on new tasks, I push through to the end, come what may, because I want a general idea of the entire process. He won't start till he could make a movie from fade-in to fade-to-black, in terms of his understanding. He won't just "try" something. For him, it has to be perfect, or he'd die of shame. For me, I don't care about the result. The result can be s--t, as long as I learned how the process works. But we both think we're experts, that much is certain!

Well, certainty is pretty hard to come by in the world to begin with, and if I may play the pity card here, a little tougher for someone with a mood disorder.

See, I can LOVE someone, and HATE someone, and be totally INDIFFERENT to this same someone, all in the space of a couple of days. "Someone" doesn't change, doesn't do anything different than usual, just my limits change like other people change their socks.

With a relationship as rocky as Hubby's and mine has been, we've endured our share of loving advice through the years, but lately it's all been aimed in one direction. "Figure out what makes you happy, then do it, never mind who you're married to or not married to. Be independent."

Okay. So how do I figure out what makes me happy? Well, some of it's not hard. Dark chocolate is a good starter. Bright sunshine. Lying in a hammock in summer. Lying on a floatie toy in the pool in summer. Lying with a heating pad under mountains of covers, snuggled up with the dog and the cat in winter. Good music. Friends. Lots of friends. My Daughter. Even the Stepkids, on occasion! My Cousin, and all her family. My Bro and his.

Full moons - reflected in the ocean, the swimming pool, or on the snow. I like full moons! They make me feel connected to the universe.

Playing cards. Writing blogs. Quilting. Sewing. Designing something beautiful. Making people laugh. Listening to people who make me laugh.

Okay. This doesn't help much though. Because I'm still going to love all those things, no matter where I live or who it's with. And there are days when I detest myself BECAUSE I like chocolate too much, and I'm fat and ugly. When I feel like I must be the laziest person in the whole world, lying in my hammock or curled up in bed. When I hate all music. When I don't want to see anyone. When I'm afraid to talk to my daughter, my stepkids, my hubby, because I'm SURE I'll say all the wrong things. When I'm bored with cards and don't have anything to say to the world, when the quilting is stagnating and the sewing machine is my enemy. When everything I design looks like s--t, nothing I say is funny, and nobody in the world is funny, either.

And quite often, I don't remember the cycles. In the middle of a "down" mood, I don't remember being happy. Well, I remember it, like something I read in a book, about twenty years ago... And vice-versa.

The point being, it's really hard for someone with a mood disorder to figure out what makes them happy.

Closing the Doors

There is a reason doors were invented. Actually, probably multiple reasons! Letting people in, keeping people out... Cupboard doors hide the cupboard contents. Perhaps, at one time, the doors kept out vermin! Some people's cupboard doors have to be kept shut tight because otherwise the contents will spill out onto the floor.... Some people's cupboards have contents so neat and pretty their cupboard doors are made of glass.

Closet doors close off the closet from the main room, passageway, entrance...

But they all have one thing in common: Most of the time, they are shut.

Except in my house.

In my house, one can tell where Hubby walked by all the doors he's left open in his wake. And the same goes for his DNA replicants.

I am the only person in this house who closes doors, shuts cupboards, re-wraps the bread bag, puts the seat back down, lowers the lid of the cutlery box, pushes drawers, replaces lids on jam jars and the butter dish, lifts the dishwasher door back into place, drops the garbage can lid, puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube, pushes the bathroom mirror shut, draws the shower curtain, and closes the dryer door after removing the laundry.

Oddly enough, Hubby will go through rooms of the house turning off the lights. He'll also hang everybody's coat up in the closet - but closing the door to said closet seems to be an alien concept. Like putting the seat down. Something "other people" do!

About four years ago, we re-financed the house. To help prepare the place, we did some painting. We removed the cupboard doors in the kitchen. Hubby removed the hinges, handles, and magnetic closures. Everything made it back, except the magnetic closures. Those remained off for three years before finally being put back on so it was actually POSSIBLE to shut the cupboard doors...

But the current LIKELIHOOD of anyone closing them? Nah. Only I do that.

I know I should be thankful my Hubby closes the bathroom door when he needs to sit, and that his fly is (usually) zipped. I know I should be glad my Stepkids are happy and healthy, and seem to have gotten the hang of hanging up the towel in the bathroom (most of the time). I know I should be thankful we have enough money to buy fresh bread, since every loaf we open goes stale before it can be finished.

I have pleaded for YEARS for self-closing hinges on the doors. I get a shrug in return, and a blank stare. "Why in the world would she want THAT?" is the question written all over Hubby's face every time I mention it. He doesn't see the open doors flapping in his wake. Stepdaughter doesn't notice the linen closet door left open when she grabs a towel from it, spilling half the towels on the floor, with the result that the closet door now can't close.

The kitchen drawers are full of crumbs, because they're open when the Replicants or the Hubby make their toast. The basement is freezing, because the dryer door has been left open in sub-zero weather, with it's six-inch direct connection to the outside world - the hose.

I know it's a bad thing to wish ill on another person, but part of me cannot help but secretly long to see Hubby smack his pate on the corner of a kitchen cupboard door! Oh, wouldn't it just be justice if one of the Replicants would lose their balance while donning their boots and fall into the closet because the door wasn't closed! Or what if, one day, one of THEM would squeal in horror at a chunk of dried-up toothpaste on their brush? Or sit in the toilet bowl in the middle of the night? Or stub a toe on a drawer they've left open in their rooms? Or, having rinsed their mouth, come smack into the mirror, right on the corner! Hee hee hee! What if one of them was glancing behind at something and walked smack into the linen closet door? Or bruised their shin on the dishwasher? Or found something nasty in the butter or the jam because they'd left the lid off? And what if there was no more bread - and they had to eat the stale stuff! Oh yes, yes please, oh please oh please oh please....

Just once?

Getting the Ball(s) Rolling...

Well, here it is, New Year's Day, and just about everyone has a resolution or two, and most of them involve us getting (uncharacteristically) off our respective ARSES and MOVING AROUND more!

My resolution involves quilting, but I've known for some time I should be moving more than I usually do.

And tonight, Hubby and I did it. (No - not THAT "it".)

We went bowling.

Champion Lanes has black lights, disco music, and electronic scoring. So, for the first time in my life, I knew the scoring was CORRECT!

A tad expensive, from what I remember paying when I was a teen. We bowled five strings each and rented shoes, and the evening came up just shy of $40.

We were doing the little balls, by the way. Being a graphic designer whose livelihood depends on being able to those fine, repetitive motions with my wrist when working on the computer, AND being a quilter whose livelihood depends on being able to make fine repetitive motions with my fingers and wrist, I cannot afford to do any damage to those delicate nerves! As it is, after five strings, I'm going to put ice on the wrist for a while...

But this is a success story. Getting out, to have FUN, with Hubby, on New Year's Day, and get a teensy bit of EXERCISE thrown into the bargain!

Because, let me tell you, bowling is exercise! I (gasp) SWEAT!

I stripped off my shirt, matter of fact, down to my sport camisole. I asked Hubby, "Is this okay, if I take my shirt off?"

"Sure!" Hubby replied enthusiastically, with a chaser of "Makes 'em nice and bouncy!"

Hmm. Maybe a MAN is not the best judge of appropriate attire.

However, I won three out of five strings. Fortunately for me, we had somewhere else we had to be by a certain time, because my arm was getting REAL tired, and Hubby was just getting warmed up. The scores would have reversed in one more string.

But both of us had fun. I wiggled and danced every time I got a spare or a strike, or whenever a song came on that I liked. That's the most dancing I've done in twenty years!

And, as exercise goes, it was mercifully short and fun!

So, let's hope this bodes well for the year to come. More wiggling around, more fun, less sitting on the butt.

As Christmas Presented Itself

I didn't start out with a lot of enthusiasm for Christmas this year. We were very broke. With plenty of expenses.

Like the Snow-Tire Deadline. December 15, every vehicle has to have four snow tires on.

True to form, Hubby bought his on the 14th, and slated the installation, alignment & balancing for the 15th. Well, at least we actually MADE the deadline!

But that whopped the heck out of the paycheck. He told the kids, "Everybody's getting a TIRE for Christmas."

For days and weeks, the kids bugged us about putting up a tree.

"What's the point?" I asked. "There isn't going to be anything under it."

Our employer added to the fun. Every year since its inception, McGill has paid the end-of-the-month pay (slated for the 31st) on the 23rd of December. Hubby has been working there 32 years. For his 32 years, and my 19, we've been getting that extra paycheck just before Christmas, and we've been using it to pull Christmas presents out of a hat.

But noooo - not any more. We were notified on the 15th that, oh, by the way, your pay of the 31st will stay firmly where it is, until the actual 31st of December. Happy Holidays!

I had a quilt deadline for Christmas, so instead of sewing up a storm of presents, I was quilting. That meant for me that I couldn't start making Christmas presents till the client had picked up her quilt, which she did, on the 19th. So that's when I STARTED making gifts.

I noted with what I think is called "wry chagrin" that my cousin had all the gifts WRAPPED by that date. Sigh. Maybe next year.

Well, Santa pulled down a miracle. The EX gave Hubby back his support payment for the month of December.

See, the kid he's paying support FOR has been living here, with US, for six months.

"Has she found religion?" one of our pals asked.

I don't know. But we did find ourselves with a Christmas after all - complete with tree, food, and gifts for all.

Nobody was more surprised than me!

On Being Gainfully Employed

So, on December 16, my eight-weeks period of Rest (HA!) came to an end. I was back at work.

It was nice to get out of the house. Nice to see the people I work with again. I still remembered how to turn on the computer this time... And they'd saved me a JOB to work on!

A loverly color brochure, with pictures taken specifically for it, and working with C, who is SO SENSIBLE about cutting text to the minimum...

I'd say my usual things like: "This brochure serves the purpose of a business card. You don't need to show how many credits each program is, just show 'em the exciting bits!"

...And she GOT IT! I love C. She "groks" things.

Everybody liked my weird fold design...

Anyway, there I was, second day back at work, and I get a tap on my shoulder. It was Hubby (who - you guessed it - works in the same building as I do). I looked up at him. "Yes?"

"Can we eat," he said.

I looked at the clock. It was past two o'clock.

"OMG!" I exclaimed. "I didn't even notice it was past feeding time!"

We grabbed our grub from the fridge and headed off to the lounge. The instant I stood up, I felt all rubbery, and realized...

"OMG! I didn't even eat BREAKFAST!"

Now, to some people, this wouldn't be noteworthy. For ME to miss not just one feeding time, but two, and IN A ROW, could be front page news! I haven't attained my "mature" profile by being a picky eater!

Not only that, but my astrological sign is LEO.

Lion.

Ever seen a hungry lion?

Want to be the guy that feeds the lions at the zoo, and MISS two feeding times, in a row, and try to go in there to feed them? I thought not!

I quipped at my boss, "See what happens when you give me something FUN to do?!"

Ah yes. I'm back at work. And loving it.

... but, would a jury of my peers convict me?

Okay, so, a couple of weekends ago, I had a laundry intervention.

I had gone downstairs in the hopes of putting on some laundry.

The way to the washer and dryer was blocked. A solid wall of piled laundry, laundry baskets, gym bags, blankets, boots, and hallowe'en decorations prevented access to the machines.

I ranted a few minutes, uselessly, then burst into tears and ran upstairs, where I took action. I called my friend K. I begged her to come over and view the devastation.

See, in OTHER people's houses, whenever you go in, the owner says "oh, please, excuse the mess!"

Only, there's no mess.

In MY home, however, there IS a mess.

Of BIBLICAL proportions.

See, Hubby and his two DNA replicants moved in around 13 years ago, and from that day to this, have behaved as aliens occupying my home, heedless of my pleas and protestations. They shrug their shoulders, they roll their eyes, and they use that amazing phrase that solves all their problems for them:

"It wasn't me."

Yeah. Right.

So my friend K came over and surveyed the battleground with me. I asked her one question: "Am I overreacting?"

She stared, slack-jawed for a few minutes before comforting me in her arms and saying, "No, you're not overreacting Deb. You're not imagining it or making it worse than it is. It is catastrophic. No human being should live like this."

I felt an immense surge of relief, and the tears of gratitude flowed faster than the tears of frustration had done.

From there, we went to the living room and called in the troops for a family meeting. We discussed personal cleanliness, respect for ourselves and for each other and for the house. There was whingeing and whining, and a lot of finger-pointing and many "It wasn't me"s... but in the end, rules were made.

From now on, all aliens do their own laundry.

No dirty clothes, and no clean clothes, are to be placed in any shared space.

No laundry can be started without being completed.

No-one is to sabotage anyone else's laundry-in-progress.

I continue to do linens. You should have seen the faces when it was suggested that each of them receive their own selection of towels and sheets! The horror! The humanity! Being adolescents, they're quite comfy with the idea that they will pick up their clothes from off the floor to wear out to school and work, but the thought that they might have to use a damp, smelly towel after their 45-minute showers.... Well, they were very happy to let me continue to do linens.

Buoyed by the success of the laundry intervention, I went through the kitchen and diningroom last week, removing tools, wires, electronic parts, CDs, DVDs, plugs, screws, nails, books, magazines.... In short, everything in the kitchen and dining room now belongs to the category of FOOD, and THINGS THAT GO WITH FOOD, like pots, pans, cutlery, napkins, etc.

So you can imagine my reaction today, when Hubby brought one of his new snow tires and new rims into the livingroom.

I piped up immediately. After all, one must nip these things in the bud!

I said, calmly and quietly, "Are you intending to put the tire onto the rim?"

Hubby said "That was the general idea."

I replied, "Well dear, the place for that is the basement, not the living room."

Hubby got the mat from the front hall and threw it on the living room rug. "It's okay," he said.

"Um... no it's not, dear," I said politely but firmly. "You have a workshop downstairs..."

"It's not big enough," he said flatly.

"... And there is also a nice clean section of floor in the laundry room, which is also in the basement," I continued.

He replied by throwing a wrench and a long yellow tie-down on the floor beside the tire.

"You intend, then," I said, "to continue to work on the tire, in the living room?"

"Yup," he said flatly.

I got up and went in search of my cell phone, which has a picture-taking function. I took a picture of the mat, tire, rim, tie-down, and wrench in the living room.

A few minutes later, as Hubby was bent over the tire, I took another picture.

I emailed the pictures, with the captions "Yes, he's doing this in the living room," and "Save me!" to his brother and a friend of mine.

I said to Hubby, as he was pounding away at the tire, "You know, I'm pretty sure you brother is not permitted to bring tires and rims into his living room to work on them."

No reply.

I said, "I'm pretty sure my friend R isn't allowed to, either."

No reply. Hubby now stands up and attempts to get the tire to go into the rim by rocking violently from side to side while trying not to fall.

I hear sounds of Stepkid yawning and stretching in her room. "Hey, Stepkid!" I call out. "Come and see your Dad making a fool of himself!"

"Shut up," said Hubby.

"Well, you DID make an appointment for tomorrow, right? And they have all the necessary tools, and you don't? And you have to pay them anyway?"

The reply was a soft growling sound.

"Well then, darling, I think you should stop this nonsense before you fall off and hurt yourself. Put it away, and go do something useful."

No reply, not even a gutteral one.

Stepkid came in to inspect. "What are you doing," she demanded.

"What does it look like?" Hubby snapped at her, stamping his feet on the tire.

Stepkid watched for a moment and then got up on the tire with her father. Instantly, she recognized the futility of the venture and alit. "Forget it, Dad, it's not going to happen," she said, exiting the room.

Eventually, Hubby did get down off the tire, only to try using the tie-down in a different position. I watched without comment as I did my quilting, for about ten or fifteen more minutes. Finally, Hubby got himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He looked at me soulfully.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me do this?" he asked.

"You suppose correctly, dear," I answered. "Put it away. Put it out of your head. You're always complaining you have no time to do anything around here. Well, you have six or seven hours to play with today. I don't care what you do, as long as it's useful and productive! Go fix the shoe stand like you wanted to. Do some laundry if you wish. Build a fire in the fireplace. Vaccum the sawdust from your workshop. Build something. Do some stained glass. Sort your books. Read a book. Have a hot bath. Punch a hole in the wall for the washer's new position. But GET OVER THIS."

I got a glare and a growl.

So, my question is:

Is YOUR husband/father/brother/whatnot permitted to play with tires in YOUR livingroom?

What would YOUR or YOUR MOTHER'S reaction be if your dad/spouse/whatnot tried to do this sort of thing in the livingroom?

And finally,

Would you convict me?