It is a truth universally acknowledged, that being-able-to-get-over-it is a virtue.
I even said it myself, here: “Whenever I think about hanging on to an old hurt, hanging on to bitterness, hanging on to anger, I think of my dad. I think of what it cost him to hold onto his anger, of what he exchanged in order to have the privilege of holding those injustices close to his heart. And I let it go. It's easy to let things go, when you really know what it costs.”
Shut up, self.
(Sometimes I read the things I wrote back before our finances collapsed and I really have to struggle with the urge not to travel back in time and slap myself silly.)
Because of course I’ve turned myself into a gigantic liar.
I’m finding it harder and harder to let things go.
The last couple of years have been full of traumas – losing a business, losing our house, losing cars, losing our financial stability, losing our neighborhood – and other more personal traumas that I can’t write about here.
I need to get over it.
I thought I WAS over some of it.
But it turns out that I’m holding on to some of it really tightly. I know this because every time something new happens, I go back to the bones of the same old disasters and gnaw on them until my teeth hurt.
Bad idea generally, because then when life has it’s inevitable ups and downs, instead of being able to view them as part of the normal flow of life - as just temporary setbacks - I view them as ONE MORE THING. One more crappy thing that happened. As though my life were a see-saw with everything bad that’s ever happened to me piled up on one side, and absolutely NOTHING piled up on the other – as though all of the good things (like my wonderful kids, the great job I have, and, oh, I don’t know, BEING ALIVE RIGHT NOW) have no weight at all.
Glass not only half-full, but leaking, chipped on the side, and coated with dishwasher residue.
I lack perspective, is what I’m saying.
Last night we were invited over for a barbecue with the family that lives next door. This family has been a God-send since we’ve moved here. They have wonderful kids the same age as Josh, Jake and Emma. The mom is smart and friendly and relaxed and MY AGE (a rarity in this neighborhood full of much older families with much older kids) and lately we’ve ended up outside talking and laughing with each other while our kids run around together.
This family has been a real bright spot for me in a sort of dark and depressing time.
Last night they told us they are putting their house up for sale and moving to California.
I think I literally made a noise like “oof”.
Suckerpunch.
It felt like ONE MORE THING.
I cried driving in to work this morning. Not just because they’re leaving, but because of all of the one-more-things that are starting to feel so overwhelming.
I’m afraid that I’m losing my ability to get over things. I'm not sure how to fix that.
How do I get perspective?
Suggestions?
(But if you tell me to start writing a gratitude journal I will punch you in the face.)
(Only because I already know I should do something like that, but the thought of actually doing it fills me with rage.)
(Probably because of THE DEVIL.)
PS: Every time someone asks us if we’re renting or planning to buy the house we’re living in, it feels like a test. If I answer that we’re renting, it feels like we’re dismissed from consideration for actual friendship. If I answer that we’re planning to buy (in the year 2020, but they don’t know that) then it feels like they immediately warm up. I cannot decide if this is my imagination or not. Anyone else experience this? I’m starting to get a complex.
PPS: In an effort to make more progress in paying off the gigantic pile of medical bills we have, I’m teaching piano two nights a week. I’m currently full on Thursdays, but I still have a few openings on Wednesdays. If you live in Bountiful and are interested in piano lessons for your kids, shoot me an email at susanmarchant at gmail dot com.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Thursday, May 05, 2011
For The Record, I'm Totally Sick Of Sugar Free Popsicles
I have no idea how to do this anymore.
I think at some point I'm supposed to break out into a semi-hysterical splutter of capital letters but other than that it's all a little hazy.
I just wrote out the whole story of how I spent a month in the hospital and ALMOST DIED (DRAMATIC!), (gosh, it really didn't take long for that capital letter thing to kick back in, did it) but the post I wrote was just incredibly long and boring and mopey, so I will give you the Cliff Notes version instead.
In December I had gastric bypass because I'd gotten incredibly fat and it was covered by my insurance and, well, yes, it's a little risky, but what surgery isn't, and come ON it's not like anything bad will ever happen to me because I'm ME, whereas those other people who die from surgery are NOT ME, and ALSO - ALSO, if anything goes badly, I will just FIGHT it, like a FIGHTER, like a CHAMP, like a VERY HARD WORKER, not like all of those other people who get sick and die. Clearly they have no death fighting work ethic whatsoever. Slackers.
I will emerge VICTORIOUS.
And HOT.
Bad news though.
It went BADLY.
(It turns out it's hard to be a fighter when you're unconscious.)
Badly as in I had an obstruction. Badly as in I had internal infections. Badly as in I had four subsequent surgeries, had my heart restarted three times, scared my friends and family to death, and spent 24 days in ICU. I was in the hospital for a total of 32 days.
32 DAYS.
While I was there I went completely out of my head insane on pain medication. I repeatedly complained to the nurses about the people having a party in my room. I insisted there was a hospital bed in the room that was decorated like a huge blue baby bassinet and would they please get it out of there because it was creeping me out? I forgot how to use the phone, tried dialing my husband approximately 70 times, then threw it across the room in frustration. I got mad at my husband for various infractions including holding my hand WAY too hard and having a confusing phone number. I sobbed to a doctor that it turned out that my husband and I were getting a divorce! Because he hadn't been there to see me in weeks! Even though he was there every day!
By the end of my stay I was weak, and paranoid, and anxious.
I realize it's easy for me to say that now that I've gone from a tight 20 to a 12. I've lost almost 80 pounds and have about 40 to go before I get to goal. I can't pretend it was all negative. At this point, I have mixed feelings about it, because a) I DIDN'T ACTUALLY DIE, and b) I feel so much better about myself now. I realize that I should feel good about myself whether I'm a size 22 or a size 6, but I didn't. I had a lot of self-hatred going on that centered around my appearance.
When you get right down to it, I risked my life - and very nearly left my kids motherless - for VANITY. I wasn't unhealthy. I had no health problems whatsoever. I had no diabetes. I had low blood pressure, healthy cholesterol, perfect lab work. I was just fat. And tired of dieting and getting nowhere. I wanted a quick fix. Anyone who has had it will tell you that's not what gastric bypass is.
And the medical bills. THE MEDICAL BILLS. Holy. Crap. Did you know that the co-pay for 32 days / 5 surgeries is a ho-ho-WHOLE lot more than the co-pay for 2 days / 1 surgery? Because IT IS. And my IVs were apparently flowing with approximately twenty-five-thousand-hundred-billion units of liquid-frickin-GOLD.
I'm still working out how I feel about the whole thing.
Can you tell?
Well then.
OBLIGATORY BEFORE/NOW PICTURES:
Before (terrible picture, which reflects how terrible I felt):
Now (in an outfit that I wear constantly now, not because it's attractive but because it's about the only thing left that fits) (I refuse to buy more clothes when I know they'll fit for approximately ten minutes) (I have exactly one Sunday dress that still fits - it's a wrap dress and it's baggy, but it stays on, which I view as a POSITIVE. I intend to wrap the crap out of that sucker for as long as I can.):
Ugh. This post feels incredibly rusty, but it is late and I have to leave for work at 5:30 in the morning so I will just hit publish anyway.
PS: I think I'm going to try this blogging thing again for a bit. I have a lot of ISSUES that I need to work through and I'm thinking I could write about them here (although I should probably consider using a therapist instead of a blog and a shift key, am I right?).
I think at some point I'm supposed to break out into a semi-hysterical splutter of capital letters but other than that it's all a little hazy.
I just wrote out the whole story of how I spent a month in the hospital and ALMOST DIED (DRAMATIC!), (gosh, it really didn't take long for that capital letter thing to kick back in, did it) but the post I wrote was just incredibly long and boring and mopey, so I will give you the Cliff Notes version instead.
In December I had gastric bypass because I'd gotten incredibly fat and it was covered by my insurance and, well, yes, it's a little risky, but what surgery isn't, and come ON it's not like anything bad will ever happen to me because I'm ME, whereas those other people who die from surgery are NOT ME, and ALSO - ALSO, if anything goes badly, I will just FIGHT it, like a FIGHTER, like a CHAMP, like a VERY HARD WORKER, not like all of those other people who get sick and die. Clearly they have no death fighting work ethic whatsoever. Slackers.
I will emerge VICTORIOUS.
And HOT.
Bad news though.
It went BADLY.
(It turns out it's hard to be a fighter when you're unconscious.)
Badly as in I had an obstruction. Badly as in I had internal infections. Badly as in I had four subsequent surgeries, had my heart restarted three times, scared my friends and family to death, and spent 24 days in ICU. I was in the hospital for a total of 32 days.
32 DAYS.
While I was there I went completely out of my head insane on pain medication. I repeatedly complained to the nurses about the people having a party in my room. I insisted there was a hospital bed in the room that was decorated like a huge blue baby bassinet and would they please get it out of there because it was creeping me out? I forgot how to use the phone, tried dialing my husband approximately 70 times, then threw it across the room in frustration. I got mad at my husband for various infractions including holding my hand WAY too hard and having a confusing phone number. I sobbed to a doctor that it turned out that my husband and I were getting a divorce! Because he hadn't been there to see me in weeks! Even though he was there every day!
By the end of my stay I was weak, and paranoid, and anxious.
- I wanted to go home but also I was afraid to go home, sure I would die without constant monitoring.
- I was fine but also I was NOT fine and how could they even think of releasing me I am practically dead.
- I was ready to go home but also I was NOT ready to go home because I was pretty sure that was exactly what the infection wanted.
- I wanted to see my kids but also I DIDN'T want to see my kids because hospitals are scary and besides, my kids are better off without me because I'm a horrible, weak, shallow excuse for a mother and also the baby doesn't remember me. (He didn't.)
I was a mess.
It took a while to recover once I got out. I was still on IV meds, was very weak and threw up constantly. I'm grateful to my husband and my mother-in-law and my mom for taking care of the kids - of everything - while I was in the hospital. My mom stayed with us for a month after I got home, picking up the baby when I couldn't, doing the laundry, massaging the fluids out of my legs. My husband gave me IV meds every night and morning, sat with me when I was too scared to go to sleep without a heart monitor, and handled everything I couldn't.
While I was in the ICU we moved again (long story - basically the people we were renting from decided they wanted to move back home) and we received so much help with that move. People in our old neighborhood (the neighborhood I'd been such a snot about) helped us pack up the rest of our stuff, brought in dinners, helped us move out, and even cleaned the house after we moved out. People in our new neighborhood helped us move in, brought us meals, carpooled my kids to school, made sure the kids felt welcome - I can't even tell you how grateful I am.
I'm grateful for my friends and family and for their love and well wishes and visits and cards and emails. I'm grateful that my kids came through the whole thing without too much emotional trauma. I'm grateful to be alive.
Would I do it again? No way.It took a while to recover once I got out. I was still on IV meds, was very weak and threw up constantly. I'm grateful to my husband and my mother-in-law and my mom for taking care of the kids - of everything - while I was in the hospital. My mom stayed with us for a month after I got home, picking up the baby when I couldn't, doing the laundry, massaging the fluids out of my legs. My husband gave me IV meds every night and morning, sat with me when I was too scared to go to sleep without a heart monitor, and handled everything I couldn't.
While I was in the ICU we moved again (long story - basically the people we were renting from decided they wanted to move back home) and we received so much help with that move. People in our old neighborhood (the neighborhood I'd been such a snot about) helped us pack up the rest of our stuff, brought in dinners, helped us move out, and even cleaned the house after we moved out. People in our new neighborhood helped us move in, brought us meals, carpooled my kids to school, made sure the kids felt welcome - I can't even tell you how grateful I am.
I'm grateful for my friends and family and for their love and well wishes and visits and cards and emails. I'm grateful that my kids came through the whole thing without too much emotional trauma. I'm grateful to be alive.
I realize it's easy for me to say that now that I've gone from a tight 20 to a 12. I've lost almost 80 pounds and have about 40 to go before I get to goal. I can't pretend it was all negative. At this point, I have mixed feelings about it, because a) I DIDN'T ACTUALLY DIE, and b) I feel so much better about myself now. I realize that I should feel good about myself whether I'm a size 22 or a size 6, but I didn't. I had a lot of self-hatred going on that centered around my appearance.
When you get right down to it, I risked my life - and very nearly left my kids motherless - for VANITY. I wasn't unhealthy. I had no health problems whatsoever. I had no diabetes. I had low blood pressure, healthy cholesterol, perfect lab work. I was just fat. And tired of dieting and getting nowhere. I wanted a quick fix. Anyone who has had it will tell you that's not what gastric bypass is.
And the medical bills. THE MEDICAL BILLS. Holy. Crap. Did you know that the co-pay for 32 days / 5 surgeries is a ho-ho-WHOLE lot more than the co-pay for 2 days / 1 surgery? Because IT IS. And my IVs were apparently flowing with approximately twenty-five-thousand-hundred-billion units of liquid-frickin-GOLD.
I'm still working out how I feel about the whole thing.
Can you tell?
Well then.
OBLIGATORY BEFORE/NOW PICTURES:
Before (terrible picture, which reflects how terrible I felt):
Now (in an outfit that I wear constantly now, not because it's attractive but because it's about the only thing left that fits) (I refuse to buy more clothes when I know they'll fit for approximately ten minutes) (I have exactly one Sunday dress that still fits - it's a wrap dress and it's baggy, but it stays on, which I view as a POSITIVE. I intend to wrap the crap out of that sucker for as long as I can.):
Ugh. This post feels incredibly rusty, but it is late and I have to leave for work at 5:30 in the morning so I will just hit publish anyway.
PS: I think I'm going to try this blogging thing again for a bit. I have a lot of ISSUES that I need to work through and I'm thinking I could write about them here (although I should probably consider using a therapist instead of a blog and a shift key, am I right?).
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