Archive for August, 2009
Days of Grace: 173/365
Posted by: | Comments- a clean house by joint effort
- nothing in my laundry hamper
- nothing left to iron
- courage to ask a great dancer to dance last night
- at the end of the dance, he smiled and said, “Let’s dance again sometime.”
Green or not?
Posted by: | CommentsToday, Steve and I walked through Lowe’s discussing what we need to do to the townhouse in order to bring it up to the standard of our neighbors–not to keep up with the Joneses, really, but so that our unit is comparable to others for sale or for rent. When I bought it in August 2004, I never intended to live here this long. Damn real estate market! Despite being nearly $35k underwater, we need to update the place desperately. We plan to live here for another 3-4 years, then turn it into a rental. That means whatever upgrades or projects we do must be durable. And in my mind, it also means it must be green.
Steve says that if choice A is green and B is not, and the items are comparably priced, he’d go with A. But if A is pricier than B, he’d go with B. “Both things are already in a warehouse somewhere, so it doesn’t matter if we buy green or not because the things are already made,” he argued. “I’m not going to spend an extra 2 grand on a cork floor just to make a statement or be trendy.”
“I’m not trying to make a statement or do what’s trendy,” I retorted. “I’m trying to do what’s right.”
I’m not crunchy green by any means, but I do my part as I can. In 2007, I traded in my beloved Volvo for a low-emissions Honda Civic. I eliminated bottled water from our household about 3 years ago. I have used fewer than 4 dozen plastic shopping bags and produce bags in the past 2 years, and those I have brought home I’ve reused a few times. I’ve decreased my use of plastic baggies, and wash and re-use them unless they’ve had raw poultry in them. We haven’t recycled at home because, as a resident of unincorporated Arapahoe County, no one will pick up from my house. However, I’ve just arranged with Laurel, who lives in Denver proper, to bring our recycling to her house. We’ll see how that works. If we had a bigger yard I’d compost; Steve put his foot down when I talked about putting a worm farm in the basement. I use earth-friendly household cleaners with the exception of Clorox bleach, and I’ve finally found a line of cosmetics (Tarte) that contains zero petroleum products and actually has excellent quality. I buy some organic produce and meat. And for the most part, we’re using compact fluorescents.
Steve does none of this stuff because it doesn’t matter to him. I can’t make it matter to him either.
Since being environmentally responsible is a growing value of mine, I feel strongly that we shouldn’t put more plastic into our house (carpet), and that we should use renewable-source flooring (bamboo or cork) even if it is more expensive. I don’t want to rip out the counters (another landfill issue), but prefer to find some way to resurface them–maybe recycled glass or concrete that uses the existing counters as a base. And replacing the windows–which are horribly inefficient and drafty–may not help us get more rent, but I’m sure that between the current federal government rebate and the energy savings we’d pay for them over the next several years … even if the current windows and skylights are “fine.”
I’m not sure how we can be more green as we finish the basement, which is a must because 90% of the units have finished basements which currently puts us at a disadvantage. That project will be the most expensive, because I insist that we pull permits and hire a licensed electrician. It will be a simple finish: a bedroom, a great room, and a shelled-in bathroom unless we can figure out how to finish a bathroom for about $1500. Having the third full bathroom will make a difference down the line for renting and resale, so investing in a sink, toilet and shower down there may be worthwhile.
As I’m sitting here envisioning these projects, with no money in the bank and no real ideas–outside of second jobs for both of us since there is no equity to pull out of this place–for how we’d finance the $15k to $20k we’re talking about, it’s easy for me to insist that renters and buyers will give preference to our unit if we include green finishes, or that the extra money it would cost to use green products is worth it. I wonder if, when faced with writing a check for $6k for 2200 square feet of flooring vs $4500 I’ll change my mind and go with oak floors, the cheapest option. The green things I’ve been doing have not been noticeably more expensive (with the exception of the cosmetics, ouch!). Will I stick to my guns when real money is on the line?
Days of Grace: 171-172/365
Posted by: | Comments- Long mountain drives with Steve
- Seeing the devastation of the Buffalo Creek Fire (1996) and Hayman Fire (2002) along our drive was both eerie and beautiful, reminding me that everything dies and is rebirthed in some way
- The port-a-potty at the Deckers strip mall was relatively clean
- We got a table at The Loop in Manitou Springs just as it started to pour outside
- I am a lightweight, especially when it comes to tequila
- The parts for replacing the handle and lock for our sliding glass door were $18
- The repair will take Steve about 5 minutes
- Which means I don’t have to spend $180 on a handyman
- And I didn’t have to nag Steve at all to fix it
- 34 days until I marry him.
Strong enough
Posted by: | CommentsI have a face I cannot show
I make the rules up as I go
It’s ‘Try and love me if you can.’
Are you strong enough to be my man?
I have loved this song by Sheryl Crow since the first time I heard it. It is a song about me. About me being tough, and strong, because god forbid if I ever fell apart — especially when the shit really hits the fan — I don’t think I could ever put the pieces back together. And god forbid I let anyone else carry my burden, even for a few steps. It’s about finding someone who can love me despite those times
When I tell you that I just don’t care
When I’m throwing punches in the air
When I’m broken down and I can’t stand
Are you strong enough to be my man?
To me, the song is also about me being strong enough to live my life in this body I’ve been given (see rule #1). I don’t know that I am, but I sure hide my doubts by acting strong, to a fault. Last night, Steve told me as much. I asked him if he was worried about me back in May, when the Wellbutrin was causing me to lose my mind.
The Wellbutrin was a miracle for 12 weeks, from the end of December through March–my darkest days, made darker this year by the extreme change in our income, and Steve’s work hours and his available energy for anything else, including me. I wasn’t in love with me or with life, but I got out of bed and felt generally happy. And then the drug flattened me out. And then the anxiety and rage came on. And then the suicidal thoughts, and the homicidal thoughts. I needed to be off the drug. I was afraid of the withdrawal process. I did it, and it was shitty and I came back to life. I felt normal, stable, happy for about three weeks until my usual July/August mania set in. I’m pissed because Wellbutrin robbed me of my “normal” months–April, May and June. It robbed me of my good days this year. The days when I feel utterly and completely comfortable in my own skin. When I love me. I feel exhausted going into my most exhausting months.
I start getting days of depression in mid-September. Scattered days or hours become consistent, then become whole weeks, then whole months by January. And I live in Denver, where the sky is blue and the sun shines 300 days a year. I want to feel year round how I feel in late August, September and October. And April, May and June. I want 12 full months in a row where I do not get depressed. Where I do not get manic. Where I do not experience anxiety that makes me want to pull my own skin off of my body.
This is what I put Steve through. Over and over again. This is what he can look forward to living with for the next, oh 40 years if we’re lucky. Every winter since I could remember, even before puberty, I have gotten depressed for months. I have considered killing myself, like clockwork, right around President’s Day. Every July and August, I have too much energy. I have tried everything: drugs, therapy, light therapy, tanning, herbs, acupuncture, exercise, supplements, more drugs, different drugs, low-carb, high-carb, low-fat, raw food, gluten-free, vegetarian. Combinations of all of the above.
It’s never enough. Or good enough.
I’m dreading this upcoming season more than ever, because as good as the Wellbutrin made me feel, it wasn’t worth it for the fallout in May and June. I’ve thought about taking it just during the time change — from November through March. But I’m afraid of losing my mind. And my life. I don’t feel strong enough to go through all of it again this year. At the same time I’m terrified of not taking it.
I feel like I’m out of options. I don’t know what to do. I am tough to live with. Lethargy. Complete loss of sex drive. Weight gain. Disconnection. Anger. I see all of this as weakness, weakness I want to root out of my brain and my body. I hate feeling weak as much as I hate feeling out of control.
Steve tells I’m amazingly strong, one of the strongest people he knows. That in May, he was worried about me. But (and there’s a big but here) he didn’t know what to do to help me, because I always seem like I can handle whatever I’m given.
I have a face I cannot show.
I am strong. I know it. When the shit hits the fan, I’m the first one on the scene straightening up the mess. I’m great in a crisis, cool headed, logical. Lynn to the rescue. I am the daughter my mother raised me to be. She has had a debilitating chronic disease–rheumatoid arthritis–for 32 years. She has endured pain, and 12 surgeries, and the loss of her life as she planned it to be with hardly a flinch, a complaint, a tear. She is Hercules, and I am her child, even if I don’t have her blood in my veins.
But sometimes, I just want someone to fix it for me. How can I be that damsel in distress on rare occasion when I’ve taught everyone around me that I don’t need their help. Such a good teacher, that when I actually do need their help, they don’t know how to help me?
Last night, I told Steve he wasn’t really there for me during those days in May. I felt angry, and sad. And for a second, I questioned whether marrying him is the right thing to do. Shouldn’t your life partner be there for you? When you need him and even when you don’t? Then, he asked me how he could have done it differently. “All I knew how to do was to listen, and to forgive you, and to love you, and to quietly live in our space when it had such an awful atmosphere. What else could I have done?”
In all honesty, the only thing he could have done to help me this spring was force me to stop taking the medication before I did. To say Lynn, all that crazy you’re feeling on the inside is showing on the outside and you need help. Now. But that’s not his personality. And it’s not mine to let others carry my burden for me. My own strength is my cross.
He reminded me about the list of qualities I wanted in my life partner, culled from 100 things to 7, which I carried in my wallet when I was dating. At the top: Someone who I can be utterly myself with, who loves me for exactly who I am, warts and depression and craziness and all. And number two: Someone who gives me a soft place to fall — a safe haven where I can fall apart when I need to, where I don’t have to hide the sobs. Where I don’t have to be strong.
Steve does love me for my dark and my light. In spite of all. Because of it. From our third date, Steve has shown he is my soft place to fall. He knows that when I push him away, it’s because I desperately need him to crawl behind me on the couch and wrap himself around me. He knows when to just listen, and when to try to fix it, and when to leave it alone. He trusts that I can handle my own life. “You don’t need me, you want me,” he said last night. “That’s enough.”
Every year, I go through this forest of doubt. I dread January and February from the sunny hills of August, and I doubt I will find my way through it. And then I do. Because I am strong. Even when I feel weak, when I am weak, I am strong enough. I always have been.
New CAPTCHA
Posted by: | CommentsNote to commenters here: I’ve gotten complaints about the anti-spam CAPTCHA plugin I have been using, so today I’ve switched. Please let me know via email at lynn (at) humanbeingblog [dot]com if you have any issues with this new system. If a few of you wouldn’t mind commenting here to help me see if it’s better (ie it doesn’t eat comments when you type in the words), I will be very grateful.
Days of Grace: 170/365
Posted by: | Comments- I still feel like crap, all dizzy and fuzzy on the insides, but the fever is gone
- I did not eat a vat of Sour Patch Kids yesterday
- I slept hard last night without any weird dreams
- We got to school on time, before the first bell even
- A colleague took a particularly noxious project off of my hands without my even asking
Show and Tell: Farkle
Posted by: | Comments
It’s only a dice game. An addictive dice game, introduced to me by the slyest of dealers: Aunt Pat. Sure, she seems innocent enough, with her long blonde hair and her special-needs classroom. And the little plastic box in her kitchen appears harmless. Until, that is, you notice the skull and crossbones on the lid. A sign of poison. A mark of bad times ahead. Unlike Yahtzee with his complicated patterns, farkle is simple. Only a few combinations let you score, and even fewer let you score big. Perhaps that’s where it hooks you–the elusive 1500 points for a straight on the first roll. Or 1,000 points for three 1-dots. You pick up the dice, shake them in your cupped hands, perhaps say a wish or a prayer, blow on them Vegas-style and shoot. For hours and hours. Like sex, it’s fun solo, with a partner or in a group. And on Facebook, where you don’t have to lay a hand on a cube, just click a button to roll. On that site, I know who the other junkies are because they send me free “chips” — 100 at a time — that will eventually upgrade me to “pro status.”
I’ve started and I can’t stop.
Someone, please hide the dice.
Join in the Show and Tell fun. It’s not just for 1st graders anymore.
