Media Addiction, Media Addiction Wherefore Art Thou Media Addiction?

Has it seriously been a week already without the internet and cable for me? Boy time sure goes fast when you're not making an ass imprint in a computer chair or couch cushion!

Honestly, when the cable was shut off last week I know I was very insistent that we leave it off, but deep down, I was worried. I had so many shows to watch! So much online to do! My day was filled with Facebook games and status updates, Twitter following, forum replying, blog hopping, writing, surfing, playing . . . my nights were overflowing with How I Met Your Mother, Big Bang Theory, Glee, Biggest Loser, Hell's Kitchen, cartoons, Office, Outsourced, reruns of Monk and House, and don't even get me started on Netflix!

And now, they were to be all ignored by me. But who else would pay them any attention!? They were gonna die without my love and adoration!

What? They're still running? Some even got picked up for additional seasons? All without my help?

Well . . . that's . . . you know . . . nice for them.

Kinda makes me feel a little less important in the lives of fictional television characters.

So truthfully, I haven't missed it all that much. I've found that by cutting out all the random surfing online has left me the ability to concentrate on writing. Instead of looking around the internet for an hour for the perfect funny image to go along side my short but sweet blog post, I write a decently sized blog post, include my heart and a bit of my soul for decoration, and I've got the rest of the day to accomplish things.

Don't get me wrong, I'm suffering a little without Glee, Big Bang Theory and Raising Hope. But you know what? We were pretty much going to buy those on DVD when they came out anyways. We're collectors. It's what we do. And in the meantime, I've found that I'm not missing it that much.

Three days the week before last, I spent it in a depressive mood, stuck in my recliner with a bowl of Top Ramen and 8 Seasons of Monk on instant Netflix. I'm not even exaggerating. I was feeling so down that my day consisted of watching someone else be depressed with OCD. But his home was at least clean!

Without television and internet this week, I've been up, dressed even. I've fulfilled bloggy needs, read scriptures daily, got back in touch with some friends I've been putting on the backburner, went to Church for 5 hours instead of 1 (normally Church only lasts 3 hours, but we also attended Church with Matt's family due to a children's program performed by our nephew and Matt's father giving a talk) and God bless it all, I cleaned my kitchen.

I even had time to take a nap yesterday on the couch with my Pug.

So without the distractions of constant electronics I've realised something . . . life is really good.

PS: I still of course keep my phone attached to me at all times cause it's now my only source of limited internet access. And cutting that completely off would probably kill me inside.

PS x2: I'm also watching old DVDs to keep noise in the background.

PS x3: It's actually really upsetting to get all excited to watch Eclipse only to remember that it hasn't been released on DVD yet and what you actually have in your hand is New Moon.

PS x4: This week I've been graciously given the title of Mental Health Blogger of the Week at Sugar Filled Emotions. I'll be guest posting there all week long. It's such an honor really. I never intended to be a Mental Health Blogger in the beginning. But talking openly with you all about my OCD, anxiety and depression has helped bring healing into my life, and according to the emails you beautiful readers send me, it's brought some healing to yours as well.

So check me out this week at www.sugarfilledemotions.com

I'm Practically a Cannabal Now

Day two without internet.

Or to be more precise, internet via computer. I promise, I've only cried twice.

Clouds are out today and it makes me think about my little sister who - for those of you who've been asking about her - is bonding to motherhood fabulously. She says that Trey is sleeping through the night and she feels terrible that it's become her obligation to wake him up in order for him to eat.
My sister loves grey skies and clouds. I've never understood why. I can't stand them. They make me tired and lazy. I see a grey sky and I immediately want to crawl back in bed and sleep. I don't ever feel like doing anything if the sun is not out and about. She's the total opposite. Grey skies bring a smile to her face. I think it's because she has brown hair. I'm a strong believer that red heads really understand how things are supposed to work. Skies should never be grey, everything is better with butter and Nathan Fillion needs more roles involving nude scenes.

Speaking of awesome things on television, we're still without cable as it's attached to our internet, or vice versa. I talked to Matt about just getting rid of it all together. It would save us over 100 dollars every month, which let's face it, right now we could really use.

To replace the cable, I've been rewatching some of the movies that we own. I made the mistake of putting on Julie & Julie though, which only made me want to blog and cook. And since there are grey skies, I don't want to cook. I had leftover pizza for lunch. It was not nearly as amazing as anything Julia Child has ever made. But you can't ignore the laws of grey sky days.

It then took me an hour to find a decent file converter from computer to the phone so I didn't have to write this whole post on my tiny cell phones keyboard.

I honestly don't know what I did before cell phones with internet access. I think before I had an Android phone, I lived naked in a cave and built fire using sticks.

Then again, I've actually tried to make a fire using sticks. I gave up after two and a half minutes. I imagine my ancestors ate raw meat. It's probably why my genes are so problematic. And also why I prefer my steak medium rare.

Internet Fail

Hey y'all!

So it turns out that I won't be having the internet for I don't know how long. And it totally has nothing to do with the fact that we didn't pay our cable bill. Yeah not even close. Ahem.

So in the meanwhile I will do my best to post on my blog using the fancy schmancy email to blog post thingy that Blogger offers and maybe even a mobile post.

They just won't be all gorgeous like they usually are but then again better something than nothing. I've seen what happens when I leave my readers completely lacking their weekly dose of Jianess. It's not pretty.
Animals get sacrificed. Some turn to cannibalism. Whores everywhere quit their jobs leaving politicians and drunk actors to go home to their wives. No one wants that.

Signing off for now.
Take care of yourselves and eachother.

PS: I prefer cow to goat sacrifices.

I'd Rather Be a Germaphobe

Okay, so I've explained before the different types of OCD. Unlike the rest of my family, I am not a germaphobe, which honestly, I'd rather be. Cause I'd rather have a clean house than obsess about wanting a clean house but how I don't have time to clean (even though I do) and how I'd probably not clean it right (even though cleaning wrong is better than being dirty).

I do however have weird issues with smells. I'm absolutely certain that our house stinks. Certain. Though everyone who's ever been in our house comments about all the nice smelling candles and air fresheners and everything else. They insist that they're not lying.

Either way I'm always on the lookout for decent cleaning products that not only effectively clean, but help get rid of any odors.

I was recently sent some products from EcoStore USA to review and honestly I'm super impressed.

Aside from the products being plant based and safe, they work really well. Plus, they actually go a long way. The Cream Cleanser (which smells lemony awesome!) lasts forever. And best of all, it cuts through grease really nicely, which is a big deal to me because touching greasy things is one of my biggest issues (Matt actually buys me rubber kitchen gloves so I don't have to).

While the Cream Cleanser is really nice, my favourite is their Pure Oxygen Whitener which has totally replaced the use of bleach in my laundry. I haven't done a comparison load to see which cleans better, so what I can say is that it cleans at least as well as bleach, but on the plus side I am all out of bleach but I still have a massive amount of the Pure Oxygen Whitener because this stuff lasts so long. I'm totally guessing at this, but essentially I would use about two cups of bleach to one tablespoon of EcoStore USA's Pure Oxygen Whitener.

I would say that if I do ever become a full fledged germaphobe, I would definitely use EcoStore USA. It's price worthy which helps my obsessiveness over being frugal. It gets rid of odors and cleans, thus eliminating germy scented issues. And best of all, it's all eco friendly and plant based so when I do use them to clean my locked bathroom with a toothbrush and a black light, I won't worry about breathing in harsh chemicals and slowly poisoning myself.

It's a win win for the mentally ill.


Disclaimer: I recieved the above mentioned items to review. All opinions of the above mentioned items are my own and were not influenced in any way. To read my full disclosure policy, click here.

Guest Post of Complete Havoc and Mayhem

My SITS tribe sistah-friend Stacey, from Havoc and Mayhem was supposed to guest post here yesterday, but there's this whole thing where I'm lazy and I totally don't stay on top of my schedule the same way I can stay on top of a case of Pepsi. At the same time, there was this whole birth thing going on, so I'm certain Stacey will forgive my tardiness. She's even letting me guest post on her blog, which feels a lot like spreading some sort of disease of inappropriate behavior. I'm like STDS for blogs


And on that note . . . . Stacey!

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You know those commercials for facial cleanser on tv? The ones where the woman with the perfect complexion is in a perfectly white thick terry cloth robe, in her perfectly clean bathroom, with her hair perfectly held back from her face in a perfect knot or perfectly smoothed back by a headband, no random hairs sticking up in little tufts making her look like a guest alien on Star Trek. She has one of those beautiful glass bowl sinks that look gorgeous but takes up all your available counter space. It's perfectly clean, no water spots or toothpaste smears, is on a smooth equally perfectly clean counter top. She gets the tube for cleanser from some unspecified location (can't tell where but there is no counter space for it so there must be a hanging shelf somewhere), washes her face and leans forward, cups her hands full of water and in one perfect motion, splashes the cleaners off of her face. No water splashes on the counter or gets in her hair or dribbles down her arms, soaking the robe. Then you see her with her hair down, dabbing at her face with a thick white towel.

Why can't I ever wash my face like that?

Even considering that I have no bathrobe, and my sink is molded into my 15 year old bathroom counter, with water & toothpaste stains, and none of my towels are white (and many are not thick) and my hair does stick up around my headband so I do resemble an extra in the Star Wars canteena scene (especially once I get the cleanser on my face) and lets not even discuss the perfect complexion issue. I really thought turning 40 meant acne was long long behind me.

You'd think after a few decades practice I would be able to splash water on my face without it going all over the counter, the floor and myself. Really. Cup water, lean forward, bring hands to face at full horizontal position.

But no.

Water runs down my arms and onto my nightshirt. Watery cleanser splashes up over the headband and into my hair making it sticky. Bits of cleanser land on the counter, there to harden & eventually become part of the stains & patterns that decorate it. The water & cleanser get in my eyes making me grope around blindly for a washcloth I then have to wet before I can finally wipe my face clean and I emerge sputtering and damp all over from the experience, with a bathroom I now have to clean.

Madison Avenue, always finding more ways to make me feel inadequate.

Life

I am officially a firm believer that you know absolutely nothing about life until you are present when it comes into the world for the first time. When you get to hear that first breath, followed by that first cry.

Yesterday, my baby sister brought life into the world. 

Arriving at the hospital around 2 in the afternoon (with no thought of how I was going to get home should the baby come before Matt got off work at midnight), I was happy to see that her pain had been subdued thanks to modern medicine and a very kind medical staff. As friends and family filed in and out of the room for most of the day and we tried to make Kristine laugh, insisting that she choose ahead of time her favourite curse words that she would shout during labor.

Around 5pm, labor seemed to stop and we had to reposition her to help move the baby in order to speed things along. Apparently though, moving somehow makes the meds wear off and that became very evident pretty quickly. I stayed by her bedside, suddenly the protective older sister, casting warning glances to any nurse or doctor that dared to make a sound and possibly wake her up. I ran my hands through her hair, hoping to relax her even just a little bit. I was reminded of similar moments growing up together when one of us gently stroked the others hair while we cried over heartbreak, sickness, and even grief.

As I usually do when in a medical situation, my emotional self turned off and I went into some sort of machine mode where I helped the nurses adjust pillows, blankets and even began handing off materials as my sister was examined. Then, around 7 at night when the hospital made a shift change, a new midwife came in and said, "Hey! We can start having a baby!"

Which was odd timing considering the nurse before said we would have hours to go, so everyone but myself, Kristine and her boyfriend had left the room to get dinner. I was glad however to hear that my sister wanted me to stay. I think if she had made me leave I would have sat outside the room with my ear to the door, sweating nervously the whole time.

Eventually two of Kristine's friends joined us and the team went to work (mostly Kristine though). We held her, cooled her down with fans and cold rags and said the typical encouraging words. In the middle of delivery I couldn't help but ask, "How the hell did you shave your legs and paint your toenails nine months pregnant?!"

With less than one hour of pushing and a severely worn off epidural, my baby sister, who once cried while getting a tattoo, grew stronger than I ever thought possible, and at 8:05pm, became a mother. Nurses took over and one of her friends and I fell into a puddle of tears at the foot of the bed when we heard the baby cry for the first time. Apparently I'm one of those people. Those people who cry at births and weddings and other gooey emotional stuff. Yup. I'm a sappy sap.

And then, Kristine, who had never held a baby before in her entire life, took to motherhood faster than I ever could have imagined. One minute she was laying there, simply my baby sister. The little girl who couldn't pronounce 'birth certificate'. The girl who I fought with for years during the dreaded teendom. The little girl who sat with me watching Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion while eating Cup o' Noodles and talking about our latest crushes.

A minute later, she was a Mom.
And a damn good one.

I'm so proud of her I can't even begin to find appropriate words.

Welcome to the world, and to our family, my newest little nephew . . . Trey.

He's already one of us.

Totally Unprepared

My little sister is in labor right now. I just realised that during our entire life growing up together, we never played labor and delivery. If we wanted to open up a restaurant, pet store, vampire slayer academy or start a band, we would be adequately prepared. But never once did eleven year old me hold her ten year old hand and say, "Just push, Sissy, push!" 

No, the furthest we ever got was nailing down the fact that she would have at least two children, the first of which would most definitely be a girl, I would have five children at least and our husbands would probably be members of NSync. As of this morning, we are completely off course. I'm not quite sure where we went wrong.

Oh how time flies.

One month ago we were playing together at her baby shower. I was telling her how cute her belly looked, and she was telling me that my shirt made my boobs look awesome. She made me try fish sauce and then I took about 100 pictures of her eating things, which was strictly against the rules. Then we both complained about back aches and swollen feet. Hers were legit, but frankly she was getting most of the attention anyway.

Seven years ago I told her that Matt had just proposed to me. We giggled and jumped around like the idiots that we were and reminisced about the time when we saw Devon Sawa naked in Now and Then.

Nine years ago we were working together at McDonalds. Both of us were dating one of our managers, cause really we're a little whorish like that. We'd goof off at work and create nicknames for one another based on the menu. I was a Big n Tasty. She was a Happy Meal. We both didn't get out enough.

Eleven years ago Matt took us both to the homecoming dance. I didn't want to go without her. So we went dress shopping and found the most 80's-tastic outfits we could find (hers was blue velvet) and then curled our hair and flopped it on top of our heads.

Fifteen years ago we lived in California. She hit me in the face with a hockey jersey and I pushed her through a window. We taped ourselves making up dances to Ace of Base. We accidentally got drunk at a Christmas party. We went to Vegas and dressed up as Princesses. She got mad because my boobs were big enough to fill out the dress. I got mad because her hair was thick and full and I was afraid mine was falling out.

Twenty years ago I was six and she was five. We played Tiny Toon Adventures and watched Eureka's Castle. I taught her how to do a cartwheel and she taught me how to swim. We both carried around stuffed teddy bears and pretended that they were our babies.

But now she's having a baby of the non teddy bear variety.

We've both grown up and I don't know where the time went.

Her hair still is thicker than mine.
But my boobs are still bigger.

The One Where I'm the Laziest Sister In the World

Hey do y'all remember approximately nine months ago when I was all, "Yay! My baby sister is pregnant!" Only I was actually in my whole infertility bad mood when I first wrote about it and she still didn't get upset. Especially since I totally gave her a shout out on Mother's Day even though she was barely sprouting a belly bumpit.

Cause I'm the sister who cares.

And hey, do you remember that awesome time when I went to her baby shower and I took lots of pictures and then I dedicated a whole post to said baby shower? No? Oh that's right, cause I'm a lazy ass and never got the damn post up. So yeah. I'm fashionably late. But I was early to the baby shower, so that totally counts for something.

My sister got two giant diaper cakes.
One of which included butt paste. Awesome.

My sisters boyfriend comes from an Asian/Hispanic family.
Thus, the food was wicked awesome.

The loot was massive.

The father-to-be and the men folk joined together in a game where they had to blow up a balloon
and then stuff it under their shirts and attempt to tie their shoes.

He totally cheated and got caught.

Then we did the baby food taste test. As you can see, I'm a total baby food foodie.

One of the jars was chunky. It caused mass hysteria and triggered gag reflexes.

I should probably mention that my sisters in labor as I'm writing this post.

It's a Red Head Thing

PW posted on her blog this morning that red hair fades faster than any other color and that if you dye your hair red over and over (even if you're already a red head) it will eventually turn brown. This is totally true and it breaks my heart. No offense to my brunette sistahs, but I am a red head and I can't rock that chestnut look.

Since Matt and I are trying to save money, we're cutting out things that are not totally necessary and unfortunately one of those things is my hair dye. Which breaks my heart. Cause seriously, my roots are like two inches thick now and they look horrible. This was a month ago at my sisters baby shower and you can still see the big different.

So I thought since my red is literally leaving me for the time being, I would blog more about red heads in an effort to stay closer to my roots (pun intended).

So in the future, when you see this . . .

Expect to be visually stimulated with pictures of gorgeous redheads across the media, history and the blogging world! If you are (or know of) a redhead blogger and want to be featured, send an email to untypicallyjia@gmail.com with your nomination.

PS: Be dears and send me some hair dye before I lose my entire sense of self. Clairol Herbal Essences "Paint The Town" Deep Red 44.

Untypically in Love: 1400 Miles and Counting

Read the full story, chapter by chapter here.

Some names and events have been changed to protect the identity of certain individuals.

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Chapter Twenty-Five
1400 Miles and Counting

The year was moving too quickly. It was hard for me to keep up with my own emotions. Grandma's death was still a consistent reminder at home as Paula would occasionally find herself overwhelmed in grief. Kristine was attending High School now and was dating one of my ex-boyfriends, a decision on her part that infuriated me and created a deep chasm in our relationship. Outside of my home and family everything was often so busy. Matt was in the spring school musical alongside many of our friends, and I remained behind the scenes as as assistant stage manager.
It seemed that if we weren't busy with school, we were busy at Church. Or at least I was. Matt attended less frequently, a sore subject between the two of us as I was doing what I could to look far into the future while he was trying his best to enjoy what little time we had left as teenagers.

Matt and I celebrated our one year anniversary by picking a fight with one another outside the auditorium. Like most of our arguments back then I can't remember what it was about, but I was certain that I was the instigator. Stress was causing me to lash out at everyone close to me.

My sixteenth birthday came and went and Matt and I were allowed by his parents to date publicly, now that both of us were of proper age. His parents had even invited me to go on a road trip up to Michigan to meet his mother's extended family. We would be gone for several weeks, something that Matt and I were greatly looking forward to. Unfortunately, we both lacked the foresight to prepare being trapped side by side in a cramped van traveling fourteen hundred miles across the country. Bickering was always there, but good moments arose in that trip that will never be forgotten. It prepared us for the future. Prepared us for driving eight hundred miles from Utah to New Mexico when we moved a year after we were married in addition to many other trips where it would be us, a vehicle and the open road.

Gateway Arch in Missouri

Though Michigan and then Ohio were out ultimate destination, we made several stops along the way to see the sights. One very important side trip was to Nauvoo, Illinois, which was the central location for our Church during the mid 1800's. As a new convert to the Church, I was honestly more excited about looking into the history of my faith, than meeting what I believed would be my future in-laws.

Nauvoo was beautiful. Everything I could ever wish it to be. I only wish it had been better suited for the early saints.

Mississippi River

Stone from the Nauvoo Temple

Nauvoo Women's Garden

The beauty and peace that came with Nauvoo would soon be replaced by revered thoughts as we traveled to Carthage Jail, where the Prophet, Joseph Smith, was martyred.

Outside Carthage Jail

We stepped out of the van, and walked hand in hand toward the jail. Though Matt had been a member his entire life, it was only now that he walked in the very footsteps of those that came before, paving the way for the rest of us. Being so new to the gospel, I was especially sensitive to the history. I felt a deep connection that I could not describe as I followed our tour guide into the jail where we were shown around.

We ascended stairs to the top floor and led into a room with one window overlooking the ground below. It was a small room, and because our group was large, we had to squeeze to make extra room. After being told the story that we had all heard many times before, a recording came over the speakers. Matt's favourite hymn (I believe because of this very event) began playing:

A poor wayfaring man of grief

Hath often crossed me on my way,

Who sued so humbly for relief

That I could never answer Nay:

I had not power to ask his name,

Whither he went or whence he came;

Yet there was something in his eye

That won my love, I know not why.

 As the hymn continued playing in the background, a voice came over and began reading the account of John Taylor. A sound recorded reenactment of the final moments in that room, (a recording I am very grateful for as it really enlightens ones mind as to the reality of those events.) Noises were muttered, but still distinct. A mob outside the door. Our tour guide closed the door and I looked up, hearing the angry voices. Closing my eyes I imagined what it would be like. I held Matt's hand tightly with both of mine.

Scattered footsteps and moving furniture. Men gathered together to push against the door and hold it shut, hoping to delay the mobs violent attack. And then, a gunshot. And another. More gunshots began to follow and then . . . breaking glass. I felt tears streaming down my face, but my eyes remained closed. When I finally opened them, all but myself and Matt's family had left the room. I turned and looked out the window, reaching out and touching the glass for myself, took a deep breath, and then quietly turned and left Carthage Jail.

 

>>> Chapter Twenty-Six

I Avoid Most Things Controversial . . . Until Now

Controversy scares me. I've always done what I could to avoid it. It's why I so rarely talk about politics on my blog and I almost never state my opinions on anything that is considered a hot button in the media or the world at large. It's been my safe place. I don't like to stir the pot. I've always been an ever changing chameleon. I keep my mouth shut in the presence of those that my opinion might offend. So many shoes I have had to wear to keep up appearances. To please everyone else around me.

For some reason, I feel prompted to blog today on the subject of homosexuality in the wake of the recent LDS General Conference talk by Boyd K. Packer that is causing quite a stir in the media and naturally, among bloggers gay, straight, and LDS alike.

I have friends who have spoken on the subject already.
Women who I believe are much braver than I ever could be.
And writers who have more of a personal connection to this than I ever have had.

But I still feel that it's wrong of me to be a fence sitter. That's it's wrong for me to often talk about fighting back against fear, when I find myself afraid of upsetting the masses, of people hating me, of stirring the pot and causing controversy, especially here on my blog which has become my safe haven.

I think everyone knows by now that my Church does not support homosexuality, and with the publicity that Proposition 8 received, it's obvious that the Church is in opposition of legalizing gay marriage. And . . . I happen to agree.

Let me say though, that my agreement is made with clouded vision. I am not personally connected. I don't have the reasons that many others do. I do not have children, so I cannot say I believe that gay propaganda will influence schools and the education of my children. I do not have family members that are gay, so I do not know the personal struggles that they go through in their daily lives, or the spiritual struggles they deal with. I do not consider myself an influential person, so I will admit that when it comes to the legal details regarding the overturning of laws, I'm quite at a loss for words and detailed opinions.

I have gay friends, though not close ones, and I know that they are good people. They have at times made me laugh and been dear to my heart. Which is why I say that it is wrong to hate them, just as I believe it is wrong to hate anyone as a group. I do however agree with statements from my Church elders, though I much prefer the loving statement from Jeffrey R. Holland, to that of Boyd K. Packer.

Despite my feelings toward those with same gender attraction, I know that I can love them as people, and can appreciate the struggles they go through and the trials they can overcome. I feel the same way toward women who have had abortions. I do not support abortions, and I believe it is morally wrong . . . but I've seen the suffering that choices regarding abortion has caused, and I grieve with the people afflicted by those choices.

I've not spent many hours in prayer and contemplation over this subject, and I will be the first to say that I am terribly flawed and imperfect myself - and I accept that I will be held accountable for my flaws, choices, and imperfections. So I do not try to judge others. You will not see me at a gay pride parade standing on the sidelines holding up signs speaking of destruction, hell and hatred. You will also not find me on the other side of the fence.

I will try to find myself far away, hopefully preaching love and peace above all else.

To love as Jesus loved.
To speak as Jesus spake.
And to act as Jesus acted.

The Lion, The Jia and The Wardrobe

I think I was like eight when I first read The Narnia Chronicles. I remember not knowing what a wardrobe was because to me, a wardrobe was something that my older sister had and it consisted of a massive collection of clothing. Wardrobes were clothing to me.

Not furniture.

Now I know better. But it doesn't mean that I have a wardrobe yet. No. I have a large closet where I keep things that can be hung up, and then many laundry baskets where everything else goes.

I have to do laundry today. Sigh. 

So while I work hard today avoiding washing laundry, I'll be dreaming about the gorgeous wardrobes that CSN has on sale (among all the other awesome products they have in 200+ stores). Maybe if I'm a good girl this year Santa will bring me a wardrobe. And a Lion and a Witch. And then they can battle it out! Winner gets the wardrobe! That's how the stories went, right?



PS: Look forward to a review of CSN in an upcoming post.

Keeping Me Down

Babysteps.

One out the front door.
One down the street.
One step to overcome fear.
One step to fight anxiety.
One step to say no to depression.
One step, straight into a wall built by OCD . . .
Depression returns, anxiety controls and fear swallows me whole.

I try to be lighthearted. I try to find the silver lining.
I try to let humor, and not anger, control my thoughts.

But when it comes down to it, I hate OCD.
It lies to me. But it's so convincing.

OCD tells me that there is a great big red wall that I cannot climb.
There is no wall there.
But OCD lies so well that I can actually see it. Touch it. Feel it.

Other people walk into a garden and they see a poisonous snake.
They feel fear. They feel anger. They want to attack.
They want to run away.

OCD tells me that walking into a disorganized situation is poisonous.
It makes me fear. It makes me angry. It makes me want to attack.
It makes me want to run away.

It's as real to me as any physical predator.

Last week I learned to crawl.

This week I tried to run.

Skipped a very important step along the way.

I fell.

I fell hard.

Bruised and broken, but not dead.

The last time I fell, I was sure I was gone forever.
There was no coming back.
But now I know the signs.
I ran away from the fire of a bad situation fast.
Not fast enough to escape without burns and scars.
But fast enough to live.

Sometimes I wish these mental handicaps were physical.
Then people might see me, and understand.

Understand that when you fall, your brain tells you that you're in pain.
Mine tells me that I am worthless, useless, broken ...
And it hurts.
Even if most of the time I don't agree.
It still hurts.

Yesterday, my body started failing me. Legs giving out. Knees buckling. Feet . . . . felt broken.
My body gave out hours after the rest of me did.
The physical pain came much later than the mental pain. The emotional pain. The fear. The anger. The confusion.

Someone kindly said, "I hope you're knee heals soon."
Assuming that I was injured.
I smiled. Kind words from a stranger.
A stranger who had no idea the severity of my wounds.
That I had stopped feeling the pain in my knee long ago.

"Get over it."
"Count your blessings."
"There's nothing to be afraid of."

These are just words.
You don't understand.

And because you don't understand, it's so hard to explain.
I wish it was as easy as having the willpower.
I wish I was normal.

I wish I wasn't broken.

I wish I could be like everyone else.
But with red hair.

Thank God for a husband who may not understand, but tries.
A man who loves me despite my battle scars.
Who sticks by me through this constant war.
A man who painfully, regretfully, suffers with me.

Thank God for friends who know.
Friends who live it with me.
Friends who have crumbled, shattered and survived.

Who know that symptoms can come and go.
Friends who speak OCD.
Who speak depression.
Who understand mental metaphors.
Who understand my language.

I am NOT alone.

I will heal again.
I will.