Ashley would be nice to talk to today.

My big sister, Ashley Ann Brooks, died before I met a lot of you loyal readers. I’ve made mention of her in this journal before, although I admit it usually related to her untimely and tragic death. There’s so much more to her story and I haven’t really written much about live Ashley, loving Ashley, healthy Ashley. I’ve spent years being angry at her for leaving the party so early. I doubt that writing about my anger helps anyone, not even me, so I write about other, less meaningful things. Sometimes I write about important stuff, sure, but I leave her life with my family out of the picture, and that doesn’t seem fair. It doesn’t seem right.

I talk a big game about how we should not be defined by our diagnoses, so it doesn’t make sense to talk about the sickness that led to her death. Or more realistically, I can’t talk about it because I don’t know what the hell happened. I just know that it made a perfect storm. A god damn hurricane of trauma. I know I was there, and I felt sick, by proxy. When my sister suffered, I suffered, and now that she’s not here (hasn’t been here for nearing on 16 years) it’s always surprising how badly I can miss someone I only knew for half my life.

So what do I know about her? I know she did not enjoy having this photo taken, and she’s not smiling on purpose. I have no idea why she was so unhappy. I don’t know her demons. Because she wanted to protect me, always, even as a little kid. So she didn’t share with me why she felt so poorly so often. I know the symptoms, but the disease eludes me. On top of everything, my memory is notoriously colored by my emotions. I can recall things if prompted, but things that made me feel bad when I was younger just don’t crop up in my memory bank. I’m sure that has to do with protecting myself, too. There are years and occasions of which I have no memory, until someone else tells me a story, and suddenly, yeah, I was there.

Despite it all, Ashley and I were very close at the end of her life. I have to remember the chaos of attempting to keep a sick sister alive because that was also the time I knew her the best, give or take toddlerhood. But it’s hard. I remember her turning the EMTs away from our house after the ambulance was called in the middle of the night, after what I can only assume was a seizure. She was just shaking and crying. I recall the utter hopelessness of it all. We were in a very dark, cold place, as a family. I don’t think it’s something we will ever forget, and I personally haven’t forgiven either, yet.

To be clear, I don’t know whose ‘fault’ the entire thing would be. I know if there was a person I could blame (after trying to blame myself for years, which is just a lovely bit of egotism) then I would wish them all manner of harm, and I doubt that’s very healthy either. I want to forgive. Correction, I want to want to forgive. I wish I didn’t feel righteously hateful towards a disease. it’s not a great kind of energy to push into the universe. and yet I hold on to it, because somehow the disease is conflated with getting to be best friends with my cool older sister, for however few years we were that close. It’s a conundrum.

In any case. The only way out is through. If I want a better relationship with the Ashley I love, I’m going to have to work on it in the present. the future takes too long and the past is spoken for. So here I go.

Dear Ashley,

Hey girl. I really miss you tonight. I worked from home today so I got to cuddle Dante a bit this afternoon, during the video position of an 8 hour zoom training. He’s doing great, by the way…he’s almost 16 this year, as I’m sure you’re aware, but I’m taking good care of him, and he’s taking good care of me. We got a new baby, too. Oscar! Oscar is still definitely a puppy, but I can forgive him for that since he’s extraordinarily cute. Well, as cute as puppies can be when you have to live with them full time. He’s curled up on the couch and he actually let me focus during the training for the entire day. I’m planning on heading to the store to pick up some super delicious treats for him tonight. He earned them.

Training was tough, sis. it’s a 16-20 week program for Native clients, and I feel so out of place and awkward compared to my classmates. We open each day with words and prayer, and that’s difficult for me. I don’t know if I believe that when you pray, anyone can be bothered to listen. My classmates have presented such beautiful prayers and honest, heartfelt words. I want to learn and be respectful, so mostly I stay quiet and listen. Maybe prayer works whether you believe it or not, because all I could think about after we were done for the day was wanting to talk to you, somehow. Maybe you can read this. Maybe it’s not all superstition and make believe. Maybe talking with you matters, no matter how. I don’t know.

A lot of the training talks about our relatives, our family. You and I have an embarrassment of wealth in family, even if we’re just counting the aunts and uncles on mom’s side. I am in a good place with the family now, which I know wasn’t always the case. I’m sorry for being so angry at them for so long, for not magically rescuing you. I could have spent those years getting to know them better, instead of holding a grudge. I bet you’d have told me to shut up and respect their love. But I was so blinded and in so much pain.

Now, I don’t have a family of my own, or at least not a partner or children. That makes a lot of the learning pretty hard to swallow. not because I don’t believe in it; I believe in it so much, in fact, that I feel an empty pit in my belly and my heart because I don’t have those things in my life. I should have had babies. I should have a partner. I should should should…my head is just spiraling and my soul hurts, and I want to go Home. But that home doesn’t exist. I feel overwhelming grief at something that never happened.

And then I think about you, and what could have been. You would have been a beautiful mother, if you’d walked that path. you would have been an extraordinary partner, if you’d found the right person. should should should, if if if.

I dream about you sometimes, and some of those dreams are nightmares. It’s been a while since we’ve had time to sit and chat and just enjoy the space between twilight and dawn. I’d like to invite you here, tonight, to come see me. It’s been too long.

Love you so, Missus Ashley Ma’am.

No pic to go with the blog today, sorry.

Today was a rough one.

There’s this idea in popular media that chronic mental illness can be ‘cured’. Cured herein meaning done, over, out of your life. Totally resolved, for good. The girl gets sick, she gets sicker, she does regrettable and morally shady things, she hits rock bottom, she has a revelation, she gets better. The End. She falls, she flips her situation, she flies off into the sunset. Fall, flip, fly. (The funny thing is that the vast majority of people I know who create art, specifically film, have mental health concerns of their own…so they really should know better as an industry, no?)

Very few stories approach the idea that nothing is going to stop you from falling down again. And Again. and a couple more times, too. A Star Is Born got pretty close to the reality of the situation, but keep in mind that not all people who are unwell end up dying. Lots of us persevere, which is the harder thing to do. I’ve seen people fade away into themselves and ultimately end their lives, and I don’t want that to be my story. It’s not something I idolize or romanticize, and frankly, that took me a while to learn. Suicidality; the social work term for the mental or physical act of preparing to end your life, is something I have learned to live with. It’s a neighbor I’ve had for many years, since I was fairly young, and it used to be a raucous asshole, parties every night, trash on the lawn, you can only imagine. Nowadays, it comes over to borrow sugar or have a cup of tea, looks around for a bit as if seeking a reason to stay, and I politely and firmly show it to the door. But it comes back, because we live close by, and frankly, Suicidality is one lonely son of a gun.

Okay, so are you suicidal now, my dear loyal readers want to know. Short answer, No. I’ve had a very rough day with hard core anxiety leading to a wee baby panic attack and almost crying on a zoom staff meeting (and if that’s not emblematic of quarantine, I don’t know what is). I gritted my teeth and sniffled in my office and I made it to 5pm before rushing home to the animals and couch. Those teeth-gritting hours were painful and loathsome. I just wanted to run home and go to bed and fall into a dreamless sleep. Because dealing with my brain chemistry, my cramping stomach and clenched jaw, my feelings of utter uselessness and worthlessness, my embarrassment and shame at holding back tears in a goddamn staff meeting until it was my turn to speak, all of it, made me want to just fade away. I didn’t want to end my life, but I was pretty done having life pick on me until I cried.

I wanted to control how I felt. I want to control how I feel now writing this, worried it’ll scare my readers. I’ve made an absolute point of telling you all most of the scary stuff, even when no one asked, and even though it’s no one’s business but my own. I’ve written for years about my body and it’s weird little habits. I’ve tried to be brave and share what I can, and hopefully this honesty has been refreshing for you all. Sometimes, my dear brain and her antics are frightening, and I wouldn’t want to keep that part to myself. That’s how people die. I don’t want that at all.

I am safe, and I feel loved, and I’m not in the darkest place I’ve ever been. It’s certainly not a bright spot in my year so far, but still. Safe. I fought for myself today and I won. But there are battles every day, and this one was exhausting. I could have walked the dog and gone to bed by now, despite how much evening I have left; instead, I wrote this. I feel its important to share that not everyone who has active, chronic suicidality ends up dying, they survive with it. It’s not gone, it’s not ‘cured’. For me, it’s something that peeks in the window and occasionally knocks. I’m the sort of person that lets it in to talk for a while. Then, as before, I show it the door.

Don’t worry for me, dear reader, I’ve dealt with this before, and I know what I’m doing. That shouldn’t imply I never ask for help, either. I know that asking for help is hard, even harder when you feel like the universe is caving in, but help is very, well, helpful. I have a few friends I can, some family I can rely on, and I’m lucky that way. Keep in mind, however, there is always someone who can listen.

Be well, loyal reader. Tomorrow is another day.

National Suicide Prevention LifelineHours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish. Learn more

800-273-8255

I’m pretty hard on my brain. Sure, she is an unruly brat sometimes, and we fight a whole bunch. That shouldn’t imply we’re not in this struggle together. There are even times when she makes a damn good point, and that’s the trickiest part. I had therapy yesterday, and it was the sort of session where you end up thinking about it most of the day afterward. We talked about my backstory with my departed sister, and how even now, nearing on 16 years after the fact, I’m still reeling. Not all the time, but sometimes. Right now, I’m feeling fairly raw, and I’m glad I have the day to myself.

It’s a chilly day, there’s not much sun, although it peeks through the clouds curiously from time to time. I have they day off for the holiday, and I was planning on driving over to visit the mom (currently in town) and perhaps stop for a skinny latte on the way. What’s that you say? my car battery died overnight thanks to a teeny interior light? and now it won’t charge? Cue the call to my shop, and to AAA, to coordinate a tow and new battery installation. Thankfully, my shop is a mere block from my apartment, and I can get there fairly easier, and perhaps this won’t take all day.

Now, you may assume, using that silly logic of yours, that an event like this would make me feel stressed and frustrated and possibly trigger anxiety. However, nothing gives me anxiety quite like doing absolutely nothing. Something beats nothing the vast majority of the time. Taking on the task of getting my car fixed did not feel stressful at all. It was a chore, and I do chores well. I didn’t feel awful, the way I do when there’s utterly nothing to be done to improve the situation. Keep in my mind, my privilege is showing, because I don’t have to worry about the cost involved, relatively speaking. I can afford a new battery, I can afford a AAA membership. Hell, I can afford the effort and exertion of walking myself to the auto shop, talking with strangers, arranging the whole thing….that’s not something everyone could do easily.

I value and appreciate my mom and R for making certain I was ok. I especially appreciate R for driving over and attempting to jump a dead battery, even (especially) though it didn’t work. Having friends and loved ones in the city makes me feel so much support. But I could have done this completely on my own and done just fine. Despite my dear brain trying to convince me otherwise. She’s a stinker, no?

So Brain and I are on weird terms. I feed her knowledge and social interaction, and yet she’s nigh feral when she’s bored and lonesome. She doesn’t want to settle down. Now, I know enough about handling animals to know that forcing them to do something never works if you’re trying to TRAIN them to do that same thing, again, on purpose. In fact, force them too much and they’ll be actively afraid of whatever that thing was to begin with. When my puppy bites, and he can be nippy when excited, I don’t force his mouth closed, I don’t yell (much), and I certainly don’t punish. Instead, I reach for the next accessible treat or toy, I entice him with it, and I change his focus. He can bite toys all he wants. He can chew anything I give him to his heart’s content. Given the option, he’d much rather chew a toy over a hand anyway.

Therefore, using that silly damn logic again, I have to have toys and treats for Brain. Books used to work out pretty well, before the masters program and return to school made me wary of overanalyzing rather than reading for pleasure…(That’s a whole thing I can unpack another day). Crafts seem to work well, as long as they’re complex and detailed enough to stimulate my grey matter. People, dear reader, people are the ultimate Brain treat. I love people and so does my brain, it’s an excellent fit…hard to have someone on hand as easily as a treat, but very, very helpful.

Ironically, I think I have better friendships than I did before 2020 rocked all our collective socks off. I talk to my closest friends more than I did when the world was chaotic freedom. I spend more time having in depth conversations than ever I did before, even without the nightly roaming online that marked 2019 (the Divorce Year). My friends, my family, are allowing me to cope marvelously. I’m not out of the woods yet when it comes to winter depression, that’s a big beast to slay, but I don’t feel as if the world will simply not move on. I feel good. I feel hopeful. I feel sustainable.

I’ve also been working out about 3 times a week, which makes a difference despite my Brain’s constant whining before class. I’m doing Muay Thai kickboxing, which isn’t too handsy (love that). It’s a good workout and I’m learning how to do the moves without terrible much trouble, although I’m very bad at keeping my gloves protecting my face. I haven’t gone to sparring class because I’m not at the level of trying that out just yet. I’m getting better, but not ready to have my face kicked. Gloves up. Gloves up, dammit. It’s an hour long class, which I can handle, but I’m always nice and tired after. Brain enjoys the break, too.

This post is all over the place, I admit. Hoping it was at least interesting to read. Happy holiday, loyal reader!

I’ve never been very good at winter. Today is a difficult day for me. I didn’t get everything I wanted to get done at work before the holidays, and forgot a few things, and now Monday seems daunting. I’m spending time and energy attempting to relax. I’m feeling miserable because I want to work and yet have no motivation. I’m stressing about the cycle of avoid, cringe, and feel terrible for avoiding, avoid, etc.

Oscar is being a good boy since his cone came off, following a very uneventful neuter. He was supposed to keep the cone on for 10-14 days which he did like a champion. He was also supposed to not run or jump for those same 10-14 days, which absolutely did not happen. He was playing and rolling around the bed the morning after surgery, and didn’t stop. I worried for a bit, but he didn’t trying to lick himself and he couldn’t get the cone off, so his stitches were pretty safe. R took off some work to be home with Oscar, which was a very sweet thing to do. I feel as if taking off days from work is actually more stressful than not, but R was in serious need of a break, so I’m glad he had the chance to take one and enjoy time at my place with the pets.

Am I avoiding again? Frankly, I didn’t get much work done over the holidays, for a variety of reasons, and I am scared of going back to work tomorrow. My mental health is not in top condition, and the symptoms of apathy and lack of focus made it really hard to work while most of my department was on winter break. I’m embarrassed and nervous and ashamed. I dug a hole and now I have to climb my way out, and I feel lonely even with my dear loved ones cheering me on. Or rather, they would cheer me on if I’d mentioned it to more than barely anyone. I’m holding in all my stress and worry and it’s consuming my brain.

Of course, life keeps plodding on, and tomorrow is another day. A frightening, nerve-wracking day.

Do me a favor and seek out someone struggling, this week, and tell them how important they are to you. Let them know that failure doesn’t exist forever and they will feel better someday. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Someday it’ll feel less like the ceiling is falling in on the world and more like hope is a possibility. Even if that time is a long way off, there’s love and support available, and it’s ok to ask.

I can handle this, but I appreciate love and support. It’s there somewhere. Asking is the first step.

It’s not always easy to take care of oneself.

I woke up this morning after pressing snooze for about an hour, catching 9 minute snippets of restless half-sleep. I was a mess. I slithered out of bed in a snotty, sobbing bundle of emotions, and called my mom. She’s gotten calls like this before, and damn it if she wasn’t the most supportive and sweet thing ever. I told her how I was feeling, and that I was taking a day to sort myself out. No arguments. She told me to call any time, which is particularly amazing considering how busy she must be. I called and then emailed HR, my manager, and my coworkers to ask for coverage today. They all responded kindly and helpfully. I really value this job.

What exactly does one do during a mental health day, you wonder. Certainly I won’t be spending ALL the day writhing in bed in misery, how would that help? My sister suggested I actually sit in my feelings for a time, instead of pushing them off. Yet I have to fight the feelings of self indulgence and the bullshit notion that you really should go to work unless you physically can’t. I grew up thinking that if I didn’t perform well, constantly, that I was somehow lagging and more specifically, crippled.

Funny how these things find their way into young brains and just settle in for life. Why does it feel bad to take a little bitty day to make sure I can keep going? I would never begrudge such a decision for anyone else, but somehow it feels wrong because I inherently value my health as less important than anyone else. I know, deep down, that I need a break. But taking a break is hard.

I did spend some time cleaning, and checking in with work to make sure everything was handled. I cuddled with Oscar and let him lick my tears (he really enjoys salt water, apparently it’s delicious). I made myself tea and got into comfy clothes. I had a brief existential crisis and cursed my brain chemicals and covid and stress and life in general. I got up from the couch and blogged, because remembering this is important. I drank some tea, even though by now it’s lukewarm. It’s only 11am. Drat.

I know that there’s no point in taking a mental health day, at least in my mind, without doing something to reason out my emotions. Some things, like taking my medicine, is pretty easy. (well, it’s easy in theory, surely loyal readers of mine know that taking meds long term is a bumpy road in and of itself…which is essentially the point of this blog. Being bipolar and keeping healthy is a long and winding journey with lots of pit stops, readjustments, balancing acts, and…well, if you’ve met me, you know it’s not always a great adventure. sometimes it sucks. There’s just no other option.)Some things, including a hard reset of my brain, is much more tricky. Finding compassion for myself is the hardest bit of all.

But Jady, you’re a social worker and a therapist. Surely you won’t be effective in your career if you didn’t know a thing or two to make things better. Why not give yourself a bit of that masters-fed good advice?

Good point, loyal reader. I could delve into the mechanics of my brain and explain that my advice doesn’t really absorb in my own head. I might compare it to giving oneself an massage, which it turns out isn’t relaxing or effective at all. I could ask for help.

That’s the thing. I did ask for help. My sister, my mom, my friends, they all stepped up and supported me as well as they can from a distance. That makes a very big difference to me. Even my boss told me she cared and hoped I felt better. Even as a resolute atheist, I know that there are things bigger than a single person. It takes the help of a community–one to which I have offered love and help when they needed it–to inspire hope. I don’t feel alone. I feel loved. I earned that, although I’m lucky as well.

So my goal today is to feel, and recuperate, and yes, take meds. Any one thing may not work on its own, so I’m fighting for myself with the entire arsenal. For those of you who have offered help, I will take it, and whatever you have to give is enough. I will survive today.

It will truly be ok.

I’m pretty sure my computer is dying. It’s a macbook pro from 2012, and I believe it’s getting pretty close to the end. I’m sorry to see it in this condition; I’m going to have to harvest my entire file collection soon, and move forward with using my tablet and keyboard until a new laptop happens.

It’s funny how these things evoke an emotional reaction from us humans. Sure, this computer has seen me through the entirety of my marriage, moved with me from Oakland to salt lake city, and houses my writing for over a decade. But it;s a tool, and this tool no longer works in a way that makes it functional. So its time to move on. I will miss the comfort of using a mac with my apple phone, they’re just so darn useful together. But I’m not exactly in a position to buy a new one at their prices, so here I am typing on my Asus tablet (thank you for this little PC, dad). I’m sure there’s going to be tears shed about retiring ol’ macbook. I will miss the sticker collection, too. But I have a regularly updating cloud drive, so i won’t lose anything…I hope.

In any case, I’m writing today as it’s a significant anniversary for me….both the day my divorce was legal, and the day I met the current guy I spend time with. It’s not often that meeting someone at your divorce party turns out so well, frankly. I mean, I’ve only done the divorcee thing once, so maybe it does go well, statistically. who even knows.

So it’s been a year, and I am pretty much better off in every arena of my life. I have a job that I enjoy and actually has career potential without burning me out over and over. I have a new puppy that might even turn into a good dog (the jury is still out on that one). I have a shiny and delightful apartment that I can afford to pay for all on my own. My friends have been excellent support, loyal and loving. My family and I have a better relationship than when I was with the shitbag, because I’m not having poison about them poured in my ear from someone I used to love.

This all makes me feel very lucky, especially considering how poorly the year has gone for so many of my loved ones. it’s almost taboo to discuss one’s life going well in the Year from Hell. 2020 has been an extraordinary journey, and I only wish it wasn’t such a shitshow for people I care about.

How do you celebrate a divorciversary and an anniversary in one weekend? I had drinks with a few friends online on friday, and I’m setting up the day today to have anniversary fun…it was really a matter of chosing which I liked better, and investing in the future rather than lingering in the past. Yes, I know that I discuss my divorce all this time on this blog, but it really doesn’t occupy my thoughts as often as you’d think…it’s just always something that makes me passionately want to write, since this blog is supposed to be a reminder of my life for Future Jady, and I think it’s important to remember these feelings.

When you’re gaslit for years, you start to doubt your own sanity, as I did for a long time. You start to think that maybe you made it up, maybe the conflict was your fault. You don’t know exactly how to trust yourself, since someone told you for years that you couldn’t handle big things. It’s still an issue with the guy I’m dating, trust and boundaries that may be a bit hard to navigate. I find myself doubting kindness, because in my marriage, good things always had massive strings attached. I really appreciate this guy for being willing to keep going with the nice and thoughtful things he does, despite my occasional ‘ok, buddy, what’s in it for you?’

Even if I wasn’t dating right now, I believe my life would still be significantly better and I would feel confidence and self-love that wasn’t here a year ago. It’s nice to have a person who really, really likes you, but it’s far more important to really, really like yourself. I could go into the dynamics of liking who you are as a woman in society, and how easy it is to fall into old behaviors of self doubt and criticism, but I’m kind of over expecting myself to be my own worst critic. Perfectionist basically guarantees that you’ll never enjoy accomplishments. You are always looking one step ahead to the next thing you might fail. You don’t love who you are that way. It’s a hard path, and I chose not to take it.

I find myself appreciating making choices in a way I never could have in the old toxic relationship. I decorated the apartment exactly how I wanted to, and if people don’t like it, well they don’t live here. It’s nice to make big decisions and not feel bad about them immediately because you’re too dumb to make good ones. If I may reiterate, I spent years with my primary source of confidence telling me I was unable to take care of myself. But I can, and I do. I don’t feel stabbing guilt when I choose to do something I like, because there’s no longer someone in my life telling me I’m making a stupid call.

The most precious thing that I’ve cultivated this year is my friendships, with family and friends, and perhaps that’s why I don’t feel impending doom in my heart every time I have a moment to think. I feel loved and appreciated. I value who I am and I like where I find myself. It’s nice. it’s more than nice, it’s wonderful.

Well, if I don’t blog before the holiday, which at my rate of writing is very likely, enjoy the days off from work and connect with your kin. I cant stress enough how much other people in my life have helped me heal. My gratitude is at once overwhelming and rejuvenating. The more time I spend with people who truly care for me, the more I can put into the world, the more I have to give. I guess what I’m saying is I’m very thankful and I love you, so much.

This week I work on monday and tuesday, I have wednesday through friday off, and i’m going to have a small dinner with a select few on thanksgiving. I’ve also booked a night at the Homestead resort in Midway, Utah, home of a natural crater hot springs, for the day following Thanksgiving. Oscar will be having a sleepover at the dog park that night, and I am only a bit worried that he’ll be lonesome…he loves the doggy daycare, so I imagine he’ll have a blast, but it’s the first overnight he’s spent there.

OH, and Oscar is getting neutered in less than a month! Perhaps his crazy brain will calm down a bit. I love the pup but he’s somewhat crazy nowadays. Puppies, am I right?

I’m sitting on the computer, eating garlic stuffed olives, and (shockingly) peaceful as can be for someone on the eve of their former anniversary, someone for whom dates have always been a very big deal.

“I don’t even remember those days anymore. someday you won’t either.” said my dear friend over the phone this evening. “sure. I can’t wait.” I replied, not believing it in the least. She’s getting married next year…to herself. At Burning Man. if there is a Burning Man, or indeed a next year at all. I admire that mentality, marrying oneself, immensely, although I’d most likely file for divorce after a bad fight with crazy-brain. Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last 6 months, it’s that if you can handle yourself, other people are no issue at all. Sure, going out would be nice. Certainly, I’m hating spending nights alone. But there is limited doom and gloom in my heart, and that’s a huge step forward for me.

Oscar is a big help in the heart department. He’s at my feet right now, chewing a bully stick and making them teeny needle-teeth work. I imagine that some of you, even the most loyal reader, was affronted at the idea of getting a new dog 3 days after Corms died. I couldn’t help it. Be it healthy or weird, possibly both, I define myself as a dog person (sorry Dante) and dog people have dogs. I also admit that I fantasized about picking out a new pup for MONTHS as Corms got older, and I refuse to feel guilty about that. It’s impossible to replace Cormac. That’s true. But picking out a puppy is possibly the funnest thing you can do in the world, so I was mournfully/hopefully looking forward to that. And then Oscar happened, out of the blue yonder of the local classifieds, and he was 6 lb (around 10 lb now) but with the personality of a REAL dog (yes, we’re all aware I’m size-ist about dogs), aaaaaand that’s how I got a lap dog. He will be able to come with me on an airplane and we will travel the world if it’s still around if/when planes are an option again. He may fall into a thimble and DROWN because he’s the smallest pup in existence, but by god, he will go with me on an airplane.

See? now I’m picturing Oscar paddling around the inside of a thimble and I’m much cheerier than I was starting this very belated blog. Dogs cure people, loyal reader. I would wager they have a much higher success rate than western medicine, in any case. I have a love/hate relationship with my meds, of course, well documented in this very journal. They keep me settled and mostly functional. They also kill my soul when the dosage is off, which is something my doctor *helps* me with, but it’s mostly my own job to do. Look at me, talking crap about the medical sciences twice in one paragraph.

Listen, medication is great. it keeps me alive. More accurately, it is one of the MANY tools I employ to keep myself alive. It’s not a ‘cure’, and it never could be, because what we have named ‘mental illness’ is a nebulous and ever-changing intangible thing that exists at the crossroads of chemistry and spirit. I couldn’t prescribe my lifestyle to any other person, not even any other bipolar person, or any other bipolar female person, or any bipolar female person in Utah, etc and so forth. My daily dance with my brain and body is something unique and fluid. I don’t always get the steps right, because there are no steps, and there is no such thing as ‘right’. There’s good times and hard times, and a lot of overlap.

So maybe today I had coffee and a protein shake and finally some olives, and maybe my body feels like crap because eating is important. Maybe today I realized my IUD has expired (but maybe not, is mirena a 5 year or 7 year thing nowadays? Why would I possibly have doubts about western medicine when there can be a two-year difference in efficacy based on where/when you get your IUD and whose opinion makes it into the ‘facts’ category? go figure.) and then I cried all lunch because this was supposed to be the last IUD, followed by babies with someone who I assumed loved me. And maybe all this conflated into the perfect storm of Hard Day feelings and I ended up blogging about it because going to sleep immediately following an olive binge and feeling sorry for myself seemed like it would lead to guaranteed bad dreams.

So. my methods are imperfect. I will admit that. I will wear that badge crookedly and proudly. But I must be doing something well, because despite the ever loving MADNESS of the planet/country/everything, I’m a fairly happy person right now. Hard Days don’t make that not exist. It’s almost taboo to say, but this has been an amazing year for me. I’ve grown and changed and literally faced my darkest fear, losing Cormac, and I DIDN’T DIE. It hurts, but I did it right, and I have no regrets. I gave the thing I love the most a beautiful life and an honorable death. That’s got to cheer up a girl on even the darkest days.

I could choose to stay up right now, and drift back into the feelings of loss and grief that overcome me when I think about getting another IUD (yes, I’m aware they can be removed at any time, thanks for the note), or I can do things and add elements to my evening to make the sorrow tolerable. One such thing was writing, and I admit that getting my writing to the eyes of a reader is at least half of the fun, if not more. I see the stats of my blog go up and up every time I get into the swing of writing regularly, and that feels very good. So maybe other people are an issue. Or, rather, a complement to my own self-care. Another thing to do would be to eat an actual meal, even though it’s late and I’m not hungry. I wasn’t hungry for those olives, but they were a pleasure to consume, so my appetite may be a bit off-kilter at the moment. (that’s a red flag for both depression AND anxiety, isn’t that adorable?) I can also take my meds, drink water, go to sleep, and choose to look forward to tomorrow.

I’m really ok, loyal reader, and I truly do hope these anniversaries fade away. They may not ever, and that would be alright, too. I’m happy. Just not feeling so great today. Like I said before, a lot of overlap.

Once upon a girl said goodbye to her kindred spirit, her familiar, her greatest love. Then, not soon after, the girl fell, once again, in love. Oscar is a total goofball and a dork, and I adore him terribly. He is my favorite reason to wake up at 5am, by far, even though I wish his belly/bladder would grow a bit so we didn’t have to be up that early. He’s mouthy and gets the zoomies quite often, which is slightly exhausting. Still, and growing all the time, my love for him endures.

But enough about Oscar (there’s never enough about Oscar), I did something. I quite my job that I started ten days after my graduation, and got a new job that I started yesterday. So far it’s pretty basic onboarding things, I-9s and W4s, enrollment into direct deposit, etc. This job really excites me already, though, because of certain things they do. For example, they have a new employee task sheet in which you ask every current employee what their job is, why you would go to them, who they are; fill out the entire sheet so essentially you’ve interviewed everyone in the building. It’s the kind of thing that would be terrifying to a shy introvert, but I absolutely love it. It’ll solve my problem of having difficulty remembering names, which is a very fearful thing in my profession (no-one likes the therapist who can’t remember your name). It’s something I’ve struggled with my entire adulthood, and I very much appreciate name badges, but you can’t always count on those. This is an elegant, person-forward solution.

I’m also taking cultural training on American Indians and Alaskan Natives, who are my primary demographic for providing services. My goodness, I’m excited for this part. Learning the culture is intriguing and engaging, and I’m mostly excited, somewhat nervous. I don’t know the cultures of indigenous peoples very well, embarrassingly little, in fact, and that’s something that definitely will change with this role in this organization. It’s kind of the point, really.

However, this week is significantly lighter than next week will be, since all I’m doing is interviews, online training modules, and reading the policy and procedures manual.

By the way, I know discussion of compensation is taboo in American society, but it’s so so nice to be on salary for a lighter week like this. I’m eager to be in the office full time, but I admit that I’m grateful I’m not immediately working 8 hour days in a new organization, with a new job title and role. I have some free hours in the week and I’m in real need of a hard reset, which it turns out this week can be. I’m staying on my workweek schedule, as follows:

7:00-wake up (unless Oscar got me up earlier, in which case, curse my alarm that I inevitably forgot to turn off)

7:00-8:00: walk Oscar, take a shower, get dressed, brush teeth, do hair, pack my lunch, etc.

Then, if it’s a puppy daycare day, take Oscar to that; if it’s a day he stays home, crate his cute little butt.

8:15: arrive at work if everything went smoothly.

8:30-17:00: Work work work work work. (take lunch at home to give Oscar a pee break if he’s not at daycare)

17:00: Either head to the doggy daycare to pick up Oscar, or head home to walk him.

17:30-22:00: Um? the possibilities are endless.

22:00-bedtime stuff, go to sleep.

Rinse and Repeat five days a week.

Not having an 1100-2100 job is certainly freeing up my evenings, and I feel a sense of abundance and joy at the idea of having a night to myself on a consistent basis. I’m also so very glad that Oscar is a good crate boy, because if he was loud or miserable I’d probably feel a sense of dread leaving him at home; I can’t afford puppy daycare every day. Thankfully he’s quiet and cam and just chills in his crate for hours at a time. Not too many, lunch breaks happen, but I made very sure that his crate was comfortable and welcoming, and he simply loves the treats that come with it.

(As I write this, he’s chewing on a metal table leg. My boy is a SMARTY.)

So, yeah, when one of my cousins asked me how I’d manage as a single mother, not demeaning, just truly curious, this is how. Time management and daycare. AND crate training my children. Just kidding. Or am I? I am.

Happier days ahead, loyal reader!

My one regret with Cormac is I never took enough baby pictures. Now Oscar is here, and I’m not making that mistake again. Be prepared for the level of cute to which I have become accustomed.

Oscar gained about 20% percent of his body weight, or approx. a pound, in the last 10 days. He’s 6lb right now, and eating like a demon feasting on nubile flesh. He’s a big fan of water too, and he really wants to finish off Dante’s extra cat food.

He can sit when you’re holding a toy to throw and he comes when I call; sometimes it’s hard to calm down enough to listen to commands (suggestions?) and do the thing he’s being asked to do. He is, and I really can’t stress this enough, SO teeny. He is still jumping on my legs with his little needle claws, and still pretty mouthy with his needle teeth.

So, all in all, a 10 week old puppy.

While I love Oscar, I still mourn Corms, so my heart is full of mixed emotions. I’m filled to the brim with love. What is grief if not the pain of love changing forms? My angel Cormac is no longer physically in my life, and I’m adapting. You cannot replace a dog like that. You can’t replace any sort of love in your life, everyone is unique and those feelings for them cannot be replicated. That’s not to imply you can’t heal. These things are not incongruent. So I mourn Cormac, and I delight in the new puppy, and I feel many things.

I woke up this morning with Oscar, as is he dictates my sleeping schedule more than any alarm could dream. We started the morning with a nice walk, and he did his thing, and then we went up to the apartment for breakfast and all the water he could handle in that thimble he calls a tummy. Made tea, started my blog, got distracted because the pup is full of beans at this hour.

Now I’m shopping for pet insurance, because damn, the end of life costs for Corms were not great, although the Parents helped out. I would rather not be in the position where I have to ask for financial help with a sick puppy again.

Also, it’s Monday. Can you believe it? Take care this week, loyal and lovely reader.

Letting Cormac go was the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time.

Let’s backtrack a bit. It was the week before July 4, and Cormac wasn’t eating. He would take a bite or two of DELICIOUS cat food, then lose interest, even with a full plate in front of him. He wasn’t eliminating very well, except for urine, which has always been a talent of his. He was sluggish and tired all the time, and walking was a slow, slow endeavor. My old man was getting pretty weak.

I took him to the vet three times over the next 10 days; at first he was diagnosed with giardia, pancreatitis, and leaking portion in his urine. They gave me a series of pills and liquid meds for him to take twice daily. That was when I learned that my sweet pup could lock his jaw like a demon, and giving him pills was the absolute worst…he’d literally spit out peanut butter if it had a pill inside. He was smart. He knew.

After the weekend of the 4th, and 5 days of fighting to get meds inside my baby, I took him back to the vet. He still wouldn’t eat, and spent most of the day sleeping on the couch or the bed. His tummy was tender although, bless his heart, still peeing like a champion. This time, the doctor used the ultrasound on his abdomen, and found a significant mass that was either his liver or spleen. They said that surgery was an option, but if he continued to not eat, it would be pretty damn hard to recover or even survive the procedure. With all his problems and the way he was acting, they recommended euthanasia. I scheduled him for the appointment the next day at 11am…I wasn’t about to let my baby spend the next week feeling terrible when we knew what was coming. They told me he didn’t need the pills anymore, gave him a dose of subcutaneous fluids to keep him comfortable for the day, and I took him home. I called off work for the next two days, and I spend the next 24 hours with my angel.

On the way home, we went to visit Mom and her puppy to say goodbye. Mom got Corms to eat a handful of rotisserie chicken scraps, which turned out to be his last meal. On the way to my apartment, I bought him a McDonalds double cheeseburger, no fixins, to eat if he would. He wouldn’t touch it. (Dante ended up taking a few bites, tho, little devil). We spend the day in bed, cuddling and crying and saying sweet things. That night, he slept in my arms.

In the morning, we woke up and Corms stayed in bed while I made coffee with R, who had spent the night and offered to take us to Cormac’s appointment. I opened the door to the balcony so Corms could hear us talking about the puppy of my heart, my fuzzy angel, my child. Arough 10:30, we got dressed and headed to the vet. R had to carry Corms, he was too weak to walk. I sat in the backseat and held his head while R drove to the vet. We parked and waited outside while they prepped the room. They gave me a paper with options for the private cremation, and I chose the wood for the box of his ashes, the inscription, and the color of the velvet bag that would hold it all. They took my payment and told me it was time to come inside.

Cormac already had an IV in his leg, and he was standing, which I knew was only because it was weird and scary to be at the vet yet again. I told him I loved him and coaxed him to lay down with me on the floor. The doctor came in and explained what would happen. He had the syringe with him. The nurse stood by, respectfully. The doctor warned me that some dogs twitch and vocalize, but it didn’t hurt. I told him I was ready.

It happened quick, and silently, save for my sobbing and telling Corms he was a good boy, a very good baby. After a moment, the doctor checked his heart with a stethoscope, and announced he was gone. He told he sometimes they don’t close their eyes. He told me I could stay as long as I needed. I asked for Cormac’s collar, and I gave him one last ear scratch. The doctor asked if I wanted to be alone. “No,” I said, sobbing, “He’s not here anymore.” I left the office and R was waiting at the car. We hugged, I cried.

You can see why I haven’t written about this yet. It was painful to watch him go downhill so quickly, but a blessing as well, since the end was not drawn out for months and thousands of dollars. I’m lucky to have parents willing and able to help me, financially, with the end of the vet bills. I’m lucky to have friends who support me and know how much I love my dog.

I’m lucky to have shared with Cormac his entire life, from 3 months to 14.5 years, and I’m so thankful for every moment, even at the end. They didn’t have to let me in the office, they didn’t have to allow me that moment to honor and witness the end of his life. May you all be so comforted by the kindness of others in the dark times.

That’s all I can handle today, loyal readers. Just writing this gives me relief, but it’s hard, even though I have more to tell. So next time I’ll fill you in on the newest development in the life and times of Jady….

May I introduce Oscar Wilde: