They Come in Three's...

I don't know about you, but I'm on "Breaking News" overload. But it's also hard to turn it off. Here's my prediction: death due to poly-drug addiction, custody battle over kids which will probably result in them being split up, and more exposure about child abuse (either his own as a kid or the lawsuits against him). Shocker, right? Not really. This is what the news has been like for the past week for Ed, Farrah, and Michael:

I have to give credit where credit is due.

The Role of Families, Villages, and Possibilities

I have to say that one of my personal heroes is my cousin. She has gone through amazing personal battles and let the world into her history as her own nuclear family develops. It takes true courage to be that raw and honest. It's a battle our whole family faces, genetically and socially: addiction.

When I began this project of blogging, Joey and I would email one another pretty consistently. I first used this forum as a way of making sense of the world from the gifts and baggage everyone inherits from their family. I just found mine to be particularly humorous. She struggled with how much personal stuff does one release into the world? A couple of years after we wrestled with this topic via email to find personal balance, she was published in a major Eastern newspaper. The story was intensely intimate about her struggle with addiction and debating if you explain it to your child. I was in awe of her bravery.

Don't get me wrong; my blog has caused its own share of problems within my family. I figure you have to laugh at times otherwise it just becomes too painful. I don't think that my family is all that different from others; I just choose to put it "out there." No one is really supposed to put it "out there," and yet there is a slew of people who relate to it. Why? Because it's familiar, duh. Like it or not, addiction touches everyone in some way or fashion.

I find I cannot write about myself in isolation. I wasn't raised all by myself. Families play a huge part. They shape how you view the world and give a baseline for what is normal. Stories about my family of origin waxes and wanes through my entries. I'm still trying to find what is a comfortable balance. When I share it is typically a humorous story. The painful ones typically live in my head as third party dialogues which might make a suitable screenplay one day. In fact, one of the signs I'm not coping well is when I begin to write scripts in my head. I never intend to hurt my loved ones with my shared stories. I do intend to make people laugh a little and feel a little less isolated in their own experiences. I find I do that pretty well. One scene I particularly relate to is in the trailer of Spanglish between Cloris Leachman and Tea Leone. There can be humor.

As my husband and I begin our process of departing Boston, we realize we're entering a new chapter of our lives. One that may or may not involve children of our own. Nothing like a good family of origin trigger than considering birthing your own. Well, that and having my Mom deal with her knee surgery with painkillers and wine. It makes me consider my boundaries once again with my family. It also causes one to take serious self-inventory of potentially scary patterns. Example of inner dialogue: "Do I have addictive personality traits? How are they triggered? How are they controlled? Am I using all or nothing / black and white thinking? Oh my God, THAT ALONE is a trait of addictive thinking!" I've been reassured a number of times that I'm nowhere near addiction, and yet a certain unsubstantiated anxiety exists. I'm certain I'm driving J and my therapist nuts.

One of the big considerations of starting a family for J and I is the proximity to our families for support. Most of my girlfriends live near family - to which all rely on quite a bit for support. There are others who have family relatively close, but for one reason or another they are not as active in their lives. I realize it's possible to have children near or far away from family and still get the support you need from other sources.

It's been almost a year since I've seen my Dad and brother. It wasn't a happy visit due to Ginny's death. And yes, there was a lot of alcohol involved. I remember at that time talking to my parents and letting them know that if they choose to keep their lifestyle the same, they should be aware they will not see their grandchildren after 5:00 P.M.. My mother immediately said that she would change. My father simply said that I need to do what I need to do, which was fine by him. It was heartbreaking.

I grew up in a family where literally we were raised by the village. Cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even elderly neighbors played a HUGE role. There were sleepovers and family dinners, all of which will not happen for my children with their maternal side. It makes visiting family even more difficult when you are out of state. The 5:00 rule appears unenforceable when you are staying at each other's respective houses. At least if we lived in the same city, J and I could take our children home when cocktail hour begins to spin. I'm beyond trying to control their consumption. I did that in junior high by pouring $40 worth of gin down the drain purposefully on a Saturday night, knowing the liquor stores would be closed on Sunday. All I can control now is what I choose to expose my own personal family to and by giving my parents informed decision making power. (Some would say this is rationalization, but the purpose is strikingly different.)

This upcoming move has caused a lot to come into focus which also yields a lot of grief. I don't grieve what I have in my family relationships. I grieve what I wish I could have had. How would things be different if the bottle wasn't involved? I love my family dearly. I just wish I could have more of them.

Getting Ahead of Myself

As we move closer and closer to the date of the move, I'm finding that the thin lacquer of denial is cracking and crumbling. Even if I can actively and willfully procrastinate packing by watching the last DVD of John Adams, the inevitable shows up in my unconscious. Last night I was fraught with dreams of repainting fascia and eves on our new house only to realize that the old owners hadn't moved out yet. Buying a house means there are a lot of projects - several of them I am well aware of thanks to the inspection. I realize I am aware of them while my husband has been blissfully unaware by busy finishing up his year of fellowship. I have pretty much handled this whole transaction single handedly much like my first purchase 5 years ago back in SLC. J is blissfully unaware of what a sister joint is, what premiums we're considering for homeowners insurance, the billions of copies of bank statements / taxes / IRAs / W2's / promise of our first born I've overnighted to corporate, what our monthly average energy bill will be, and what is involved in solving the ice damming problem from the inside of the house.

Instead he is more concerned about aesthetics. For example, one of the previous owners of our 1927 gem actually (gasp) cut the french doors off at the base to clear the carpet (most likely shag) they installed leading from the foyer into the living room. Since the house has been restored to the hardwood floors, the original french doors are a bit short. He's been scheming on how to restore the doors. I'm more concerned with practical things like buying a dehumidifier for the basement; apparently, it's a must for Milwaukee. I'm waiting for him to begin to perseverate on how to patch the awful hole in the wall the current owners drilled to install a flat screen TV with cable access. Honestly, he doesn't have time to really think about these things has he should be studying for boards. But, alas, those books remain on the shelves while he attempts to figure out how to merge iTunes accounts on our MacBook Pro and dream of how to stream it to our stereo.

If you have followed my blog for awhile you know that I have a secret love affair with Home Depot and DIY. I *think* I'm more handy than perhaps I truly am, but I have a huge spirit with need for learning and projects. I'll barrel into things head first. For example? I'd like to refinish the front door. But it will be highly difficult with my husband lurking about over the next two months as he will want to meddle and become distracted from studying for boards. Boards are his top priority. Ok, well, they are my first priority and yet I have little control over them. 100% honesty? I have absolutely no control over them. There I said it. So I sublimate my energy into things I can accomplish. A house is a perfect solution. Now, if only my back with cooperate and somehow convince J to go study anywhere else besides home...

Alas, I get ahead of myself. First thing is first: those damn empty flattened boxes in the basement we saved from last year. Wouldn't you know I can't deafen out their cries any longer and have got to fill them with our treasures and worldly goods.

BOS to MKE

Yesterday was a blur.  I had less than 12 hours to fly from Boston to Milwaukee and back again.  Put a 3 hour house inspection in my layover and well, there you have it.  The flight there was uneventful...unless you count me spilling my Starbucks all over the German woman next to me during take-off.  At least I didn't get her computer.  We were below 10,000 feet.  I think that's the only reason my clumsiness got off the hook from killing a thousand dollar corporate device.  

Once our plane landed, our great realtor met me at the airport.  It was his birthday.  The least I could do was treat him to a chai latte before we went to the house.  The other realtor was there with the house owners and their 2 beagles.  It was a little awkward going through the bones of the house with them present.  I would imagine it would be like visiting a plastic surgeon with your fitness trainer.  "See, this is where you failed in taking care of your sanctuary."  Yeah, not uncomfortable at all.  

I tried to channel my husband through the whole experience.  I'm the more visual person, but he is Mr. Detail guy.  What would he be asking that I am missing?  I learned more about step cracks, air leaks in insulation to prevent ice dams in roofs, and voltage/watt things than I ever thought was possible.  I had to reflect back on my previous experience with house inspectors...ok, my only experience with house inspectors.  5 years ago.  I realized if it weren't for the creepy crawl spaces, potential of spiders and bugs, and fear of falling off of steep roofs, I would make a really good house inspector.  I underestimated my orientation for detail.  I realized I would flag a lot more things than what this guy did.  

"Is this a concern?"  I'd ask pointing to something.  The inspector would take off his baseball cap and make a face with an noncommittal grunt and shrug.  Ooohkay....

Our real estate agent spent years in new home construction so he would often point out easy fixes for things to increase energy efficiency.  That was helpful.  I also learned there are differences in State to State code.  For example:  those grounded outlet plugs in bathrooms or kitchens near water are not a mandatory fix in older Wisconsin homes.  Its mearly a suggestion.  Preventing electrical shock is a "suggestion?"  Wow.  

While we were finishing up the inspection, the other realtor decided she would leave.  She was one of those with her blue tooth attached to her highly frosted puffy hair and clip on pearl earrings.  You know, the kind that has some sort of gimmicky line like, "Casadella Land, a moving experience."  Seriously.  It was at that point our agent shared our financing option of going with a FHA loan.  Apparently bank assessors are ruthless with this type of loan.  No peeling paint, no cracked glass, no nothing.  Sounds like a really good idea for us.  We get a home guaranteed in good condition.  It's more work for the sellers who then have to get the extra work done if they want the deal to go through, otherwise everything falls flat.  It's a risk.  To put it mildly, the seller's agent was not thrilled with this.  She cited the original offer with conventional financing.  Yes, but as our mortgage lender said, the seller doesn't care where the money comes from.   Now our agent is trying to smooth the waters.  Deep Breaths.  

After 3 hours of house education to prep future visits to Home Depot, our agent dodged the Miller Park ball day traffic to whisk me back to the airport.  Fantastic.  Weather delayed the return flight for over an hour.  At least I had time to grab lunch...and stew about how long Edgar would be left alone.  I envisioned him crossing his legs and hopping around the house doing the I-need-to-pee dance.  

Once we boarded I had an odd argument with the guy in my seat.  

"I'm in 13 A."

"Yes, I'm in 13 B."  I said pointing to the aisle seat.

"Riiight.  A stands for Aisle."  He said shoving his backpack under the seat.

"Um, no A is next to the window." I said pointing to the diagram.  He looked up and recognized the faux pas.  

The rest of the flight was a struggle over the armrest.  Good times.

When I arrived J was late...to my plane that was over an hour late.  Quickly my anxiety shifted from the messes around the house to carnage on the highway involving twisted metal and an ambulance carrying my husband off to the hospital.  I began to call his cell phone every 1-3 minutes.  Sure enough he pulled in and was not in a good mood.  Call it the lack of a promised half academic day off, the traffic, the rain, or simply that it was Thursday.  "I need to you stuff your stress," was his direction.  Somehow his arrival and assertion calmed my anxiety.  

By the time we arrived, Edgar was thrilled to see us and sure enough he spent a loooong time outside looking extremely grateful for our reunion.  

To Do: Don't Create a To-Do List

It's a little surreal going from daily structure to absolutely no structure what-so-ever.  All within one week I was discharged from physical therapy and wrapped up a masters degree.  Dude.  Those were the only two things I had that kept me grounded and not a complete recluse.  My day was structured around things like the 3 hours of physical therapy, rewriting papers, and reading insane volumes of texts with ideas that made my head explode.  

Initially I was a little concerned about my unstructured, but task focused time in the fall.  I figured it all out employing some old grade school tricks of the trade.  Read - reward self with playing Wii - go to physical therapy - throw ball for Edgar - remember to eat lunch at 3:00 because you are so grumpy - write paper - think about dinner somewhere around 7:00.  This was pretty much my life.  Intersperse that with doctors appointments, Oprah, random spurts of household chores, web browsing and phone calls and literally that was it.  It was actually pretty challenging, truth be told, when I was on all of those medications.  Once I was free of pain meds, the "routine" began to feel like a scam.  My husband was out everyday making a living and I was writing about emotional intelligence and leadership development.  I didn't feel like I was holding up my end of the bargain.  Because I began to feel better in the late winter/early spring I thought about doing more, but by then we had landed the gig in Wisconsin.  No point in looking for a job in Boston if you are going to move.  Call it rationalization or just plain reality.  

I'm one of those people who likes to be busy.  I never did downtime very well.  I don't fall asleep easily at night because I'm thinking too much.  I structured my weekends with gardening or a weekly ritual of cleaning.  When I had my appendicitis in 2004 I went back to work early because I was so bored.  Most people look forward to time off; I volunteered for extra shifts.  It wasn't until I dated my husband did I understand what downtime was.  He was perfectly ok with meandering through a Sunday in his pajamas doing whatever struck his fancy.  I was raised that if you were still in bed or your pj's at 10:00 AM, you were wasting the day.  I type this now as I'm still in my pj's and it's 4:30.  However, I did swiffer the floors, made mortgage decisions, and call for eye doctor appointments.  Small victories here.  Tiny, in fact.

Last night I realized how much I really don't like being alone with myself.  I get pretty anxious and start to figure out ways I can fill up that unused time into productive activities I can cross off a to-do list.  All of my structured unstructured time is a very good way of distracting myself.  If I'm preoccupied I don't have to really figure out what is bothering me.  There may be some dark stuff down there that I'm not really sure I want to face.  I can just say I'm too busy.  This week I'm doing an experiment of trying to fall asleep naturally and not put a lot of "shoulds" on my "to-do" list.  I feel pretty guilty to tell you the truth.  

Intellectually I put a lot of double binds on myself:  damned if I do, damned if I don't.  I should clean.  I should pack.  I shouldn't over-do it physically.  I should be in tune with my body for knowing when I am on the verge of over-doing it.  I should allow myself to relax and do nothing.  I shouldn't feel guilty if I actually succeed at doing nothing.  No matter what I do, or don't do, I have a solid reason/justification for beating myself up.  I know its not healthy.  I get it.  It's a habit and I've got it down to perfection.  I haven't used my journal in a while because I noticed that while I felt better after I got everything on paper, it all looked very negative from a birds eye view.  

This month has a lot of unstructured time and a lot of things to do...in moderation.  I'm not one for moderation either, but I need to learn how to embrace it.  I learned how to tune out my body's signals at a very young age.  As an athlete you push through the pain to move past the plateau.  Do this for a number of years and you wind up with two knee surgeries by the time you are 17.  I think I mentioned in a previous post that only once my back pain was gone did I notice how much pain I had been in.  That's how out of tune I am.  In order to be discharged I had to promise I wouldn't move any boxes and stop if I became fatigued.  Became fatigued?  How will I know that?  I mean, seriously?  This is the girl who can't figure out why she's so irritated, running into walls, and feeling fat every 3 weeks or so.  Typically her husband has to remind her to go look at the calendar.  It's not rocket science, its just endocrinology.  

My game plan for this month is to try to learn how to give myself grace.  But you know what will be difficult?  Trying NOT to put that on a to-do list.

Graduation with High Honors in Attitude

Last night I was fit to be tied.  I'm not really certain exactly what this phrase means, but Ginny always used it when she was frustrated with something.  I think I was beyond frustrated.  I attended graduation.

Graduation speeches are usually filled with trite "inspirational" quotes they insert between personal anecdotes.  There are usually popular authors that are used over and over again.  For example:  Marianne Williamson, Walt Whitman, Ghandi, etc..  Let me say it again:  trite.  Perhaps I'm a little cynical.  After all, this is my 5th graduation if you count junior high to high school.  Including that awkward junior high commencement, this was the worst.  I can attribute many colliding factors into this ranking dead last in my personal experience:  

1)  It was run by psychologists.  I have nothing against psychologists; after yesterday officially I am one, but that gives me a bit more of a leg to stand on with my argument.  Let me dig my own grave a little deeper.  In my professional past I have known psychologists to be a bit tedious, perseverating upon the smallest details and over-inflating their egos.  I know one who threw a tantrum after he didn't get the office with a window.  His logic was he was a doctor, NOT to be confused with a M.D. because that would be insulting - in his most humble opinion, of course.  This logically outranked everyone else so he was entitled to the window office.  By far they are the most egotistical and self unaware profession of the psychosocial field - in my most humble opinion, of course.  So, you can imagine that given their natural tendencies to perseverate and be ego-centric, the program was all about them.  

2)  I'm not certain how the commencement speaker was selected, but she was terrible.  I knew it was bad when I began plotting ways to insult her publicly after 40 minutes of her monologue.  This woman was a nun who tangentially gave a historic timeline of how she saved the world post-Katrina in Louisiana.  There was nothing mentioned about the various degrees being conferred.  Nothing about how we can be the change we want to see.  Nothing remotely in line with organizational psychology, school psychology, counseling, or PsyD.  This woman actually credited all of the art therapists who came from CALIFORNIA.  Multiple times.  Hello?  We are in MASSACHUSETTS.  I was in the front row and didn't bother to hide my boredom, frustration, and lack of interest.  I tapped my shoes, whispered to my classmate, stared/rolled my eyes/made exasperated faces at the President on the dais (who was also fidgeting with his robe and checking his watch), and began to slouch.  (I know, super mature, right?  Whatever, man, I'm on my way out!!)   One of my classmates leaned over to me in the middle and whispered, "I'm not even excited to graduate anymore."  How daft was this nun?  There were small children in the audience waiting to see mom or dad graduate, pregnant women, and yes even some of the graduates got up from their seats to get water or go to the restroom in the middle of her speech only to return and find she was still rambling on about Renaissance Village in October of 2006.  Annoyed?  I'm beyond annoyed and when I get there I kind of get a steam roller attitude:  flatten, survey the damage, and then evaluate if you want to apologize.  The woman was, and perhaps still is, in my direct path of steam rolling.  The "speech" lasted somewhere around 50 minutes.  It's hard to be happy when you are raging.

3)  Because the ceremony was over 2 hours long to graduate roughly 100 students, I was extremely embarrassed for my invited guests.  How dare I waste a Sunday afternoon of theirs?  One of my guests bought a new gizmo to videotape the graduation so my parents could watch the ceremony later.  Ironically, it ran out of space just before we were announced and I went up on stage to receive my diploma and get hooded.  There was no memento mori because of that stupid nun, the inefficient program organizer who perhaps neglected to give time limits in her directions, or the ego maniac speakers who disregarded the limits they may or may not have been given in the first place.  I spent the reception basically apologizing to my guests and commiserating with other graduates.  Several just left because they were running late.  Even one of my professors left half way through because it was running so long and she had child care issues.  

4)  No alcohol at the reception.  After that pain we should have had an open bar.  I saw one person with a glass of wine and wondered if she had snuck over to the adjacent hotel bar.

5)  It was held in a hotel ballroom.  The whole academia mystique gets lost when you are not in some marble hall on campus, but in a conference center/wedding reception site/generic jejune room with folding walls.  The academic snob comes out in me.  When I was at Tulane it was a magnificent event.  It was efficient (e.g. 1 hour), in a stately location (an estate building on campus), not held on a Sunday afternoon when rates were probably lower, and perhaps it was just more special because it was my first masters.  I also gave a speech that year as president of the school.  For the record:  it was actually geared towards the audience and lasted only 10 minutes.  This leads me to my next point.

6)  The student speaker gave a speech that was equivocal to something I composed for my 6th grade Reflections competition.  He used the schools acronym, MSPP, to elucidate what each letter stood for and meant to him personally.  The large discordance occurred with the letter "M" standing for Multiculturalism.  There were 3 Black students and only a handful of Latinos.  Seriously?  After that obvious glare I tuned out for the rest of his talk.  It was a bit of a controversy that they selected a non-doctoral student to be the speaker this year.  On a plus side, it was like living in a Sesame Street episode.  Today's graduation was brought to you by the letters, M, S, and P.  

There were a couple of highlights, don't get me wrong.  My name was pronounced correctly.  This is big because you could be surprised how many people get it wrong.  Another plus was having my Boston family there.  They sacrificed a weekend afternoon so the least we could do was treat them to some tapas in Waltham.  Judy, my adopted Boston mom, was so excited about my accomplishment she brought roses, the new video camera, a card, and two books with very touching inscriptions.  J has hood envy.  Apparently he didn't get to keep his hood from medical school.  I told him since I now have two we can share.  In fact, I now have two robes as well so we could dress up as pseudo Harry Potter characters for next Halloween.

After it was all over, my anger shifted into something that resembled December 26th as a child.  It was kind of like, "Really?  That's it?  I'm done?  You seriously mean I don't have anymore text books, papers, team projects, class, nothing?  Really?!  Huh?  So now what do I do?"  As I began to spiral, J also began to sink.  He started feeling guilty he didn't get the exact video or that a lot of his shots were blurry or that he was being a stealth paparazzi and took angled photos off from the side vs. going up the center aisle and being obvious.  Don't worry, though!  Judy had no problem marching up to take my photo with the president.  When he asked if she was family it was all I could do but say, "Yup."  Close enough.  I couldn't manage two spiraling people so J went to bed early.  That was smart.  Me?  I sat up for a while staring at my new diploma, putting my hood back on and trying to get Edgar to sit still while I took a photo of him wearing my graduation cap.  It was just one more blurry shot.

Undercover Confidence

So much has happened and yet there is little time to share everything, but for starters I'll give my readers a quick synopsis:  caught up with an old friend who I haven't seen in 15 years, learned Edgar was a terrible play date, replaced ball that Edgar destroyed traumatizing friend's child, finished a paper my professor said was worth publishing, J got sick, we went to Milwaukee to find a house...in 3 days, put bids on house, learned lawyer+for sale by owner = no art of compromise, put bid on another house, won the house, I got sick, I went to my last class for school, I got even more sick, I landed in the doctors this afternoon, I used "rest and drink fluids" as an excuse to rent Twilight.  Oh. My. God.  I swoon for Robert Pattinson.  How pathetic is that?  Swoon, people, swoon.  

After looking at that last paragraph, my husband would say I'm the queen of run on sentences.  I can't disagree on this.  I tried to pick up "Elements of Style" for some light and fun reading.  It's not light and fun.  It reminded me why I threw away my copy from 1986 from my Great Aunt Ada who was an English professor at UNC.  Not exactly what a 11 year old likes to read.  Not exactly what a 33 year old likes to read.  However, I can't help but re-read all of my sentence structures in the past paragraph and cringe.  I know I can do better.

All of this aside, I must share a very funny story.  Our very last weekend-in-residence was an emotional one.  I brought a box of tissue and by the time the weekend was over I only had 3 left.  On Saturday each of us had to present their final project to the class.  Several did some sort of self reflection.  One peer mentioned that when she is in difficult situations, ones that require sweater sets or Ann Taylor suits and boardrooms, she carries around a little of *Sue*

with her.  All of us looked particularly confused until she enlightened us with the story.  

*Sue*, now a senior VP at a very reputable business, used to be a VP of a very stuffy old-boys-club, well established, international financial institution.  When she knew she was going into a very difficult meeting or long boardroom discussion she would put on her sexiest pair of red lace panties and think to herself, "Yeah, you don't even know what's going on under this."  Apparently she shared this story in confidence to our peer, who then went public with it during her presentation.  *Sue* was the color of her now infamous panties...but, I felt worse for our professor - the only male in the class.  Something else that made it even more funny?  The Dean was sitting in on these presentations.  (Yes, yes, I realize I'm now taking it a step further by putting it out into cyberspace, but names and situations have changed.)  

It took a long time for our professor to compose himself to stop laughing.  He tried to gain control back by stating, "Look, this is how we uncover our hidden talents."  Well, that started us all off laughing again.  Nothing like a Freudian slip, but he was determined.  We gave him outs to break for lunch, etc, but nope, he was going to continue his agenda.  

That evening we had a graduation party over at *Sue's* house.  We invited the professors and my husband was the only honorary significant other who was welcomed.  The team decided he almost was part of our team considering how he was carrying in my things for me, picking me up, and bantering with everyone in the autumn/winter with my stupid back problems.  He also met us for drinks a few times.  By the time we arrived, everyone had a few in them.  Everyone was telling stories sitting out on the deck and enjoying the beautiful early summer evening.  

As we were gearing up for dinner, our Dean stepped up wanting to recognize the class and professors.  She passed out individual gifts to all of the students and said that she wanted us to have a significant reminder of all of the hard work, qualifications, and expertise we have learned in the past 10 months.  With that we each opened our gift:  red lace thong panties.  From the Dean.  I was now laughing so hard I was crying.  I kept trying to explain this to my husband who just kept telling me he didn't want to know.  One teammate actually modeled them over her jeans while several took photos.  I kept thinking:  uh oh, this is the problem with Facebook.  Sure enough, the photos were posted within 15 minutes.  In the land of Hahvard, I went back for my graduate degree in organizational psychology and I wound up with a pair of red lace panties from the Dean.  

One thing's for certain:  my whole class will be debuting their secret weapon of confidence underneath that graduation robe next Sunday afternoon.