Ordinarily Unordinary

Not quite sure why, but I got really choked up just now writing a Facebook post about Father’s Day. 

Knowing that you might get the impression, or have the assumption, I do not have my dad in my life, or that maybe the dad I do have isn’t quite so great. But that isn’t the case even remotely. My dad is amazing. Honestly, I don’t really have the words to adequately describe to you how great he is.

There are so many remarkable things about my dad. And I think, as I was writing my Facebook post, I got overwhelmed by the active thought of how blessed I am. 

My dad is one of my best friends. He is so easy for me to talk to, which is fairly rare when it comes to father-daughter relationships. He’s always honest with me. He makes me laugh more than most other people. He plays guitar and is a big lover of music. He’s my concert buddy. He’s my fishing partner. He’s a fantastic grandpa to my nephews. He’s one of the best people I know. 

And he learned to be that kind of dad almost on his own. As a child of the baby boom generation he didn’t have the dad who was very affectionate or super active in his life. He had a fairly traditional father of that time. But somehow, and my mother acknowledges this, he ended up almost instantly being the dad everyone admires. He’s never been afraid to be affectionate as a parent should be with my sister or me. He has always shown us he loves us. We know what a strong, and caring man looks like because he showed us. 

We also know to never take him for granted. My sister and I were raised in a very diverse community. Not just in ethnicity/race/nationality, but economically, and socially as well. What I mean is we saw a lot of our friends come single parent homes. Now, that’s not to say our friends without fathers all had horrible lives. Most of them didn’t. They had a good support system through their mothers and other relatives. But we also saw many people raised in homes with abusive fathers, or broken homes. Watching these situations we came to really appreciate our dad. 

One of my best friends said to me once that she sometimes gets sad when she sees other kids with their dads, because she didn’t have hers, and when he had been around he was awful. I think I was in middle school at that time, and that struck a chord with me. I think that was when I fully realized what I had, at least consciously. More recently, another friend of mine vented about her own father through a Facebook post. To give you an idea as to what her father is like, he’s a bitter, hard-assed bigot. There’s really no other way of describing him in so few words. I told her it was comments like her post that reminded me of how lucky I am because my own father is so great. It’s a bit of a reality check every time. She actually really appreciated my response and said although she is a bit envious of people like me, it makes her happy to know that I see her, and I am very aware of how lucky I am. 

It’s almost like acknowledging a privilege, which is rather crazy to me. I am privileged to have a good father. I feel like that’s something everyone should be entitled to. Everyone should have a good mom and a good dad. (I know there are situations where there is no traditional “dad” per say, like when women go in for in vitro fertilization using a donor. I also acknowledge that, just so whomever is reading this knows.) But I just feel like in instances where there is a dad, that child should have the right to have an awesome father. 

Misogyny is so deeply ingrained in society, even decent men portray it in some way. 

You ever have so many thoughts in your head you just can’t even sort them out to make them coherent? Well that’s where I’m at right now, so this will likely make no sense. And there certainly won’t be any clear transitions from one thing to the next.  

Been having a down period this week. Not entirely sure why, exactly, but that’s all a part of having a depression/anxiety disorder. It is likely a combination of a lot of things. Whatever it is, it’s taking its toll on me. I haven’t really slept in a couple weeks, at least not on a healthy schedule. I have epilepsy, so sleep is a hugely important thing, and because of my recent issues I’ve had more seizure problems than I have normally. My head is pretty fuzzy right now, and I haven’t been feeling so great. If you’re curious, I have simple partial seizures, (potentially complex partials, as well.) It’s an interesting subject, so if you’re curious I recommend looking it up. (Seizures and epilepsy, that is.) Epilepsy.com is a good site to start with; very simple to follow. I always tell people when they ask me about it that you are always aware the brain is the command center of your entire body, but you never actually think about it until something goes wrong. 

Anyway, an increase in seizure activity is so frustrating. When I started having this problem I was just out of high school and was having up to 20 every fucking day. I really haven’t had it easy thus far in adulthood. And do not take that as an excuse or complaint, it’s a simple fact. That has been my struggle, and I have every right to be pissed about it. When I’ve mentioned this to people before they have told me to quit whining, or complaining etc. All I have to say to those folks is “Fuck you.” No one has any business telling you your feelings aren’t justified, or you shouldn’t have them. I’m glad I’m at the point in life where I’m comfortable saying that. Feelings are real, whether you understand them or not; whether you agree or not. So shut your god damn judgmental mouth. 

The increase in my seizures is only contributing to my current state of depression and anxiety, which is shitty because it is also caused by my current state of depression and anxiety. 

A lot of my problems are attributed to simply genetic bad luck; just a chemical imbalance in my brain that I cannot control. So far no amount of medication or therapy has been able to wrangle that in. (Note: I have never contemplated suicide, and I never will. That is not an option I ever desire, so if that has crossed your mind, please allow it to exit.) So I do come by it honestly. I have a prescription for Xanax that I keep handy, but most of the time I try to ride it out. Controlled substances are not something to mess with, and certainly not something I want to use as a crutch. I basically only take them when I can feel the anxiety throughout my entire body; or when it is effecting my breathing, (hyperventilation.) Occasionally I’ll take one to help me relax at night to sleep.

The last really big anxiety attack I had was October 2014. I was at work and started breaking down, shaking, hyperventilating, crying. Just losing my shit. One of the best friends I’ve ever had in my life shot himself in the head just a few days prior, and it all became real to me at that moment. Travis was the person I trusted most in this world. More than any other friend I have ever had in my life. I have a lot of really good friends I do confide in, but he was the one I knew 100% I could tell anything to, and it would never leave him. He literally took everything to the grave. And I miss him every day. 

I think this might be a part of my issue right now. Last night I had a dream with him in it. I don’t remember what it was about, I just know I saw him and he was silent. It’s like he just came to say hello. I haven’t felt right since. On one hand seeing him is beautiful, and special. But on the other hand it is heart wrenching. I woke up with tears in my eyes. I didn’t even know one could cry in their sleep. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a worst pain, mentally, physically or emotionally, than I did the day I lost him. Suicide is the worst. I’ve lost a lot of people I loved so dearly in my life, but this pain was, and still is, nearly unbearable. The day I broke down at work my boss sent me home for a week, and my parents had to come get me and take me straight to the doctor. I was out of medication and needed it STAT. I don’t think a day will ever come where the thought of Travis won’t make my eyes tear up. It has gotten easier to get through each day, but the agony of the loss will never go away.

I’m a single woman; have been for a little over a year. I really haven’t been single since I was 20 years old. I was with my first ext from age 20-23, (that was a fucking nightmare.) And then met my last ex soon after. He swept me off my feet, for sure. We didn’t work out, but he was what I needed at that time. We were together for about 5 years. There aren’t any bad vibes between us at all, we just grew apart and weren’t in love anymore. And that is fine. 

For the most part I’m pretty happy being single. It’s kind of a new experience for me, and I’m finding it pretty nice to be able to make decisions where I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. There is no “us” to be worried about. It is a really liberating feeling. That said, it does still get lonely sometimes, especially when my mood is like this. I don’t know what it is about the night, but it is really the hardest thing to get through when you have a depression/anxiety problem and there is just something so soothing about having someone who cares about you unconditionally by your side, not really saying anything, just silently supporting you. I do miss that part of being in a relationship. The affection is beautiful.

Normally I would probably write all of this in my own private journal, but I simply had too many thoughts to share and typing is far easier. I know I probably have more to say but right now I don’t know how to verbalize it. So I guess this is where I stop.

Just watched The Butler for the first time. Fantastic film. So real, and graphic. It deserved all the recognition it got, and probably more. It made me very uncomfortable, though. Seeing people hurt always pains me. But I’m glad I felt uncomfortable. I’m supposed to. Where facing a disgusting amount of prejudice and pain and injustice is the history of black Americans, being the oppressor is part of mine, as a white person. Not that *my* bloodline specifically partook in the acts of slave owning, or the horrible things that happened during the Civil Rights Movement specifically, but as a white person I own that racism was (and it many ways still is) a white problem. Everyone faces race bigotry, and that is so sad, but out right racism, I believe, is an issue created and perpetuated by white people. It doesn’t mean all white people are assholes, I like to think most of us are well-intentioned, but I do feel if we don’t recognize our privilege and internalized superiority complex, then we are still allowing the problem of racism to continue. Anyone who has a hate for an entire race of people is wrong, plain and simple. It’s an ugly feeling to develop. But I think one huge step forward in an effort to eradicating racism is to own our part in it. I know it is so difficult to think about for us; I cried, I didn’t sleep well, basically I went through a lot of tragic emotions learning and accepting my own contributions. It’s horribly painful, but at the same time, I could shut the idea out entirely and my life wouldn’t change. I don’t have to think about race regularly if I choose not to. People of color don’t have that option. 

So, as I said at the beginning, I’m glad The Butler made me feel uncomfortable. It forced me to think. My fear isn’t gone, but it is slowly become less and less prevalent in my mind. I am becoming a better person. I’m becoming a better friend, a better auntie, a better ally. 

None of what I said is a popular opinion, and that is okay. I will never tell a person his or her feelings aren’t real, or don’t matter. But I can only hope others will have the same courtesy towards me. 

One year from 10/9/15, one of my best friends committed suicide; he shot himself in the head in his apartment. It was the worst pain I, and any of our friends have ever felt. We all knew what it was like to lose someone we love, but there was something different about losing someone to suicide. There’s an unbelievable sense of guilt attached. And confusion. It is truly the worst.

This friend grew up in a sad family situation. His dad is just plain nuts, and his mom wasn’t, (still isn’t) worth a damn. And here is where my rant comes in. This woman abandoned her son, left him with his crazy father, and didn’t do a damn thing when he was kicked out of his house and living in the woods. In fact, this friend went to live with my uncle and cousins at this time. All that said, this woman has the nerve to say “my poor baby boy.” She has spent the last year trying to very obviously get sympathy for herself, using her dead son she did nothing for. She was so insignificant that none of us knew anything about her, just that she wasn’t there. 

This woman asked, on our friend’s FB wall, for all of us to send her photos of her son. She is lucky most of us are tactful enough not to say anything to her. She was completely ignored, both times she asked. A real mother would have her own memories and photographs, and not need to take others’. She is one of the most vile people I have ever seen. Losing this friend left a giant, bleeding hole in our hearts, and she’s using him so people will feel sorry for her. WE are in real pain; the kind that causes emotional breakdowns, bouts of depression, and insomnia. I guarantee this woman sleeps just fine at night. 

Most recently, she decided to get a tattoo in his honor. She chose a blue heart with a semi colon. Now, if I didn’t know any better, I might find that a little sweet, if not also very common. But here’s the thing, the semi colon is used to represent those who fought depression and came out from it and did not take their own lives. The semi colon is a punctuation mark that shows where a writer could have ended a sentence, but decided to keep going. She got something tattooed on her body that makes zero sense. So clearly, she’s very bright. What bothers me more, is she will receive SO much attention and sympathy from it. People will ask “What is that?” and then feel so sorry for her when she answers. It’s sickening, and I guarantee that is 100% why she got it. 

On Friday, my friends and I got together for a celebration in his honor. We posted the event on his FB wall, inviting everyone. She didn’t even acknowledge the post. Not even to say “I’m so glad my son touched all of your lives.” She did nothing. 

If she would just say she was a shit mom, and was feeling crippled with guilt, I might not find her so disgusting, but that will never happen.