Move it!

I read recently (in a meme on FB, so, you know...no credibility whatsoever) that the average person moves 8 times in their lifetime. At least that's what I think it said.  I don't remember.

Off to Google I go!

The consensus is actually 11, not 8.  Good thing I fact-checked myself there.  

I've moved 9 times.  I don't think being brought home from the hospital after birth counts as "moving".  I lived in the same house from birth (actually, I didn't "move in" until I was 2.5 weeks old, if you want to get technical, but like I said above -- I don't count going from the hospital where I was born to my first home as moving. One could argue that after 2.5 weeks I may have accumulated more "stuff" at the hospital than the average newborn, but I doubt it, since this was back in 1974 and hospitals weren't as hospitable (ha, ha) about things like that.  But this is all speculation; I don't remember how much stuff I brought home with me, and I've never asked my parents.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.  From birth to age 19, I lived in the same house.  My parents still live there.  That's what has inspired tonight's post.  I really wish they would move.  Earlier tonight, I saw (on FB) that their intersection was mentioned on one of the "crime pages" yet again.  (To clarify, I follow several pages on FB that track or report the crime in St. Paul, primarily for this reason. I'll just call them the "crime pages".)  It was a rather lengthy report, saying there were "numerous callers" reporting "shots fired" and a "male. . . running . . . in the alley . . . said to be shooting at a black SUV and someone in the vehicle was shooting back."  Nice.  But wait, there's more!  "A bullet hole in the wall was found at 7** Edmund..." and insert Tash going ballistic (lame pun intended) here.  

One thing to mention -- it's the practice of this crime page not to mention the exact address.  I get it -- it's one of the scanner pages, meaning people are basically transcribing what is coming across the scanner as it's coming across, so they want to give a semblance of security by not publishing the addresses.  Even though everyone who is actually listening on the scanner will get to hear the actual address.  But, I digress; I was not listening to the actual scanner, so all the info I got was "7** Edmund" which, at that intersection, had a 25% chance of being my parents' house.  The one I lived in from ages 2.5 weeks to 19 years (and some-odd months, weeks, and days, I'm sure).  

So, of course I called my parents right away, not knowing what to expect, fearing the worst.  

Of course, my Mom answered, calmly, with a hint of confusion about why I was calling.  At an odd time.  "Are you guys okay?" I asked.

". . . yes, why?" she replied.

"Well, I read on Facebook that there was shooting going on by your house again," I blurted out.  I tried to keep my cool, I really did, but I just can't sometimes.

"Oh, so that's what was going on," my Mom remarked, much too casually for my comfort. Like, far too casually.  As if she'd been half-heartedly searching for her favorite pen and just happened to spy it on the dining room table in her periphery while passing by to answer the phone and was going to go back and get it later, when she had time: "Oh . . . there it is."  

This is an ongoing struggle for me.  Apparently only for me, though.  Apparently, my parents see nothing wrong with living in a neighborhood where gunfights are becoming the norm.  Alright, I'm going to stop right here, because this is tangent I could go off on for quite a while.  As I said, it's an ongoing struggle for me.  I've been trying to convince my parents to move out of the city for a long time.  I used to think it was because I'm selfish and I wanted them living closer to me because it would make life easier for me.  Now I know it's because I'm selfish and I want them living closer to me because I will be able to take better care of them and not fear for my life when going to visit them and not fear for their lives when I'm not able to be with them.

And I'm not even kidding.

*deep cleansing breath in...*

That's what's on my mind tonight.  How can I convince my parents to move?  I've showed them what houses in their neighborhood are selling for -- which always surprises them. You have to remember, they bought their house in like 1970-something for around $25k.  So I try to entice them by showing them what they could get for their house, and then what they get another place for.  A place in the country like they always talked about for their retirement home.  I've offered to pack for them.  I've offered to hire movers for them.  I've offered to build them a house on our property.  I literally do not know what else I can do to get them to move.  There is no question at all where I inherited my stubbornness . . . 

On that note, I'm gonna sign off.  The hubby is in bed already because he wasn't feeling good when he got home.  The boy is upstairs already, playing on his computer.  The dog is even upstairs already, because he wanted to go to bed.  This makes me miss Luger.  Luger was MY dog.  He wouldn't go to bed until I went to bed.  He might've gone upstairs before I did, but he would lay on the floor until I got up there.  Not Maxwell; Maxell will lay on my frickin' pillow if I don't get up there first, and then look at me with sad, sad eyes when I try to get him to move.  I'm such a sucker for sad, sad dog eyes.

Alright, thanks for reading my gibberish tonight.  As you were.

Why do today what can be put off until tomorrow?

This morning, I woke up at, IDK, 5am or so.  Which isn't unusual, because once the hubby's alarm goes off at 4am or so, I tend not to sleep very soundly.  (Notice I said "I woke up", not "I got up".  BIG difference.)

But instead of going back to sleep, I played on my phone.  Again, that's not so unusual, either.  Although it was a bit unusual for today; typically on days when I have to go to the office, I'll play on my phone from 0500-0530 or whenever I can drag my tired self out of bed.  On days when I'm working from home, if I wake up at 0500, I'll turn off the alarm and go back to sleep.

Today I'm working from home.

So I played on the phone for a bit, until I was bored with that, then looked at the time.  It was 0515.

I honestly contemplated getting out of bed.  THAT would have been highly unusual.  I still kind of wish I would've done it, anyway.

So I tried to go back to sleep. HA!  That didn't happen.  What happened was this weird conglomeration of my imagination and the news, which actually happens pretty frequently and is quite amusing.  This morning there was a piece on the news about how part of Paul Bunyan's arm fell off, or something, and they had to put it in a sling until it can be fixed.  That's all I remember.  I'm guessing the story was referring to (hold on, let me fire up Google so I don't mess this up) the Paul Bunyan statue in Bemidji, because of course it was.  It didn't fall off, it's broken.  Anyway, in my dream state, the news story showed his arm on someone's lawn, under 10 feet of water.  Oh, I remember thinking, it's flooding in Brrr-midji.  (No, I didn't spell that wrong; I pronounce it "Brrr-midji" to be funny, because it's cold up there.  And because other people like to put the "r" sound in places it doesn't belong, like "warsh," so why not?)  Also in my dream state, I heard the nice news anchorman say they propped his arm up with a swing so he can still be on display until his arm can be fixed, and I thought, Well that's dumb, kids are going to want to swing on that and get hurt. Can't they come up with a better fix than a swingset?  

In my defense...in case you didn't read my last entry, I have an ear infection and can't hear so well right now.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Anyhoo...I was relieved to hear later that it's a SLING and not a swing, and that Brrr-midji isn't flooded, after all.  

My point was that I held off as long as I could but I was out of bed and downstairs cleaning the house by 0700.  I didn't intend to clean that early; I intended to start work.  But before I came downstairs, I started some laundry and decided to bring down the load of kitchen rugs and towels that's been up there forever (since I mopped the kitchen floors yesterday) and while I was putting the rugs down I decided to clean the stove top, and the door of the oven, and while doing so I got the rug in front of the oven dirty so I went outside to shake it off and came back inside and had to sweep the floor again, too, and before I knew it I was tidying up and I just couldn't stop.  

Yes, the word "manic" crosses my mind sometimes.

But...my house...it gets so nice and tidied and cleaned and organized when I'm like this.  Seriously.  There were three empty cardboard boxes next to my desk. I don't know why.  OK, I do know why -- I was saving them because I was going to maybe use them to ship things.  What kind of things?  Well, I'm making some shawls for people, I could maybe use them for that.  At least, that's what I thought a few months ago when I put the boxes there.  Today I looked at them and said, Nope.  To Recycling!!  For one thing, they're all beat up.  For another, it's not as though it's difficult to find shipping containers when needed.  And that one little bit of uncluttering makes me feel So! Much! Better!!  

So I've been spending my breaks today whipping things back into shape.  Watering plants, moving things around, decluttering, reorganizing.  Claiming my home back again.  Making it the nice, organized, sanctuary where I like to spend my time instead of the overwhelming collection of crap that I genuinely want to sort through but don't know where to start.

I love having the energy and focus to take care of things.  To be able to look at something, like a stack of empty fricking boxes, and say No, I don't need those. They must leave my house.  I'm not saying I buy into the whole "sparking joy" thing, but there's a sliver of something there.  I can definitely attest that the state of my house correlates with the state of my mind/mental health.  And both are quickly improving and becoming something I'm almost proud to call my own again.

Gotta get back to work!  TTYL

Over my dead body!

Take THAT, severe acute respiratory syndrome coronavirus 2 (SARS-CoV-2), if that's even your real name.

I don't have you, nyah-nyah!  :P 

Not that I thought I did.  Until yesterday when I went to the doctor for my annual check-up.  As my luck would have it, Sunday afternoon my ear started hurting like h-e-double hockey sticks, especially when I yawned or opened my mouth.  And then Monday when I woke up, I couldn't hear out of that ear. It didn't hurt anymore, but it felt like it was jammed full of . . . well, cotton, I suppose.  Sound-proof cotton.  Sure, that's a thing.

So off I went to my already-scheduled appointment, feeling like crap but hey! What a coincidence.  I just had to fight the urge to get through all the other mumbo-jumbo (you know, vitals and labs and this and that and the other) and beg the nice doctor to please look in my ear because I know something is wrong [it's probably a huge tumor about to explode ha ha just kidding I know it's just a little fluid but it's driving me crazy]. I don't want to talk about my food journal, I want to talk about my ear.  I don't want to talk about depression (but I do want to talk about depression, that's another part of the reason I'm here) but I really want to talk about my ear first please.

So we get to talking about my ear.  And she asks if I've been sick at all, which I knew she would because it's the same line of questioning I would've run through.  It's been baffling me, as well.  No, I've been fine.  Great, actually.  We had been out of town all weekend, celebrating our belated Valentine's celebration in Duluth, no I haven't been coughing, no I haven't had a runny nose, no I haven't --OH MY GOSH WAIT A SECOND!!  Last week, out of the blue, one day after work I suddenly came down with a 24-hour bug.  I felt just like I did after I got my COVID vaccine -- achy, low-grade fever, just all-over blecch.  I even called in to work the next day.  It never went farther than that, but it was weird.  Once I mentioned that to the doctor (damn me and my thinking out loud!) you could see the light bulb over her head flicker on.  I wanted to yell, No! IT'S NOT COVID!!  But it was too late.  The COVID screening questions began.  No, to my knowledge I haven't been around anyone with COVID.  No symptoms other than Tuesday and now this ear infection.  Yes, I had my vaccine. Yes, I know the J&J vaccine "only" gives me a 60-70% chance of not catching the 'rona.  . . . WTF.  Sure.  I'll get tested.  

Long story short, their rapid testing machine wasn't working.  I got two "invalid" results in a row.  She wrote me a work note saying I should stay home until my symptoms resolved and told me I should go get tested somewhere else.  Oh, and gave me antibiotics for my ear infection.  And quickly escorted me out the side door because she didn't want me going through the waiting room -- I'd be exposed to too many other people that way.

I went out to my car like, WTF just happened?! I don't have the 'rona.  I can't have the 'rona!  That would be awfully inconvenient.  I can't go home, I have an online patient in 30 minutes (which I found out about while I was sitting in the exam room waiting for my first inconclusive test to come back) and I'm supposed to work on-site today anyway.  My options were to drive the 10 minutes to work and hole up in my office all day, or drive the 45 minutes home and be a major inconvenience by asking someone else to cover the patient I hadn't even prepped for.  Against my better judgement (but not really because I was 98% sure I didn't have the 'rona), I went to work.  It's actually pretty easy to hole up in my office all day and not interact with other people, lol.  

So, that's why I had a COVID test this morning.  By the time I got back home, I had the email saying it was negative.  I had a date scheduled with my tattoo artist today, which I cancelled yesterday because I didn't know.  I cancelled dinner with my parents last night because I didn't know.  Actually, yesterday I was feeling pretty crappy -- after all, I do still have the ear infection.  But that's how even a 'rona scare can mess up your plans.  I've had this tattoo date made for a while. I even took PTO.  But I didn't want to chance it, and I didn't know I'd have the results back this fast, and I didn't know how I'd feel today, and I didn't know for sure that it'd be negative. Better safe than sorry.

But the good news is, I also talked to my doctor yesterday about my depression medication regimen.  Because it hasn't been doing it's job lately.  Because in January I stopped taking the one medication. Because I ran out and because it increases my blood pressure and I wanted to keep my blood pressure down and I figured, I'm on three medications, surely I can get by with just two of them!  HA HA HA HA.  Surely, as it turns out, I cannot.  This one medication is a mild stimulant and to get it refilled, I have to have lab work and/or actually make an appointment to see my doctor every six months which I don't always do, which is another reason I didn't get it refilled.  Because nurses are horrible patients.  And people with mental illnesses are horrible patients.  

It's a predictable circle.  When I go off of that medication, I start spiraling downward.  I can see it happening, but I feel like I can't do anything about it.  By the time those around me start saying something about it, I already know I'm at rock bottom but don't want to talk about it because I'm ashamed that I let it happen again.  I mean, seriously; how fricking hard is it to refill a stupid medication and take another stupid pill every fricking day!?!

But by the time I'm at that point, another stupid thing happens. I start getting even more depressed and mad that I have to take stupid pills just to be "normal". Why can't people just accept me for who I am? Why do I have to drug myself to fit in?  Why can't I be the crazy cat lady?  Why does this one stupid little white pill (actually, only half a pill) make such a profound difference in who I am????  It's just stupid. Everything is stupid.  Medication is stupid.  People are stupid.  Life is stupid.  The world is stupid. Society is stupid.  I just want to be me.  Everybody else gets to be themselves, why can't I just be me?  So what if I'm crazy?  Maybe I need shock therapy.  No one understands mental illness.  I hate mental illness.  I hate it!  I can be doing just fine and then BAM!  Up out of nowhere. It's not fair.  It's so not fair.  People who say this isn't a chronic illness can kiss my ass.  This disease is going to kill me.  It's going to drive everyone I love away from me and I'm going to die of loneliness, because no one can stand to be around me unless I'm medicated.  I'm a monster.  Why did I ever start taking these things?  

Just a sample for ya there.  You'd think with my mind running like that, I'd be, like, manic or something, but no.  Just the opposite.  My house right now is a mess.  There's two inches of dust on everything.  I've had no motivation to do anything.  There are dust bunnies behind my chair bigger than my dog.  I know that if I could get my house clean, it would help. But I can't get the gumption to get off my ass and clean the house.

So in case you were wondering, depression sucks.  

BUT!  I got my wonderful stupid little white pills again now, and should be feeling normal again soon.  And the antibiotics I'm taking for my ear infection should be starting to kick in soon as well.  And I still have the day off, even though I'm not getting tattooed, and I have the house all to myself for a few more hours.  So I think I'm going to sign off and get the house tidied up.  Time to kick the depression dragon to the curb and take back my life.  And if I need the help of [half of] a little white pill to do that, then so be it.  

See ya later, frens.