Telling a Story

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” Anne Lamott

I first read Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird over thirty years ago. It’s one of the best writing books of all time, because it’s also a great life book. 

The quote above is one of its most powerful pieces of advice. 

And it’s why I stopped writing personal stuff the first time.  

It started with an actual bird. 

I don’t like birds. Really. I saw Hitchcock’s The Birds way too young, and it scarred me for life. The fact that I even read Bird by Bird is honestly a miracle. 

But a number of years ago, there was this blue jay that showed up outside of my window all the time. 

(Probably because of the bird feeder on the porch below, which I was against. Because I really don’t like birds.)

That blue jay kind of grew on me. I won’t say I started to like him, but I did enjoy seeing him out my window. I even looked him up to make sure that’s what he was; All About Birds made him sound pretty cool. 

So, I mentioned my growing appreciation for this (one, specific) blue jay to my husband. 

I mentioned it because I thought it would be a safe topic of conversation. I thought he would appreciate my progress in getting over this childhood (childish?) dislike. 

Instead, I got to hear about how mean blue jays are. How I was wrong to like blue jays. How if I was going to like a bird, this one was the wrong one to choose. 

I always chose the wrong bird. The wrong tone. The wrong words. The wrong topics. The wrong TV show. The wrong way of cleaning. The wrong . . . I was always wrong. 

I remember staring at my husband as he went off about blue jays. And I remember thinking, what a fucking asshole. 

In all the times he had ranted at me, loomed over me, yelled at me. . .I had always thought of it as my fault. I accidentally triggered him. I used the wrong tone. I put something where he couldn’t find it. I did something wrong, so he was allowed to yell. Somehow, I’d become convinced that this was ok. 

And then he got mad at me for mildly enjoying a blue jay, and I realized that just maybe it wasn’t. 

Every time I tried to write after that first crack in the foundation he’d carefully laid, I got lost. Even when I tried not to write about my marriage, it wormed its way in. And I was in no position to own anything that was happening to me, so I couldn’t just write about how badly my marriage was going. 

Even now, I’m not sure about sharing this. Even though the marriage ended emotionally quite a while ago, even though he’s dead, I’m still apprehensive. 

But Bird by Bird opens with this line, “The very first thing I tell my new students on the first day of a workshop is that good writing is about telling the truth.” 

I can’t guarantee that any of my future writing will be good (although I am hoping it will be much better than this piece). But I do know I had to tell this truth before I could write anything else.

Three Small Things

 

When my life got really dark a little while back (as opposed to the entire fucking world being dark like it is now), I struggled to find a way through (out seemed absolutely impossible). 

Every kind of recommended self-care and whatnot seemed impossible. A lot of them were actually impossible at the time. But I knew I couldn't continue the way I was. 

So, I started with three small things. Every night before bed, I thought of three small moments during the day that had been less dark, or maybe even light. And I expressed gratitude for them. 

Sometimes, it was really hard to find the moments. And other times, it was hard to have gratitude when so many other moments in my day had been freaking terrible. 

But I kept going, and somehow noticing the moments helped me make more of them. And the more gratitude I expressed, the easier it was to be grateful for small things. 

Now, my list usually goes on until I fall asleep. My personal life is much less dark for many reasons, but the biggest one is this habit. 

One of the strategies I used to continue this habit on even the worst days was to remember a piece of art that I had enjoyed that day - a song, a painting, a funny meme, a movie, a perfectly edited Real Housewives moment. 

But now it feels a bit like we're all collectively in our worst days as our country descends into fascism and corruption and aimless war. And while I absolutely advocate voting and calling and protesting as much as you can, I also think joy is a valid form of resistance. 

The closest thing I've ever gotten to public art is my blog. So I'm posting again. Here and on Facebook. 

All of which is to say, I'm back, bitches. 

And I'd love to know what three small things are getting you through the downfall of the United States.

This Is Not How I Pictured My Eventual Nervous Breakdown

 As a teacher and then a mom to babies and young children, I was a big fan of routines. I KNEW predictability made kids more secure and successful. 

And yet I didn't notice that I married someone with completely unpredictable moods and reactions. 

Perhaps notice is the wrong word; we all certainly noticed his moods and reactions. You couldn't miss them. 

But I didn't realize what it would be like to live with someone who chafed at routines and whose moods were unpredictable and mercurial. I didn't realize that parenthood and responsibilities would heighten that unpredictability instead of soften it. 

I didn't realize a lot of things. 

So many things. 

And all of those things have come up and smacked me in the face in the last year. 

As a former gifted child, feeling like a fucking stupid adult seems doubly painful. And sure, it's not stupid to believe in and love someone. . . .but when that someone is not who you thought he was. . . .when you believed his words over his actions repeatedly . . .well, you have to face that truth that you were pretty fucking stupid. 

And when your stupidity hurt your kids. . .who are the most amazing humans you know. . .well, you have to apologize and try to explain and take accountability and try to find a way to make it up to them. Even if they don't blame you. 

The worst is that I still feel stupid. Despite not believing him anymore, despite realizing that things were fucked up. Sometimes I don't realize just HOW fucked up I've been for the last 21 years. 

Yesterday one of my kids said to me, "Did you think I'd get mad if you bought the wrong thing?" We were unloading the groceries I'd bought and I tentatively unpacked the spice in question. 

My first instinct was to say yes. 

But not because of anything my kid has ever done or said. 

I can't stop thinking about it. 

Because sometimes he wouldn't get mad; he didn't always get mad over a mistake. But if he didn't get mad it was somehow worse; he would talk about how he'd just assumed I would understand what he was talking about and how he should have been more clear and how hard it was dealing with having me go to the store because I just didn't understand cooking.

He could have gone to the store. But he wouldn't do the family shopping - buying snacks and toilet paper and all that. He wanted to just go to the store each day to get what he wanted to cook that night (if he chose to cook that night) and anything else that HE fancied. Which might have worked if our budget wasn't super-tight. But it was.

Mad or not the end result for me was the same; I felt really bad. 

When we first got together, I would have told him to go to the goddamn store himself and do the goddamn family shopping if he was going to be so picky and unclear. I would not have felt bad at all. 

When we first got together, I never felt stupid. 

When we first got together, I found it easy to meet new people and make friends. 

When we first got together, I rarely had migraines. 

When we first got together, I never felt bad about myself. 

When we first got together, I was not responsible for his moods. 

I don't know how important it is to trace exactly how I got from confident person to the person afraid of buying the wrong spice. Or how I got from the person who believed kids need routines to the person who clings to routines and gets really upset if she can't do her laundry on Fridays. Or how I got from the person who didn't lie to the person who always lied about being fine. 

I do know that even though I'm no longer at the mercy of his moods; I'm still stuck in a cycle of unpredictability. But now it's my moods. Or more specifically, the unpredictability of when my realizations of how fucked up I've been will appear.

So I'm still clinging to my routines. As much as I can while managing the logistics of three kids' work schedules with one car, and preparing to move in less than 3 weeks, and working full time, and living in a country veering toward dictatorship. 

I'm not sure if I feel awkward about clinging to my routines so hard because he was so against them or because the old me was pretty chill about when I got laundry and grocery shopping done. 

I guess that's part of my current feeling of unpredictability too; I'm always wondering is this feeling/urge a vestige of my marriage, a trauma response or my natural inclination? 

I've been trying to write this for like two months but I couldn't get it out until I imagined it as a blog. I process everything by writing; I'm pretty sure I would have had a severe mental health crisis several times over if I didn't write. But contrary to what old posts on this blog would have you believe, I don't publish all of my struggles. 

But writing about here has freed me in a way that my journal could not. Even (perhaps especially) if no one ever actually reads it; the idea of sharing it with all 5 of my former readers somehow made it easier to talk about. 

So thanks. 

So I Had A Vaccine Reaction

When Lovebug was very small, Hot Guy had to bring him in for a vaccine while I was at work. When I got home, I was regaled with the story of how traumatic it had been for him, for Lovebug and for Ironflower. Apparently Ironflower was really mad at the doctor for hurting her brother. And Lovebug was mad. And there was much screaming. It's possible that toddler Ironflower hit the doctor.

And my first question was, "Did he get all the vaccines he needed, though?"

That's how pro-vaccine I am.

So when my GI doctor said he wanted to put me on Humira and that I would need to get a flu vaccine and Hepatitis A & B vaccines, I was all over it. I'd already had my flu shot for the year (I've gotten a flu shot every year since 1994, when a bunch of med students were giving them to seniors at the community center where I was teaching preschool and had leftovers for staff members. Those of us that got it avoided a horrible flu that went around the center.) but I figured I'd get the HepA&B vaccine the next time I was at the primary care office.

There are actually 3 shots until you are fully vaccinated against Hep A & B, fyi. The first 2 are a month apart, the next one is 5 months later.

I've recently learned that my insurance won't pay for Humira at this time (and, at $5000 a month, I kinda don't blame them for wanting me to try some other meds first), but since I had already started the Hep vaccines last month, I got my second dose Friday because otherwise I'd have to start all over again when I finally get the Humira.

And I realized that last month's reaction was real, because I had the exact same reaction this time - nauseous, dizzy, exhausted and just generally terrible. Last month I thought it might be stress or that I might be coming down with a virus, because I haven't ever had a vaccine reaction. But this time, at the suggestion of my wise husband, I took an hour long nap after I had the reaction.

And then I was fine.

I would like to say that after having this reaction, or that time Zoe almost fainted after her first HPV vaccination, made me more sympathetic to people who are against vaccines.

But it didn't.

Don't get me wrong, I get where they're coming from. Doctors can be assholes, the medical establishment can sometimes be wrong, it sucks to listen to your baby scream his head off because you're letting someone stick it with a needle full of chemicals you can't pronounce. 

But the science doesn't care how much it sucks to know your consent to a vaccine made your kid faint; the science wants to eliminate cervical cancer. 

I had an anti-vaxxer tell me that cervical cancer is easily curable. First of all, tell that to the 4000 women who died from it  in 2016. Second of all, I'd rather my kid faint than have to go through cancer treatment someday. Curing any kind of cancer is not fun like curing scurvy. 

People die from the flu. They die from measles. They die from cervical cancer. 

They don't die from vaccines. Really, they don't. No matter what you read on Facebook. No matter that you heard your neighbor's cousin's daughter died from the HPV vaccine.  No matter that there is a reporting system and a compensation system (which literally pays out 1 time per million doses of vaccine given. You can read all about how these safety guidelines are regularly exploited by anti-vax proponents here). And don't get me started on VAERS - the Vaccine Adverse Event Reporting System - which should be a good thing, but since anyone can report to it, also includes vaccine 'deaths' that are from car accidents within a month of a person getting the vaccine.

In summation, get vaccinated. Get your kids vaccinated. But maybe leave some time for a nap after.

Coming Back

I don't know where to start.

I mean that quite literally.

I think I have 10 drafts from the last several months that all start out so horribly that I can't manage to finish any of them.

And yet I miss blogging so very much and want to get back to it here as well as on my new education site (which is not even close to finished but will eventually be parked at jenzimm.com) that I've just decided to write the worst blog ever written and post it anyway.

Hot Guy went into the hospital with super high blood pressure a bit after my last post. Now, he's had high blood pressure and diabetes for a while - but he's also had trouble sticking to his meds. So the trip to the hospital was supposed to be a med tune up, not some horrible disaster.

And yet, while he was there they discovered that his kidneys had basically stopped working. And on Halloween we learned that they're not going to get better. So he's going to go on dialysis and the transplant list.

And I cannot begin to describe how much it sucks.

Really, I can't.

Yet I've lost two high school classmates to cancer this year. And their families would much rather be dealing with dialysis than death, I'm sure.

Perspective is fucking everything.

So while my anxiety goes off the charts, my professional endeavors flail and my ulcerative colitis tortures me, as my kids grow ever more independent (which is great, but sometimes I really miss them) and as Trump attempts to decimate America. . . I'm trying to look for the good. For the things I like.

And so I think I'm back to blogging.

The 5 Worst Things About Perimenopause So Far

As I've said before, I'm in the throes of perimenopause.  Still.

And I've been told that it will get worse before it gets better. I'm not sure which symptom I fear getting worse the most.

1. Sometimes, it's the sweaty hot flashes.

2. Other times, it's the insomnia.

3. But you can't forget the rage. I mean, you really, really, can't. Especially with the orange one in office. 

4. Unless you catch me when I'm sobbing uncontrollably over a commercial. 

5. And yet, that dark (red) horse that still shows up every month is also disturbing. I'm anemic now, no joke. 

Of course, I hear that urinary incontinence and migraines can also crop up in perimenopause so. . . I've probably just jinxed myself. 

Entitled Little Shits

I've had it with people blaming video games and mental illness for mass shootings.

First of all, literally every other first world country also has video games, high divorce rates and mental illness and yet they do not have even close to as many mass shootings.

Second of all, in the United States, young women also must cope with video games, mental illness and lack of prayer in schools. Yet how many of them are shooting up churches/historic districts/Walmarts/concerts and movie theaters? How many??????????

THREE since 1982. 


And while I believe in stricter background check laws and bringing back the assault weapons ban (it lowered casualty rates, at least), I would argue that the biggest reason for our mass shooting exceptionality is our entitled little shits problem.

And I don't mean people feeling entitled to be called by their preferred pronoun or to attend schools not named after Confederate, slave owning generals.

I mean people who feel entitled to other people's bodies. You know, those guys who assume that because a woman dresses a certain way or walks down a street alone, he is entitled to her body.

I mean people who feel entitled to get whatever they want, whenever they want without a thought for others. You know, those guys who lose their shit when they get turned down in any situation.

I mean people who feel entitled to kill children because they're suicidal.

It's not unique to America, but it's somehow uniquely American. It's an extremely pathological version of that same American entitlement that lets us travel the world and be appalled when not everyone speaks English or has air conditioning.

I think that sense of entitlement is also a key factor in developing the pathological hate needed to carry out a mass shooting. If you feel entitled to women's bodies, or the best job or whatnot and you're not getting them, you're going to need someone to blame. And if you grew up without empathy or accountability, you're not going to blame yourself. You're going to find some group to blame in some online group or in some politician's words, and then the hate will take over.

Growing up without empathy or accountability, growing up believing that your wants are more important that other people's needs or rights, that's the kind of entitlement I'm talking about. And if I thought for one second that the people blaming shootings on mental health were talking about prioritizing mental health services for children and families, and valuing parent education and early childhood education as the ways to raise children with accountability and empathy, I would be in total agreement.

But they're not.

They can't even stand up to the NRA and its rabid fans over background checks and assault weapons bans; there's no way in hell they're ever going to talk about pathological entitlement.

But the rest of us should.

Perfect Is The Enemy Of. . . .

Good, or so the quote goes.

But it's also the enemy of happiness, gratitude, progress, productivity and change.

As anyone who has ever met me or read this blog can tell you, I'm not a perfectionist. I don't believe in perfect . . . but I have a problem with perfecting. I have an unflinching belief that I can solve all problems just by trying harder and finding the perfect system.

I almost ordered this bag a few months ago. Not because I needed a new bag, but because I just thought if I found the perfect way to organize all my crap for literacy coaching job, I would solve the problem of hating the job.

(Ok, I also love bags. And that one is cute, right?)

Spoiler alert: I re-organized everything, found a great system. . .and still hated the job.

This is probably a lesson I should have remembered from my first husband; I turned myself into Suzy homemaker (while subbing every day and tutoring most nights) and he was still a raging, narcissistic asshole. You cannot perfect your way out of something inherently dysfunctional.

And it's probably inherently dysfunctional of me to think I have to perfect everything; some of which isn't even an actual problem. And that's what I mean about perfection being the enemy of happiness and progress. It's harder to enjoy your kids when you're worried about perfecting them; it's harder to enjoy a walk when you're obsessing over being in the optimal beats per minutes range.

And yet, by walking, you're doing a good thing for your body - whether it's in the optimal beats per minute range or not. So why can't we (me) celebrate that? Why can't I celebrate how awesome my kids are, instead of worrying that they're not at academic enrichment camps this summer?

I mean, I could celebrate these things. I could. If I just had a system for how to let go of perfecting things. . . .