No politics today. Throughout this dystopian nightmare, we have to try to keep ourselves healthy, and I don't just mean your physical health. Mental health is so important. This is a piece I wrote about my anxiety and depression issues. I almost didn't share it because the internet is full of terrible people but it's also full of lovely people who might also struggle with such issues who might get something out of this. Feel free to share if you think you have friends who may be struggling. Stay safe, stay healthy, and know you're not alone. ❤️
I’ve never directly asked anyone to watch my videos, or to share them, or to give them a signal boost. But this is different. This isn’t about me. This is about them. They were so much more than just statistics to create a heartbreaking graph, more than countless news stories that make up numb. They were more than simply the names they carried in life.
Please watch. Please share. Sadly it seems America needs to hear this messages, so let’s make sure they do.
Donald Trump and his ilk claim to be Christians and yet they conveniently forget what being a ‘Good Samaritan’ means. They seem to think that they only have to be a good Samaratin if they see the downtrodden wearing a cross or a St. Christopher’s medal around their neck. If the victim of injustice is wearing the Star of David, a rainbow flag, or—god forbid—a hijab, they feel justified to keep walking.
“A Samaratin of their own kind will come along and help,” they think.
But that isn’t the point of the Parable of the Good Samaratin. In the Book of Luke Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaratin as a way to answer the question asked of him by a law student. They’re discussing what one must do to inherit eternal life. (Any emphasis is mine.)
The law student answers: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and love your neighbor as yourself.”
Jesus responds: “You have answered correctly. Do this and you will live.”
Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaratin in response to the law student’s next question: “And who is my neighbor?”
Here’s an interesting question: if Jesus hadn’t truly mean for us to love our neighbors as ourselves (and by ‘neighbors’ he clearly meant everyone, treat everyone kindly and equally), he wouldn’t have answered the story with this question:
“Which of these three [the priest, the Levite, or the Samaratin] do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”
The student responded: “The one who had mercy on him.”
Jesus then told him: “Go and do likewise.”
Again, the emphasis is mine. And the emphasis, apparently is NECESSARY. Why, on the last day of 2019, is the parable of the Good Samaratin still so relevant? It’s a great story, sure, but I’d hoped, by now, that we would all be nodding our heads halfway through, saying, “Of course, love our neighbors as ourselves, it’s the golden rule, why are we even still talking about this?”
Well, we’re still talking about this because the President of the most powerful—and the supposed ‘best’—country in the world doesn’t seem to grasp this basic Sunday School concept.
Don’t be the priest. Don’t be the Levite. Don’t be a Trump. Don’t keep walking.
Make everyone your neighbor, and use your voice to speak up for people who have no voice, or no say, or no power. If you have privilege they lack, recognize that fact, and use it to fight for equality for all. You don’t have to be a Christian to recognize the wisdom and the essential rightness of this Parable found in the Book of Luke.
Don’t keep quiet.
Don’t cross to the other side of the road.
Grasp hands with strangers and make them your neighbors.
My daughter is watching this video on her tablet on repeat and I’m learning that no matter how many times I hear the phrase “yippee kiyay” in an innocent context, it is absolutely impossible for my brain not to whisper *motherfucker*
This executive order has taken the words right out of my head. I...I just can’t. Or, more accurately: I couldn’t.
Because once I discovered that I didn’t know how to react, I just opened my head and let my hands do the talking.
Donald Trump and his ilk claim to be Christians and yet they conveniently forget what being a ‘good Samaritan’ means. They seem to think that they only have to be a good Samaritan if they see the downtrodden wearing a cross or a St. Christopher’s medal around their neck. If the victim of injustice is wearing a star of David, a rainbow flag, high heels, a turban, or—God forbid—a hijab, they feel justified to keep walking.
“Someone of their own kind will come along and help,” they think.
But that isn’t the point of the Parable of the Good Samaritan. In the Book of Luke Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaritan as a way to answer a question asked of him by a law student. They’re discussing what one must do to inherit eternal life. (Any emphasis is mine.)
The law student answers: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and love your neighbor as yourself.”
Jesus responds: “You have answered correctly. Do this and you will live.”
Jesus tells the story of the good Samaritan in response to the law student’s next question: “And who is my neighbor?”
Here’s my thought here: If Jesus hadn’t truly meant for us to love our neighbors as ourselves (and by ‘neighbors’ he clearly meant everyone, treat everyone equally, religion, sex, and looks notwithstanding), he wouldn’t have ended the story with this question:
“Which of these three [the priest, the Levite, or the Samaritan] do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”
The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”
Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”
Again, the emphasis is mine.
And the emphasis, apparently, is NECESSARY. Why, in 2017, is the parable of the Good Samaritan still so relevant? It’s a great story, sure, but I’d hoped, by now, that we would all be nodding our heads halfway through saying, “Of course, love our neighbors as ourselves, it’s the golden rule, why are we even still talking about this?”
We’re still talking about this because the President of the most powerful—and supposedly the ‘best’—country in the world doesn’t seem to grasp this basic Sunday School concept.
Don’t be the Priest. Don’t be the Levite. Don’t be a Trump. Don’t keep walking.
Make everyone your neighbor, and use your voice. If you have privilege they lack, use it. You don’t have to be a Christian to recognize the wisdom and the essential rightness of this Parable found in the Book of Luke.
Don’t keep quiet.
Don’t cross to the other side of the road.
Grasp hands with strangers and make them your neighbors.
After the third Presidential Debate many of my Facebook ‘friends’ have been sharing variations of this quote: “I don’t understand how you can support abortion after experiencing the miracle of childbirth.” This is hardly the first time I’ve seen or heard this; family and friends have even said this to my face. I’ve finally had enough of it.
I’m allowed to be pro-choice even though I have a child. You say you ‘don’t understand’ but really you’re judging me and you know it.
1. Stop. Just stop it. You don’t know what I went through to bring my child into this world. Don’t assume that you do. I spent 7 weeks in the NICU with my literal miracle baby after she was born 10 weeks early. I watched her beat every single odd and kick the ass of every single obstacle. So just don’t.
2. I support a woman’s right to choose even more after my experiences. You know why? Because before this miracle baby, before this pregnancy, I lost a baby. I miscarried. Not only that, but I miscarried in a very traumatic way, losing a fallopian tube in the process. I could have died. The baby lost his life but I got to keep mine. Do you think that’s what I wanted? Believe me, it is not. But that’s what you pro-lifers are arguing for, in many cases. Many of you may believe abortion is wrong, no matter what.
Rape?
Wrong.
Incest?
Wrong.
Life of the mother?
Wrong.
3. Some states have even gone so far as to criminalize some miscarriages. (See Utah and Georgia, and those are just off the top of my head.) I could have been charged with a crime for almost losing my life. “But that’s insane!” You say, “That’s not what we support!” And you’re right. And I understand. It is insane. And that is the point.
4. I was going to get into the sexism/feminism debate part of it but you know what? Skipping it. Long story short: Lots of dudes make lots of laws that solely affect people with vaginas.
5. I honestly do respect your opinion (it’s how you sometimes express that opinion with which I take issue.) I do, however, respectfully disagree. But you will lose all of my respect if you dare question my parenting--or even more deplorable, my love for my child--because I support a woman’s right to choose. Because that is what is sometimes inferred and you well know it.
It’s September 6th, 2016, and I was watching the water fill the sink as I prepared to do my nightly chores. I always wash my daughter’s bottles and load the dishwasher after everyone else in the house has gone to bed. I find it easier; I have the kitchen to myself, I can have John Oliver, South Park, or Hoarders on in the background, and I can take my time.
Tonight my chores felt different. It was different because it was past midnight, it was officially September 6th, and it has officially been three years since I lost my first baby.
Even writing that sentence is tough right now, and the logical side of my brain says that after three years it should be easier now. But this year is different. Two years ago it was raw, only a year old, the first anniversary, still fresh and exquisitely painful. A year ago I was pregnant, recently separated from my husband, and terrified that something similar could reoccur. I grieved, I’m sure I did, but I don’t even remember doing so, because fear overrode every other possible emotion.
This year is different. It’s different because I have a healthy 9 month-old baby, Madison Rose, and she is more than I could have ever wanted. She’s the light, love, and center of my life.
So as I stood tonight at the sink, waiting for it to fill, watching the clock force me from September 5th and into September 6th, I had a strange moment where my brain whispered, “He would have been two years old now.”
I shoved the thought away—as far and as fast as I could—but it was there and it wasn’t leaving. So as I started to wash Maddie’s bottles I studied that thought; I broke it down.
Yes, he would have been two. He was only twelve or fourteen weeks in the womb when he died, so he would have been born sometime in the spring, probably. I had a tubal pregnancy that went much longer than it should have; my fallopian tube burst and they had to end my pregnancy or I would have lost my life.
They asked if I wanted to know the sex of the baby I had lost. My husband said no. I said yes.
It was a little boy.
That’s what I mean about this year being different; now I have my healthy baby—now I have my Maddie Rose. I’m left feeling weirdly guilty about my grief. If my little boy had made it, it’s very possible that Madison wouldn’t be here today, and that thought makes me shudder.
Yet I grieve.
Do I grieve for our trauma, my husband’s and mine? For my marriage, which has since then, dissolved? No. I grieve for that little boy. I grieve for the boy I never got to meet. I grieve for my loss.
But when I watch Madison sleep I want to tell my emotions to shut up. Just shut up and look at that perfect, beautiful baby, curled on her side with her thumb in her mouth. Look at that. What can you possibly have to be sad about?
But as I stood there, watching my Maddie Rose, my little girl who will never be a little sister, I realized:
I am allowed to grieve for what I have lost while being incredibly grateful for what I have.
I picked her up and rocked her because I just needed to hold her. I needed to feel her breathe against me. I needed to feel her warmth, and give her some of mine in return. I needed to tell her how much I love her, how happy I am that she’s happy, healthy, and growing; I needed to tell her that she had a big brother who wasn’t so lucky. I needed to grieve, and I needed to hold my little girl close and realize how incredibly blessed I am to have her in my life.
For every woman who has ever lost a child, never forget that:
We are allowed to grieve for what we have lost while being incredibly grateful for what we have.
In Defense of ‘50 Shades of Grey’ (the film, not the book.)
WARNING LABEL:
The following people should not read this post:
1. Anyone who doesn’t want to hear your friendly neighborhood cynical insomniac talk about sex.
2. Anyone who still plans to watch this movie because SPOILERS.
3. Anyone who is generally uncomfortable with the discussion of anything sex-related.
^^Although if there are any of these people left on my friend list I would honestly be surprised.
Okay. Parents gone? Brothers probably ditched, and that’s totally A-Okay by me. Let’s move on.
I decided to watch ‘50 Shades of Grey’ today. I refused to read the books because I’ve heard that they’re trash--not trash as in smut, but trash as in the prose is horrendous--and I can’t handle that. If the best you can do to recommend a book to me is: “If you liked ‘Twilight’, you’ll LOVE this!!” then I am definitely not going to read that book.
Do you know me at all? I hated the Twilight books. They were addictive, don’t get me wrong, but they were the literary equivalent of that annoying little pop song that gets stuck in your head.
1st time you hear it on the radio: “Ugh, this can’t even be classified as music, really.”
2nd time you hear it: “Again? God I HATE this fucking song! It’s so poorly written!”
3rd time you hear it: *humming along* “NO! It’s insidious! It’s in my head now!”
That song is then stuck in your head all day long and it’s the song you hate most in the world.
That’s not a perfect analogy for the Twilight Saga, but it works for me. It’s like literary crack without the high. And horribly written. Uggggh.
Okay, enough bashing Twilight. You understand now why I refused to read ‘50 Shades of Grey.’ Also, if I’m gonna partake of some porn, I’m not gonna read it. That was high school. I read my fair share of Harlequin Romance Novelettes in high school. Then I grew up and my tastes changed.
So I didn’t read the books but I finally broke down today and decided to watch the movie. Every comment from this point on is referring to the film, not the book. Also, here begin the spoilers:
The first ten minutes of the movie were meh. Ana tripped over air and fell when she first went into Mr. Grey’s office and that irrationally pissed me off. My thought: Jesus, Anastasia, if you can’t get your shit together for an interview that’s not even yours, you will NEVER succeed in getting a job.
She’s very, very bad at interviewing. She’s no journalist. Horrendous. Awkward as hell.
The only saving grace is Mr. Grey because I’m sorry, but he is gorgeous. I mean...pretty much flawless. Ridiculously good-looking. Adonis. Insane.
Sorry. Moving on.
So the interview is a piece of crap but the scene starts to set the feel for the rest of the movie: intense sexual chemistry. Nothin’ at all wrong with that. It’s the whole point of the freaking movie, so yeah. You do you.
Then we get into the whole big question of CONSENT, and we see words like DOMINANT and SUBMISSIVE for the first time.
This was actually one of my favorite parts of the movie, and not only for the sexytime reasons. No, I mean I really liked how they were very honest with each other. Mr. Grey gave her a contract (which is pretty hardass but I do know friends of mine in the BDSM community who do it like that, so yeah. You do you.)
***For the record, BDSM is an initialism of ‘Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, and Sadomasochism (or Sadism and Masochism.’) Today it’s used as a catchall term for pretty much any bondage-involved sexual experience.***
Ana can’t decide whether or not she wants to sign the contract (understandable), but Mr. Grey does a very good job of introducing her into the world of BDSM without scaring her. But what I really want to talk about here--hence the warning label on this post--is how the BDSM sex is represented, what’s realistic, what’s not, and if the reactions I’ve read--’THAT WAS ABUSE, NOT BDSM’--are accurate or not.
The first time they have sex it’s completely vanilla, no problem with consent because she is obviously very much into what’s happening. All good.
The second time is a little more intense, but every time he does something (hands tied, blindfold) HE ASKS FIRST. He always, every single time, asks her if she’s okay.
“Is this what you want?”
“Did that hurt?”
“Are you comfortable?”
ALL DEFINITELY THUMBS UP GOOD. Super sexy and not at all abusive.
The third time takes place in Mr. Grey’s ‘Red Room of Pain’ (Ana’s name for it, not his; he calls it his ‘Playroom.’) This is the first time we see any true--albeit relatively tame--BDSM. He ties her up, he whips her a bit; sex and fun are had by all. Once again, every single time he starts something new, he asks for her consent. She knows her safe words. So this scene is, like the last, super sexy and not at all abusive.
**Sidenote: There are certainly some abusive overtones in the film, but they really have nothing to do with the sexual relationship. Mr. Grey is overhanded and controlling: he buys her a car, a laptop, and expensive books; he’s aggressively protective and jealous; he doesn’t want her to drink to excess and he wants to control what she eats; he doesn’t want her to go alone to see her mother in another state so he just fucking shows up uninvited; he shows up at one point IN HER APARTMENT--meaning he broke in--and somehow that’s never addressed. Those things are far more abusive and creepy stalker-like than any of the sex in the film.**
Okay, moving on, things happen, plot continues, blah blah blah.
What I really want to talk about is the ending. If you haven’t seen the movie: Ana asks Mr. Grey to show her what he’d really like to do to her. Sounds okay, right? And it is. Until she says, “Show me the worst it could be.”
SHE ASKED FOR IT. SHE WANTED TO KNOW. Just remember that.
So they go into his playroom and Mr. Grey continually asks, “Are you sure?” “You want this, right?” He’s playing a Dominant perfectly--he makes sure his submissive is clearly consenting, all questions asked and answered.
Then comes the part of the film that actually pissed me off.
Mr. Grey does as she ASKED and gives her ‘the worst it could be’ (which in my opinion is still pretty fucking tame but whatever.) He whips her six times with a leather strap.
Yeah, it hurts. Of course it hurts. She’s crying, she’s sniveling, but she’s NOT SAYING A SAFE WORD OR EVEN TRYING TO SAY NO. Even as she’s being whipped she’s consenting.
After the six hits on the ass Mr. Grey rushes forward to calm her and probably move the session along to something far more pleasurable for them both, but before he can get close Ana loses her shit and says, “Don’t you DARE touch me.”
Mr. Grey looks hurt, but he also looks like he understands AND I DO NOT. Look, Ana, I know it hurt. Obviously. Ouch.
But bitch...you asked for it. Your words were “Show me the worst it could be.” You gave your consent to that entire situation.
I’m not saying you’re not allowed to regret something, or say afterwards--or even right in the middle--”Never doing that shit again, not my cup of tea,” but to flip out and blame the Dom for doing something for which you ASKED...it just pisses me off.
I’ve had some experience with BDSM in my relationship and I very much enjoy it. It’s all about consent and mutual respect and pleasure. You must trust your partner completely. The film obviously romanticized it a good deal--sex never looks or feels so neat and clean and sparkly--but I think it handled the extremely important topic of consent very well.
So to have her flip her shit after receiving the thing for which she asked and the thing to which she clearly consented, it’s just silly. It’s unfair. She looks at him and asks, judging him with every breath, “So that’s what you want to do to me? You want to hurt me?”
Bitch, you read the fucking contract, okay? Even though you never signed it, he had your consent. He continually made sure that you wanted it. You didn’t stop him, you never uttered your safe word. You weren’t gagged. HE WAS BEING A GOOD DOM. (Other than the creepy stalker shit. That’s never okay.)
You have no right to freak out and judge him right now. In that scene I felt worse for Mr. Grey than I did for the crying Anastasia. He just bared himself, showing a part of himself that a lot of the world’s population would see as ‘perverted’--and you judge him, reject him, and pretty much call him a pervert.
#RelationshipFail, Ana.
Overall the film wasn’t nearly as shitty as I’d expected. I think the BDSM was well handled, it was sexy, it was funny and ridiculous at times (see: “I don’t make love. I fuck. Hard.”), and it was intriguing. And then Ana ruined everything by acting like a judgmental little brat.
There are supposedly going to be two more installments at some point, and I suppose I’ll watch them. Maybe Ana will get her shit together.
TL;DR: The BDSM portrayed in ‘50 Shades of Grey’ is just that. It is not abuse. Abuse was seen elsewhere, but not in the sexual relationship. At least not coming from the Dom.
My husband and I walked into a thunderstorm tonight.
That sounds like a metaphor or some deep philosophical double-entendre but it’s not. We literally decided to take a walk during a thunderstorm.
Let me start at the beginning: This story actually starts with the weather.
Anyone who knows me well knows that while I don’t at all mind being cold, I cannot stand being hot. Heat kills me. I always say that you can use as many blankets as you’d like, but you can take off only so many clothes. Especially women. Especially in public.
It was 88 degrees in Nuremberg today. No wind, humid as hell, and sunny enough to give you a headache. I’m not a summer person. Never have been. I’m an air-conditioning-is-my-best-friend-thanks-but-I’m-staying-inside-today kind of person. I don’t understand people who enjoy summer, and I don’t understand how Germans can survive in this heat without air conditioning.
That’s my problem. Germans don’t really believe in air conditioning. I mean they realize it exists, but they think it unnecessary (which, to be fair, it probably is), and it is therefore very expensive. Energy is more expensive here overall because they’re trying to phase out the use of nuclear plants--which, while admirable--causes energy costs to soar.
88 degrees. No air conditioning. Windows open, but no wind to actually make the open windows worth the flies that are determined to become pets. It was so humid it felt like the air itself was sweating. It was a beautiful day and I couldn’t go outside because I would have melted into a puddle if I had.
It was kind of depressing that I couldn’t enjoy such a beautiful day. And this is the first day off during the week that Mikey’s had since I came back, and that boy always wants to be doing something. He doesn’t mind the heat. I went out with him first thing this morning and it was already at least 75 degrees. It was nice spending time with him but I just couldn’t have fun because of the constant misery of the sweltering sun and sweaty air. I felt bad, like I was bringing him down by having this physical reaction that I cannot control. I wish I could stand the heat like he can. I just can’t. He brought me home and I stayed in for the rest of the day.
Then evening came. I could tell he was bored but he didn’t want to leave me in the apartment all by myself so we put on a movie. I kept apologizing to him that I didn’t want to go do anything, and I think he understood, but I still felt a little guilty.
Then the wind started up. It began to thunder. Lightning flashed. We heard raindrops hit the pavement and sidewalks outside with soft splattering splashes. We paused the movie and just listened to the rain. It was, in its own way, even more beautiful than the bright and sunny day before it. We just lay together and listened to the rain.
That’s when we decided to take a walk. I don’t remember whose idea it was, but we both decided that it was a good one. We chose clothes and shoes that we wouldn’t miss for a day while they dried and we headed out.
As soon as we hit the street we thought, at first, that we’d missed the whole storm while preparing to face it; we thought it had passed in its sudden fury of wind and rain, the way summer storms do. We decided to go to the park anyway, even though the storm seemed to be over. The wind felt too good on our overheated skin to let it go to waste.
We chose a bench in the corner of the darkened park, a crop of trees on either side of us, the wind making leaves dance in circles around our feet.
As it turned out the storm wasn’t over; it started to rain and we both grinned. It felt so good.
From our bench we could see the bus stop in our neighborhood, Gostenhof, and the brick wall of the ancient building adjacent. It was at that bus stop, leaning against that wall, waiting on the bus, that Mike asked me to marry him. It wasn’t a big gesture, it wasn’t traditional, but I didn’t mind; I’m not exactly a traditional girl. There were no candles, no going down on one knee...no ring. Well, no diamond. A cheap sterling silver ring was all he had to offer.
It was raining that night as well. We were huddled against the wall to avoid the worst of the rain, and he asked me to marry him.
I wore that cheap sterling ring until I got the ring I now wear.
Tonight reminded me of something. It reminded me of how I felt when we were standing in the rain, pressed against the wall, pressed against each other, trying to keep our good shoes (in his case, his only shoes) dry. It reminded me of how I felt when he proposed.
It reminded me of why I said yes.
We have problems, and I’ve never claimed that we don’t. We have a lot to learn as a couple. We have a lot of growing to do together. And while I’d like to say that I’ve never had doubts, I can’t. I’d be lying.
Doubts aside, I realized this evening that I am so grateful to have someone who stays home with me when I can’t handle the weather. I have someone who takes me out for walks in the rain.
I have someone who loves me as much as I love him.
I have someone who understands me well enough to know that I much prefer rainy nights to sunny days.
From the end of January until the end of February, I was in Intensive Care in a wonderful hospital in Germany for serious double pneumonia. I was very, very lucky. It was serious and I could have died. I got out, I’m recovering, and I came home to America to recover. I’m flying back to Germany on April 27 and I can’t wait to go back.
Many of my family and friends cannot see why I want--why I so badly want--to live in Germany. They like having me home, I like being home...why should I go back?
My first answer is always Mike, of course, and it’s the answer they’re expecting. And in some of their faces I see that they think I’m making a mistake, moving to another country across the ocean and so far from my family, all for a man.
That’s where they’re wrong. It’s not because of Mike. I would find a way to live in Germany even if I hadn’t met Mike, and even if things don’t work out between us (which I don’t think will happen, but anything’s possible, I suppose), I will work my hardest to find a way to stay there without him.
Mike is my husband, of course I love him and I want to be with him, but that’s not the only reason I want to live in Germany. Seeing him again isn’t the only reason I can’t wait to get back.
Everyone has a place. Some people are lucky enough to have more than one. My parents, for example, have three: our camper by Lake Marion; Oak Island, North Carolina; and their condo in Bayse, Virginia. My brother and sister in-law have found their place in Harrisonburg, Virginia. They love it, they feel at home there; it just feels right somehow.
It’s their place.
Well that’s how I feel about Germany. I know it sounds strange to call an entire country home in that general way, but I’m trying to explain the feeling of coming home I experience every time I get back. I am so much more at home in Germany than I ever have been in America. Even in times like now when I’m staying at my parent’s house in Ohio, I don’t think of that house as home. I’ve tried and as much as I try it just doesn’t feel right. It’s just not home to me anymore. Just like if my brother stayed there, it wouldn’t be home to him. He has his place. My parents have theirs.
And I have mine.
The problem they have with this, apparently, is that mine happens to be thousands of miles away. I get that. I do. It’s not like I leave and never miss them. That’s nonsense, of course I miss them. I have a feeling that I’m going to miss my niece Avery more than I’m comfortable with, but I’m going to bear it, because I need to go home.
Even without Mike, Germany is simply my place. It just is. I can’t explain it any better than that. And I don’t think that’s enough, but it’s the best I can do.
I’ve been lucky enough in my 27 years to live in more countries than most Americans have chance to visit in a lifetime. And of all of those places: America (South and North); Québec, Canada; Avignon, France; Bonn, Germany; and Nürnberg, Germany...only the last two truly felt like home to me. There’s something about the German culture that speaks to me, speaks to my soul, makes me happier than I’ve been in a very long time.
So yes, of course I’m going back because my husband is there. But I’m also going back for me, because that is simply where I belong. I feel it in my heart and soul.
In the previous post about my ferret's adorableness I mentioned that the story about my insomnia would be continued in a second post on the same day, and so it shall be. (I originally wrote them together but decided posting the two together would make the post entirely too long.)
The original problem was that my brain goes wild if I'm trying to sleep in silence; ideas for whichever novel I currently happen to be working on and/or ideas for stories I know damn well I'll never write circle through my mind and keep me awake.
I first experienced that problem way back in High School when I started my first book (lamely titled "The Right Thing") and it became pretty unendurable in my early college years. With 0800 classes--the bane of every freshman's life--I couldn't continue the habit that I'd had in High School of sleeping through classes I knew I would ace anyway. The second or third quarter of my freshman year I remember scheduling classes and the only time I could take the all-important French Grammar course I needed for my major was at 0815 every day of the week except Wednesdays. I was one of the few freshman who tested into this level of grammar class, essentially skipping the first two years most freshman take. There were maybe four or five freshman in a class of mostly juniors, and I knew that I'd have to hold my own in the class. That's when that High School habit truly had to be stopped. I couldn't wake up at 0700 after falling asleep at 0530 and be alert in class at 0815. I believe I was working on a book called "Thicker Than Water" at that time and the ideas were coming more easily as I practiced my writing. Sometimes I didn't sleep at all. It simply wasn't sustainable.
I decided the main problem wasn't the flow of ideas but the silence that seemed to induce it. I tried sleeping with music.
I started with one of my mom's CDs I'd ripped to my computer years before: a CD of soft, calming piano music. Most of the songs and arrangements were new to me, and I slept better for about a week. I thought I'd found my cure.
Then about ten days in I noticed I was sleeping less and less. It was taking much longer to fall asleep than it had at the beginning of my experiment and it took me a few days to realize why. Once I'd subconsciously memorized the pieces I could no longer tune out my story ideas and theories. It was like my brain had outsmarted itself; it now recognized the intent of the music and therefore decided to ignore said music so it could continue its work. It's like my brain didn't realize--or didn't care--that for the rest of me to be efficient in the daytime I needed it to chill the fuck out at night.
So I branched out a bit; instead of the piano CD I played calm, Emo music at night, like Dashboard Confessional, Secondhand Serenade, and The Postal Service (which isn't Emo at all but super chill techno awesomeness.) This technique didn't work longer than one night.
My theory was that I could ignore the words in my head--ideas, stories--by focusing on music with text.
I didn't even almost work. I already knew the songs so all I did all night was sing along in my head, and probably sometimes out loud.
Side note: Can I just get a shout-out for the roommate who put up with me during all this early angst? Thanks, Rachel, for not making me feel as crazy as I actually was.
I knew music was pretty much hopeless. I could always try music with text that I'd never heard before, but i memorize words ten times faster than I memorize musical melodies, so I'd have to get a new playlist every few days.
I moved onto an idea I got from Becky, my roommate after Rachel: movies.
Becky used to watch the Disney movie 'Smart House' every single night as she fell asleep. I tried it and it worked better than anything had in years. I knew all of the movies I was listening to and followed along in my head, just like I did with the songs, but instead of seeing words in my head--which are kind of the whole problem, if you think about it--I saw scenes. It worked. I changed the movie every night, cycling between fifteen or twenty different beloved movies, and it worked for quite a while.
Eventually I got sick of those fifteen movies and changed them out for another ten--I'm a movie freak, so it's not hard for me to find that many movies I love--and it continued working.
Finally, about two years ago, it stopped working. It wasn't sudden; it was continually reaching a point with a certain movie where I thought, This won't work anymore, I need to cycle this out. I ended up with no leftover movies to watch. After years of watching movies every single night I had nothing left in my arsenal. I was stuck with either movies I hadn't seen yet or movies I'd seen so many times I could quote the entire thing verbatim, and I wasn't satisfied with either of those options.
That's when I moved to TV shows, and that's what I've been doing until now. Mindless entertainment like Southpark, Family Guy, and even Dr. Phil has worked pretty consistently for almost three years.
It worked straight through to about a month ago. After years of watching the same TV shows over and over again it began grating on the nerves. My mind began to focus on words even if I hadn't seen a certain episode yet, any words, and my brain would spell them out. I'd take the letters from that word and move them around to make another word, and another, and so on into infinity.
I tried a German movie night before last, thinking that since it's not my native language it might do...something. Nope. I tried both French and German films and TV shows but I speak both languages well enough for the same exact thing to happen.
So what I'm going to try tomorrow night--tonight is already lost, it's 0430--is a movie that I have and know well, but one that only has English subtitles. I have the original Spanish version of Pan's Labyrinth (which, by the way, if you haven't seen it, is weird and dark and creepy and awesome.) I'm going to put that on tomorrow night; I know it well enough to know vaguely what scene is playing but I can't focus on the words because I don't speak a lick of Spanish.
I'll be sure to keep you updated and get the blog going again.
I'm sorry it's been so long since I've updated this blog. Based on the last post you can guess it has not been an easy year for me. So I guess this is one of those sorry-not sorry apologies where I'm actually just saying yeah, ok, I know, can we just be glad I'm back, please?
Now that that's over, Franky has this new thing he does every night that I had to share. Since our internet is currently down--obviously it will be back up by the time I'm posting this, but it's down as I'm writing it--I haven't been able to Skype much with the parents in the last week and that's got me a little down, but Franky helps a great deal.
We leave Franky's cage open almost all day now; we either close our door or make sure those 'Ferret Danger Zones' (aka the bathroom, where what if he manages to fit down a drain or something?; the kitchen, where he could break so many things and hide in so many places; and the toilet, because I DON'T WANT HIM TO DROWN.) are blocked off. He loves it and he mostly behaves, so this has led to us leaving his door open at night.
I thought this would be good for him--and me--seeing that he annoys the shit out of me every morning at about 0400 rattling his cage. He literally bites the bars and manages to slam the cage against the wall behind him many times in quick succession, creating all kinds of chaos.
No else else in the apartment notices it because they're asleep, but it's driving the insomniac of the house insane.
So we started leaving his cage door open a few nights ago and the results were mostly successful ('mostly' meaning we have to make it clear to him to Please go to the bathroom in your cage and not in the corner of the room because you're lazy and don't want to walk that far) and we decided to make it official: Franky's cage stays open at night.
On the first night he had those bathroom issues and when he got tired he climbed back into his cage, hauled himself into his hammock, and slept until noon.
On the second night there were fewer bathroom issues and he dragged a fluffy scarf of mine under our bed, rolled himself up, and passed out.
On the third night--last night--I actually fell asleep before Mike (these days a very rare occurrence indeed), and I woke up after he'd fallen asleep because something was moving around under the covers by my feet. I tensed, expecting Franky's sharp teeth to start nibbling on my toes--he has a foot thing--but lucky for me he didn't want to play. He crawled into the tiny spot between my feet, curled himself up as tightly as he could, and within a couple of minutes he was snoring.
Side note: Yes, ferrets can snore. It doesn't sound at all like people or dogs (see: Baxter) but it's definitely audible. When I first noticed it, to make sure it wasn't some kind of weird Ferret health warning, I typed 'Ferret Snoring' into YouTube. It almost sounds like wheezing or whining or some weird combination of both, but the point is: The results were adorable and mimicked exactly what I hear when Franky's sleeping deeply.
I fell asleep about an hour later around 0600 with a snoring Ferret between my feet.
So...that's new.
Now onto Project: Sleep, which isn't a general project on the subject of Sleep so much as a project on How I Can Get More Of It.
Last night was an anomaly, probably triggered by the fact that I had Benadryl from the first time in a couple of months, and I can't count on that wonderful drug-induced near-coma to be even a short-term reliable solution, so I'm looking for something I've never tried.
I'm going to break my own personal record by posting two blogs in one day: this one about Franky and the second about Project: Sleep, so everyone can see what I've already tried and will maybe be able to make suggestions so your favorite friendly neighborhood cynical insomniac won't completely lose her mind.
I haven't written in the past six weeks because I didn't want to write. More honestly, I couldn't write. It's hard even now. I keep pausing and hesitating between sentences. I'm stumbling over my words.
I'm watching Criminal Minds and trying to figure out what those commercials with the giant babies are really trying to sell.
I'm moving clothes from one pile to another, waiting for a place to put them so I can feel at home.
I'm smoking a cigarette on the deck (although I'm trying to quit); I'm listening to how loud the air conditioner is on this freakishly warm October night.
I'm tapping my fingers on the keys without actually typing. I'm hemming and hawing and stalling and trying to do anything other than write about--therefore think about--the past six weeks of my life.
I know I've started posts this way before. I've often said that something is hard to write about, or uncomfortable to put into words, or simply unnecessary to say.
It's not a bad idea: write down the thing that's plaguing you and then watch it catch flame and burn away. Writing it down is the first step, so that's where I'm starting. I may burn this later; I may not.
The story goes like this:
When I got onto the plane in Nuremberg on August 20th I was 75% sure that I was pregnant. By the time our 10-hour layover in London was over I was 100% sure. I took a test in the London airport; Mike picked me up and swung me in a hug in front of dozens of people. A couple of German people nearby who'd heard my pronouncement actually started clapping.
We were happy. We'd had almost a month to get used to the idea, and by the time we got the positive test we were ready to be happy, nervous, ecstatic, terrified, and...well...TERRIFIED.
I was nervous about telling my parents and Becky; I was scared of the idea itself--a little, tiny person! What?!--and I knew I was going to be clueless most of the time.
But none of that mattered. It was happiness that prevailed on that morning, in the early hours of August 21, 2013: laughing, jumping, kissing, hugging, swinging in crazy circles. Those things mattered more than anything else.
I will never forget how I felt in that particular moment. The joy, the terror, the anxiety, and the overwhelming love I felt for the man standing in front of me. None of those things will ever die.
But the baby did.
About two weeks after that joyous, terrifying moment, I started having intense pain. I didn't want to call an ambulance--because, hey, that makes it real--but Mike insisted. By the time the paramedics got there I was glad he'd called. The pain was unbelievable.
I'll try to make a very, very long story into a slightly shorter one by saying this:
My pregnancy, unbeknownst to me, was tubal. That means that while the fetus travelled through the fallopian tubes, it got stuck there, and never made it into the uterus, where he/she would have had room enough to grow healthy and whole.
This little one had grown big enough to burst my fallopian tube. It was almost three months along, and they had to take it out with surgery.
Gone.
I tried to explain it to Mike, tears streaming down our cheeks, our hands clenched together like we'd never let go. I struggled to translate words into German that I had a hard time finding even in English.
We cried for hours, before the surgery and after. We couldn't believe our joyous hug in the London-Heathrow airport could have turned into this. This pain, this grief, this hole inside of us--and this empty space between us.
See, this is why I didn't want to write about this. I'm crying again.
But that's been my problem in the last month, ever since it happened. I can't let it go.
Having a baby would have been inconvenient, terribly difficult, and super scary, yes; all of those things are true.
But we wanted it so much.
The space between us healed; now we're better than ever, relationship-wise. But both of us still feel it, this hole that just seems to be getting bigger with time, and we don't know what to do about it.
I don't know what to do.
I'm not depressed; I'm pissed. These wet spots on the paper are tears of rage.
This happens in 2%--TWO PERCENT--of pregnancies.
I want to storm around the house, screaming at whatever God there may be, asking to please, just give me a A FUCKING BREAK.
But then I don't, because whatever God there may be already has given me a break. He gave me the best, brightest break of my life. He gave me Mike.
And today Mike gave me a ring. We were already engaged, but this makes it official, and the ring is beautiful. Today we hugged, kissed, laughed, and swung around in crazy circles.
I have to remember that there will be more moments like that for us in the future. If I can remember that--if I can believe it--then maybe the hole will start to shrink.
This is hardly news. Everyone knows that saying goodbye is usually followed by uncomfortably long hugs, messy tears, and lame phrases like 'It's not 'goodbye,' it's 'see you later'' when you very well know 'later' could be a long time away.
Chiara and I put off the last goodbye as long as possible--also not a good idea. If you put it off you end up dreading it more, and the moment itself ends up being harder than it would've been otherwise.
I walked into Chiara's room the night before she went to her father's house for two weeks--when she comes back I'll already be in America--after two days of putting it off.
When I told her I'd come to finally say goodbye she pressed her face against her knees and said in a little girl voice, "Aber ich will's nicht." (But I don't want to.)
I sat next to her. "Ich auch nicht, Suße." (Neither do I, sweetie.)
She looked up at me with her big brown eyes. "Ich habe dich ein bisschen zu oft genervt, oder?" (I annoyed you one too many times, huh?)
I laughed a little. "Ja, wie eine kleine Schwester soll. Aber ich gehe nicht deswegen." (Yeah, like a little sister should. But I'm not leaving because of that.)
She nodded. "Ich weiß. Aber hast du ein guter Zeit mit uns gehabt?" (I know. But did you have a good time with us?)
"Natürlich. Es war, ehrlich gesagt, die beste Zeiten dass ich bis jetzt gehabt habe." (Of course. It was, honestly, the best time I've ever had.)
"Nur weil du Mike getroffen hast." (Only because you met Mike.)
"Nicht wahr. Ich bin allgemein glücklicher mit Mike, das stimmt. Aber mit euch, hier, war ich glücklicher als ich in Amerika war. Eh bevor Mike." (Not true. I'm happier with Mike, that's true. But with you guys, here, I was happier than I ever was in America. Even before Mike.)
She smiled at me with tears in her eyes. "Echt?" (Really?)
"Echt."
"Eh dass ich dich so genervt habe?" (Even though I annoyed you?)
"Wie ich sagte, Kleine, du bist wie eine kleine Schwester. Du musst mich ja ein bisschen nerven. So gehört es." (Like I said, sweetie, you're like a little sister. You're supposed to annoy me.)
We laughed a little together and then I hugged her, and she hugged me, and we cried and the goodbye had to come to an end. I hugged her once more before I left, turned down her bed for the last time, and told her goodnight, sleep well, like I did every night for the last eleven months.
I couldn't help it that my voice broke a little toward the end, or that as I closed her door I put my hand to my face in an attempt to halt the tears.
She really did annoy me, so often in fact that in my brain I'd call her not-so-nice names. But don't we all do that with our siblings? Especially our little brothers and sisters.
I've never had a younger sibling, and now I feel like I have a younger sister who I'm leaving far too soon. She still has to have her first boyfriend, she still has to have her first kiss, and she still has to survive High School.
I realized, even from the beginning, that I wouldn't be able to experience all of that with her, but I never thought I'd become so attached. I want to be with her for all of those things, but I suppose Skype and texting will have to suffice.
She made Mike and I promise that we would visit when we get back to Germany, and we both said of course we would. And we will.
'Later' may be a long time away, but we will come back.
sincerely, a cynical insomniac @cynicalinsomniac - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
