Arithmomania

After yet another sleepless night, a certain question needs to be asked…are there any other slightly obsessive compulsive people out there whose very compulsion keeps them from sleep? I do not have OCD in the truest sense. I don’t wash my hands a thousand times a day. I don’t constantly check for locked doors or light switches. I am not a germaphobe. I do not obsessively clean my house although I am sure my husband would be greatly appreciative if I had such an affliction. Unfortunately, I have a kind of compulsion which really isn’t good for much of anything. I am a counter. Yes, that’s right, a counter. I count my steps from point A to point B wherever that may be. I count objects in my house if I feel there is a need. I count in my head, randomly. At times I have no idea what in fact, I am counting but nevertheless, I do. I will count to 1000 in my head and when I get to the point where I feel I have counted enough, I simply begin again. Maybe the next time I will count to 100, 10 times or count to 10, 100 times. I also know there are exactly 506 ceramic tiles in my bathroom. I know there are exactly 156 books placed not so neatly, on my bookshelves. I know there are exactly 93 steps between my two buildings at work. It is these random acts of counting that are simply part of my world, everyday.

I did not know until today, when I looked it up in Wikipedia, that my disorder actually bears an official name. Arithmomania. It sounds like a fancy term that would make me excel in the study of mathematics. However, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It is this very act of counting that hinders my sleep. It is not the only culprit of my insomnia because as I have previously expressed, my brain just never shuts down. It is simply another puzzle piece to my sleep deprivation. Many people have nightly routines; practices that help calm them before they drift off into never Neverland. I share in some of these practices. I get in my pajamas, brush my teeth, get my stuffed monkey, fluff my favorite pillow and lie down. This is truly where my pleasant experience ends. When a “normal” and I use the term loosely, person cannot sleep, they clear their minds or go to their happy place and inevitably, sleep will come. Well, not for me. I have even resorted to counting sheep. One would think that my lunacy would actually benefit me in this instance. Wrong again. This is where my overactive, never shutting down, never shutting up brain comes in. I cannot not count the sheep because to me, that would be crazy. However my brain takes it one step further and wanders to other sheep associated thoughts. Such as….why does one even count sheep? It’s not the counting part that stumps me but the sheep part. I mean why not dogs, or cats or my favorite, the spider monkey. Really. What’s not to love about a spider monkey?  And then, for some unknown reason, I think of the nursery rhyme, Hey Diddle Diddle. The line “the cow jumped over the moon” hurdles to the forefront of my mind and I picture sheep jumping over the moon which is simply more ridiculous to me than cows jumping over it.  

I am unsure of when this compulsion began. I cannot recall it from my childhood so I am left to assume I developed it as an adult. It wasn’t as if I woke up one day and decided it was time to count everything around me. It’s just been there. It has never really bothered me before and I am not totally convinced that it bothers me now. However, the first time I mentioned this to my doctor, he sat back in his chair and simply said, “Interesting”. Then my brain went full throttle. Is that interesting, good or interesting, bad? Does it mean I have finally gone crazy? Does it mean I have been susceptible to crazy all along and it’s finally caught up with me? Do I just have an affinity for numbers? Will it stunt my personal growth? Will it hold me back in any way? I truly do not know. I suppose my real question of the day is this: am I doomed to live a life of seemingly random, useless counting practices or is there a cure for me? Maybe, as I say all the time: it is what it is. Maybe there is no rhyme or reason to it all. Maybe there doesn’t have to be. Maybe there is no harm in it at all. Or maybe, just maybe I am perfectly sane, simply counting my way through this insane world.

Reason Enough

It seems like just yesterday I was dropping Mattie off at my mother’s house in an infant carrier. I would lug him, along with a massive diaper bag, up the fifteen or so stairs that I had become all too familiar with. And as I travel those same stairs today, only to have Matt running on his own two feet, beating me to the top, I can’t help but wonder….where in the world did the time go? How did he grow up so fast and where was I when it happened?

He stands before me now, a handsome young man, only a few inches shorter than I. Our conversations no longer consist of crayons and matchbox cars but rather what college he dreams of attending, what he wants to do with his life and if I think he is smart enough or talented enough to get a scholarship. I search his eyes trying to find a glimmer of that little boy that I once knew. But at 12 years old, all his baby fat has turned to lean muscle….the toothless grin I once loved has been replaced with adult teeth that will soon need braces and his dream of marrying his mommy has been replaced with dreams of becoming a professional ball player. I’ve noticed that this progression of change in him have produced significant changes in me. The me that once longed for him to grow up has been replaced with wanting to turn back the hands of time. I long for the days when he would call me mommy, crawl up on my lap and snuggle with me. He would fall asleep in my arms and I would think to myself what did I ever do in my life to deserve this amazing child? I remember it all like it was yesterday and yet the view becomes blurred with each passing day. He grows a bit more and becomes less of an extension of me and more of an individual with his own mind and his own views of the world. And although part of me is saddened by these changes, I know it is just simply a part of life.

Part of me feels better because I have been there with my son at each and every milestone; every “first” of his. I was there for each first day of school. I was there for each and every birthday. I was there for his first haircut, his first tooth falling out, his first bad grade, his first scraped knee, and even his first broken heart. I have been careful to miss nothing and yet I feel as if I have missed so much. I guess part of my anxiety is that I don’t have another child trailing behind him. He is all I have and I suppose my fear is that in having only one child, did I somehow miss the boat on doing it different, doing it better?

Most people I know have been blessed with more than one child and with that I think a parent learns more, grows more and evolves in a way that single child parents may not. But mostly, I think these parents get a second chance to fix any mistakes they might have made along the way. I do not have this luxury. It isn’t that I didn’t want more children. It simply didn’t seem to be in the cards for me. So when I look at my son, I understand the miracle I was given but I also see the mistakes I have made. I can only pray that over time these in discretions will take care of themselves; that these scars, however small or insignificant, will fade from his consciousness. I, like every other parent want to get things right, the first time. But you simply never know when your first time may be your only time. I speak a lot about mistakes and “wish I could have/would have done it different” but don’t misunderstand. I am mostly proud of the job I have done despite my ever changing circumstances. My child is a lot like me…sensitive in nature, hopelessly optimistic about the world and yet weighted with a certain sadness that perhaps only he and I can understand. But it is a sadness marked with hope…the kind of hope that says no matter what happens in this life, we will be okay. It is a look between us, a gesture, and a silence that lets us know that we are part of the same mold, the same makeup; that we are on the same page. So as I watch him grow and the fear of losing him to an adult world that I don’t yet understand sets in, I am comforted by the belief that he will be just fine. He will face this life with the same strength and resilience that I have passed on to him and he will brave forth with my spirit, his impenetrable will and a faith in something that is larger than us both. With a quick smile from him as he runs pass me to the top of the stairs, I am reminded of why I was blessed with this one, beautiful, miraculous, perfect child. God simply knew we were meant for each other and that is reason enough for me.

Pencil Fever

I know this is strange, but I absolutely love pencils. I always have. I love how they smell; that concoctive mixture of lead and wood. I love how they write. I love how the swirl of my words leaves an edge of roughness and dimension. I love the texture a pencil has between my fingers just as I touch it to paper. I love that if I make a mistake, I can, stop. Erase. Do Over. I told you it was strange. But seriously, there is really no better feeling (well, that is an exaggeration) than buying myself a brand new package of #2 pencils, preferably DIXON Ticonderoga HB soft pencils, followed by my second favorite, the Papermate pencil. I am not really sure when this affliction began for me. We are taught from pre-school about pencils and their ability to erase our mistakes but it wasn’t until the day I fell in love with the idea of becoming a writer that I began to really, really love pencils.

I realized very early in my life, the power of words; how much happiness they could bring but also, how much pain they could deliver. So ever since I can remember, I wrote. I wrote on paper, in notebooks, on chalkboards, in journals, on walls, scrap pieces of paper or on my skin, absolutely anywhere there was space for me to write. I would write poetry, stories, fragments or thoughts about my life and it was there, that I discovered my beautiful relationship with pencils. The idea that I could write whatever I wanted about myself, regardless of its substance and then erase all the mistakes I made or thought I made, was an exciting concept for me. It was as if nothing was forever. Nothing. And with one fell swoop of the erasure, my words would vanish and I could start over. I think a lot of writers prefer to master their craft in pen. Only because what, at one time, could be considered bad writing or a mistake, may one day present itself as a useful idea with new life, new meaning. Pens naturally have a smoother flow, a more even pressure when applying to paper. It has a permanency. Whereas my writing once erased, is gone forever unless I miraculously come up with the same idea at another place and time. This usually does not happen. My brain is far too busy to retain something I thought of yesterday, let alone, years before. With the invention of the computer, my writing completely changed as did everyone else’s I suppose. It was similar to the pencil in the fact that all you had to do was highlight words and then hit delete, much like the erasure. But different in the fact that you could simply hit “undo” if you made a mistake in mistaking your mistake was a mistake. Simply marvelous, really. Plus with things like a built in thesaurus, spell check, grammar check, well, what’s not for a writer to love? My like for the computer is simply because after being a secretary for so many years, I can type Mach 4 which is about the speed my brain operates. It is too bad for my beloved pencil which has struggled for years to keep up with my thoughts. The process of having to stop writing because my cramped hand can no longer stand the pain is often a necessity. But with a couple shakes of it or some stretching, I am back in the game with pencil in hand. Will I ever resort to using a pen, a computer, a crayon if need be? Absolutely. I would prick my finger and write in my own blood if I thought it was the only way I would be able to write. But today, in honor of the pencil, I write this draft on a college lined piece of paper while using my favorite Ticonderoga pencil.  Welcome back dear friend, welcome back.

Blessings

I had a conversation last night with my best friend who was having a very bad day and we spoke of our children and life's complexities and all the other little things that friends talk about and somehow we got on the subject of our blessings or the things we should feel grateful for. We wondered why all the wonderful things in our lives; our families, our children, our friends sometimes just aren't enough to see us through days when we feel like everyone is against us, even those that claim to love us most. During these times, we feel more alone than ever and no matter how many wonderful things you have in your life, no matter how friendly the voice is on the other end of the phone, you feel as if you are wandering the earth aimlessly…alone. I don't think it is that we forget about all the blessings we have but we certainly seem to lose sight of them from time to time. ..

We all walk through life with the weight of the world on our shoulders, so much baggage that we can hardly stand up straight anymore. We take on so much, so much that is not ours to shoulder and yet we think that if we don't continue to take the brunt of everything, be responsible for everything and everyone; that somehow the earth will shift and fall off its axis. It is far too much for anyone to bear alone. And that is where our blessings come in. Because no matter how alone we feel in those awful moments of our day (month or year) we must remember that we aren't. We just have to accept help when it's offered and we need to learn how to drop some of the baggage at the door. Life is far too short and I know when a situation or circumstance subsides, and the smoke clears, we will look back on these moments and realize how much time and energy we wasted being angry or sad about things that most of the time, we have no control over. That is precious time we will never get back. I know that while the pain is creeping up and you find it hard to breathe, it is difficult to see anything else but know that there are those in the world who will walk with you and help carry your baggage when it becomes too much to carry on your own. There are those who will shoulder the burden with you. There are those in this world that want nothing from you but to see you laugh and find joy. To have you live peacefully, the life you were intended to live. At times the world may seem so dark that you feel like things will never be okay but then tomorrow comes and with it, the sunshine. I have no doubt that life works out, one way or another. It usually isn't just as we planned but we take along our blessings and all the other things that make our lives good. This does not in any way take away from the pain or sorrow we feel in our own hearts from time to time but it may help to know that others are on your side, fighting the good fight right along with you

That is why it is so important… when our blessings come knocking to remind us that they are still there…We need to let them in…

The Bitch Advice

The other day, I felt, once again, that undeniable feeling; my heart beginning to race, the uncontrollable shake of my hands, small beads of sweat starting to form, an overwhelming feeling of uneasiness and fear and for the umpteenth time this year, I knew I was having another panic attack. It comes on slowly but before you know it, it grabs hold and there is little you can do to tame it. You just have to ride it out and wait for it to subside, which unfortunately, for me, takes at least 30 minutes. I was frustrated by the fact that these attacks still visited me, especially after I felt as if my life was, at the very least, heading in the right direction. Not great…but under the circumstances, I was managing. And just as my panic attacks crept up on my so did the reality of my plight. I knew that my life was not perfect. I certainly had issues but didn’t everyone? I realized that the stress I had been through over recent months had taken its toll and it was finally catching up to me in the form of anxiety. Simply stated, I was no longer in control of my own life. It was being run by other people. It is not an unusually foreign concept to me as it was taught to me early in life. Things like…take a backseat to everyone, try and please all around you, be afraid of everything, always be accommodating, keep quiet, never speak up, don’t get angry for fear of what others may think, etc… These are only a few of the examples on how I have learned to run my life. Until now, that is. Make no mistake though. I am not having a pity party not am I sitting back placing blame on the bystanders or participants in my life. I, alone, am responsible for my circumstance and every single day, I take on the overwhelming consequences of being a doormat.

An amazing person in my life, whom I have come to trust more than any other human being, told me that all I had to do to correct my situation and to stop the panic attacks was easy. It surely wasn’t going to be some little pill that would alleviate my stress and anxiety. The answer was simple, at least in his eyes. He said I needed to learn to be a bitch. I suppose some would argue, at times, I already am but he meant a different kind of bitch. Not the kind that thrives on hurting others but rather, the kind that rises up in protest when someone is taking advantage of me. The kind that lends a protective cover from the hurtful blows that people can throw. The kind that teaches me to say no to people and things that don’t deserve my time or my loyalty. The kind that teaches me to stand up for myself and allows me to speak my mind regardless of what others may think. The kind that gives me the knowledge and the strength to let go of things in my life that are no longer good for me, in spite of my heart telling me to hold on. The kind that understands the difference between those who have my best interest at heart and those who simply have their own interest at heart. And lastly, the kind that teaches me to have a thicker skin when it comes to heartaches, to endure life’s disappointments with a little less impact. Changing from the “good, always there, never complaining persona”…to simply “bitch” persona could prove difficult for me but for my own sanity and well-being, I promised this individual that I would make the effort. Realizing that this transformation was not a complete change in my personality but merely a modification of the me I’d always been. I was fairly confident that I could somehow lean to be a bitch. To somehow turn off all the emotions I was feeling about everything and everyone around me and concentrate solely on myself. I was also confident that the world would not collapse and that people would still go on in spite of my absence. All would be well even if I chose to bow out for awhile.

So, during my “transformation” of sorts, I am hopeful for many things. I hope I can learn to speak up, lighten up, smile a lot more and jump into my small, beautiful world with both feet. I hope I can learn to let go, take it easy and let the insane world around me, run itself. I hope I can stop beating myself up over people and things that I have absolutely no control over. I hope I can put the words “no” and “I don’t’ want to” into my vocabulary of life. I hope I can learn that everyone is responsible for their own lives, their choices and the consequences of those choices. I hope I can find a balance between the things that are important to me and still remain the kind of mother, daughter, sister and friend I have always been. But my greatest hope is that maybe after this experience, after becoming a bitch of sorts, I will end up being a happier, better version of myself…

It must be said that in my 37 years of life, I have been given plenty of advice; some good, some bad, some even catastrophic but certainly advice to become a bitch is a first for me. Gaining a bit of humor and possibly for the first time, a backbone, I thought I might take a chance and run with it…

P.S. I’m tossing out the doormat!

This Time

As I reach the latest crossroad in my life, I am overwhelmed by the possibility of the unknown. What lies in wait for me just on the other side of this life that I planned? I’m hardly the best person to ask when it comes to life, love and the pursuit of happiness, so from where I stand, I wouldn’t even begin to guess. My hope is that there are good and wonderful things waiting for me but I simply don’t know. That is the funny thing about life. It is unpredictable and messy, to say the least. At any given point, life can switch gears, change course and completely throw you off the path you had been walking down. But no matter what life brings, you inevitably have to pick yourself up and carry on. My problem is, I don’t know how.

For the first time in a very long time, I felt sure of everything…certain about my future, certain about my choices and certain about my love and trust in another human being. It was uncomplicated and beautiful. No more doubts, no more pain, no more questioning what should be. So, to find myself sitting here today in this particular place feeling the exact way I swore I would never feel again, completely defines irony. I don’t know how I ended up here. I don’t know what I could have done differently to make the outcome turn out like I thought it was supposed to. I simply don’t know and as I struggle to understand, the world as I know it, begins to collapse.

I had, up until this point never thought that another life was possible for me. I never once believed that this one corner of the world I created for myself wasn’t exactly where I was supposed to be. I never thought for one moment that all I had fought for, all that I believed in would come tumbling down around me, again. Because in my heart, I knew this time was different. This time everything was right. This time I knew it was going to work out for me. This time, I was finally going to get it right.  And throughout this whole process, I suppose that has been the hardest part for me to get past. Being so wrong when I had so much faith in it being right. Something of this magnitude certainly makes you think twice about your abilities and your decision making skills as an intelligent person. You go over and over it in your head a million times, wondering and analyzing each conversation hoping for a glimmer of something that you missed. Something that you should have seen. A tiny sign that told you to be careful, tread lightly…things aren’t exactly as they seem. And in those missed moments, you become vulnerable. You let your guard down, you let people in, you trust and you take a chance on someone you feel worthy enough to have your heart.  Sometimes you get it right and sometimes you don’t. But I guess that’s the way life goes. It’s the way love goes.

Standing Still

I have a saying that I use quite often in my life which is…when I don't know what to do, I do nothing or, I simply "stand still". This just means that when I am feeling lost, uncertain or feel as if my life has completely spun out of control, I literally do nothing….I stand still and wait for events to unfold around me…I make no choices. I take no action….because when my life reaches such a point; I know that I can no longer trust myself, my instincts or my judgment. So as to not make things worse for myself, I stand still and wait. I realize this may seem an inactive approach to life but it has been my experience that when one chooses to stand still and remain quiet long enough, a voice will speak to you. It's the small whisper of faith that emerges and lends a hand when your world is being turned upside down...

This method that I rely so heavily on is how I have learned to survive in a world where uncertainty is commonplace. Life can take the most unbelievable turns. It is capable of bringing you more heartache than you thought you could bear but it can also bring you the greatest of joys. My life has certainly had its share of ups and downs but all along the way, my faith is the one thing that has never truly abandoned me. Even in my darkest hour, on the most desolate road of this journey, I have felt that all things; good and bad, happen for a reason. And sometimes, I need to stop in my tracks, shift focus and rethink all that is before me, in order to gain the perspective I need to move forward. In the moments of standing still, I hold fast to that small whisper. It tells me to listen closely. It protects me and allows me to wait out the storm within a protective shell, of sorts. It's the whisper that offers me words when I can no longer find my voice. It gives me time to retreat and obtain clarity on all that is going wrong so that I can try to make it right again. Because with each moment that passes, each moment of pain or confusion, one thing is certain….life goes on. It stops for no one. So, the quietness of standing still provides solace and stability to my life when I have lost my way. I remain still so that others can move. Inevitably someone says something or does something that can change the path that you were on. In a split second, choices can be made and your life can take a completely different direction. I realize that my idea of "standing still" may not be a very brave way of walking through this world. But being brave has never been my strong suit anyway. I tend to pick up my running shoes and take off long before I am able to muster the strength to be brave. But as I grow older, I find that running away from the people or things that hurt me is not the answer either…so in these moments of such uncertainty, the idea of standing still was born.  

One would think that after living 37 years on this earth, somehow I would get used to the idea of change…that I would expect it or somehow come to rely on it. That this idea of standing still would be obsolete simply because I had learned to embrace change or at the very least, had come to expect a monkey wrench from time to time. But I haven't. I am still surprised by so many things. And as I stand still, I replay events, conversations spoken and choices made, hoping that in the midst of all the chaos, I would have taken a different path, learned my lesson and ended up in a different place from where I stand today. But I didn't. I am exactly where I left myself when I took off running. In my own defense though, I suppose we are essentially, all creatures of habit. We do what we do because it is what we are used to…what we are accustomed to. We do things; make the same choices because sometimes we just don't think we deserve any better. And sometimes, we simply don't know any better. They say that when you know better, you do better. I guess, I am a work in progress in that respect. During this time though, I certainly don't expect the world to stand still, for others around me to patiently wait as I do. I suspect that life will continue on in spite of everything and people will be braver in their lives than I have been. And although my method may seem strange or weak, I know precisely what I'm doing. I'm hanging up my running shoes. I choose to remain present in my life and to take the monkey wrenches as they come. And surely when I know better, I will do better. But until then….I will be right here….standing still.