I Have 806 Rolls of Toilet Paper

I've been doing some spring cleaning for the past couple of months. I've also been taking that chance to reflect on the collection and consumption of "things" and why people are the way they are, why they collect the things they do. Looking around my house, I see a direct reflection of my grandmother. Although she came from a large family, they did not go hungry. They had what they needed but not a whole lot more. When my Gramma married my Grampa and started a family at the age of 15, I suppose knowing that times could be tough, she stored many things. Not things in the pack rat sense, or the hoarder sense. They didn't have a lot of material possessions, but there was always lots of food and other necessities to go around. My Grampa was an only child, and I grew up an only child as well. I don't think my Grampa grew up in the lap of luxury, but unlike my Gramma he didn't have to fight nine other siblings for the use of anything either. I suspect he appeased my grandmother quite a bit with her collecting of the essentials. Eventually having a total of seven children, family always gathered at their house and they were always willing to provide. Weekly Sunday dinners were the norm with everyone coming over every Sunday for years, usually totaling up to at least 10 people but lots of times more. Everyone was welcome and no one ever went hungry. I remember my grandmother having workers over one time which was very unusual, as my grandfather used to fix everything that needed to be fixed in the house. As the men laboured on, it became supper time and she had them come up and eat dinner with the family, even though they protested and explained they had to get their work done. She told them they weren't going to go hungry at supper time in her house, and eventually they had to comply. Her theory was, if you had an unexpected supper guest, it was no problem to just throw a couple more potatoes in the pot.

When my Gramma died and the minister came to the house, she asked us to tell stories so she could understand the woman my Gramma was. Everyone went on and told about her generosity and open arms into her home to those that needed it. And the fact that the pantry was still fully stocked, and among other things, there were 27 tins of salmon down there. It was the expensive kind that she would never pay full price for, but stocked up on when it was on sale. At that time, and at the age of 28, I didn't know this wasn't the norm in every single person's home. I thought that everyone went to a good sale and bought 20 or 30 of whatever the excellent buy was, even if it meant giving your kids money to go into the store because there was a limit on the item. I have inherited this trait, which I used to be embarrassed about and apologized to guests who saw the extent of my buying of necessities. Last week I had an electrician come over and when I saw him eyeing up my toilet paper stash I actually said, "Soooo I'm not crazy. I just compulsively buy toilet paper." I'm not sure if this habit is more compulsion or perhaps a deeply insecure fear that one day I might not be able to provide for my family so I keep things stock piled just in case.

Regardless, I am not going to analyze it too much and I am in my house, savouring that cozy feeling  with my 806 rolls of toilet paper, 420 serviettes, and enough laundry soap for 795 loads of laundry. That reminds me, I need to get more paper towels. I only have 27 rolls left.

Letters to Myself: Past, Present and Future

Dear 6 year old Paula,

It's ok to not fit in.

It's ok to like to play alone.

It's ok to not know how to play with other kids or not know what to say to them.

It's ok to just not understand people

If you try hard enough and believe strongly enough, you really can ride your bike as fast as the wind.

Your parents are doing the best that they know how.

Dear 14 year old Paula,

It's ok to not fit in.

Yes getting drunk is fun, but don't do it all the time.

It's ok to be unsure of yourself.

The people who make fun of you, or put you down are just as unsure of themselves as you are. In 20 years, 99% of them with either not remember what they said (or did) to you, or wish they hadn't done the things they did. Honest.

Try not to take everything so personally. It's mostly about them, not you. A bad day can offset anyone's mood. You have no idea what's really going on in someone else's life or in their head.

Suicide is not the answer.

Your parents are doing the best that they know how.

Dear 24 year old Paula,

It's ok to not fit in.

Some day you will look back on all the things you've gone through and realize how strong you were, even if you don't feel strong in the moment.

In the not so distant future you will find yourself vacuuming and be unconcerned as to whether that brown mark on the floor is chocolate or poop. Having children makes you that much less squeamish.

You really do accept the love you think you deserve. You don't have to settle. Ever.

You are a part of the universe, made of starstuff. You are an important part of this universe and the history of it. Without you, there would be many different outcomes for many different people.

Suicide is not the answer.

Your parents are doing the best that they know how.

Dear 40 year old Paula,

It's ok to not fit in.

Your identity is not the number on the scale.

Enjoy yourself. Don't be so serious.

Enjoy your children. They won't be with you forever, nor you with them.

The things that you worry about now will probably seem insignificant in 10 years.

I know you never thought you'd get this old, but you have. Wrinkles and silver hair are a natural part of aging. If you don't get over it, you are going to self destruct.

Don't forget when you're awake in the middle of the night thinking about what could have been, that broken hearts heal, and the things you think are going to haunt you forever often don't.

Your parents did the best that they knew how.

Dear 60 year old Paula,

It's ok to not fit in.

I hope your kids are not still living with you.

I hope you are finding more time for yourself.

I hope you are doing things that you love.

I hope that you wrote the book you had been pondering over for so many years.

Your parents did the best that they knew how.

Dear 85 year old Paula,

It's ok to have never fit in.

I hope you got to retire at a decent age, and I hope you're not doing anything right now but the things you love the best.

I hope that you call or see your kids often. I wonder if you have grandchildren now.

I hope you finally found true love and kept it. I hope you had someone to share your life with, and grew old with them.

I hope you forgave yourself for not ever feeling like a good enough parent, and I hope your children know that you did the best that you knew how.

How the Garage Mouse Became the House Mouse....Or Did It?

For the last few months of this winter, I've suspected that I've had a little mouse living in my garage. When I cleaned the guinea pigs' cages, I'd put the bags of dirty shavings out in the garage. A couple of times I'd seen some shavings on the garage floor, but I figured I had mistakenly used a bag with a little hole in it for the job. I'm usually very careful about using non holey bags for poop duty, so after a while I thought that the little "spilled" piles of shavings were odd. And truth be told it pissed me off  when I had to sweep them off of the garage floor too. When I looked closer I saw that the bags had little bite marks deliberately ripping holes in them. Since this winter was stupid cold, and my garage isn't heated, I had no interest in spending more time out there than was absolutely necessary to investigate, and I also didn't want little mousie to be homeless in that weather either.

On the first nice day that I had some extra time, I ventured out into the garage. I swept up the floor and rearranged things in a much neater way. While doing so, I looked in things, I looked behind things, I looked everywhere a mousie could be. I found nothing, not even the evidence of a nest. Huh, maybe he moved out.

Two days later, everyone else was asleep and I was sitting at the computer answering a few emails before I went up to bed as well. Connecting my living room to my kitchen is a large opening in the wall with a window sill on it. On the kitchen side there is a countertop with stools to sit at and eat. On the living room side there is nothing in particular, just that you can see into the kitchen and place things on the sill. As I was sitting at the computer that night I heard the dishes rattle in the kitchen. WTF....did I just hear that? I sat still and listened, just in case it was the guineas clinking their bowls together, but I knew it had actually come from the non guinea direction. I went out to the kitchen to see if the dishes in the sink had "settled" but they hadn't. I went to computer and sat back down. I heard it again. *Clink clink clink* Fuck.

I went to investigate...very quietly investigate. I opened cupboard doors. I was down on my hands and knees looking in small spots that a mouse could go. Nothing. I sat back down. *clink clink clink* Motherf-er. I went to bed.

As I discussed the suspected mouse events with my children the next day, I was given varying theories:

Me: I heard the dishes in the kitchen clinking last night while I was on the computer but I don't know what it was. I suspect we have a mouse.

Ty: I told you, this place is haunted. You never listen to me.

Me: Our condo isn't haunted. No one has ever died in this condo. No one has died in the condo next to us either so it's not like a ghost could even mistakenly go through the wall into the wrong condo. If anyone's condo could possibly be haunted it would be Gramma's because the lady next to her died. Her ghost could come through the wall, but she's not there either so no one's condo is haunted.

Trent: Did a mouse ever die in our house?

Me: I don't know Trent.

Trent: 'Cause it could be a ghost mouse.

Me: *sigh*

A little background about me and the mice friends:

A couple of summers ago, my kids and I were generously given the use of a cottage for a week, free of charge. A friend of mine was incredulous when I told him that on the second last night there I heard a mouse in the kitchen at 2am and I almost packed everything up and came home. I'd rather have a bear in the house. At least you can see a bear. With a mouse, you might be in bed as it runs over your face. They're crafty little fuckers.

Back to my house mouse.

The next day I went to the hardware store to get a mouse trap or two. I sought out the cute guy with the accent to help me. I asked him specifically because, in an unpleasant situation it's always nicer to be talked to soothingly by someone with an accent. Plus, looking at him really just made my entire day feel better. He showed me the plethora of mouse traps and poison. I explained that although I wanted little mousie out of the garage, I did not want to extinguish his wee life.

No problem, here are all the gizmos that live trap them.

Perfect.

I took three of them from Mr. Australian Accent and took them back home. I baited them with peanut butter, put one in the garage and two in the house, and I waited. And I waited and I waited. It's been at least two weeks now and I'm still waiting.

I guess it was a ghost mouse after all.

The Amusement of the Online Dating Scene

Wow just I realized I haven't written anything at all for my blog in over a month. No, no it's not what you're thinking. It's not because I've got a whole lot of nothing to write about. It's not because I'm so deep in the depths of depression that I couldn't dig my way out and make it to the computer. It's because I have a new job. Oh, I still have my full time nurse job, but now I have a second full time job as well. But first, a little back story:

I left the online dating scene a few months ago. Probably close to a year ago, actually. I can describe it as nothing less than a simply freeing experience; it felt wonderful. I spent less time sitting in front of the computer doing a lot of cyber chat, and more time out in the world interacting with people face to face. Last year while I was newly out in the land of the living, I met Rob at a Halloween party, and fell madly in lust with him. I mean, deeply, madly, crazy in lust. The kind of lust where you think of that person when you first wake up and again before you go to sleep, and more than a few times in between. I felt like a teenager again with that giddy, butterfly-y, always wanting to be together feeling. And we did spend a lot of time together, and we learned tons about each other. The more I learned about him and got to know him, the more I liked him. I was on the brink of the big L. I mean it was on the tip of my tongue. But I held back because if I know one thing about myself, it's that when someone catches my fancy I love hard and fast. I thought that I should pace myself and not come too quickly out of the starting gate. Then we spent a great night away a few days before Christmas that cemented my feelings for him. Shortly afterward he broke up with me, and I fell hard. Apparently he was not so much on the brink with me, as he reconciled with, and went back to, his ex girlfriend. We remained friends afterward, hanging out (in public places, of course). Him just obliviously having fun, and me self destructively soaking up his essence. In what I can only describe as something that was best for both of us, Rob moved to Taiwan. It was a preplanned move on his part and nothing to do with me, but I can retrospectively see the distance as a blessing. By then I had cocooned myself so snuggly and comfortably in Rob-land that I hadn't felt the need to socialize outside of our small circle of two in quite a few months. I was isolated, I was lonely, and I one night I decided to throw myself back in to the world of online dating. Again.

I signed up for Plenty of Fish. Mostly because, although I was lonely, I didn't feel that I was serious enough about meeting anyone to actually put out my hard earned money on Lifemates or Match.com to do so. Nuh uh...no way. My credit card was staying put, thank you. The free site would do me fine. I decided to be totally honest about myself on my PoF profile. I talked about how I'm socially awkward, I ask invasive questions without realizing they are invasive, I lose my keys several times a day, I love to write and paint, I love to hike, I don't work out as much as I would like to, I say random things that people think are funny but I'm being serious, my love for my plethora of tattoos. I laid it all out, my loves and my quirks. And then something happened that had never happened all the other times I'd been on the site. I started getting messages. Like, a lot of messages. A lot. I like to attribute them to my new short hair pictures, because my long hair pictures certainly never garnered this much attention.

My friends laugh at me because I refer to answering messages on PoF as my new full time job, which is exactly what it feels like. I'm not saying this as a bragging right, as much of the attention is certainly not appreciated. On one hand I am talking to a few nice guys who are definitely 100% respectful and sweet. On the flip side, I now have enough penis pictures to make an entire penis scrapbook. Not that I would make a penis scrapbook but if I wanted to, I've got the goods to do so. And it's not that I don't like penises, but certainly if I haven't spoken to you or seen your face yet, that's probably my first priority. I also thought about starting a notebook with the user names and life details of the men who contact me, as it is difficult to keep them all straight, especially when there is no picture on their profile. If it is not someone I've met face to face or that I am texting with I find myself asking, "Is this the guy from Barrie or the guy from Midland....or was he from Toronto? Is this the guy who loves rock climbing, or the guy who runs....or the guy who watches sports on TV?" It all gets very confusing after a while.

So far it's proving to be an intensely entertaining experience, and if nothing else I'm going to make new friends along the way.

PS: I may be hiring a secretary to answer my emails soon. Any takers?

Chronic Depression: Living in the Abyss

 

Four days ago I went to the doctor for antidepressants. The past year, starting on February 11, 2013, has been particularly difficult for me, and coping with day to day living has became damn near impossible. This doctor visit was a last resort for me, because I despise going to the doctor. I despise it because she always (justifiably) asks me in her genuinely sweet and concerned way what is going on in my life. And I always go in there totally prepared for the question and just trying my best to hold my shit together. I then inevitably fall apart into a crying mess in her office with its paper thin walls, knowing that everyone out there can hear my sobbing to some degree. She knows it's going to happen and I know it's going to happen, but we both act as though it's the first time I've fallen into a million pieces in front of her. She has probably seen me cry more than anyone else in my life. She writes me a script for yet another antidepressant and I go on my way.

When I am in the depths of it, just getting out of bed is a struggle. The getting out of bed is only a necessity because I have a job and I have children, otherwise it simply would not happen. There have been a couple of rare days in the past few years that I didn't take the kids to school because I could not get up. Having a shower is another big deal. Having that shower actually sets me up for a semi good day.

I've heard of depression described as drowning while you can see everyone around you breathing, and that's exactly what it's like. It's like wanting to disappear, or sleep forever. I just want to be numb. Numb often seems better than feeling.

 

I get crazy short tempered with everyone around me because I'm so frustrated with myself. I'm frustrated that I can't just think like a normal person. I'm angry because I should be completely happy but I'm not, and I don't know why. I journal about how ridiculous it is to be so sad about "nothing". It's not that I'm never happy, because I do get incredibly happy about things, but it's fleeting.

Later that night (much later, after I had scooped all of the broken pieces of me off of the floor of the doctor's office), I was texting with a good friend about how much of a failure I felt like for turning to medication, even though it was my last resort.

His response was, "You need it. You've had issues with depression your entire life."
Ummm WHAT? My first reaction was one of the defensive "fuck you" nature. I kind of wanted to slap him for his asshole insight.

Then I realized he was right.
I have battled with this my entire life.
Three suicide attempts (two with medication and one with a razor blade), cutting way before cutting was a common thing (again with that razor blade), two psychiatrists (I didn't like either one), several psychologists and counselors (I liked one), and countless antidepressants (I can't even recall half of the names of them) say that this has indeed been a lifelong battle for me.

I have continually tried to cover it up because of the stigma of it. I've even openly judged others because of their depression, anxiety, or just plain old inability to cope, saying they just weren't trying hard enough. Maybe that was to take the spotlight off of me, or make myself feel like I was coping better than I actually was. In any case, I'm so sorry for extending judgment instead of reaching out with love.

Mental illness (and fuck yes I've come to realize it is an illness, thank you very much) is so negatively judged that it's no wonder people try to hide it. It can actually be easy to hide at times because it's not a visible problem. It's not like I'm missing a limb, or I'm carrying around portable oxygen. How many times, when I was on the online dating sites, did I read that guys were "not interested in crazy girls on meds....please be med free", etc. There's that "crazy" stigma, right in my face. Apparently those of us on meds are not worthy of love? Would the same thing be said to diabetic about their insulin? Of fucking course not.

I used to attribute my depression mostly to my situational issues. Living with an alcoholic who never came home at night, the stress of having two babies 12 months apart, going into my third year of university when my baby girl was 10 days old. But right now my life is realistically damn near perfect. I have my own house, I have a job with which I can support my family, I have amazing kids, I have a mom who I spend a ton of time with and helps me a lot, I've rediscovered my passion for writing and art. What's wrong here? Not a thing. This is not situational, this is me. This is an imbalance in my brain and it genuinely needs help.

I have been med free for the past five years and have done marginally well for the most part. The past two and a half years I've spent using positive affirmations, positive thoughts, reading positive books and basically just infusing positivity into my life. This is one of the best moves I've ever made, super helpful, but I didn't know why it wasn't working as well as it "should". Thoughts become things and how you think shapes your world, but no matter how hard I tried it didn't quite measure up. It was recently pointed out to me that some of us need medication to raise ourselves up to the same starting point as everyone else in the first place. The imbalance needs to be corrected initially so that all of the affirmations and positivity can work on the right level, and I need that first in order to move up even further. I've come to grips with the fact that my medication is a necessity for me.

Much love and light to everyone out there who is struggling right now. There is help, please reach out for it...xo

Let Me Heal, a poem for the broken hearted

Don't cry because it's over,
Smile because it happened
So the saying goes
And those that care
Tell me
Over and over

How can I be happy
When it's so fresh
I can still taste his lips on mine
Still hear his voice,
Still feel his touch
So fresh
That when I wake
I think he is beside me

No one can understand
The recesses of my heart
Or my mind
Let me grieve for what I lost
Before telling me to rejoice for what I had
I know there is a lesson
And sweet memories
But it's blurred by the veil of sadness
Let me heal
Before I move on

Nurse as Teacher: AKA the Worst Idea Ever

As a nurse, part of the job is to teach other nurses, whether they are students or the new float nurse being oriented to our floor. I am admittedly not a very proficient orienter, and I try to avoid it at all costs. I don't really like my nursing approach, honed by experience, being hawk-eyed by those (especially students) who are learning all of the "by the book" techniques. It's easy for them to critique when they haven't actually been out in the real nursing world themselves yet. I don't tolerate the judgy glances very well. But I digress. My whole point is that I try to delegate the impressionable newbies whenever possible. I must stress that I don't refuse them, I just look around to see if it appears anyone else needs a special follower for the day.

About two years ago a float team nurse came to our unit for orientation. The float nurses are exactly what they sound like. They float around the hospital helping on whichever floor happens to need assistance that day. The difficulty in orienting nurses to our area is that it is a specialty paeds/NICU area with lots to learn, and you simply can't squeeze all that into two or three shifts. In addition, some nurses are just plain scared of sick and fragile kids and babies. The orienting nurse on our floor that day was very young, very fresh and crazy enthusiastic. Enthusiastic about her upcoming wedding, and her impending post wedding babies that is. That day she just really, really, really wanted to hold some babies and coo over them. After explaining that while the babies needed bonding time, preferably with their parents, they were sick or premature or both and honestly just needed to be left alone.

Now, remembering me and my track record with the newbies, imagine my reaction when this fresh-faced young thing turned to me and this conversation ensued:

Newby: "Do you have kids?"
Me: "Yep. Three of them."
Newby: "Oh wow, really?? I can't wait to have a baby!"
Me: "The novelty wears off."
Newby (undaunted by my reply): "Doesn't working here just make you want to have another baby??"

Now I'm thinking this girl is certifiably nuts. I have three children that I love dearly. However, I am raising them 100% on my own....well maybe 75%....(thank God for my mother) and it's truly hard work. And at this point I was 38 years old, I felt that I'd paid my dues and had absolutely no interest in starting at square one again.

Me (after thinking all of this in my head and giving this girl a long, pensive stare): "I'd rather shoot myself in the ovary than have another baby."

Awkward silence.

Another time I had four nursing students who were in their second year (out of four) of nursing school. It was a slower time on the floor, and they were not a particularly motivated bunch. As they stood around gabbing about their weekends, I decided they should learn something useful, and I was just the person to teach them. I laid out some supplies, sat down on one side of a table and called the girls over. I told them they were all going to start IVs on me. The mix of apprehension and excitement was immediately apparent. Of the four, two were able to hit the vein and get blood back. I was just demonstrating how to reposition the IV catheter so as not to blow the vein when their teacher walked around the corner. The look of horror on her face was unmistakeable. She rounded her students up and herded them quickly up the hall and away from me. Who knew that second year students weren't allowed to start IVs??

And situations like that are the very reason I try not to train the newbies.