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.

The Fine Line Between a Broken Heart and a Bruised Ego

Recently a short, but crazy intense romantic relationship of mine came to an abrupt end. I didn't end it, he did, because he had a Christmas reconciliation with his ex girlfriend. And he ended it by sending me an email explaining the situation.

Regardless of what I sometimes say, I have this very deep seated belief that things will inevitably work out. I trust too much and fall too quickly. I don't fall for every man who pays attention to me, it's usually the opposite and I tend to be the one that pushes them away. But when I set my eye on someone and it's a mutual attraction - BAM!! That's it, I've already jumped in with both feet and sunk waist deep into the thick of it.

When I met this new man I accepted the offer of a first date not really knowing how interested I was in him, but it had been forever since I'd been on a real date and he was polite and kind. On the date I discovered that he was different. I mean drastically different. He asked me questions that had no right or wrong answer but required a lot of thought. He was interested in what I had to say, and he didn't mind my quirks, presumably because he had his own. In short, he intrigued the hell out of me. I made a conscious effort not to project my biases from my past failed romantic experiences into him. I made another conscious decision to be my most authentic self instead of twisting myself to be accepted by this man. We had some wonderful experiences together. He took me places I'd never been, introduced me to foods I'd never eaten, and generally guided me to new experiences I may not have sought out  on my own.

Needless to say, when he ended it, it hurt. My first reaction was the whole anger/hurt/crying thing. I was hurt that he broke up with me by email. I was angry that I had even invested time into this person. And I was super pissed that he had chosen someone else over me.

When I stopped my internal tirade long enough to take a step back and look at the situation I discovered something. My ego was hurt. Yes I was upset over the loss of this person, but was I in love? My heart said, "No but we really liked him and he sure was fun!", then my ego piped up, "Ahhh but you could have been. You just needed more time and he could have loved you." I think lots of times it's the unexpected that hurts the most in life. That big surprise. That, "FUCK, I didn't see that coming!!" moment that makes us feel incapable of navigating our way through our own life, and leaves us with that dread feeling of uncertainty in our own judgement. Such as, did I expect him to get back together with his ex girlfriend? I can honestly say I didn't fucking see THAT coming. And then the self doubt started. Did I cry myself to sleep? Most definitely. Was I angry? At first, until an über awesome friend reminded me that this had nothing to do with me, or whether or not I was worthy of love. She then told me to give myself a definite timeline to grieve and just work on it, go head to head with it, get intimate with it, and write the fuck out of it instead of hiding it as people often do. She told me grieve and then just let it go. That's the best advice I've ever gotten, and it's been working for me.

As I became more introspective about the situation, I realized that I couldn't fault him for taking a second chance that was given to him by someone he loves. Wouldn't anyone of us do the same thing? Wouldn't we reconcile with someone that we love....someone who feels like home? "Seek first to understand and then to be understood" came into my head as I puzzled the situation out. I sought to understand his actions. His path and mine were simply not the same path, but it was wonderful to walk down it together even for that short while.

It felt fantastically liberating to be able to be myself and act freely with him as though I'd never been hurt in the past. I wish him much love and light in his journey. I learned a lot from him and I'm happy that we met.

Dear Damn 2013

Dear 2013, you were the hands down worst year of my life. You were the year that showed me the true definition of heartbreak. I was literally brought to my knees with it. I laid awake on countless sleepless nights for months on end, sobbing and unable to breathe with the heartbreak that will forever mark 2013. That sorrow completely overshadowed the year, consuming my entire being. My. Entire. Fucking. Being. I never imagined that I would be able to recover from that bitter ache that was relentless within me. In the end I was able to pick up my shattered pieces and move on, but admittedly, a slight twinge remains.

Dear 2013, you were the best year of my life. You showed me that even though I had been shattered  into a million miniscule pieces, broken beyond fucking recognition, I could survive. I was taught that even when it felt like I could not go on...when it felt as if  I could not exist in this life for one more second...the world would continue to live and move on without me. I learned that above all, time really is the great, true healer. This was the year that I discovered who I really am. I became authentic and comfortable with myself, and I learned to show that authenticity. This was the year I became true to myself.

2013 will mark the year that, after what felt like a lifetime, I began to write again. I wrote about what I loved and I wrote about what hurt me to the core, and that pouring out of my soul started to heal me.

This was the year that I decided, out of the blue, to pick up a paintbrush for the first time and paint a picture. I painted that picture, and I found that I loved it. The best part was that I discovered my fear of being no good was unfounded. Even if the painting had turned out to be terrible, it was a starting place and it can only get better from there.

This was the year I realized that my fear was simply all the made up shit in my head, consisting of my own limiting beliefs. This was the year I took a step back and got some perspective, and in those moments I discovered that I am limitless.