Spring has sprung.

Reading. I enjoy it. I use my spare time to read (which is any time after work that I’m not sleeping). No obligations other than an agreement I made with my body to start to take care of it, so two or so days a week we go to the gym for a couple of hours where I cuss while I sweat out all of the salty ramen I’d just eaten.
Solitude. I enjoy it. A lot of people consider wanting time alone as a social faux-pas. You’re supposed to want to be around people. I revel in any opportunity to be alone and to do as I want. Solitude is hard to come by because by definition it’s accompanied with a sense of enjoyment. You have to ENJOY being alone, and every moment isn’t always easy to enjoy. So you take it as it comes. Nobody has the liberty of deciding when and where they’ll enjoy things. Sometimes I enjoy being in a room full of people talking. Other times it makes my eyes twitch and my bones jump and my fists clench to the point of slight tremors. I like to be able to spend time with my thoughts. It can be dangerous, though. I feel like Senor Bonaparte when people interrupt my thoughts. I want to pull out my sword and demand silence and howl how DARE they interrupt my train of thought.
Sometimes I feel like there is a time and a place for everything. Hypocrisy is impossible to avoid. It can’t be done. I love talking to people and helping them solve their problems. I enjoy seeing happiness in others as a result of some small piece of advice I tried to give, or as a result of lending my bleeding ears for their voices to fill.
The only thing I have to answer to is myself. And God of course but that goes without saying.
So sick of people hating other people for stupid reasons. For saying that somebody is ugly and they can’t even help it. I’m guilty of it. But one thing I’m not guilty of is holding back on pointing out an ugly kid. How different is it, pointing out that a little kid doesn’t have much going, when we do it without reservation toward an adult who is in the same boat? They’re no different. An ugly kid has just as much control over how ugly they are as an ugly adult has. None. I’m not even sure if this is making any sense. I hold back writing anything down for months because as soon as I start any form of entry or putting thoughts from air on to paper it makes me emotional. Reading Ray Bradbury makes me extremely emotional. Especially his essays. My dad gave me one of his books and my eyes welled up.
I don’t write anymore because it makes me sad. Because all I have to say are sad things. I don’t even like telling stories to my family anymore because I always take toooo long. And it’s not like they’re ever ones I’ve made up. It’s always stuff I’ve seen or that has happened to me. What the hell point is there in telling a story if you can’t picture it? If you can’t feel it for yourself? If I want you to hear a shit clipped story I’ll point you in the direction of some awful magazine that only touches the surface of stories that are so disgustingly fake that they give you momentary satisfaction like stupid cake bites. So you eat 10 of them and then feel like shit after. You know why? Because you can’t feel how good they are from the first one you eat. We’re always moving too fast. Nobody slows down to realize how good things are when they happen. Nobody wants extra details because why? You need to get back to your TV show? Or your game that when it’s over will leave you bereft and an hour-short of something else you could’ve been doing? You need to hear more about gossip that nobody cares about and it’s not even your business? There’s nothing I hate more than someone who purposefully victimizes themselves, and that’s not what I’m trying to do. It’s been happening to me since grade school. And I’m aware that I’m very guilty of telling “long” stories, or taking too long to make sure I include certain tidbits and random facts that SEEM like they bring nothing to the story, but when I’m done, that fat kid that I mentioned staring at me wide-eyed actually DOES factor in to the story because his being there made it that much worse, or that much more hilarious.
I have this cycle. I vent, and then I justify. Vent. Explain. Bitch. Justify. And I point it out every time because I don’t want people thinking I have this false sense of entitlement. I don’t. I realize the nonsense that comes out, and make sure to back it up by sharing with you (again, with the facts) WHAT happened that made me feel THIS way that caused THAT reaction which lead to THIS vent-fest. More like puke fest. Word vomit.
And so much has gone on that I feel like I need to short-hand everything that’s happened recently to bring me to where I am. Mom’s sick. Still. Deteriorating. Same as before but worse. Wears diapers. Forgets who we are. Remembers. Thinks she’s on the Titanic that’s on the TV. Tries to get off the train on TV and falls out of bed. Remembers how we still live in Norway, only we don’t. On. And ON. And on. And the ever stoic Dad’s legs are trembling under the pressure of being a full time caregiver. It’s so easy to say “I never thought life would be this way” but seriously, I never thought life would be this way. EH.Ver. Because up until this point, it hasn’t been. But then ReNon was diagnosed with a brain tumor- the bottle of wine that christened the Titanic. And Mom was diagnosed with heart failure. And then Aunt Betty died. Then Mom had surgery and didn’t wake up for a week. But to be honest, I didn’t expect the surgery to go as well as it did, so optimism has the upper hand on that one. She’s been sick for 10+ years. It started before I was in highschool. Before I started Prozac 10 years ago.
But it’s all coming to a head, and we’re about to move. Talk about freaky right? I know I say I’ll post more later, but I won’t promise when that will be.
Love always,


Indeed I do not.

Okay seriously that's the last one.
I need to be asleep but I took a nap earlier. But in all honesty I could've gone to bed at like 10 and been completely fine and able. Whatever. You can lay on your back when you're dead right? Or something cliche?
Mum's doing better. In rehab, daaaaaaaaaaaay by day man. Slow glimpses of improvement are what we hold on to and they manifest daily. They think she had a stroke either during or after surgery (they can't tell for sure because they can't do an MRI or her pacer would come shooting out of her chest and rip out everything in the process). So coupled with the seizures due to NECESSARY medication withdrawal is a setback that nobody was expecting.
And it's exhausting.
But she knew that today was Saturday, and ate some of my strawberries and a little bit of chocolate cake.
Day by day.

It's amazing how destructive your mind can be. Your state of being. Every thought that filters through your head has a direct impact on your emotions and actions whether you realize it or not. And like most machines, filters need to be cleaned out or replaced every now and then for optimal performance. And I don't think mind has ever been changed. Or even possible.
I get so up and down,
positive and negative
happy and rock bottom
carefree and oppressed.
It's to the point now where I'd rather be able to sleep for a few years while it all passes.
Just because I have an appreciation for life and all that I have, doesn't mean that it's easy for me.
For anyone.

Eeyore's drive me insane. The ones whose sorrow leaks out of them like black rancid fumes from a forgotten closet, inevitably filling your nostrils and pores and clothes to the point where you can't separate their sorrow from your own.
So I try to be positive, and look on the "bright side of things".
But it's so damn hard.
SO. Effing. HARD.
It's so easy to get down when you can hear yourself all day. The thoughts that repeat themselves, the mentality that hasn't changed for 25 years. I've cried more this year than I have probably since high school. My nose is constantly raw. And my head always aches. And my sinuses burn like I've gotten chlorinated water up there. And my appetite is ridiculous. So I need to go back to the gym. But only if it isn't hot outside.

I don't know what the change needs to be. I sometimes wish I could go back to how things were when I was a kid. Young, uninformed, simple. But then I wouldn't have what I have today.
I wouldn't be me because I wouldn't have Scott. He was able to coax out the free and voracious side of me that never dared to come out. High school was like suffocating for me.

Ugh. Anyway, I'm going to bed now. I'm sure I'll think of something enlightening tomorrow and share it.
For now, enjoy the cartoons. Because they bring back how slow and wonderful things used to be.
But at least I have now.
And Scott.
And family.


Last one.





Just a sample.

Cous cous and dirigibles,



Anywhere but back.

Well, I said in my last post that I wanted some kind of life-altering change to happen, and that anything would be acceptable or something dramatic and bitchy about how nothing had been going on.

So far, The Fates have gifted me with the following changes:

1: Mum's approaching day 3 of her ICU stay. I stated my case of wanting change in February. March she happened upon pneumonia, following a lovely April diagnosis of not-so-mild congestive heart failure and (probably 4 or 5+ years in the making). A rough estimate of about 10-15 days inpatient status on CVTU at McKay due to various procedures thru May and June. Early August birthed an attempt at a new pacemaker/new control method, which failed, because her heart is her personalities twin and does whatever the hell it damn well pleases. Which brings us to Now, the time and place for open heart surgery consisting of a valve repair, a valve replacement, new pacer, and finishing a BOTCHED procedure that a Greek demon didn't have the stamina to finish.
Thankfully, thruout the process, she's been given access to 4 new doctors. 2 cardiologists (one for EP, one for CHF) one pulmonoligist that specializes in sleep disorders for her OSA which is finally being treated, and now a cardiothoracic surgeon who has literally floated down from heaven and taken the place as the top tier of her multi-layer life cake. Friday, he pried open the white bony fingers that encircle her rebellious angsty teenage heart and gave it one of those "I'm doing this because I love you" firm talking to's and put it in it's place where it should have been all along.
Having said that, she is healing, her heart is obeying, but some residual neurological set backs from her stroke are pulling a thick veil over her face and I've not yet been able to figure out how to understand WHY that happened. It's driving me insane. Yeah, it's only been 60 some odd hours after serious trauma to her body, and a few hospital friendlies have so lovingly told me that "the healing process is rediculous" and "you're in for a long road" and "she's going to look awful" etc. etc. Pretty much Eeyore and Debbie Downer had some sex and their love child posessed these informants and left them with zero room for encouragement.
I get that it's a tough surgery.
I get that it's life threatening.
I GET that she'll look like a dirigible when she's laying in bed with 20 IV pumps and their tentacle-like feelers creeping into her veins.
Maybe just work on your delivery, how bout? Maybe not everything needs to be said?
I'm all for being prepared. I expect the worst out of every situation. EVERY.
Except this one. Literally the ONLY procedure she's had done (in the almost 25 years I've been able to get that awful constant writhing pain in the bottom of my gut) that I've felt completely at peace with.
I probably shouldn't be writing this right now because I'm tired, and like my tamagotchi, if I don't get enough sleep, I get sick in the head and a skull and crossbone occupies my pupils until I'm rested enough.

So on to change number
2: Scott told me he didn't want to go to church any more. And meant it.

I'm the type of person, that if I outwardly represent or advertise something (like my wonderful collection of Hello Kitty or Harry Potter apparel) I know what it's about. And I'm an advocate for it. And I live it. And love it. If I wear a shirt with a quote on it, I know who said it, why they said it, and what they meant.

It was a slap in the face to realize that though I say I'm Mormon, and try to live like a Mormon, I literally know pretty much nothing about it.

Sure I know about Joseph Smith, and random Bible and Book of Mormon stories here and there, and the general mission and purpose of The Church, but I've never immersed myself in it the way I did when I discovered David Bowie. Or when I discovered that Hello Kitty was being sold for 1/4 of the price that it was at 10 years ago. Or when JK Rowling gave 7 gifts to the world that I've read each more than three times.

The way I felt when I realized that I'd been using The Church in my life and trying to force it on those around me, was the way Joanna reacted when my mum would lock eyes with her and say
(after Joanna had littered the bathroom floor with the contents of the waste basket)
in the most sincere and disappointed voice she could muster.
That poor dog would cower, and lower her head, and slink away to her pillow where she would lay and look back at my mum every so often until she either forgave her or forgot about it.
I've been such a coward with employing and literally living with the Church in my life. Politics is the only thing that I'm O.K. with picking and chosing different sides on different aspects. I've been vegetarian for about 6 or 7 years, and done more research on it and everything about it than I ever have about the Church. It's insanely easy to take advantage of something that you don't remember being introduced to. Something that you've always "known".

There are things here and there that I choose to obsess over, because uniqueness and undiscovered territory and the opportunity to Google something is a huge braingasm for me, and the more I can learn about random things, the more I can add to my collection that makes me ME.
Needless to say, I've been making a snail paced approach at reintroducing this into my life and daily mindset. I don't have to explain myself, I do it enough in my head.

On to my lucky number,
3: Scott took the MCAT, got a score that was above the national average last year, applied to 20 schools, got 16 or so responses requesting an additional application, and TWO NIGHTS AGO got a response back from the first one saying they want him to come interview.

The thought of living somewhere else a year from now totally excites and completely freaks me out. Ecstatic because a life where Scott and I just have each other to solely rely on would be so scary but so enticing. Horrified because the thought of not being able to walk 30 feet or drive 30 minutes to my parents house is paralyzing to the point of nausea.
BUT.I keep telling myself that our relationship is in it's infancy. My parents lived in North Carolina and Germany as newly-weds. Plus I don't like being comfortable enough to the point of being afraid of change, and that comfort has hardened around me and convinced me that things are good where they are.
So needless to say, I've looked up and researched each school's surrounding Universities that have a good english program for me to get in to, and what each city is like, etc. etc. You can't plan for something like that without having SOME kind of idea what to expect, right?

Alright well this is rediculously long, and I think I've proven my point that you shouldn't ask for something until you're ready for it.
Because it'll happen whether you're ready for it or not.
This is where Yoda would say make choices you must, or freaking Dora would sing her stupid song about knowing that we can do it, or that totally unrealistic kids book about the little engine that could pops in to your mind as you make your decision on whether or not to remain dormant, or keep pushing forward like everyone and everything else does.
Because really, you don't have any other choice.
Today is over.
Tomorrow is gone.
All I have is now.