Lost in Translation

Sunday, October 29, 2006

You know, I do feel badly about my lack of...productivity lately.

I seem to be able to sum up enough energy for one post a week, and while I try to get around to visit you all, I am woefully sucky at that right now. When you do see me, I show up for 25 minutes, read a two week chunk of your blog and then disappear into the ether again.

I have a visit scheduled with Ruth again tomorrow and she has begun to broach a topic with me that I am loathe to get into with her.

In fact, so loathe, I have avoided all of her "suggestions" for this past week, including getting her the number and fax for Sandy so she can get my records from the past five years. Now, does that sound like me?

No, no. Don't answer that. It does, when I am avoiding something I don't want to deal with (much like homework - RIGHT NOW!)

Since I have come to terms with being a person who lives with depression - not as a one time occurance, but as a fact of my life, to be managed and monitered, I have never seen my self as a person with an illness. If anything, my mental illness was so mild, no negligible, as to be practically inconsequential. I mean, I wasn't a hard core mentally ill person. Not a paranoid schizonphrenic, like my uncle. Not a bi-polar, like my biological father. Nope. Just a run of the mill crazy person. Mental Illness Light.

When that first therapist mentioned that he wondered if I could be bi-polar, I was so offended I wanted to punch him in the face. Dude. I know what I have. I am all fun crazy, not crazy crazy. I know crazy crazy, and I am no where NEAR that level.

And then Ruth mentioned it....and I got still. You know the old saying "When you meet more than one asshole in a day, maybe it's you who are the asshole"...
Staring at her across her office, she began to ask me questions about my patterns in activity. My depressions. What follows after. What leads up to it. What are my energy and sleeping patterns.

At first, I insisted that I KNOW my signs of depression. And the feeling that I was having, the slightly numb feeling was like depression, but wasn't depression. Because I KNOW my signs. Then, she started down the list.

My sleeping for hours during the day.

Well, all right - but that doesn't mean anything. I'm just tired cause I haven't been sleeping at night. What? Do I normally have problems sleeping at night. No, Never...unless I am in a depression.

Craving carbs/sugar?

Nope. I can assure you that I am not craving sugar. Before I used to sneak to the store before I drove home and buy chocolate croissants or doughnuts and eat them in teh car. I was almost complusive about it - then would stop to throw away the bag so Terrance wouldn't know. Now - No. No sugar cravings...unless you count the hits of maple syrup I have been sneaking from the cupboard. A lot of maple syrup. I guess that IS sugar. Pure.

But I am telling you Ruth - This isn't depression. I know what it feels like. This isn't it.

Do I get impulsive?

Well....maybe a little. Shopping? Even when I know we don't have the money? Not so much right now, but yes - in the past that was a real problem. (See my confession regarding the $600 Hannah Andersson DAY). And are some of the behaviors I am currently exhibiting showing some impulsivity? Maybe. Well, I guess so.

Do I have an uncommonly hard time if my routinue is disturbed?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHHAAAAAA.
Next Question.

Do I have bursts of energy in which I produce an amazing amount of work?

Yes. Why, yes I do. In fact, all of the internet has commented on my productivity. The quilts. The rugs. The writing. The PhD. The,well, everything.

Did I know that children of bi-polars are more likely to develop this?

Wait. Are you suggesting, Ruth, that I may be hard core crazy? Holy fucking shit. Did you just mention lithium? Are you suggesting that my depression may not be depression or as I like to think of it "Mental illness light"? You know, the normal crazy. Are you suggesting that I am moving into the cul de sac of the big boys of crazy? Cause you, Ruth, are full of shit. And I will not tolerate this implication that I am not regular depressive. I will not think that I may be manic-depressive. And while I am prefectly happy to eat a combination of Prozac and Wellbutrin , and any other anti-depressant you want to throw down my gullet, I am not taking anti-psychotics. Mood Stablizer, my ass. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want you to talk with Sandy about this. I don't want to talk to the Psychiatrist in charge of my medications about this.

THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE.

and then I go home. I read the literature on bi-polar. I start to see patterns in my behaviors. My life time behaviors. I don't want to tell Terrance, cause how is it fair that he gets stuck with the shitty wife and mother who ends up being certifiably crazy? How much can the man be expected to cope with in a spouse? When do I become too damaged? Have I passed that point?

And Emily? Good fucking god.

And I'm sorry. I'm just sorry. Sorry to Emily for not being a regular mom. Sorry to Terrance for not being a regular wife. Sorry to you all for not being witty and funny and all the things I want to be for you. I'm sorry for my restlessness and my dis-satisfaction with a very good life. I'm sorry for maybe being crazier than I wanted to admit, and being afraid to think about it. I should be braver. I should be able to just deal with these things and let them slide off of me. I am the truth speaker. I am the brave one. But not now. And I hate it. I hate feeling this way and I hate that it sounds like I am looking for sympathy. Because I am not.

I'm just a little lost right now. And I wanted you to know.

One of these things is not like the other

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

I think I need to really clean off my bedside table.

Last night, I grabbed my lip balm. If there is one thing in the world which can drive me crazy (aside from being licked needlessly by my child, or questioned about my "washing of the chicken" by my spouse) is Dry Lips.

Every night, I apply my lip balm right before I go to sleep. The result? Smooth, unchapped lips.

So, last night, I was finishing my "wash face, brush teeth, use toner, smooth cream on face...check feet to see if Shea butter must be applied" - You know, the night routine.

I reached for my little pot of lip balm and applied.

Truth be told, I was also sniping at Terrance who was being a twit, and I was upset at missing the last few minutes of Deadwood, and was taking umbrage at the tone my husband was using...

Finger in lip balm....and apply.

Lay down on my palace of pillows to watch Daily Show. Begin to think that this lip balm does not taste right. Start to lick lips and ponder the taste. It ain't good. In fact, it is awful. Wrinkle nose, sit up in bed.

Look at bedside table....come to horrible realization that what you just liberally applied to lips is NOT lip balm. Grab sheet and begin to vigorously rub stuff off lips. Ignore husband who begins to call you a "nasty mother fucker" for doing this thing to the sheet ( which his anal retentive ass will be changing, cause you have grossed him out).


Exhibit A ( lip balm) Exhibit B ( non lip balm product)


Jump up and run to bathroom to begin washing lips off with cloth.

When lips stop pulsing, return to bedroom.

Disgusted Husband stares at me and asks the question:

"What the hell is wrong with you?"



Yep. I had applied "Double Strength Bump Stopper" to my lips.

This is, sadly, not the first time I have mis-applied a product to my skin.

Exhibit C (Product for Face) Exhibit D ( Product Dawn applied after coming home a little drunk from her meeting with Fancypants)



And what was Exhibit D?



Yep. Time to clean off the bed side table.....

I go to Rio

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

I had a completely new experience yesterday. Well, kind of completely new, in so much as I added an external participant in my previously "solo" endeavor.

I think that I have demonstrated that I am not a shy woman. What with my continuous and inadvertent breast flashing to half of New Hampshire, one would think that I would be perfectly comfortable and willing to do just about anything.

So I figured. What the hell. It was time to move to the professionals. Even with my Yoga, I was not able to contort into the positions it would require to do a bang up job.

I booked the Brazilian.

I mentally prepared for the Brazilian, much as I mentally prepare for the Pap Smear. Come on, I know you all do it. Are my legs shaved? Lotioned? Toes painted. God forbid we let our hoo-ha doctor see us with ashy legs and chipped toenails...not while they are eye to eye with our holy of holies ( Ha-Ha! a Pun!)

I took my ibuprofen prior to, as indicated by all the web sites on which I researched this procedure. This was to help with swelling and discomfort.I also gave myself a trim. I mean, yes, this was a professional, but there is no need to go in looking like I let everything go to hell.

I arrive and enter the spa. I maintain my air of casual aloofness. As if I expose my nether regions to strangers on a daily basis. That this is "no big deal".I announce to the thin, gorgeous receptionist that I am here for my "Brazilian". You know, me and the Brazilian? Old friends. Best Buddies.

I was escorted to the tastefully decorated waiting area, where I lounged on a chaise. I maintained my air of casual nonchalance. Why, I bet EVERYONE in this place has Brazilians!

The "Wax Professional" arrives. And speaks to me in French.

Fuck. Fuck, Fuckity, Fuck. I immediately tense up. I mumble, "Bon Jour, Hello" - which is my way of alerting all French speakers that I am not one of them. She smiles. She changes to English, heavily accented, but English.

Ok, remain calm. Be Cool. You can do this, Dawn.

I am escorted to a lovely room. And then the charade falls, the gig is up, the canary begins to sing. I am revealed as a Brazilian impostor. She asks "Have you had a Brazilian before?"

"Um, well no, well yes, I mean I have never had one done professionally, I've done them myself...but not very well, which is why I decided to just suck it up and have it done professionally, so I guess , kind of."

I stop myself. Hey-zeus, I am rambling. Her smile does not falter. She begins to explain the different versions of the Brazilian. The demi, the full, the front, the back. Do I want everything off? Do I want a strip left, a patch, a smiley face? Do I want the hair to remain on the lips, or all hair off the lips? I may have gone a little wild eyed at this juncture. Did she just ask me about my lips? Are we discussing my .....labia?

I smile.."Let's just do everything." Cause I can not discuss the benefits of hair on or off my "lips". I just can't. Not to mention that I am pretty sure I just agreed to bare my ass for internal waxing. But, I'm in it now. We might as well just go for the gusto.

Now. Here is where is gets REALLY funny.

She tells me to take off my skirt, but to leave my thong on. In my panic, I mishear her and assume that she wants me to take my underwear OFF and lay on the table. I mean, I don't want to seem prudish.

So I do it. I take everything off and lay down on the table. Midsection on, exposed. Trying to look as if I do this all the time.

And she sees me. In direct violation of her first order to keep my underwear ON, I am laying there panty free. She hesitates. She struggles for the question.
"You did not have any underwear on?"

I begin to ramble, apologizing at the same time. I thought you said..I didn't understand, I am SO SORRY. She hands me a paper thong, which I now most ungraciously try to wriggle my ass into, while still remaining in the prone "on the table" position.

I grow silent. I am the worst Brazilian wax client EVER. They are going to be talking about me in the "Spa break room" for ages: "And I told her to leave her underwear On, and when I came back she was laying there with her underwear OFF!"

The good news? My social shame had now made me forget what was about to happen next. I didn't even remember to tense up. For the waxing had begun.

It feels like what you expect. I had done this at home many times, so the sensation was not shocking. In fact, it was easier to take when you aren't doing it yourself - kind of like having someone else take out a splinter.

Until we got to the aforementioned "Lips". Wow. That was a unique pain. As I am not a "yeller", I merely got very wide eyed and took a very deep breath in. She was talking me through it, and was being quite soothing, but still! Ouch!

And here is my second tidbit of advice. In your "pre-wax" prep, Don't trim any hairs too short. For you will be rewarded for your effort by individual tweezing of these hairs which are not picked up by the wax. Each and Every One. And it will feel like an eternity.

By the time we got around to flipping over for the ass section of the waxing, I was filled with endorphins and way past caring. This chick had just spent 35 minutes staring, with a large powerful light, and Tweezers at my Mons Venus. My ass was not going to phase her in the least.

"Voila!", she announced. And we were done.

I got dressed, and exited the room. She met me at reception where I resisted the impulse to Hug her. I felt as if we had just been through battle, together. Instead, I shook her hand, and left her a hell of a good tip. And booked my next one.

It's all fun and games until....

Saturday, October 14, 2006

Ok, I admit it. I am in full fledged, gut wrenching, sleep inducing (at the wrong times), brain paralyzing, inability to form coherent sentences - let alone write a lit review and proposal that is due on MONDAY, panic.

'Member when I was all "happy" about being here and living my foot loose and fancy free life style? Well, fuck that.

I. Am. Screwed.

I am in lock down mode. My brain has frozen up. I can't do anything except play video games or Solitaire on the computer. I have taken to online chat like a duck to water. Seriously, I never used any kind of messenger thing before - now I'm like a freaking junkie. Terrance catches me as I am hunched over the screen like Gollem, protecting my pressssshussssss, rationalizing that it must be "cheaper" to chat with Leah and Jessica this way, right?

I banished myself to campus on Wednesday. What did I do? Looked up a Colbert shirt I plan on buying myself at some point...

Hey Feral/HBM/Bobita, when the hell does this phase pass? When can you think again? I mean, discussion in class? I fucking ACE that shit. I am all about drawing parallels and introducing extra theorists into the mix for the hell of it. I can draw in literary references and cross critical theory into pop culture. I can use the word hegemony now, in context. I can look disparagingly at the sad Masters students who know so very little of life and our profession. What do you mean, you have never heard of the study regarding newborn infants smell preferences? HAHAHAHA! Peon!

And then, I go home and freeze up. I shuffle about. I do laundry. I make sure Emily's school shirts are super white! I do dishes.

Let me repeat that for emphasis. I fucking do the fucking dishes. I have been seen scrubbing the fucking, cocksucking tub. It's as if I have become Bizarro Dawn. Next I will start baking shit ( seeing as I now already "volunteer" at Em's school library on Friday).

Internet friends. Help. I fear if I start the drinking, I may loosen up so much as to be confined to the tub* for the next several days. Or perhaps I will be persuaded that those ultra tight blue jeans (ala Jordache 1979) are a good idea and purchase several pair. And then wear them with Ugg boots. And Very big Jackie O sunglasses.

OK. Off to see what I can clean in order to not write this proposal. I think Emilys socks need sorting by size and textile.

(* reference to the fact that when dawn gets a special kind of drunk, she usually falls asleep in the shower, right Tb's?)

P.S. Lachine is an area of the city near to where we live. The Lachine canals. It is a lovely spot with bike paths for miles.

Lachine

Tuesday, October 10, 2006









Pay tribute to my Feet, oh Husband!

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Behold!

My First new pair of shoes since moving to Montreal!

Given to me by my husband, for he is tired of seeing me hobble about, toes wrapped in multicolored bandages! Lo, though my toes hurt mightily, I could not break down and wear non-cute shoes, for it went against every fiber of my being.

These shoes represent the compromise. Cute, and rather sassy, but not heels.

I approve. Terrance hates them.




Next, the search for the non-dorky backpack....

and gratuitous cat shots for the still unofficially named cat ( but who seems to be called "Jazzy" by my daughter)

October 5th

Thursday, October 05, 2006

I slept in until 11:30 a.m. today. I also did this on Monday.

Terrance woke me this morning with:

"Are you OK? I know one of the first signs of depression is not wanting to get out of bed."

This made me smile at him. The man who had no idea that I was depressed when I was at my lowest, hiding under desks and generally acting psychotic, has now attuned himself with my sleeping and eating patterns. He can now verbalize a concern.

"No", I tell him, "just recovering my sleep debt from the last couple of weeks. I wasn't really asleep, just listening to you talk to your clients."

This is an activity that gives me odd pleasure. Listening to my husband do his job, with clients over the phone. Today he is on the phone with a group in the Louisiana Delta, hit hard by Katrina. His confidence and guidance radiate through his words. He is not impatient as he guides them through the mazes of federal grants and funding, often asking them the same question over and over until he gets the answer that will fit the funding proposal. He also throws laundry in the dryer, feeds the cat, and folds clothes as he talks.

It is not a side of my husband that I ever saw prior to being at home. Our work lives were so completely separate as to seem foreign to each other. I left at 7 in the morning. I returned at 6 at night. Both exhausted, we rarely talked about anything of substance before wrangling the daughter into bed and both sinking into silence.

The move to Montreal, my forced unemployment, have changed many things about my life and my marriage. I mourn my loss of financial Independence and "professional identity". However, I am spending more time with my husband - uninterrupted, child free time. Both of us simply existing in the same space, at the same time.

This is unearthing a part of my marriage that I had not known existed, or had forgotten in the turmoil of life before. It is tender and quiet.

"Do you want some coffee?I made some for you", Terrance asks as he leans down to kiss me. "Happy 10th anniversary, sweetie."

After ten years of marriage and 16 years of being together, he still surprises me.

Happy Anniversary, My Love.
 
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