Nicole aka kitterztoo
Where You Can Find Me
Skeleton 8: The Line is Drawn
No more secrets...
He snapped Thursday evening when I was gone. When I finally arrived home, I asked him to leave. He refused. There wasn't any raising of voices as I didn't want the girls to hear. I held my phone in my hand and mentally observed the distance to the door. I held my ground. This was the last straw.
Inside I was screaming, admonishing myself for not getting better sooner. Then I would have seen this coming. Did I even know it existed before? Did I even get the hint he would become this? Were there signs? If so, how did I miss them? Was I hiding the answers I thought I knew? So many questions, so little answers coming forth.
He screamed at the girls only inches from their face. Tried to grab one that tried to run away. A frantic phone call from the eldest in tears startled me. Through sobbing she talked way too fast for me to understand. A wave of nausea washed over me as I tried to get her to slow down. Then, in a shaky, terrified voice I hear,
"She's screaming outside and it sounds like Daddy is killing her. I didn't know who to call."
My heart began to race. He'd snapped. He'd gone and done what he promised not to do so many times before. The only thing I could do was tell her to go in her room and lock the door. My mind started to race with endless scenarios. I took a deep breath and held it for a couple seconds. I immediately called his cell. It rang for what seemed like forever before he picked up. I could hear the faint high-pitched screaming in the background.
I don't recall what I said or what I did. I know he told me the reason why he was doing what he was in that moment. For me, there isn't any excuse that warrants emotionally scarring a child. None.
The girls recalled every single time he had done this to them and had them numbered. It made me sick. The question, "Remember that time when Daddy...?" shouldn't be followed by a terrifying moment of their past. I grew up in a home where emotional and physical abuse was constant. When I managed to escape, I swore I would never ever have children. I didn't want to be this fucked up mother who had their children live in fear, praying for death to come just so the abuse would stop. Before I decided I would have kids, I knew he would be a great father. He was caring, responsible, and didn't grow up in an abusive household. He wanted children--at least two. I'd waited until age 30 to make sure he was in it for the long haul. The problem was, I was a mess. I still lived in fear of my parents who last hit me at age 20, but never stopped emotionally abusing me. I was having chronic migraines and had a huge problem with narcotics. Prescribed ones. That coupled with major depression and eventually postpartum depression, made my life miserable well through age 35. When they were born, he swore to keep them safe. Unfortunately, what he failed to realize was the person they needed protecting against was him.
I was told if I'd only do this he wouldn't get so angry. Or didn't do this. Or fixed this. Or just did that. Or did it his way. Or didn't. It didn't matter what I did or didn't do, the marriage was broken. I'd tried to fix it. I'd gotten off narcotics. I went to a 30 day program half the country away to stop self-injuring. Finally, three years ago I was treated for severe depression.
And you know what? I woke up and realized I wasn't the one broken.
My true self, my identity, was handed back to me and I didn't need to rely on him to take care of me. I took control back and decided he was not going to say one more fucking time, "I liked you better, sick."
I had to draw a line. That time had come. More ways than one. I don't want to allow any excuses for him. I'm sure there are many. I don't contribute financially to the marriage. I have a ton of disabilities. I'm a stay-at-home mom, and a damn good one. He no longer knows who I am and what I have become and it scares him. As well it should, because I would have left him years ago if I had the chance.
I could give you all sorts of excuses why I haven't left. The main one being I would have to live in a shelter because I can't work. I can't pay for the insurance I'd need for my doctors and medications. I've already seen a lawyer and there's not much that can be done. That's not going to stop me, because there's plenty I can do. Just watch me.
He wouldn't leave. He said if it happened again he'd leave. Like all the other promises made to me, it was a lie. I explained I'd no longer remain silent. The marriage counselor would know, the girls' therapist would know, and they're required by law to report abuse. He said I was doing this to him. I told him he did this to himself and I wasn't going to allow him to inflict any more abuse. If it happened again, I'd have the police remove him from the home, I'd file a restraining order, and I'd inform whomever I needed to to make sure he didn't have access to the girls ever again without supervision. He accepted the terms and doubled his therapy appointments. I've told the marriage counselor and the girls' therapist is up next.
I fear I'm not strong enough to be a single parent. I fear I will be blamed for keeping their dad away from them. I worry my health will decline further. I'm hoping I can weather this storm. Despite all these fears I've drawn the line in the sand. Cross it and he will see what kind of person I really am.
And I will not fucking backing down.
Things Girls Leave in Trees
When I was a little girl, I lived in the woods. There was never a time that I wasn't exploring, wasn't climbing trees. So I expected them to climb the tree, fall out of said tree, and play under it. What I didn't expect was what they would leave in the tree.
A stick, a hopping toy, numerous bungee cords, and the occasional bike helmet made it into the tree as it was barren. Pretend horses, dogs, dragons were tethered there at one time. A makeshift fire pit with sticks arranged as a teepee ready for lighting at the tree's base. Then they really got creative...
The large rock is a "calculator". How do I know this? I asked after I narrowly missed getting hit in the head with it as it fell from the tree. I began to wonder if I needed a hard hat every time I heard them climbing from branch to branch. Another rock barely stayed in the tree, and it was a "camera". Each bungee cord and each piece had a role to play in their fantasy world. Each was a new adventure and a new use. The spring held new objects in the tree. A stray tool from Daddy's toolbox "accidentally" made it into the tree as well as a jump rope or two. Every time I looked out the bathroom window, I would catch them immersed into a new game.
In the end, they left their childhood in the tree as they began puberty this summer. I know it can't be helped. This is the process all children go through. Now begins the demands of technology: iPods, cell phones, Playstations, Wii, iPhones, and laptops. I just wish they would climb the tree one more time and transform into the girls that played in such an intimate way with the simplest of objects.
But, alas, these are the things girls leave in trees.
Not What I Wished For
You know that saying, "Be careful what you wish for"? I have the same question swirling around my head. Why the hell did I ever wish for that? Can I take my wish back?
Four months ago, my therapist left for spinal surgery. Four months later, I get a call from the scheduler canceling my appointments for this month. She said she would most likely not be back by the time the office thought she should return. I was prepared for the call to cancel all of my appointments. I just had hoped the call would never come. I really could use someone now.
I recall back in 2009 when my major depressive disorder was at its worst. It was all I could do to hold firm to my vow to stop self-injuring. During a particularly nasty fight with my husband where I was told I was a "waste of space", I spat back,
"I hope you get what I have so you'll finally understand what I'm going through."
Every time I have uttered those words, devastation lay in its wake. Realistically, I know I have no control over others by saying that phrase, but I can't help but cringe knowing that indeed those words would come to bear at the most inopportune time.
My husband was recently diagnosed with depression. His medication isn't working. He has relinquished his control over me. I now am responsible for all of the bills, the girls, and just about every other function in the house as he is crippled by anxiety and depression. He found solace in an old girlfriend, despite the one person that truly understands what he's going through is right here next to him. I went from being treated as a child and as a roommate, to being the leader, the one responsible.
Not having a therapist has been a struggle. An increase of my medication created side-effects that landed me in the hospital. I'm still not totally leveled out as my kidneys are now being affected. I have little to no support structure whatsoever. I rely on one "virtual" friend to hear my sorrow just to get through the day. Fact is, I'm struggling. I think about self-injury no less than five times a day. The medication increase takes weeks for full effect. In my case, ten weeks. I'm only halfway. I wind up bottling emotions until everyone has gone to bed so I can unload them in my journal and just cry.
@wbahner has been playing Words With Friends with me even when I've tried to quit playing. Words With Friends is like an online version of Scrabble. I've never played Scrabble as a child, so I had to let at least twenty other people kick my ass before he discovered I played. Our matches are so close in score, that I continue to play even when I disappear from Twitter for a while. Once in a while he sends me e-mails that are literally two words in length. "Happy Friday!" He has no idea how much just saying "Hey you!" means to me when all I want to do is get hit by a bus.
@spudrph is a friend that I wish lived closer so we could get coffee and exchange bad puns. He's a talented writer, but he'll deny it. It's the total breakdown, blubbery mess, in tears, me that he allows to snivel on his shoulder. No matter how scary the depression sounds, he quietly allows me to fall apart. What I didn't expect is a friend who can, in a sentence, make me laugh out loud in the midst of a crying streak. Being creative himself, he brings out the best in my creative spirit. I've gotten accustomed to getting a text out of the blue that makes me laugh so hard no matter where I am. I think the stares from my children while in public are testament to his funny, kind, and endearing spirit.
I hope my friends can understand a little more of where my mind has been these past four months when they begged for another blog post. I've been struggling to function amidst a sea of "suck". I thank those of you who still offer a virtual hug for me. It has meant the world to me. I guess that is the something I've wished for. Thank you!
Virtual Suicide
How can one die virtually? On Twitter it's known as "twittercide". Deletion of your account without any goodbye. Online deletion of blogs, email addresses, Facebook pages, and websites is another way of committing online suicide. Unless you know a person's real last name and perhaps where they live, it's nearly impossible to find them again.
I went through my entire list of followers on Twitter today, and learned that a few of them had committed Twittercide. One of which I thought was a very good friend. He deleted his blog and email address. I knew he was struggling. Struggling to feel something other than depression. It's only speculation if he "reincarnated" himself on Twitter as a different account. I feel bad about it, because he helped me find two people that had also reincarnated themselves after twittercide. Now I can't find him. I don't remember his last name because I respected his privacy and didn't push for him to reveal it. All I have is a picture to remind myself of him and the brief time I got to know him. He was hilarious!
There's a question I ask myself whenever this happens. How "real" are these virtual people on Twitter or on other sites? They are more than a user name and avatar to me. True, they can misrepresent themselves and weave lies. Their picture may not be their own. They may not even be the sex they led you to believe. I find myself being careful how far I let people from social websites into my life, into my world. I've heard horror stories from others long ago in the 90s with the dawn of CompuServe and AOL. I learned plenty back then to ferret out the liars from the white liars.
I know that everyone lies in the virtual world. It could be something simple as hiding your weight, to omitting the fact you are married with children. I have only come across one sociopath in my lifetime (that I'm aware of). I had to deal with it when I was a sysop of one of the forums on Compuserve. This woman, which I came to believe was not one, decided to join the forum and began slowly gathering information from our thousand plus members. By the time I realized what this person was doing, they had started a flame war and was harassing a member of ours by calling them at all hours of the day and night. It's a sad world when a few like that ruin it for the rest of us who really want to trust, have fun, and make a connection with someone.
Then there are the few that I talk to every day and miss when they're gone. The laughs, the virtual hugs, and eventually the serious conversation behind the scenes that makes me miss them when they're gone. I'm not talking sexual or even intimate conversations. It's the pain laid bare, the fear, the longing, the conversation that cannot be told to another person. It's just that private and genuine.
There have been a few I tracked down that came back to Twitter. It's one of those hopeless searches, because deep down you know the chances of finding them again is slim. It's exciting when you are able to find them and then tell them to never do that again. It's so disheartening to discover someone deleted their account and disappeared forever.
I miss the few I couldn't catch. I hope you're alright. I'm glad to have gotten to know you. You've all changed my life in some manner. I'll miss you, terribly.
Christmas Guilt and Relief
I sat staring at the trite sentiment on the Christmas card that arrived on the 23rd of December. The gift cards had fallen into my lap, but I'd barely noticed them.
Merry Christmas! Dad, Mom, and [sister]
That was it. It was decided. I was not to be invited for Christmas for the first time in 40 years. Fact was, I wasn't going to kiss their asses and call every week, or ask to be invited. Normal people call others and invite them. They don't have people just up and invite themselves to a function. We weren't invited for Thanksgiving, and now Christmas.
This is what I wanted. After all, I wanted a reason not to go. I didn't want to endure a strained six to eight hours at my abusive parents' house. This was my life, and I had gotten to the point where I could pretty much handle it. I did it in silence and tried to be invisible. It was a survival mechanism, and I pretty much knew how to slip back into that role. I wanted a reason not to have to go over there anymore. I did it for my sister and for my girls.
As a tear slipped down my cheek, I thought of my sister. I hadn't seen her in nearly 6 months. I'm sure my parents said that I didn't want to visit her, didn't love her, didn't want her. I'd tried calling, but my mother always made some excuse why she couldn't talk to me. I wanted her to come over, but there was always the "Cinderella" excuse why she couldn't. I gave up.
My silence cost me. It cost me holidays with her. I didn't kiss my parents' asses by taking them out to dinner, short trips by just to hang out, fawn all over them with attention. I wasn't about to buy into that pathology, but if my brother and sister-in-law wanted to, then all the power to them. They are exactly like my parents.
Yet, this felt like the time I stood up to my parents. Ironically, it was on a Christmas when I came home from college. I accidentally spilled wine on the tablecloth as I was pouring the wine. I asked mom where her paper towels were. She asked why. I told her. She rushed into the dining room, and started swearing at me. I told her it was an accident and to not yell at me.
Slap
She had slapped me in front of my oldest sister and brother-in-law. I staggered backwards and bit my cheek so I wouldn't cry. "Never let her see me cry," I thought. I was 18 years old. An adult. I knew if I called the police no one who witnessed it would stand up for me. My oldest sister was just as afraid of my mother as I was. This time I was angry. I went up into my room and shut the door. I anticipated a fight. I was prepared. I would fight back this time. Fuck them and their money for college tuition. I debated locking the door, but any skeleton key could open it. I struggled not to cry as I traced the hand print across my cheek. My parents called me down for dinner. I said I wasn't hungry. I wasn't going to eat or anything. I was done for the night. My dad tried to talk to me and demanded I come downstairs and eat. He said I was ruining Christmas. I think a slap in the face pretty much ruined mine, but that didn't matter. I was not going to go downstairs. And I didn't.
This situation felt like that. I held steadfast in my decision that I shouldn't be the one to beg to go over and celebrate with them. My children didn't care and thought it would be great to celebrate just the four of us--a new beginning of family tradition.
Wiping away the tear that drifted down my cheek, I took a deep breath and exhaled. I finally felt like I owned my life. I wasn't scared of the ramifications. It didn't matter. They can't hurt me anymore.
A Silent Goodbye
An open letter written in late November to my friend. I debated posting this as it is personal. The person in question knows it's being posted, and with their permission. Like most skeletons in my closet, this one needs releasing. Goodbye...
November 17th was the last time you mentioned loving me. I replay a video of your voice several times a day because I miss you terribly. I hoped you could continue to accept me. I hoped you would choose me. I hoped when you said you loved me it meant something other than the afterthought of an orgasmic rush.
I am in emotional pain every waking minute of the day. Longing for you. Knowing you will never be here. When I dream it's of the despair of losing you. I cry out to the sky and beg to have the pain stop and have you return to me.
I know that will never happen. My anguish is knowing that. Feeling how genuine you were and then now having nothing at all. Fucking up a friendship I so desperately wanted. I am left standing in the same exact position where we met. Where you consoled me. Now, there is no you. No charming you. No tender, caring you to console me in my pain. Only silence. Heart-wrenching silence.
I hate being alone. I hate knowing how happy I was and that I may never feel that way again. I wonder if I am so easily forgotten. Do you ever cry like I do every night and every morning? Knowing I'll never get "Good morning beautiful lady" as a text when I wake, followed by your wonderful emails is now torture.
Hearing the silence after four months is more than I can bear. I am struggling with living without you. I see things I can no longer share. I imagine your voice and miss its soothing comfort telling me it will be OK. It's not OK. I'm not OK. I don't think I'll ever be OK.
You chose a life without me, and I can't help but think I was a toy to make you feel better. A willing participant. Now, I have nothing. I have pictures of a face I wanted to touch. Lips that I so desperately wanted to kiss. A voice that isn't really you...but a memory I once had and cherish. I wish I could hear you say hello and wish me a good night just one more time.
Your conscience must be clear by now, but my pain lives on, and each passing day becomes more and more unbearable. I feel like you died and I didn't get to hold you. My life feels empty, and I haven't figured out how to move on.
I erased your phone number and address. I was afraid I'd try to contact you. Lose my nerve and do what is unforgivable and unwanted. I'd silently hoped you would still text me, call me, say you needed me, but you don't and never will.
How I fucked this up, I'll never quite know. I never asked you to love me and now you don't. Because the last time you said you loved me was November 17th.
And then... No more.
Invisible Illness
There are some days I wish I didn't have pain, didn't have multiple medical problems, or have to be on so many pills. Thinking desperately how I want out of this body, out of this life, out from under the assumptions. What assumptions? She's fat, so that's why she's "sick". No, actually, I had all these fucking problems at a young age. The older I get, the more crap I have to deal with. The list is starting to get longer and longer, and I just want off the damn ride.
I was asked once, "What isn't wrong with you?" and "What [medication] haven't you been on?" I consider that person a friend, so I'm not offended, but in the grand scheme of things I can't help but bristle. So, I'm going to list them all.
Variant migraine with aura
Secondary tension headaches
Fibromyalgia
Osteoarthritis
Plaque psoriasis
Abnormal ECG
High blood pressure
Extruded disk L5-S1 (some nerve damage from that)
Non-specific autoimmune disorder
Vitamin D deficiency
DIMS sleep disorder (some phases are truncated or missing while others are prolonged)
Major depression
Carpal tunnel syndrome
Four of those I've had from a very young age. It's a chronic pain situation as an invisible illness. Yes, I do know that two of those would most likely be alleviated if I was a normal body weight. Don't you think I've realized this within the last 15 years of my life? I know who I am in the mirror. I'm someone who's overweight, losing her hair, and scars all over her body. I can't help but see the stark reality every damn day. Please don't remind me of that fact.
I'm accustomed to the pills, the doctor visits, the specialists, the therapy and the countless ways I have sucked our money dry with all of it. Do you think I like it? Do I feel guilty? Yes. I feel guilty. Instead of each of my daughters getting an extra shirt for winter clothing, I bought my over the counter medication that is prescribed by my neurologist. Those supplements are not covered by my insurance. I have an $800 copay every single time I have an epidural series for my back which is every other month. Every three months is a $650 out-of-pocket cost to have botox for my tension headaches that is injected by a neurologist but isn't covered due to botox deemed "cosmetic". I want so desperately to have an easier life at times. Not just because of the pain I endure, but rather the fact it costs so damn much to have normalcy.
Here's what really irritates me. Everyone seems to have advice. Everyone has an opinion of what I should be doing and not doing. Ready for the latest round of comments? Here we go...
If you quit going to doctors, they won't find anything wrong. Doctors want to make a lot of money and will find things wrong with you to that end.
Wow! Why didn't I become a doctor? I would be able to make millions by diagnosing people with all sorts of conditions they clearly don't have. That's ethical, right? Then I can just order all sorts of unneeded tests and force my patients to come back in so I can make up something that's wrong with them.
I take Excedrin Migraine or Aleve for my migraines and they go away. Have you tried that?
No, dumb ass, I decided to take all these other expensive medications instead of just going with the over-the-counter remedy. Thanks for the advice, but I'd rather take something that actually works for my type of migraine that I've had for the past 32 years.
If you just think happy thoughts you won't be depressed.
Ah, my favorite one of all. Don't you think I would have tried that by now? Nah, I'd rather struggle to get out of bed in the morning, let alone get dressed, and want to die every waking second of my life. That's much easier.
You mean you have to be on medication the rest of your life? I'd just stop taking it if it made me feel bad.
Yes, I do! I'd rather be on medication for the rest of my life than be in pain, suicidal, and self-injuring. I will deal with the nausea, sleepiness, dry mouth, being light headed, sexual dysfunction, and weight gain if it means the difference between wasting away in a bed, waiting to die and being functional. I will take the two migraines a week compared to the daily 12-hour migraines I used to have. I will gladly take all that crap if it means I can sit upright, enjoy a hug from my daughters, set goals for myself, and grow as a person. I will take it if it works.
It can't possibly be that bad. If you put your mind to it, you'd be fine.
I'm not suffering from Münchausen Syndrome. I'm not faking it. I'm not doctor shopping. I don't love the idea of having to go to all of these doctors. I don't like the idea of spending all my money on treatments. I don't enjoy having 12 injections of botox into my forehead. I don't like have a needle jabbed into my spine to deliver steroid and marcaine just so I can walk 25 feet without needing to sit from the pain. I have laid in bed at night as a teenager, crying because I wanted my migraines to go away. I begged God that I would be good if he could make the pain go away. I gently cupped my hands at night from the pain, sobbing because I wanted it to go away. I have begged, pleaded, and tried everything to make it all go away. So far, it hasn't worked, and I've had no choice but to accept it, adapt, and move past the wishing for it to be gone.
Now that I've gotten that slight rant out of the way, I want to mention that just because you can't see any disability, it doesn't mean there isn't one. It's still a struggle in the morning to get my fingers and hands "warmed up" enough so I can get dressed. I have had to alter my life drastically since age 19. I need lever handles on all the faucets and doors. I have to have an emergency contact app on my phone that lists each and every one of my medications, and I've worn a medic alert bracelet for years. Some days it's all I can do to not scream as I bend my back from it's frozen straight position in the morning. I can't lift heavy objects. I can't even feel the tips of my fingers nor the tops of my feet or parts of my calves due to the nerve damage. I have to have an elaborate plan in case I get an aura while driving and can't make it home to meet the girls' school bus.
I've had to significantly adapt how I function in life. I'm very lucky in that for right now, this is the best I have ever been able to function. Many others with similar challenges don't respond as well to medication or lifestyle changes. It's not easy. I've found many others who are sympathetic on Twitter. One in particular, Michael Webb, @spudrph suggested I read a certain blog about having an invisible illness. It's written by Christine Miserandino. It's The Spoon Theory and describes exactly what it's like to have a hidden illness. It's worth reading.
All that said, I'm so frustrated when I'm only known by my disability. All I want is empathy. I don't want to be known solely as the sick girl, that woman with the migraines, that mom with the back problems, the friend who's depressed all the time. I can't forget I'm dealing with health issues, so I certainly don't need you to remind me. As if I could ever forget.
I want to be known as the artist, the creative woman, the funny mom, the sensual MILF for lack of a better description! I'm me! Get to know the other side of me, but be considerate that just because you can't see I'm hurting, doesn't mean that I'm not.
Oh, did I mention I need glasses for the first time in 40 years? Bifocals for astigmatism. Not another damn thing. Life just gets better an better. I think I might need to rethink things and go for that sexy librarian look after all. (wink)
New York City Part 3: My Marathon Continued
"Push through the pain! You can do this!" I screamed at myself. Fact of the matter was, I struggled to breathe. It was like a sauna out in the open, despite the wonderful breeze from the water. I slathered on sunscreen as I knew there wouldn't be any shade from here on out. The heat was really getting to me. What I didn't realize at the time was my new medication was dropping my blood pressure too far. Every time I stood up, I felt like my legs were lead and I was light headed. At this point, I think I hit the wall, but knew I had to press on.
We got tickets and I took one look at the line. No place to sit and we were out in the open. Nichole suggested that perhaps she ask if there was any shade for me to sit in until the line caught up to us. I saw the police officer right near the wheelchair ramp, and decided to just go up and ask. I asked him if I could sit inside as I had a medical condition. He asked me what it was. I sort of lied. I said I had a heart condition, but at that point I wasn't about to tell the truth. As he waived us into the white tent, I suspected a major line. What I didn't realize was that this was a security station created because of the September 11th tragedy.
A line of 4 metal detectors and X-ray conveyor belts that reminded me of a Court House. Familiar with the drill, I shut off my phone, took everything out of my pockets, and placed it all in the bin on the conveyor belt. I silently was glad I hadn't brought my tiny Swiss Army pocket knife on my trip to NYC. It would have been in my purse. As walked through the metal detector, it went off.
"Wonderful," I thought. I knew I would be scanned by the metal detecting wand and it would be my underwire bra setting it off. Unfortunately, it didn't show anything. Confused, I looked at the other woman National Security Officer, and she told me to go back through, slowly.
I did it more slowly. It went off again. Shit. I could feel the people's eyes bore into me as they were also waiting to get through. I hate holding up the line. I turned and walked through it again. Again, it went off.
Oh this isn't good. I quickly took off my sandals and put them in the bin. I knew that was what had triggered it a year ago when I had to go to a Court House to pick up some documents. I felt reassured that my sandals were the problem. I just knew it.
Beep, beep, beep...
What the fuck?! Finally, the officer yelled over the top of the crowd for me to hold out my arms in front of me, palms meeting together, and walk very slowly through the detector. My heart began to race as I went back through the detector and assumed the position instructed. Inside, I silently hoped this would work.
I began to inch through the detector slowly. I literally held my breath as the main part of my body hit the sensor. I swear I literally was saying "please, please, please" over and over as I walked through. Not hearing a sound, I quickly scraped up my items out of the bin, and whipped my sandals back on. I didn't want to hold up anyone behind me. I just knew I was the only idiot who couldn't make it through the metal detector. Then I heard the familiar beep as I sat down. I realized I wasn't the only one. I knew I was halfway there. Now to battle the line to the ferry.
We exited the security station and I suddenly felt like I was cattle. There isn't a line to stand in. Instead there's a crowd formation, with only a commercial grade fan to circulate the stifling hot air. At that point, I knew there was no hope in trying to keep my shirt dry. I couldn't help but be relieved that my shirt wasn't see-through. Once on the ferry, I was bummed there were no seats up top, but at that point, staying in the shade was fine by me. I quickly bought some Gatorade and shuddered at the taste. It's sort of like knowing you have to take your medicine to get better, so either drink it or risk needing an ambulance later. Sitting on one of the benches on the ferry, I could look across the Hudson River toward the skyline as we inched our way toward the Statue of Liberty.
Then, she came into view on my side of the ferry. The Statue of Liberty may seem like to some as just this statue in the water, but I had no real sense of knowing how big it was until just then. I thought there were flowers around the base of the statue, but as the ferry moored to the dock, I realized they were people and not flowers. I managed to exit the steep ramp and walk to the gift shop. The blast of air conditioning was a welcome relief. I managed to squat down in a corner to unlock my back spasm. Nichole and her friend went to go look at the statue while I began to figure out what souvenirs I was going to bring back to the girls. I finally settled on a pressed copper coin the thickness of the Statue of Liberty, a few postcards, and a couple of Kooky pens.
Just as I sat down outside, trying to take in the surroundings by calming my body and feeling the atmosphere, Nichole walked up to me and said we should probably get in line on the dock. I knew I had to do the two things I've always wanted to do: take soil from the base and take a picture of the back of the statue. She said they could wait if I wanted to walk around to the front. I made a split second decision to forgo doing that. I knew I had to make it back to the subway, and I knew I was already on borrowed time. I'd done what I wanted to do. I saw the statue in person, and walked more than I had ever.
I was so glad to be back on the ferry going back, and enjoyed seeing the skyline once again. As I stepped off the ferry, I started to get a migraine. What next? Someone shoot me? I was seriously beginning to wonder if I was going to have a heart attack. My chest hurt, I couldn't catch my breath, my back was trashed, and now a migraine. Wonderful. I became a robot at that point. I just followed the other two into the subway.
Once into the stifling underground world of New York City, I was of no help determining which line to take. I swear at that point, I was just really fucked. I needed to get back to the hotel. I was willing to pay a $50 cab fare if I had to. Somehow we managed to get on the wrong subway going the wrong direction. I fought to take each step up the stairway. My left leg was dragging now from the nerve impingement in my spine. After asking for subway directions up on street level, it was back down and on the correct subway back. I collapsed into a cab back to the hotel. I was at the home stretch.
Once back at the hotel in my room, I stripped naked, and lay on my back in the spare bed as my chest heaved trying to catch my breath. It wasn't working to bring my heart rate down, so I took a cold shower to cool down. As the cold water soothed my aching and painful muscles, I realized, I'd done it. I'd walked the furthest I'd ever gone. It was my marathon. I completed it. Sure there wasn't a single place in my body that didn't hurt, but I finished.
I knew then, that if I could do that, I could do anything with perseverance.
To be continued...
New York City Part 2: My Marathon
My blaring alarm startled me awake. It took me a second to realize I was in New York and not at home. The bed was just that comfortable at the Hilton. I didn’t want to get up, but I needed to make some phone calls. I called my NYC twitter friend, @OpinionatedGift , who warned me with the weather being in the 90s to buy some Gatorade™ or Smart Water™. He told me about the subway system and which one route I should take. I was really going to need it for my trip to see the Statue of Liberty. I also planned to see him later that evening with @MajorBedhead in the lobby of the hotel.
Immediately, I started slugging water like I was in the desert. The thought of having to walk for an extended period of time, left a knot in my stomach. Months earlier I couldn’t stand for more than five minutes without pain shooting down my legs. That usually happened before the muscles burned with pain. I couldn’t walk very far either without needing to sit down. I have a spinal disk extrusion in the lowest part of my back. Part of the inside of the disk had squirted out into the disk space and was now rubbing on the nerve roots of my spine. The pain is excrutiating. Being so overweight makes the pain worse due to it mostly all being in my stomach. Most of the weight is in front, pulling downward to the point that the muscles in my back can’t hold it. Add to that, Fibromyalgia, and you’ve got a recipe for failure.
One day I got sick of it. I decided to join an athletic club with a wonderful warm exercise pool. I started swimming two days a week in May, 2010. By the time I left for this trip, I swam five days a week taking cardio swim classes three days a week. It’s like aerobics, but in the water. It’s a very intense workout that nearly killed me a couple of times. Well, not really, but I felt like dying afterwards. I would swim two to five hours a day. That’s not just hanging out in the pool. I was treading water, doing resistance training, and cardio. Yet, I wasn’t losing any weight.
Frustrated, I went to my doctor. I had a lot of swelling which was a lot of water weight. He put me on heavy-duty diuretic, and for the trip, he put me on Fentanyl patches. I noticed within the first week I could walk a lot farther with the pain medication. The swelling going down helped significantly.
Sitting in my hotel room, I slapped on another Fentanyl patch hoping to kill whatever pain I had walking. I don’t think I knew quite what I was in for. I was so nervous that I began this whole body sweat. Literally, I wore 12 hour makeup which actually seemed to be more like 3 hour makeup when the day was through. Part of it was nervousness. She would be the first twitter person I would meet. The other part was it was so bloody hot in the whole building. Whoever thought of having BlogHer in the beginning of August in a city that has is essentially asphalt was unbelievably ignorant. I grabbed a handful of paper towels as I headed down to the lobby. If it was this hot down there, I just knew I was in for trouble later. I could already feel the sweat dripping down my back. For fuck’s sake! Some impression I’m going to leave! That’s me, the fat sweaty lady who can’t walk far without having to sit every few feet. I had a couple of minutes to take deep breaths before she arrived.
Meeting Nichole in the lobby, I could tell right away that she had a vibrant soul. Her personality exuded from her, as I was so happy to finally hug the person I’d stayed up nights chatting with on Twitter. She brought a friend along, and I could tell she was just as friendly as Nichole. I immediately felt at ease. We all jumped into a cab and headed toward the subway. Normally, they could walk, but they both knew I wouldn’t be able to. Of course the first thing to happen to break the ice even more was when we got rear-ended by another cab. The cabbie wasn't sure whether to get out and go look, or just blow it off. He got out, looked, and shouted a couple of obscenities at the cab behind us. He jumped back in just in time for the light to turn green. To add to the "What the fuck?" file, a van pulled around us with the business name not only hand-painted, but also misspelled. Instead of the word, "Trucking", it was spelled "Truking". I wonder if they're in the phone book under that name?
Seeing the subway for the first time was interesting. It’s exactly how you see it on television; just a staircase going below street level. It’s so gritty, dirty, and raw below street level. Did I mention stifling? Yeah, if you thought it was hot above ground, just take it below into the steam tunnel of grunge. We all decided to get an all day pass, and of course you can only get that at the self-serve machine of confusion. Do you think one of the options was “All Day Pass”? No, that would be too simple. So, of course asking other people around you which option to choose is amazingly helpful. Finally, with passes in hand, it was time to enter the platform.
As I turned around, I realized the only way to get onto the platform was through turnstiles. That ranks up there on my oh-shit-how-am-I-going-to-fit meter. I figured once I swiped my card, I would cram myself through, much like a sausage extruder. Amazingly, I didn’t have too much trouble. By now, the sweat is pouring off me and I’d resigned myself to the fact I wasn’t going to look stylish or trendy. Fuck no. I was going for that Slip-'N-Slide couture. Just throw me down on the ground and have a run at me. I seriously think you could have just slid right off of me. I was just that wet.
The subway sounds exactly like you hear it on television. Television, as you know, has prepared me for many things in my life; subway etiquette being one of those things. It’s similar to elevator etiquette, but just a whole lot faster and a total contact sport. First, I noticed the “Step Aside” embedded into the floor of the subway. So in other words, don’t stand right in front of the opening doors and get the hell out of the way. As passengers get off, you shove to the outside and slink in as fast as you can. Luckily, I didn’t trip at all, and was able to squeeze in without anyone swearing at me. Success!
I was so excited! Not only was it my first subway ride, but also the car also had air conditioning! Oh sweet air conditioning! Thanks to Nichole, she’d researched everything and knew which stop to get off at. That unloaded a ton of stress so I could relax and do what I love: observing people and the experience itself in detail. I think the Mariachi band complete with cowboy hats getting on midway through the ride was an added bonus. It’s that train wreck moment where you mentally say “Okay…” and just watch the weirdness unfold. They sang and played guitars. I was somewhat disappointed they were only on for two stops, but hey, I expected as much because they weren’t getting any serious tips on our car.
Soon, we were at our stop near Wall Street. I saw the huge amount of stairs and realized as I was climbing them that I was extremely light-headed. I shrugged it off and slugged more water thinking it was dehydration from all the sweating. At the top of the stairs was the most lovely farmer’s market. Seeing all the fruits and vegetables under the tents made me wish I could buy a pint of strawberries for the trip back. It was surprisingly windy, and I attribute that to being so close to the water. I could see the Hudson River from Wall Street.
We met Nichole’s old coworkers, one of which was Maureen. She was so exuberant, and you could literally feel happiness just standing next to her. They all picked a place to eat, which I realized was five city blocks from where we were. There were no taxis in the area. I’m fucked. I’d already had to squat down to unlock my back a couple of times. At that point, I really didn’t know how in the hell I was still walking. I’d already smashed my all time record for walking since 1999. I quickly scanned the neighboring buildings. There was one restaurant close by. Do I say something? I didn’t want to be rude, but I knew damn well, that I was already hitting the red zone in pain tolerance. Even with the breeze I was a drenched mess of sweat. So, I turned to Maureen and explained to her my situation. With a caring smile, she said she’d explain what was going on. I still felt self-conscious. I could feel the blush of embarrassment staining my cheeks red. I could tell no one liked the idea of going to Chipotle restaurant, but they begrudgingly agreed to go. I felt like shit doing that to all of them. I knew if I did walk up the five city blocks, I would be unable to walk back and then continue on to see the Statue of Liberty. No way was that going to happen.
I tried to shrug off that nagging feeling of dragging everyone down. I hated not being able to walk the five blocks. I hated not being normal. That damn word, normal, has haunted me for most of my life. I still feel the need to apologize for not being normal. As we all sat down to eat, the restaurant was hot and I wish we could have enjoyed the breeze outside. I didn’t talk much. Fact was, I was really light-headed, my legs felt like lead when I stood up, I couldn’t get my pulse rate down, and I couldn’t catch my breath. As a former EMT, I knew a couple of those symptoms were disturbing. My blood pressure was low and I was possibly becoming dehydrated. I knew I needed to get electrolytes in me. There wasn’t any Gatorade for purchase. I would have to make do with the bottles of water I was chugging. I just made a mental note of my symptoms, and figured if it got worse, I’d tell someone.
We parted company with Maureen and began walking toward the river. I had no idea where we were supposed to go, so I wound up asking a police officer for help. We were directed to an area beyond the park. By now, I was in some serious pain. I couldn't breathe, and now I was starting to feel like I could pass out any second. I think the only reason I hadn't is that I kept screaming "Don't you dare collapse before you see the statue!" in my head. As I trudged across the park, I could see the ferry for the Statue of Liberty moored along the river bank. I knew I was almost there.
To be continued....
New York City Part One: The Journey
As I sat in the Amtrak lounge, it soon became apparent that my trip alone to New York City had a radically different feel about it. No “I love you’s” from my husband as we parted. Only a “Have fun,” escaped his lips. It wasn’t the supportive send off I got when I went to Texas alone to rehab for self-injurers. It wasn’t the family vacation of last fall where we were all together as a family going to the Grand Canyon. This was different. I was about to do something I wanted to do, utterly alone. I would be responsible for everything. No husband to fall back on if things went wrong. I would have to be the problem solver. I’d have to be independent.
Independence is something I haven’t had in years. I always had the safety net. To be more precise, the husband safety net. So, as I sat in the bustling traveler’s lounge, sweating profusely and trying to catch my breath, I realized I would have to go to this huge city and navigate on my own. No crying for help to my husband, or in my psyche’s terms, no crying to my parents. I kept telling myself to just breathe. It wasn’t working. I shot a long, rambling text message to a friend which seemed like the equivalent of a hail mary pass in football. I wanted someone to say it would be alright. I wanted someone to tell me I could do it and I would be strong enough to handle it all. Anyone to assure me I would be fine. A friend and confidant did just that. It was enough for me to get a grip on my racing thoughts. I suddenly felt stupid for freaking out when I hadn’t even gotten on the train yet.
So, when it was time to board the train, I was relatively anxious only because I’d become acutely aware that what I’d packed weighed insanely more than what I could realistically carry. I tried to lighten the load earlier, but everything I had packed was necessary. I’d barely made it on the train when half my bags came off my rolling luggage. I struggled and muttered “Fuck me” practically down the hall to my roomette (a small close-quartered “closet” for two at most). A wine and cheese reception was announced for the dining car. I’d never gone before, so I ventured out.
It soon became apparent when I tried to sit down at the dining car’s booth-like table that I didn’t fit. I was too fat. Yes, I’ll say it. I was too fucking fat to fit my stomach between the table and the back of the seat. All the cardio swimming I did for the past four months, all the medication I took for edema did not matter. I was still too fat to fit. Of course, the car host was nothing but courteous and offered to pack a little selection for me to take back to my roomette. I was relieved. Well, at least until I got back.
I had shut the sliding door on my roomette before I left. When I returned, I couldn’t open the door. I tried the latch several times. The car host was nowhere to be found. There was an elderly lady in the roomette across from mine and asked me what the problem was. I blushed and stated I couldn’t get in. “Oh this is wonderful,” I thought to myself, “I haven’t even left the damn train station and something’s gone wrong.” Just as I was debating what to do next, I saw the car host for the next car over and I waved for him to help. It took him a few minutes with a screwdriver to jimmy the door open, but finally I got in. The wine and cheese made up for the hassle as we pulled out of the station. What I didn’t realize was no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the air conditioning to cool down my compartment. I knew how to adjust the controls, but it wasn’t working. There wasn’t even cold air coming from any of the vents. I heard the car host, Kevin, tell someone that he would have to do something about it at Toledo when they got there. So, I lay down for a hot, humid night of fractured sleep.
In the morning nothing had changed. Kevin tried all he could to get A/C to work for the back half of the car. Nothing worked. The entire day was awful with a sealed car with no air conditioning. There was no real respite as the coach seats were full and there was no observation car to speak of. Fact was I was stuck. I spent half my time in the hallway of the next coach car just trying to cool down. I do want to say publicly that Kevin, our car host, did everything possible to make it more bearable by keeping water on ice, and trying to move us when it was possible. That poor guy must have had the worst trip ever that trip and he did it all in long sleeves and polyester pants.
At one extended stop in Buffalo, New York I was going to get off and stand outside for a few minutes. I rounded the corner and came face to face with a uniformed officer. Reading his patches, I realized it was Border Patrol. Several officers boarded our train and did a car to car search. I don’t know who they were looking for, but there were certainly a shitload of Border Patrol officers and it delayed our train. Later, a woman fell off the platform and broke her arm. Car host Kevin was right there to get her some water while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. That poor guy couldn’t catch a break. I tell you, he should get a serious medal for his work on that trip that day.
Finally, I got moved to another roomette about three hours before I hit New York City. It was enough time to settle my nerves and prepare myself mentally for hauling my too-heavy luggage off the train. I tried picturing Penn Station in my mind, but I soon realized, it wasn’t anything like I’d thought of.
I hauled my luggage off the train, and knew I had one bag I’d checked in. Penn Station hasn’t heard of elevators. In fact, when I asked if there was an elevator, I got the response, “There are only escalators.” What? That didn’t make any fucking sense whatsoever. I sighed and wiped the sweat off on my sleeve. It was unbelievably hot and muggy in the station. I struggled to get my luggage onto the escalator all the while trying to remember where the car host told us where to go. I figured I wasn’t in any hurry to get to the hotel, so I could take it slow. I knew eventually I’d find where to pick up my luggage
As I studied the signs trying to figure out where the Amtrak terminal was, I heard the announcement for boarding at Track 11. Suddenly, about 20 people sprinted around and past me. I felt like I was a person in the middle of an antelope stampede. As the people leaned and darted around me, I froze and winced as one man nearly clipped my precariously balanced luggage. I just knew if I moved in the slightest it would cause a pileup worse than a bicycle crash inside the Peloton at the Tour de France. The first thought that came to mind was, “I didn’t know women could run that fast in three inch heels.”
Finally I figured out where to pick up my checked suitcase, and asked where to find the taxi stand. Of course that would require two escalator trips up and a ton of walking. I already cursed myself for having another bag and I just knew I was going to wipe out at the top of the escalator in a crumpled heap with my luggage on top of me. I really didn’t like that scenario. I mustered up as much strength as I could and fought through the searing pain to get to street level. A cab was hailed for me, and I was ushered quickly into it as my luggage was put into the trunk for me. I told the driver to take me to the Hilton hotel and gave the address. I braced myself because I was very familiar to wild taxi drivers. For what it’s worth, the drivers don’t talk to you. They have no interest in chatting.
We drove past Radio City Music Hall and I hurriedly clicked a picture which of course turned out to be blurry. At least I’d seen it in real life instead of on TV. Soon we were at the hotel, and in one quick movement, the Hilton Hotel’s staff opened my taxi door, put my luggage on a cart and escorted me to the receptionist. I was soaking wet from sweat, and relieved I’d made it. Once in my room, I took a very cold shower to cool down. I struggled to relax. Finally, I decided to order room service. I deserved it after an emotionally charged day. That was the best $40 bleu cheese burger and fries with a large bottle of Evian. I could actually feel the energy of this place. It literally vibrated throughout my body. It really is a city that didn’t seem to sleep. I loved it. I called Nichole (@sillyfozzy ) and made arrangements to go to the Statue of Liberty the next day. I couldn’t wait as I’ve wanted to meet the woman who has been my cheerleader for restarting my art career. As much as I wanted to stay up and explore the hotel a little more, I knew I had a big day ahead of me tomorrow. My body would need the rest. As I settled into my soft bed for the night, I thought, “I made it…all by myself.”
