The Jennie Blog

Merry Christmas, House of Horrors

Christmas is like a house of horrors. I’m confronted by so many memories and so many failed relationships. And by the fact that I can’t be with the people that I love the most and that they don’t have time for me today. It’s excruciating. 

I need to be better. I need to continue to hold space for others who experience this pain. I need to continue to devote myself to others…but this pain is so real and difficult. And of course, it could be worse. I need to be grateful for what I have. My heart just feels deflated, like a flat tire. 

I really don’t want anyone else to ever feel like this. So maybe my goal next year is to figure out how to position myself so that no one else does. I’ll figure it out. 

Brave New World

And just like that, the world has changed. It feels as though a switch was flipped and the darkness barreled in. Just like that, we're living in social isolation. Just like that, we're afraid to leave our homes in fear of microscopic organisms that can kill us...or  live inside us without disruption. And I am afraid. I'm frightened for my parents who are in the "over 60 years old" high-risk category. I'm terrified when I hear about the death toll in Italy, ever climbing...this virus has taken almost 800 people there in 24, and Italy has not yet peaked. 

And the nightmare is just beginning here. 

And just like that, taking public transportation is considered both heroic and indescribably foolish. Going to work is the same as risking my life. Walking down the street, an exercise that used to clear my mind and refresh my spirit, is now highly perilous. My former supervisor used to say that I have "resting smile face," but now, I hide my face. I dart to the other side of the street if another walker is heading in my direction. I can't get close to anyone now. I can't even see my parents, for fear to contamination. 

And yet, the important people have remained present in this new reality, even though I can't have any human interaction other that what I am forced to risk at my job. I've become highly adept at "virtual" dinner parties and wine nights through FaceTime. Social media (toxic as it can be) has become a lifeline for me. Perhaps one of the most significant truths that this new reality has revealed is that I was completely hung up on things, on people, who just don't matter. It's the realization that I've spent so much time caring about the wrong people, people who haven't remained present and have self-selected out. It's become abundantly clear that I've wasted so much time and energy on the wrong people, and as a result, my circle has thinned to reveal quantity over quality. The outliers have gone, and now it's me, middle-aged and scared as hell, facing this new world. A world which, I'm hoping, will heal...but I know that this is only going to get much worse before it gets better.

So for now, I'm enjoying social distancing as I binge watch my crazy alien shows and have my super single solo kitchen dance parties. The newest addition to my tiny family, Rhiannon ("Rhini"), seems to be enjoying her new home and her crazy new mom. I'm lucky to have her to help me navigate this uncertain, and terrifying, and (brave?) new world. This is nothing like Aldous Huxley had imagined.

We'll just take it day by day, I guess. 

I Can't Stand It

I was looking back at this blog this evening, reading my meandering little diatribes and incessant whining. I hate it. I can't stand any of it. I guess that's akin to me breaking up with my former, younger self. This could be a way for me to practice acceptance...acceptance of my "middle age" status (40 is barreling toward me like a goddamned freight train). It could be acceptance of my graying hair. Acceptance of the fact that, since I've bought a house (which I did by my damn self), I feel like I'm settling. I feel like I'm waiting to get old. 

Nothing is the same. My family looks different. Chewy died on February 26, and I cry about it. Every. Single. Mother. Fucking. Day. My heart is absolutely broken, again, as usual. Magey has become an emotional support cat. She deals with my nightmares and my middle of the night panic attacks, because I can't get the image of finding my beloved Chewbacca, dead on my dining room floor, out of my fucking mind. I can't erase the memory of carrying his limp, ragdoll-like body around my house as I wailed in pain. It's like some graffiti that a bastard punk brat has tattooed inside the fuckery that is my mind. Magey runs to me when I cry out at night because no one else cares. She sleeps on my shoulder as I drift off at night, with the vain hope that I'll find peace at night in my dreams. I don't. I wake up exhausted. 

The therapist in me self-diagnoses my current state as acute PTSD (with panic). I'm also experiencing anger. Lots of it. I'm enraged about events that have occurred this past year. I have many, many people with whom I have unfinished business. Most of them don't even warrant a fucking sentence in this sad little blog. It's all big talk, but we all know that I'm not going to do shit because I'm a depressed workaholic and I have zero time or energy to do anything.

I'm so tired and I can't write anymore. I don't have the energy to write a clever ending. How cute that used to be.

I’ve Haven’t Blogged in a Minute, So Here...

Because it is painfully rare for me to have a moment completely alone (or it has been for the past five days), I feel compelled to talk to myself through my blog. There is no one demanding my time and attention. My presence isn’t being commanded at any conference sessions. No one is calling my name. I am completely alone, except for the always welcomed presence of Chewy and Magic. And I love it this way. 

The past week has been a hyper-paced whirlwind of neurological sessions and statistics. I was in Nashville at an MS conference, completely immersed in disease and disability. My “handlers” maintain a frantic pace of conference coverage, demanding, in many cases, quantity over quality—always more, more, more. More meetings with pharmaceutical reps to secure (and sometimes PLEAD for) funding. More on-camera interviews. More patient advocacy receptions. More attendance of topic-centered sessions. Always more. I have the energy to keep up...at least for now. 

But I know that this may not always be so. 

This is true for everyone, but seems even more of a sinister statement of fact for me. I attended a session about Mitochondria and their roles in fueling cell energy, and how imperative their work is for MS patients. I still don’t have a firm grasp on the extent of their functionality, but I do know that their performance is integral to my sustained ability to walk. Or think. Or function. Without getting overly technical, shit got real this week. 

So, listen. It’s not as though I’ve been in perpetual denial of my MS, per se. I try not to think about it too often because, realistically speaking, what can I do about it? Outside of taking care of myself and dutifully sustaining my disease-modifying therapy of natalizamab infusions, there’s not a damn thing I can do. It is not at all hyperbolic to say that it’s gonna do what it wants, and it can take my abilities at any time. I’ve experienced it with the optic neuritis that I had in 2013, when my eyes couldn’t focus or process color fully. Or in 2008 when I had nauseating vertigo and felt drunk for an entire week. Or at disease onset, when my hand frequently curled into a claw-like position BY ITSELF. Or when I feel like some sadistic motherfucker has a voodoo doll and is constantly stabbing me with rusty nails. Living with MS is like living in a damn funhouse, except that there’s absolutely no “fun” involved...it’s fucking horrifying sometimes. And sometimes ignorance is bliss when it comes to the inner mechanism of disease; sometimes it’s better to just not know, because it’s not as scary that way.

And yeah, I know how lucky I am that I can walk. I’m grateful for the abilities that I have and blah, blah, blah. I don’t take one second of my independence for granted, but the uncertainty is hard sometimes, ya know? I’m also sick of being told by the MS community that I have no credibility because I “look so good”...that I don’t know how it feels to have a disability. What is outwardly visible is like the tip of the iceberg—there’s so much going on under the water, so much that’s invisible. But I know. It’s always there. 

So now, in the placid tranquility of my home, where Chewy and Magic are snuggling with me and i’m doing mundane tasks like laundry and article editing, I’m grateful for the quiet. For the peaceful solace that I get from listening to the birds chirp outside my window. For not having to talk to anyone or listen to anyone else talk at me. For the ability to talk to myself via blog post. And especially for the abilities that I have. 

New Gloves By Next Sunday

I have a ton of shit to do today. Like, a suffocating, inordinate, inhuman amount…and yet, here I am at the dodgy Northside Crazy Mocha, drinking very average coffee and breaking my teeth on just-barely “fresh” biscotti. The wi-fi isn’t working (is anyone here else experiencing this problem?) and there’s a woman at the next table who’s sipping on a smoothie as though it were a baby bottle. I need to go home where I know that the wi-fi actually works, so that I can get some work done.

But instead, I’m blogging because I’ve signed up for a sewing class. (This all makes sense. Just trust me.)

I’m on a Sophie Kinsella kick. I’ve been reading all of her books voraciously. She’s like a crack habit that I can’t quit. Sophie’s books do nothing for me intellectually; her work is like chocolate—not very nutritionally sound, but GOD, I LOVE TO CONSUME IT. I don’t actually have to work when I read her stuff. She’s like a vacation from the rigor of my daily routine that I desperately need. So that leads me to WHY I need such a vacation in the first place: my daily/weekly routine is rigorous and exhausting. And yet, I press on and act like it’s normal. I mean, most people have three jobs, right? It’s entirely unremarkable to work two consecutive 14-hour days every single week with one day off (and I still work from home on those days).

Don’t misunderstand—I’m not complaining. I just don’t think it’s normal. I think I’m obsessed with money.

I impulsively signed up for a sewing class at the library. I have NO earthly clue as to how to even sew on a button, but according to the kind lady who offered this class to me, I’ll be able to sew a pair of mittens by 3:00pm next Sunday (umm, ok…). I’m actually looking forward to this because I’m about as undomestic as they come. I was also grateful that I actually have Sunday afternoons free to take a class, just because I feel like it. Why hadn’t I done something like this sooner?  And not just a sewing class, but an anything class. When hadn’t I looked in the conversational Italian or French classes, or yoga?

The answer was clear: because I’ve worked almost every day for the past decade, I’d given up a huge part of my life. I’m obsessed with making money, and that has taken precedence over absolutely everything. I cannot be without money and I hate not being able to afford the things that I want to buy. It’s so satisfying to know that I can buy that coffee every morning or those shoes that I want or that new video game system (not that I have a significant amount of time to actually enjoy these things)…I can buy them if/when I want, and I don’t have to worry about living on Ramen Noodles until my next paycheck. HOWEVER, the brief periods of unemployment that I’ve experiencing were hell on Earth because I didn’t work. I hate not working or making money. I go absolutely crazy. So maybe it’s a matter of striking a balance to treat my workaholic self. Or maybe it’s allowing myself to not have a breakdown on days that I’m not making money. I guess I don’t really know what the answer is, because perhaps the problem has not been fully defined.

But at least I’ll be rocking new gloves, that I’ve made myself, by Sunday at 3:00.

Little Girl Blue

Quick flashback: 2016. I'm sitting in the Oxford Centre Starbucks, nursing an Americano as though it were a whiskey ginger ale (and ardently wishing it were so). I'm staring dejectedly out the window, watching the passersby wistfully and wondering if they had a cloud of stress that was a oppressive as mine seemed to be. I'm working in the Frick Building and I REALLY don't want to return to my office. I hate the work I'm doing; it's dreadfully unfulfilling and exasperatingly stressful. I'm also reeling from recent personal troubles that have necessitated a relocation to the city. I'm preparing for a new life and I am terrified The only stability that life afforded me at that time was granted in the form of Chewy and Magic, and my job at the law firm...a position that I absolutely loathed. The stress sat like a cancer in the pit of my stomach and I carried with me, even after I left the office for the day. I constantly worried about meeting deadlines and making mistakes in my haste to finish the endless cycle of soul sucking projects that I hated. So I sat in the Starbucks and wondered what life had in store for me, and I desperately hoped that I wouldn't have to remain at a job that was so, so terrible. But I saw no way out. 

Fast forward to 2018. I'm now sitting at the same table in this same Starbucks, feeling 100% happier and optimistic. I have overcome many of the personal challenges that had been laid down before me. I've experience numerous setbacks, primarily regarding my multiple sclerosis, but I've managed to endure a new treatment that has, quite honestly, made me feel better physically and emotionally than I have in years...maybe ever. I was, thankfully and mercifully, fired from the law firm. It was truly the best thing that could have happened to me. My ego and pride aside, being fired was fantastic, as I accepted a part time job as a counselor at an abortion clinic (the very same place in which I'd had my own abortion years ago). I'm not sure that I would have been brave enough to accept a part time position, had I still been employed at the firm. I just don't believe that I would have allowed myself to take a part time job that would have required me to supplement my income, yet again, with Bux. But since I'd lost my full time job (and Unemployment wasn't going to last forever, right??), I had nothing to lose. And I gained EVERYTHING.

My job at the clinic has become my life's work; it's the dream job that I'd always wanted, but never realized it. I cannot imagine doing anything else. It's dangerous work...I have to endure protesters that have the propensity to become violent. We are visited routinely by the FBI. We have drills for bombings and mass shootings, events that have occurred in other clinics, including ours in the past. BUT I feel proud of my work every single day. I'm on the front lines, working for and with strong, courageous women to fight for reproductive justice, especially for the disadvantaged. I've always wanted to become the woman that I am today. There are still so many other things I want to accomplish, but this sense of purpose means everything. I no longer tolerate people who bring negative energy to my life. Everyone in my circle brings something positive and meaningful to my existence...or they aren't in my circle. I've also realized that I was working far too hard on some of my relationships, allowing myself to be treated as merely an option, when I should have been a priority, because I deserve to be one. I've recognized the people who don't follow through with promises and regard them wearily. I have NO difficulty with ridding my life of those who aren't deserving, which is something that had been particularly problematic for me in the past. I don't tolerate disappointment.

I guess I'm not quite where I'd like to be, as I still have great many personal goals to achieve...but thank GOD I'm not where I was. I have plans. :)

 

2018...You’re Doing Great, Sweetie

This year has been complete shit, and we’re a solid 28 days in. My third roomie abandoned ship, so it’s now just me, LD, and my gatos (who have taken LD’s last name in addition to mine in an adorable and petulant act of solidarity). Mannykins peaced out because he fell in love with his Pacific Coast doppelgänger, which is completely blissful for him. LD and I, however, are respectively shitting ourselves, as we’re terrified of being screwed every way from next Sunday. 

So now we’re in the process of selling his abandoned belongings at “Burlington,” as we’ve dubbed his revolting cave of a “bedroom.” It’s completely disgusting in there. Trash crowds the floor, accompanied by discarded clothes and stolen Starbucks syrup bottles. Welcome to the 1502. I can’t live with two roomies ever again. Manny’s abrupt departure has sent LD and me into a depression that was punctuated by a rage that we both felt to our bones. We trusted him. We loved him. He stole from me and broke the lease seven month prematurely. He lied to us repeatedly. We feel like this is a breakup. I’m so, so deeply saddened. But two are better than three, and LD and I have plans. (She IS my heterosexual life partner!) I have so much garbage that’s being thrown at me right now... but I’ll get through it. I always do.

“I don’t know what’s right and what’s real anymore...and I don’t know how I’m meant to feel anymore...and when do you think it will all become clear? Because I’m being taken over by the fear...”

#GSD

It's 2018 and I'm still using Typepad and I STILL haven't any plan or intention to alter that. I'm beginning this year with obstinance and defiance. I intend to continue to be a badass warrior with an extreme literary bent. The "bent," however, probably needs to become a little bendier, as I haven't been writing regularly; I've barely been writing at all, actually. I had convinced myself that my voice had been weakened by my terrible, soul-sucking job at the law firm. It took me over a year to stop habitually labeling my writing (and my personality traits) as "hyperbolic." I had some sort of weird block and couldn't bring myself to write, and the little that I did compose felt...contrived and stale. 

And that brings me to today, New Years Day, 2018. Overall, 2017 wasn't a terrible year. I did experience a few losses that had pervasive impacts on my emotional state, but thankfully, I also strengthened many of my newer friendships. I finally feel more established in all of my jobs. I feel stable...which brings me to my resolutions. I hope to continue the stability, but I become bored with the minutia of life very quickly. This means that I may need to make some moves.

1.) Return to WRITING. Write at least one blog post per month. Get back into freelancing and sell 2 articles this year.

2.) My book reading has become atrocious in terms of volume and frequency. Read a book every month, from start to finish.

3.) Do something about my lack of spiritually. I consider myself to be agnostic at this point, but I miss the regime of going to church and taking time for spiritual growth. I need to find a way to foster my spirit without feeling incongruent. I'm not quite sure what that even means. 

4.) Permanence. Roots, but without a total disconnection from transience. This one's a bit formless, but I'm very hopeful that it will manifest in a life-altering way this year. We shall see.

I began this year with a new hair color and a new sense of badassery. I plan to make shit happen this year. #GSD (Get Shit Done.)

She Was An American Girl (In Paris)

I’m in Paris. I’m happier than any human being has any right to be. This is my first night of many on this 18-day voyage. Paris is lovely, though the elements have been unreasonably formidable. Do you want to know what I’m doing right now?? I’m sipping red wine, listening to Rosemary Clooney, and gazing down at the Parisian street beneath me, watching the natives do their thing. I’m also very creepily delving into voyeurism ala Hitchcock style, watching the inhabitants of the apartments across the street. I’m giving them all names and wondering about their sex lives. 

Is Clooney just stringing together Italian words because “Mambo Italiano” makes NO goddamn sense??

Today I arrived here with broken dreams of Paris and sheepish ideals. But at least I had espresso. I visited Starbucks because it’s familiar and it’s American (and I get a discount), which is very comforting in a culture that intimidates me. I can speak enough French to be understood, but I can’t understand the response...so I just look ridiculous. I’ve been saving my “good French” for an appropriate situation. I have no idea what that means. So all English it is! Maybe I can pass as British or Canadian, as Americans are HATED here. I haven’t had to deal with extreme anti-American sentiment since W’s administration, but here we are. 

So I guess I once held the childish ideal that the love of my life would take me to Paris. And again, it has been revealed that my own greatest love is myself. I’m slightly disappointed because of my penchant for romance, but maybe that will still happen. Or it won’t. Romance fades, but real love doesn’t. Maybe that has yet to reveal itself. Until then, I’m entirely happy with my family and my circle. I’m a warrior and will continue to fight...and those who can’t take it have helpfully removed themselves. So here’s to Paris. Here’s to the beauty the awaits just outside my window. 

Here’s to YOU, Paris. 

She Was An American Girl (In Paris)

I’m in Paris. I’m happier than any human being has any right to be. This is my first night of many on this 18-day voyage. Paris is lovely, though the elements have been unreasonably formidable. Do you want to know what I’m doing right now?? I’m sipping red wine, listening to Rosemary Clooney, and gazing down at the Parisian street beneath me, watching the natives do their thing. I’m also very creepily delving into voyeurism ala Hitchcock style, watching the inhabitants of the apartments across the street. I’m giving them all names and wondering about their sex lives. 

Is Clooney just stringing together Italian words because “Mambo Italiano” makes NO goddamn sense??

Today I arrived here with broken dreams of Paris and sheepish ideals. But at least I had espresso. I visited Starbucks because it’s familiar and it’s American (and I get a discount), which is very comforting in a culture that intimidates me. I can speak enough French to be understood, but I can’t understand the response...so I just look ridiculous. I’ve been saving my “good French” for an appropriate situation. I have no idea what that means. So all English it is! Maybe I can pass as British or Canadian, as Americans are HATED here. I haven’t had to deal with extreme anti-American sentiment since W’s administration, but here we are. 

So I guess I once held the childish ideal that the love of my life would take me to Paris. And again, it has been revealed that my own greatest love is myself. I’m slightly disappointed because of my penchant for romance, but maybe that will still happen. Or it won’t. Romance fades, but real love doesn’t. Maybe that has yet to reveal itself. Until then, I’m entirely happy with my family and my circle. I’m a warrior and will continue to fight...and those who can’t take it have helpfully removed themselves. So here’s to Paris. Here’s to the beauty the awaits just outside my window. 

Here’s to YOU, Paris.