Category Archives: Confessions

I Have A Love/Hate Relationship With Facebook

I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook.

And for as much as I “love” Facebook, I think I hate it more. But I can’t stay away. It’s like a train wreck. I just have to look.

How bad is my affliction? Disgusted with more bragging and bad news, I signed off and raced over here to write a post about it. But I mistakenly (or was it?) clicked on Facebook again. Realizing my mistake immediately and disgusted with myself for succumbing to my bad habit so mindlessly, I move the mouse to leave again. What do I do instead? Read another sensationalized post.

I’m pathetic.

……….

I love…

…catching up with old friends. Friends I’ve lost touch with. Friends who live far away.

….how easy it is to stay in touch with people. A quick photo of my kid coming home from his first day of school. A shared recipe from a friend. Engagement news. That your son is on swim team, too. It doesn’t have to be a monumental event. I love hearing about the day-to-day. In moderation, of course.

I hate…

….sensationalized journalism. It makes my heart jump and my stomach do flip flops. As we enter the flu-season (and you all know how I wrestle with the flu vaccine. Every. Single. Year.) I’m now flooded with U.S. maps of where EV-D68 has hit (here in Georgia) and I get to worry about that, too.

…the  inflammatory posts of a political nature.

…the mundane, yet constant and excessive, “Having a drink at Applebee’s,” “Sure is sunny today,” and “Watching paint dry. Again,” kind of posts.

…the public service messages of a freakish nature. Some man, a known sleepwalker, camped near a cliff and fell off. My 11 year old is a sleepwalker. He’s a Boy Scout. They camp at least once a month. Near open bodies of water. Yeah. I don’t get much sleep those weekends. And I so didn’t need to see that post today. Or any day.

…the thinly veiled braggy posts or pictures of the latest party you attended (Yay! You have friends.) or your newest handbag purchase. Yes, I’ve heard of Michael Kors.

…the not-so-thinly-veiled braggy posts. The in-your-face barrage of photos or status updates extoling your oh-so-perfect life. Just once I’d like to see a picture of what you look like first thing in the morning. Or a panoramic view of your kids bedroom – today. Right now. Not after careful planning, a Pottery Barn decorating session and threats and screams to keep it clean 5 minutes for the picture.

…the phony “news” stories. Check with Snopes.com before you post something that sounds too good/too weird/too horrible to be true.

…the misquoted celebrity posts. John Lennon’s teacher/grow up to be happy quote – not true. And the “well-behaved woman” quote wasn’t said by Marilyn Monroe. Again. Check with Snopes before you re-post.

…the cryptic friend. “Worst. Day. Ever.” or “I hope it’s not ebola.” Really? If you’re not going to explain, I’m moving on. Attention seekers rarely get my attention. They get blocked.

Which reminds me of something else I love about Facebook that I forgot to mention.

 

I love…

…the ability to block certain people from your news feed without them knowing.

But that leads me to this confession.

I have so many people blocked on my news feed. People that violate my self-imposed Facebook Rules of Decorum. I’m beginning to wonder why I’m friends with them in the first place.

So, I’m going to have to end this post so I can go back to Facebook and do the proper research. I’ll get back to you with an answer in a few days.

See?

I’m hopeless.

 

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Filed under Confessions, Deep Thoughts

Where Have I Been? No. Really. Where’s Jane?

For as unique and individual as Waldo seems to be, does it ever strike you as funny that he’s so hard to find? I mean, seriously. Bright red and white striped shirt. Goofy hat. You’d think he’d stand out in a crowd.

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And then, there’s me. In a sea of other bloggers. Getting noticed, lately anyway, for my post on head lice. ‘Tis the season, I suppose.

But that’s all I’ve been getting noticed for in recent months. Previous, old, archived posts.

Because the recent stuff? Hasn’t been all that inspired. Oh, save your sweet accolades. I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.

I haven’t been very inspired lately.

This panic/anxiety has been kicking my butt. But I get up, every day, and push through. As long as I’m moving forward, I’m happy. Well, as happy as you can be when you’re struggling.

But it’s a tough moving forward. This hasn’t been easy. And I’m dying to feel like me again. I get depressed and manic and so not like the glass-half-full me that I used to know. And that makes it hard to write. I feel my best writing is when I’m passionate about something or  tickled by something. My moments of passion are fewer and when they happen and I’m moved to write, I can’t sit still long enough to get it down. And the goofy things about life that tickle me? Fleeting.

I know. I’m a mess.

But some of you are still here. Some of you still peek in to see if I’m still alive. And I just want you to know, that touches me in a way I can’t adequately describe. You know me only through a computer screen yet you care like I’m you’re long lost sister.

I’ve lost quite a few readers. I know that. And I don’t blame them for leaving. I’ve thought about leaving, too. But to those of you who are still here? Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Knowing that my voice is heard, even when it’s only a whisper, means something to me. It helps me to feel that maybe, someday, I will find myself again.

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So Then I Go And Blow All My Kindness Karma In One Fell Swoop

namaste

One of the doctor’s requirements to keep this horrible panic/anxiety manageable is yoga. Not a tough regimen for me to follow since I happen to love yoga. I have lots of yoga tapes (Rodney Yee and Steve Ross are my personal favorites). I have the discipline to practice yoga on my own or with others.  I have the mat, strap, block and cute yoga clothes that I actually wear to do yoga.

What is difficult is finding a great yoga instructor.

But I’ve found one. She is amazing. Let’s call her Belle. At the gym, when I was checking out the class to see if I was actually going to join, I tried Belle’s class first. I was in heaven. She is knowledgeable. She has the perfect pace for any degree of difficulty. She is personable, interesting and fun. I was sold and signed up on the spot.

And I love going to yoga class.

Unless Belle isn’t there. Or, should I say, unless Ursula is teaching.

Now Ursula (not her real name, of course) is not a horrible person. She just hates yoga and you can tell. Her true love is the strength training class she teaches just before yoga. If I had taken her yoga class first I never would have joined the gym. While she may know what a pose is called and how to demonstrate it, she has no clue how to get from one pose to the next. She doesn’t practice a true yoga flow. She doesn’t warm the class up. It’s as if she looked at a yoga cookbook minutes before class and said, “I’ll do this pose and this pose and this pose and that should do it.” Slam the book shut. Go to class. Bark the commands.

“Breatheinbreatheout,” she says, jammed all together, not telling us that as we push up into cobra we should be breathing in and pushing back into downward dog we should exhale. She just says, “Breatheinbreatheout” every few minutes. A reminder to keep breathing, I suppose.

I have suffered through her class a few times. The last time, while I was doing poses I had no business doing because I wasn’t properly warmed and ready, I swore, “Never again.” If she’s there, I’ll just walk out.

For passive, non-confrontational me? That’s a tall order to fill.

Today, walking into the building, I see the 8 o’clock class letting out at 8:57. A little early. For Belle, anyway. She’s chatty. Her classes always run late. That was my first clue. I see a fellow yogi. “Are you going to class?” I ask. She smiles a feeble smile and shrugs. My second clue.

With backpack and yoga mat slung over my shoulder, I skip the locker room to peek into the yoga studio to see who is teaching. Gingerly, I push the door open just enough to poke my head through.

Oops.

Who should be standing smack dab in front of me? Ursula. That’s who.

“Hi,” she says brightly.

“Hello,” I respond.

Just Ursula. No one else in the room. I panic, imagining myself alone. With her. Doing cookbook yoga.

Face crestfallen, I begin to back out, remembering my promise to myself.

“Oh,” she says, her face falling, too. “You’re not staying?”

“Nope.” I turn on my heel and hightail it out of there.

No explanation. No excuse. Just “Nope.”

I feel horrible but I’m determined not to suffer through another one of her classes.

And my response to Ursula’s question. That was mean enough, right?

Nope.

I don’t stop there.

Another yoga classmate, a newbie, is walking in as I am walking out. She recognizes me.

“You’re leaving already?” she asks.

I proceed to tell her exactly why I’m leaving and convince her not to go to class either.

It’s official. I’m an idiot. I’m a terrible, horrible person.

I think I just failed this Kindness project in one fell swoop.

Namaste.

 

 

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At Least I Haven’t Lost My Sense Of Humor

Looking for something entirely different, I came across this t-shirt:

lllll

I cracked up. Because I can completely relate. So I went a little crazy and found this:

bumpanx

And this:

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And this one:

Anxiety

I had my first panic attack, almost two years ago, while I was driving my son to swim practice. Because my anxiety began while driving a car, that is where I am most uncomfortable. It is a major undertaking to get behind the wheel. My husband wants me to text him when I leave the house, when I arrive at my destination, when I leave the destination and again when I arrive home.

“I’m at Target. Pretending I’m a normal human being.” I text him when I arrive.

I clench the handle of the cart, forcing myself to move forward, just waiting for the anxiety to subside, trying to be interested in the items on the shelves. I watch other women, calmly choosing items, comparing and dreaming. Cooing at their babies. My heart is pounding out of my chest. My head feels light and starts that all familiar lean as I struggle not to pass out.

Breathe. Breathe. Focus.

Eventually, the worst of it subsides. But the lightness in my chest and the hyper-awareness is still there. I remember when I was that calm woman, weaving through the aisles. A time that I took for granted. When real, logical events caused stress in my life. Now it can be a light sprinkling of rain or a motorcycle cutting me off or a semi-truck passing me.

And the most frustrating thing? I am the woman who would drop the kids off at school, slip through the Starbucks drive-through and then take a new, out-of-the-way  route home – just because. To see another part of town. Or to check out a street I’ve never been down. Or to check on “Wilbur,” a pig on a nearby farm, who hangs out in his pen, watching the cars go by.

Now, my husband takes the boys to school. (Mornings are my worst.) They ride the bus home. And I only venture out once the meds or herbs have kicked in. And then? I’ve only been able to drive about 5 miles away from home with any success.

I am the woman who traveled 800 miles with a 2, 3 and 12 year old to surprise her sister for her 40th birthday. I am the woman who drove 500 miles with her 6 and 7 year old sons to spend a week at Disney World. Just me and the boys. Now, I’m already anticipating panic as baseball season and swim season are about to begin. I’ve convinced my swimmer son to switch teams, a closer team, to cut down the driving distance.

It, this evil “it,” has changed who I am at the very core of my being. And I hate it.

It.

keepanx

My latest t-shirt find. I ordered it today.

Ahhh.

At least I haven’t lost my sense of humor.

(Thank you, all of you, for your comments, emails and even phone calls of concern. I’m hanging in there. I have good days and bad days. But the good days are becoming much more frequent. I miss feeling like myself. I miss being here. But most of all, I miss all of you. xoxo)

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I Need A Support Team. A 24/7 Support Team.

Suffering, as I do, from panic/anxiety disorder is a very lonely thing. First of all, it has taken me almost two years to admit publicly that I am a sufferer.

Hi. I’m Jane. And I have …….

It’s so hard to say. Because the name means nothing to me. Okay. That’s a lie. I can’t say it because the label is so loaded in my mind.

There. My deep dark secret is out. Now, why don’t I feel better?

My panic and anxiety makes me feel weak, crazy, unlovable, a burden. Never one to ask for help before, it’s even more difficult now. And while it would also be a lie to say that I don’t already have a support team, I can say it isn’t enough.

I am suffering. I am struggling. And I dream of 24/7 support.

A nurse. To check my vitals and tell me I’m okay when I’m freaking out. But she has to be knowledgeable of Eastern Medicine and be on board with the methods I’m trying (both Western and Eastern) under my husband’s care (a doctor of Oriental Medicine) and my Western Medicine doctor.

A dietitian who doubles as an amazing chef. To feed me when I can’t bare to make the food myself. To make sure I’m eating well. To make amazing meals for my family that don’t come from the freezer or a take-out box.

A yoga instructor. To guide me in my workout and take away the anxiety I feel that I’m going to pass out every time I exercise.

An assistant. To mail my daughter’s Valentine’s care package (Yes. It’s still sitting on the counter) because I’m afraid to drive a car.

A housekeeper. To pick up the slack. I don’t mind the housework. In fact, sometimes it helps to do repetitive chores. But other times, I’m in the middle of something, I find it hard to concentrate so I move onto something else. My home is then filled with half-done projects. Or I spray Windex on the dining table or leave the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the hall, forgetting where I left off. (Don’t judge. You can’t see those pretty vacuum lines on Berber carpet.)

The perfect sleep husband. A man who doesn’t snore when I’m sleeping so lightly already. Someone who is cheerful and wide awake when I need comfort at 3am because I’ve just woken up in terror.

But most of all, I want someone to inhabit my body and take over so I can morph into the old me when my kids are around. I want to make them breakfast and listen to their joys and troubles without a pained expression on my face while I try desperately to keep it together. I want focus to be able to play a board game or read to them or have the energy to play catch. I want to be the mom I was meant to be, not this blob who shuffles through, doing the bare minimum.

Don’t get me wrong. My husband is more than understanding. His medical knowledge invaluable. The closest friend that I’ve felt comfortable sharing this struggle with picked me and the boys up when I had a panic attack out on the highway and couldn’t drive another inch.

In desperate times, people come through.

I just want 24/7 support so I never have to get to the desperate point.

Because all those times in between are such a struggle.

And difficult.

And oh, so lonely.

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