Sleep is not my forte.
I lie awake and think of all the things before me. I'm definitely not deluded into thinking that my life is so much more difficult than anyone else. I just have big things going on that alternately terrify and delight me.
I like to joke that I'm exactly where I planned on being at 24; homeless, jobless, and divorced. What little girl didn't grow up dreaming of a failed marriage without the ability to make it a solid year? Proof that your instincts know more than you ever give them credit for, I suppose. It sounds silly, but I always knew I was bigger than that marriage, I just thought I could carry it, see it through for a few more years.
A lot of people ask me what I've learned from the whole experience. I'm still sorting it out, but here are a few things I've been able to pinpoint.
I learned that I have never known myself. It sounds so cheesy, but twelve weeks ago, I couldn't tell you what I wanted to do with my life other than a general outline of vague goals. Part of that was me not letting myself want anything. I had a career and that was apparently enough. I was on the back burner. I hated who I was when I couldn't dream. I hated that I couldn't stand up and tell anyone what I needed. I hated that I couldn't tell myself.
I learned that I have never been completely loved. That is a sad, sad thing. I always held on to the illusion that I was. I believe he loved me as much as he could, but it was limited and unfulfilling. People who love each other don't lie. People who love each other don't do so many things...
I learned that both of us had failures leading up to this. I am definitely not blameless and it doesn't do to try to match it out blow for blow. I need to accept my shortcomings and take it in stride. I'll do it better from now on.
I learned we loved each other. But not enough. Not enough that we'd go crazy if the other wasn't in the world. Not enough that we'd give up whatever we wanted to make the other person happy. Not enough never to ask that the other person give up anything. Not enough that we felt safe with honesty.
I'm not bitter. I'm just sad about it all. And thankful in a strange way. I'm only 24 and already I'm starting my life over. I've been reborn and given a second chance to make good on what I've been given and what I've been sent to do.
There have been a few key operatives who've helped me see the way and I'm so thankful to them for their love, acceptance, advice, and strength through the whole damn messy business.
It is a terrible thing, but right now most of the time I'm really having fun. I'm in my element out here alone in space. And I've started to take care of things that will set me up to be successful the second time around.
I'm just taking it one day at a time with confidence that tomorrow will come.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A dichotomy
Every night before going to bed I go through a routine. Most of you can identify with this and those of you who can’t might be pagans on a different plane of existence. Not higher, different.
I wash my face, brush my teeth and take two pills. Normal and boring in every sense of the word. When I am honest with myself, I realize that I am much more domesticated than I ever planned on being at this age.
For example; I cook with an apron, and can’t imagine any other way. Aprons are so convenient, especially for people who dislike being beholden to a dish rag. I am a hands-on cook. I’m not afraid to say that if you’ve eaten anything I’ve cooked or baked in the last fifteen years, chances are my finger was in it at some point. Fingers are so sensitive to the nuances of temperature and consistency in a way that a thermometer and a bamboo spoon, while invaluable tools, just can’t emulate. Also, a dab of something is all my (self-taught) taste buds need to know what needs more salt or cumin or cinnamon. As a rule everything could always use an extra pinch of ginger. I’d eat ginger on a shoe.
So the apron is a perfect compromise for a mobile, dynamic cook with her finger on the pulse of the kitchen. Basically what I’m saying is that if I didn’t wear an apron, I’d wipe my hands on my pants.
They say it is important to get into a nightly routine because it will help you be able to know when it is time for bed. As a friend to many new mothers and a special education teacher, I’ve had extensive discussions about the importance of routine in a child’s life.
I like my routine. People in general are creatures of habit and this nightly routine is a portable comfort I can take with me no matter where I go. All I need is my giraffe print bag and a functional sink. A cup isn’t even necessary as I can use my hands to collect water.
Earlier this year, I decided that I should try to take a multivitamin. I’ve been borderline anemic for as long as I can remember and as a poor-ish worker of two jobs with a husband who was fundamentally opposed to all vegetables that weren’t baby carrots or fried potatoes, I didn’t invest much in leafy green iron rich additions to our meals. It is pretty hard to go through bag after bag of spinach and spring mix by yourself. Eventually the salad conquers you by going bad before you can possibly finish it, and ends up getting thrown out in a slimy, stinky mess a week later.
The first multivitamin I thought of was Flintstone’s chewables. But being a career woman of 24, I thought maybe it was time to take the next step. I remember my parents taking Centrum, but I refused on the basis that it was for old people and I’m still a spring chicken. I went to the drugstore and was waylaid by options. I tried to look casual and contemplative while I pulled bottle after bottle, read the labels, and tried not to be too astounded at the price.
I settled on Women’s Once-A-Day. It seemed safe since I had heard of it and it was relatively high in iron. The large bottle with the orange label had to last me quite a while, too. All pills should be taken with at least eight ounces of water to properly wash it down, but these pills are at least three times a normal size, so a larger glass was required. My father, incidentally, a physician, calls these horse pills. It’s an industry term.
I pride myself on my strong stomach. I have very rarely felt nauseous when confronted with overwhelming life situations or new food or drugs of any sort. I can take antibiotics with a glass of milk and have no problems. I’ve literally been taking medicine for over three quarters of my life. I’m a nerdy bookworm with asthma. It never crossed my mind that medicine might actually make me feel worse.
Day 1 of the experiment, I breakfasted on peanut butter toast and washed the pill down with a large glass of milk. To say it was a rough day is an understatement. About half an hour into school, my stomach just started to ache. Every time I moved, my whole midsection reminded me that it was there and oft ignored. I was cranky, which in turn made the kids cranky, and nobody had any fun.
I thought maybe I hadn’t eaten enough, so at lunchtime, I had an extra handful of crackers and made it a point to drink more water than usual. This just resulted in me having to visit the little girl’s room all afternoon to void my bladder. Thankfully, it was one of my slow days and there were breaks between kiddos. After school, I went straight home, lay down, and made the husband cook. Which meant he ordered pizza or made macaroni.
I thought maybe the breakfast meal wasn’t tough enough to buffer the effects of so many nutrients chorusing through my system, so Day 2 I took the multi-v at dinnertime. I made sure to cook something substantial; hamburgers ought to be solid enough to offset any ill effects. But by bedtime, I was curled up in a ball unable to sleep and whining to deaf ears that had to leave the house at 3:30 am.
After a few more days of similar experiences, I gave up on being properly fortified and went back to my previous state of malnourishment sans vitamin. It was a simple time.
I didn’t really give it another thought until one of the women who worked at the school mentioned prenatal vitamins. She is a forty-something mother of two who spent a lot of years working as a nurse. She takes a prenatal vitamin every day and highly recommends them to every woman she knows. Elixir of life or something.
Not wanting to go out and spend money on something else my body would soundly reject, she offered to give me a week’s supply and see how I fared. The next day she came in with seven nondescript yellow pills. They were quite a bit smaller than the others and looked almost friendly. I looked at those pills and believed they wanted me to be better.
I debated for a while, and decided that pm was a fine time to take the pills as I have already established the aforementioned nightly routine. The week went by without pill related incident and I’ve been taking them ever since. Like the nurse before me, I plug them to interested parties and have been known to push a few just to get you hooked.
It does not escape my highly developed sense of irony, however, that every night, this now single woman washes her face, brushes her teeth, and takes a birth control pill and a prenatal vitamin. I sometimes marvel at the conflicting messages I’m sending my own body and wonder how on earth I’ll ever be able to communicate clearly with anyone.
For now, I am contented with the ironic jumble that is life and do what I need to get through until tomorrow and for the long haul.
I wash my face, brush my teeth and take two pills. Normal and boring in every sense of the word. When I am honest with myself, I realize that I am much more domesticated than I ever planned on being at this age.
For example; I cook with an apron, and can’t imagine any other way. Aprons are so convenient, especially for people who dislike being beholden to a dish rag. I am a hands-on cook. I’m not afraid to say that if you’ve eaten anything I’ve cooked or baked in the last fifteen years, chances are my finger was in it at some point. Fingers are so sensitive to the nuances of temperature and consistency in a way that a thermometer and a bamboo spoon, while invaluable tools, just can’t emulate. Also, a dab of something is all my (self-taught) taste buds need to know what needs more salt or cumin or cinnamon. As a rule everything could always use an extra pinch of ginger. I’d eat ginger on a shoe.
So the apron is a perfect compromise for a mobile, dynamic cook with her finger on the pulse of the kitchen. Basically what I’m saying is that if I didn’t wear an apron, I’d wipe my hands on my pants.
They say it is important to get into a nightly routine because it will help you be able to know when it is time for bed. As a friend to many new mothers and a special education teacher, I’ve had extensive discussions about the importance of routine in a child’s life.
I like my routine. People in general are creatures of habit and this nightly routine is a portable comfort I can take with me no matter where I go. All I need is my giraffe print bag and a functional sink. A cup isn’t even necessary as I can use my hands to collect water.
Earlier this year, I decided that I should try to take a multivitamin. I’ve been borderline anemic for as long as I can remember and as a poor-ish worker of two jobs with a husband who was fundamentally opposed to all vegetables that weren’t baby carrots or fried potatoes, I didn’t invest much in leafy green iron rich additions to our meals. It is pretty hard to go through bag after bag of spinach and spring mix by yourself. Eventually the salad conquers you by going bad before you can possibly finish it, and ends up getting thrown out in a slimy, stinky mess a week later.
The first multivitamin I thought of was Flintstone’s chewables. But being a career woman of 24, I thought maybe it was time to take the next step. I remember my parents taking Centrum, but I refused on the basis that it was for old people and I’m still a spring chicken. I went to the drugstore and was waylaid by options. I tried to look casual and contemplative while I pulled bottle after bottle, read the labels, and tried not to be too astounded at the price.
I settled on Women’s Once-A-Day. It seemed safe since I had heard of it and it was relatively high in iron. The large bottle with the orange label had to last me quite a while, too. All pills should be taken with at least eight ounces of water to properly wash it down, but these pills are at least three times a normal size, so a larger glass was required. My father, incidentally, a physician, calls these horse pills. It’s an industry term.
I pride myself on my strong stomach. I have very rarely felt nauseous when confronted with overwhelming life situations or new food or drugs of any sort. I can take antibiotics with a glass of milk and have no problems. I’ve literally been taking medicine for over three quarters of my life. I’m a nerdy bookworm with asthma. It never crossed my mind that medicine might actually make me feel worse.
Day 1 of the experiment, I breakfasted on peanut butter toast and washed the pill down with a large glass of milk. To say it was a rough day is an understatement. About half an hour into school, my stomach just started to ache. Every time I moved, my whole midsection reminded me that it was there and oft ignored. I was cranky, which in turn made the kids cranky, and nobody had any fun.
I thought maybe I hadn’t eaten enough, so at lunchtime, I had an extra handful of crackers and made it a point to drink more water than usual. This just resulted in me having to visit the little girl’s room all afternoon to void my bladder. Thankfully, it was one of my slow days and there were breaks between kiddos. After school, I went straight home, lay down, and made the husband cook. Which meant he ordered pizza or made macaroni.
I thought maybe the breakfast meal wasn’t tough enough to buffer the effects of so many nutrients chorusing through my system, so Day 2 I took the multi-v at dinnertime. I made sure to cook something substantial; hamburgers ought to be solid enough to offset any ill effects. But by bedtime, I was curled up in a ball unable to sleep and whining to deaf ears that had to leave the house at 3:30 am.
After a few more days of similar experiences, I gave up on being properly fortified and went back to my previous state of malnourishment sans vitamin. It was a simple time.
I didn’t really give it another thought until one of the women who worked at the school mentioned prenatal vitamins. She is a forty-something mother of two who spent a lot of years working as a nurse. She takes a prenatal vitamin every day and highly recommends them to every woman she knows. Elixir of life or something.
Not wanting to go out and spend money on something else my body would soundly reject, she offered to give me a week’s supply and see how I fared. The next day she came in with seven nondescript yellow pills. They were quite a bit smaller than the others and looked almost friendly. I looked at those pills and believed they wanted me to be better.
I debated for a while, and decided that pm was a fine time to take the pills as I have already established the aforementioned nightly routine. The week went by without pill related incident and I’ve been taking them ever since. Like the nurse before me, I plug them to interested parties and have been known to push a few just to get you hooked.
It does not escape my highly developed sense of irony, however, that every night, this now single woman washes her face, brushes her teeth, and takes a birth control pill and a prenatal vitamin. I sometimes marvel at the conflicting messages I’m sending my own body and wonder how on earth I’ll ever be able to communicate clearly with anyone.
For now, I am contented with the ironic jumble that is life and do what I need to get through until tomorrow and for the long haul.
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