(Left: Average Brain; Right: Alzheimer's) Image via Wikipedia

Hello,

My name is Jen, and eventually I will lose my mind.*

You see, along with an overwhelming history of mental and behavioral disorders on my family tree, there’s also a large helping of Alzheimer’s disease and dementia.

I have much to look forward to. Between the mental disorders and the dementia, there’s a good chance that, eventually, my mind will implode*

I worry about it. The future, that is. Of course, I worry about a lot of things. It’s the nature of the beast. But this, this quite possibly waking up one day and realizing I don’t -can’t- remember who is laying next to me….this is one that occurs to me often.

Oh, I realize that one of Alzheimer’s twisted blessings is that, eventually, my mind will be so far gone, I won’t even remember that I forgot.

I imagine that, at that point, it won’t be such a torture to me. No, it’s more the in-between time that concerns me. The time where I know.

When I know I should recognize the person across the table, but I can’t remember their name.

When I know there’s something I’m supposed to do right now, because this is the time of day I always do it, but I haven’t the foggiest idea what it is.

When I know that I need to get from point A to point B, the same as I’ve done for years, but I can’t remember how to get there.

That’s the part that worries me. The knowing that I don’t know.

*Dramatics may have been included in this post, for your reading pleasure

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Maybe it’s that time of year, when things start dying and we start preparing for long, dreary months.

Or maybe 2010 was just slated to be a wench of  a year.

But tonight, I’m having a hard time. My back is wrenched, and I’m off work again. I already don’t make enough. If you take away a week, well, the paycheck ain’t pretty.

I’m also seeing  a lot of people I know struggling.

With pain.

With sorrow.

With a loss, or a coming loss, of someone near to them.

And I feel powerless.

All I have to offer is virtual hugs, pats on the back and words.

And I know those mean something, but I’d love to do so much more.

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My husband has long been intrigued by the idea of canning. Food. In jars. At home. Which I understand the practicality of it, and the idea of having the convenience of canned, with the yumminess of home-made is alluring. Truly.

But from what I remembered from my childhood, I thought the process would involve a lot sweat, tears and maybe even some blood. But he REALLY wanted to make his pickles, so fine, let’s make some pickles.

It didn’t go entirely smoothly. Example? We may have failed to consider how we were going to get the submerged jars OUT of the boiling water.

But it wasn’t too bad. So my husband starts talking about how he’s going to do it “next time”, and won’t it be great to have our own food in cans?

I ask him, “So what are you going to start home-canning?”

“Well,” he tells me, “We could do sauces, soups, veggies…pretty much anything you normally buy in cans.”

And so. I turn to him. And I say, with all sincerity…

“Oh, like tuna!”

….

The poor man.

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What’s that? No, I wasn’t at Blogher10, and this isn’t a recap post…for that. I was part of the BlogHer@Home team, with @masmom of Jaded Perspective and @beautifulwreck2

I also worked all weekend.

It was…crazy…interesting…exhausting…and so on.

So, without further ado, a few things I learned from juggling everything this weekend:

• I am nearly almost too old to live off 2 hours sleep and energy drinks
• I am capable of organization, of a sorts (Just don’t tell the husband)
• I CAN approach people when I need to
• Three-ways are fun (I meant on camera)<–when I went back and reread that, my clarification REALLY didn’t make it sound un-pervy. just trust me. Was not pervy.
  
• Hearing “Thank You” after putting forth a ton of effort gives a person the warm and fuzzies
• Not hearing “Thank You” can make a person feel stabby. With a spoon. Just ask the husband. PS multiple rainy days trapped inside with the kids also makes people stabby
• If a person feels stabby, a little sumfingsumfing can help
• Teamwork can produce miracle

That’s all I’ve got for right now. I learned so much about myself, and I walked away from the event with a greater confidence in my abilities. I have all of you who participated, attended or helped out to thank for that.

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Events of these past few weeks have dredged up memories from less stable times like a month ago.

And while digging for nylons that didn’t have major runs in them, I found my duct-tape covered Binder of Angst. Where I wrote page after page of depressing poetry between the ages of 13 and embarrassingly-old-for-that-sort-of-thing.

I’ve been fairly open about my struggles with depression and anxiety, I think.

Those that have known me since way back when can probably tell you that I’ve had these “issues” since at least adolescence. Example? Excerpt from angst-filled poem written when I was all of 14.

Losing control
Out of my mind
Selling my soul
One piece at a time

I don’t live
I just exist
What kind of life is this?

Clearly not the mind of a well child.  Of course, I couldn’t really see it at the time. My head was clouded, both by mental demons and by religious convictions. I was convinced that I, too, could be normal. If I just read my Bible every day, and prayed a little harder.

There’s a song that I learned as a child that actually runs through my head every time I see the phrases. It went (in part), “Read your Bible and Pray ever day, Pray ever day, Pray every day. Read your Bible and Pray every day, and you’ll grow, grow, grow!”  But I digress. I think.

I wish I could look back at that and shake my head, and say, “Gosh, am I ever glad I outgrew that!”

But I can’t.

Because I haven’t outgrown it yet. Not the hopelessness that catches up to me more often than I’d like to admit, nor the tendency to write angst-riddled, poorly constructed poetry.

The main difference is that at least now I admit and embrace my lack of skills, rather than convincing myself that I will someday be rich and famous. Don’t laugh, 14 year old girls tend to have rich imaginations, you know.

I realized the other night that I’m much farther from moving on from that stage than I thought.

After a week spent picking fights with the husband, bankers and the dog, I lay there in my darkened bedroom, possibly because none of my family/friends could stand being in the same room as I, contemplating how physical pain is closely linked to mental pain. I realized that clearly there are times where I am still just a scared, pissed-off little girl.

I wish there were a better conclusion to this post. I wish I could say, “And so I realized that, in order to fix everything, I merely need to start doing XYZ! And then life will revert to rainbows and snuggly puppy hugs! Yay!”

But. Alas, no such clarity was bestowed upon me.

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This week didn’t go much better than last. In fact, I’d wager that it probably qualifies as worse. And that? Probably qualifies as an understatement.

On Thursday, in the evening, I got a phone call.

My cousin had been rushed to the hospital. Details were hazy, and aren’t really mine to share, but in vague terms, too much of something had been ingested, somehow. Whether accidental or not…who knows? And who will ever know?

It was too late. The doctors, the nurses…they couldn’t undo what had been done.

He passed away as the day shifted from Thursday to Friday.

The last few days have been a whirlwind of emotions and activity, preparing for the funeral tomorrow morning.

His Facebook page has been  flooded with memories and photos. There are many photos from his deployment, which he came home from not that long ago.

The irony. So many worried about his safety, while he was overseas. And he survived that, only to come home and be lost to us.

I probably shouldn’t be writing about it yet. I haven’t processed any of it, really. It’s still very surreal.

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I owe you a post. An update. But it’s not happening.

I had a shitty week, mostly. There were a few non-suck moments, (mostly involving kids/family)but mostly? Suck.

Currently, my internet is disconnected, I need to call & beg for an extension on our mortgage, my wrist is in a splint til who knows when, it’s raining out and my children are acting up.
I have a VERY bad case of the Mondays.

Until later,
Jen

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Little goals. Tiny concessions. It’s how I’ve been making it through the day lately.

If I go all week without having a soda, then I can have a full-blown non-diet one.

If I get my homework done, I can leave the laundry unfolded in the basket while I waste time on Facebook word games.

If I can make it until supper without getting frustrated with the kids, I can let them watch a movie between supper and bed.

If I write one little blog post (postlet?) I can watch that movie/read that chapter/take that shower that I’m DYING to.

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I took a wee little unexplained (and unexpected) hiatus from blogging. And most some a little twittering.

I could list all the things that happened that caused me to step back, and spend my limited free time in the corner, staring at the wall and trying not to drool on myself.

But frankly, they are depressing. And focusing on depressing stuff is sort of what set things off in the first place.

So I’ll just leave it at, “Hi, I’m here, I’m alive, I’m back…”

See you soon,

Jen ThePsychobabble

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It’s not writer’s block.

It’s not a lack of time.

It’s not a lack of desire.

It’s not that I have nothing I want to say.

It’s that I haven’t been able to shake this negativity, and I didn’t care to spread it.

I’ve been trying to focus on the positive things lately. But it was difficult this week.

Sometimes it seems as though we will never get ahead. That as hard as we try, we’ll always be playing catch-up on the bills, and barely squeaking by.

And sometimes, that makes it difficult to pay attention to the good things.

Yesterday was one of those times.

It was a gorgeous day out, and I had just gotten paid. So I thought we would do something fun. But I was nearly out of gas, and my debit card was not cooperating. (Still don’t know why), so whatever, we changed into our suits and played in the sprinkler most of the day. We had popsicles and an outdoor picnic. We watched a short movie in the middle of the afternoon, that everyone fell asleep during. It was a good day. In the evening we loaded up the jeep and headed to the park.

We played on the equipment, we blew bubbles, we took pictures and acted like fools. It was great.

And then I saw it. The Puddle.

The Green Puddle.

Antifreeze. From my radiator.

The radiator. Which keeps my beloved Jeep from overheating. When the antifreeze is in it. Where it belongs. And not on the ground. In a puddle of green.

I was on the verge of panic, my mind racing and shouting, my internal foot stomping about how unfair it was, and how were we supposed to get home and etc.

Luckily, I was able to notice it wasn’t a huge puddle. Yes, it was leaking, and yes, I would probably have to stop driving it, but it wasn’t empty. As long as I kept an eye on the temperature gauge, we should make it the short drive home.

And I did, and we did.

Now my beloved Jeep is parked, awaiting a repair that will cost a minimum of $50 (thank god for the husband Mechanics Skillz, or it would be more), and I am stranded at home. Throwing my very own pity party.

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