St. Patrick's Day

At work I'm supposed to wear all black, even down to my shoes. Supposed to. Today I had to wear something green though. So I got away with a green shirt under a black V-neck. They like me enough at work for me not to get in trouble anyway.

And Bob and I had a discussion the other night about starting family traditions. Bob mentioned that he'd like to try corned beef and cabbage for dinner today, but I'm not a huge fan of beef and I get nervous to cook cabbage. I do remember my mom making green food in honor of the holiday throughout most of my younger years. So I decided to combine the two.

I made cornbread and spinach.... Well, I experimented with the spinach and tried it in whipped potatoes, and then had green beans and some chicken sauteed in onions and barbecue sauce. And then I experimented with food dye. Earlier I had run to Smith's for it and a couple of other things, and naturally all the regular food coloring was gone today. But there was some neon food coloring left.... Eh, why not. So our potatoes and cornbread looked toxic, and the onions just looked... well, odd. Not even green. More like... something old and spoiled.

But it was delicious! Bob enjoyed it anyway, and so did I. The picture doesn't really do the toxic glow justice, but it really was there.

healing and hope

So this is going to be kind of new for me. Not blogging--I've been blogging since high school (starting with MySpace... yuck, I know). What's new is what I occasionally intend to start blogging about.

A while back I wrote this blog about PTSD that I've been diagnosed with. I've been hesitant to talk about it to anyone because of how personal it is. I also know that lots of people don't know what to say when told about it because it's not something anybody really understands unless they have experienced a similar disorder. It's not a physical illness, but like one it takes time to heal.

It's one of those dark, secret parts of me that I've hidden for most of my life, and I'm tired of it. Part of the healing process is accepting things. It's hard to accept things while hiding them. To me, it just doesn't make sense. People hide things they are ashamed of. In learning to love myself for the first time, I need to express it, not hide it. I don't expect advice or stories from anyone who reads these. I don't even need comments on these blogs. These are for me, because I need things out of my head and out of the dark. That's why I'm publishing them. If you'd like to read them, please do. If you don't want to, then don't. I'm not going to go into details about past issues. This is all about my progress. 

This is looking forward with a smile instead of looking back with tears.

So here's a huge step I'm happy to write about: I told my mom!

After years of hiding and blaming myself for things that were never my fault (which I still do frequently), I've been working on talking about it. The start was talking to my best friend (who is now my husband) about it four years ago. I've told a couple of other friends since then. Before October of last year I could count on one hand the amount of people I'd talked to about those dark corners of my memory. Then I went to see Liz, my therapist, for the first time just a few weeks before I got married. Since then things have gotten better and worse at the same time. Yes, that's possible.

Recently, my parents came out to visit mine and my brothers' families for about a week, and while they were here I wanted to talk to them about it. But I was terrified to do so. For one, I felt that I'd be creating an unnecessary wound that my mother wouldn't need. But a part of me just needs her to know. I need her to understand. I also worried that my dad just wouldn't know what to do or say, and a poor reaction would really hurt. Each time I had an opportunity to talk to them, I chickened out and didn't. Then I'd beat myself up about it later. Bob, the wonderful husband that he is, finally stepped in to help me along. After mom and dad came over to our apartment for breakfast last Friday morning, I still couldn't find the words to say to them. They left to go to my brother's house until they flew out the following morning, and I cried and beat myself up over it. After a brief phone call, Bob gently took me by the hand and helped me into the car, then drove up to my brother and sister-in-law's house. I was just searching for the right moment. I decided that I just wanted to start with my mom. If I could tell her, it would be a huge relief, and she could tell my dad later.

My nephews started playing outside in the back yard, so I followed them out since it was a gorgeous day. Bob came out and played with them while I leaned on the rail that ran around the back deck, watching the boys play in the grass below. My mom came and stood next to me. We talked about nothing for a while, really. Just school and work, the weather, how quiet their house is with all their kids gone and married, etc. I finally started explaining how hard this semester had been on me, that I was seeing a therapist, that I'd dropped all of my classes for the rest of the semester because of this disorder. (I'd wanted to be functional while I healed, but that just wasn't working and I kept avoiding the obvious solution: let healing become my full-time job.)

She still wasn't getting it though, so I explained what causes PTSD and briefly recounted what led to my having it. She cried a little and finally understood. I went on to explain why my actions were the way they were sometimes. For example, when my brother Ben was getting married, I had a serious breakdown and cried uncontrollably at Russ and Ashley's house one night. I'm sure everyone who was there remembers that, and as usual everyone probably assumed that I was being a spoiled brat (since that's what everyone has told me that I am my whole life). But I wasn't. I was struggling with some recent events, flashbacks, and the fact that Bob was on his mission and decided that we needed to stop writing to one another, and the last of my brothers was getting married leaving me the lonely little sister who was damaged more than anybody knew. Nobody knew what I was dealing with, and nobody knew that I actually needed some love and attention--not the unnecessary and spoiled type, but the important and valuable type. Had my mother known why I was crying (or anyone else for that matter), she probably would have been a little more patient and underdstanding with me.

So there's my success for the week. Bob was so proud of me for telling her. I actually felt good about myself too, something I haven't really felt in quite a long time. Even though you may not understand just how liberating that was for me, I hope you can at least be happy for me and the fact that I'm smiling right now--not a forced, fake smile.

This one's real.

stitches, Smash Burger, & soccer

On Saturday Bob and I woke up at 9:30am. My parents had been in town and left that morning. I had nothing scheduled except for a soccer game that night. So we grabbed our old-school laptop (that Bob's dad gave us after mine crashed last semester) and got online to watch an episode of Castle. Then we watched another one. And another, and another... and then we finished season one before I knew it.

At 7:00 I went to pick up a surprise visitor for Jennie Ray. Our cousin, Katelyn, came to visit for her spring break. I stopped at her sister's house to get her, and when we got back to our place Bob was doing the dishes. He got all excited or something, because suddenly he made an odd sound and said, "Uhh Janae....? Janae?!" I was standing five feet from him and looked over to see him holding his hand under the stream of water from the faucet and a big kitchen knife in the other hand.

"Did you just cut yourself?" I asked.
"Uh huh," he responded, in a worried voice.
"Bad?"
"I'm not sure."

I walked over to the sink and looked. There was a pretty good amount of blood draining, though I didn't see the cut very well. I got him a paper towel and he wrapped it up, then went to the kitchen table to look at it. I got some super glue, Q-tips and cotton balls so that he could bandage himself up.

"Is it deep?" I asked. "Do you think it's bad enough to go get it checked out?"
Bob got up from the table and as he walked into the living room said, "Maybe I shou... Uh oh... ohhh..." And proceeded to half sit/half lay on the couch as his lips turned white and his face turned greenish.
"Bob?" I turned around to see him pass out. I got him some water and rubbed my cold hands down his face, talking to him until he came to.

I apologized to Katelyn and told her Jennie should be home from work by 7, then left her by herself at our apartment. I drove Bob to the Instacare facility a few miles away. It was cold and snowing, after it had been gorgeous weather all week. We arrived and checked in, and as we were waiting in a room to get Bob evaluated by a nurse he started looking pale again. After getting him a glass of water and he slowly got color back. The nurse decided that he did need stitches, so we went to another room to get it all taken care of.

We sat waiting, and playing with a fun doctor's chair for a few minutes. Then the same nurse came in to get things started. She got out a syringe and some stuff that would numb the cut, and I watched as she poked and injected until the cut and most of his finger was all numb. I hadn't really looked at it until then. It was right on his second knuckle, and was bigger in surface area than it was deep, but it still went in pretty far. I thought it was kind of fascinating and gross at the same time as I watched.

The nurse finished and started to clean up the blood and bandages.
Then it hit me.
A wave of nausea, light headed dizziness, and static started in my ears.
"Oh I gotta sit down..." I mumbled as I stumbled over and collapsed into a chair by the door.
I think Bob said something, but I couldn't hear him.
I remember quietly saying, "This is lame."
And then I blacked out.

I could hear what was going on around me, but it seemed like slow motion and I couldn't move, or didn't want to move. When I finally came to a little more, I felt a cool wet washcloth that the nurse had put across my neck and the doctor was in there already stitching up Bob. I had a glass of water in my hand that I vaguely remember the nurse handing me. It felt like I had been passed out for a while, although it was probably just a few minutes.

So apparently I'm a pansy. This does not bode well for motherhood in my future. I think I'll try to grow and man-up a little more before I start trying to have kids. As I was sitting there thinking that, Bob told me that I was kind of cute, laying in the chair and pale and sick-looking. Then he corrected himself and said I was cute because I'm me.
Oh, how flattering.
Thanks Bob.

We went out and got dinner afterward. Smash Burger. It was delicious.
Then we had a soccer game at 11:25 that night. Late, I know. But it's indoor, so it doesn't really matter. We lost, 8-4.

New team = we don't play together well yet = I got frustrated.

But it was Bob's first time playing soccer, and I think he did really well. Things should get better. Besides, Bob and I can go kick a soccer ball around during the week together and it'll count for something for both of us now.