Bloggy blog blog

Blog, blog, blog......

I like blogging.  My lack of blogging over the past week has been due to the dire need to accomplish more pressing tasks (yes, THIS is what happens every time I start a blog).  But I enjoy blogging, therefore I'm going to make time to blog.  New Years Resolution for the win.

One task I've been spending a lot of time on this week is scanning a sea of family pictures, though if you're my friend on FB this is not news as random baby pictures and my parents' mugs from the 1960's keep popping up on my feed.  The catalyst for said project has been due to the passing of my Great Aunt Eleanor.  She passed away Christmas Eve, and the month prior my parents flew down to the Inland Empire to sort through her things and assure her all matters were being handled.  I hadn't seen her in years, but I always liked her and she was a good woman.

We said goodbye to her in the typical McKie fashion.... just the right amount of respect mixed in with our own brand of humorous flair.  I'm not sure if other families can compose a list of hilarious quotes uttered at a funeral, but few would be shocked to know the McKies' got it covered.  Between my threatening to leave when I suspected my dad was about to break into a series of viola jokes (you heard me, and yes, this all happened in front of the Rabbi and the Mortuary Director), attempting to "check in" to the cemetery on Facebook (this was before the service and right before I went in with my dad to identify my Aunt's body), as well as introducing Sara and myself to the Rabbi as Statler and Waldorf (you can't take us anywhere), my dad boisterously interjecting that a relative referred to during the service "was a redhead", all tied up with my mom asking me if I knew the words to the song the Rabbi was singing ("The Way We Were") as the casket was being lowered into the ground, to which I replied "No, I really dislike Barbra Streisand", upon which my sister's attempt to maintain what was left to be salvaged of the respect and class we had just barely witheld through the service was put to the ultimate test as she laughed silently with tears rolling down her face while we simultaneously held my mom as she cried, saying goodbye to an Aunt who was more emotionally defined as her older sister.  Though my description makes us sound like horrible people, I'd like to think we made it easier on my mom by saying goodbye to Aunt Eleanor in the way we know how, and while she pretends to be embarrassed by our antics, even in times of sorrow we know she loves our unpredictable behavior.  We get the Susi Smirk (TM).  Of course my dad's ill-timed joke in the car on the way home about how Aunt Eleanor wouldn't be "living" at the cemetery managed to cross that line only my dad can get away with crossing.

In all seriousness, we loved our Aunt Eleanor.  She was the youngest of 4, my grandmother being the oldest.  She was kind and generous, even to an extent I wasn't aware of until her passing.  She gave great hugs and would always be ready to greet us with Costco muffins and Gameboys.  She was very close with my mom and a very important member of our family.  She was very weak when I went to see her in the nursing home, but I could tell she was happy to see me and would squeeze my hand in succession to communicate the sentiment.  I sat with her for a while, holding her hand and staring into her thin, barely recognizable face.  After being with her for a few minutes and had adjusted to her present state, to me she still looked very much like her.  I realized it's an honor to spend time with someone at the end of their life.  Her allowing me to spend those precious moments with her at the end of her journey felt like a gift.  A Les Mis lyric came to me (not a rare occurrence); "To love another person is to see the face of God.", because in that moment those words made sense.  I don't really believe in God, but if there is some semblance of a higher power I'm certain I saw it in her face.

So here I am with Aunt Eleanor's family pictures, which tell the story of her life and celebrate the people she loved.  I'm slowly but surely creating a digital archive which I will then back up several times over.  I don't want to be the asshole who lost the family pictures.

Day 2; this is going well

Hey, look at me blogging again.  Now this is what I call commitment.

It's easy to post another blog so soon since I didn't work today.  I happen to be one of the lucky ones who actually loves going to work.  There are of course days when my desire to stay in bed or my brain is exploding with a list of due-today tasks when I'd rather not go to work, but I'm always happy when I arrive and often look forward to it.

I didn't sleep at all last night.  This is the first time in a very long time this occurrence has plagued me, but the familiar anxiety came rushing back as if it were once again a frequent issue.  I've had trouble sleeping since I was a kid.  I've always had a lot of anxiety surrounding the topic of sleep, since there was a notable period of time during which I didn't understand what happens to one's body while sleeping.  I remember laying awake at night going back as far as I can remember, blinking with purpose and trying desperately to do what everyone else seemed to do so easily.  I was always the only one awake (except of course when I was a baby and would scream through the night, proving my dad obviously did something very wrong in a past life), and for hours I would stare at the ceiling failing to understand why I seemed to be the only person who didn't know how to sleep.  For awhile I was afraid to go to sleep because I didn't understand how I could close my eyes and wake up after hours had passed with no recollection of any events in between.  I was afraid I was dying and then coming back to life.  I was scared that one morning I wouldn't wake up.

This anxiety carried on into my adulthood.  Not because I currently think I die and come back to life over the course of the night, but rather because I never knew when a bout of insomnia would strike.  Without fail I would blame myself for my inability to sleep.  I drank too much caffeine that day.  I didn't turn off the TV when I should have.  I tried to turn off the TV, but I wasn't tired yet and laid there bored out of my mind for a good long while and eventually caved and turned it back on.  Then I'd berate myself for giving in to TV watching.  Then as every minute ticked by I would fret over what this would mean for the upcoming day.  Would I be able to function?  Was my day going to be completely ruined?  Was I going to manage to make it through the day at all since I always had more commitments lined up for me than most adults had three times over?  What could I have done to prevent this?  What did I do wrong?  Why can't I sleep like everyone else?  The minutes would tick by and with every passing digital number these thoughts would snowball and I'd find myself immobilized, frustrated, and hating myself.  The worst part was knowing that even though I hadn't managed to so much as doze off throughout the night, it was entirely likely, in spite of my immeasurable exhaustion, that I would probably be staring at the clock through another lonely, quiet night by myself.

Then one day a miracle happened.  I was diagnosed with OCD.  I'm not being facetious, this diagnosis is arguably the best thing that's ever happened to me.  When you're diagnosed with OCD your Fairy Goddoctor appears and writes you prescriptions for magic pills.  Before you start calling in the local Prescription-Drug Addict Anonymous chapter, I'll assure you that the medicine I've been taking for over a year now has changed my life so much for the better I can't describe the relief with enough specificity to make it worth attempting to explain.  I know many people can relate to the epiphany that comes with discovering, as a wise friend eloquently articulated, that you haven't been "playing with a full deck", at ANY point in your life.  There's a great relief in realizing that you have been doing the best you can with what you had, and that it's not the status quo to feel like a slave to rituals, obsess over gruesome images and terrifying scenarios, have to count while staring at evidence in order to fully accept that a task has been completed, to be completely paralyzed by fear when faced with the necessary task of confronting an uncomfortable, awkward, or volatile situation because you're afraid if challenged you'll fall apart and burst into tears because you can't handle rejection.  OCD is not an uncommon disorder, and I'm willing to bet at least a few of you reading this want to jump through your computer monitor and shake me yelling "Yes! Yes!  My WHOLE LIFE I've felt this way and experienced the same or very similar thoughts and felt controlled by actions I've felt forced to perform without any sense of reason or logic!"  At least that's what I was screaming in my head throughout my research which eventually led to my seeking medical help.  In spite of the depths of my research and accumulating knowledge on the subject of anxiety disorders, I still continue to be amazed that I was able to function from day to day.  I never want to work that hard again.

The magic pills entered into my world at an eerily appropriate time.  I was cognitively aware that I had hit rock bottom, but unlike many people who find themselves drowning in depression, I don't hide under the covers with the shades drawn and leave my phone unanswered.  I do just the opposite by grasping frantically for a connection to anything I can, as if I'm drowning and floundering to keep from sinking to the bottom.  I go into hyperactive overdrive, tirelessly searching for an escape route in the form of a life challenge and redefined purpose with an untiring determination to prove I'm not what I'm afraid I'll become.  My career, identity, and pubic acceptance hang by a thread and I need to fix it before anyone finds out it's all about to come crashing down.  If my life was the Berlin Wall I'd be running around frantically with a bottle of superglue believing wholeheartedly that I can put the pieces back to together before the wall is entirely dismantled, and all the while people are squeezing through the cracks, finally getting an impressionable glimpse of what life's been like on the other side.

I take Zoloft for my OCD paired with Trazodone as a sleep aide.  The Trazodone has, in addition to providing me predictable and consistent sleep for the first time in my life, obliterated a prominent source of worry and dread I've spent my life trying to conquer.  All is well and good in Anna's Happy Land of controversial, mind-altering, societal-numbing pill consumption.  So why couldn't I sleep last night?  I was out of pills.

For once I could not  unabashedly point my accusatory finger at Rite Aid, but goddamn I wanted to.  The responsibility for the missing refill objectively lies on me, but the persistent domino effect of careless, inattentive, unprofessional customer service for which I 've created a mental voodoo doll which I stab relentlessly with an oversized butcher knife had a lot to do with the mixup.

I knew as soon as I was unable to locate any spare or leftover pills there was a very good chance I wouldn't be sleeping before morning.  I gave it my best try, but sleep aides, even when taken under the most legitimate and controlled of circumstances, are habit forming.  You have to wean yourself off, as in "I don't have to do anything tomorrow, so tonight would be a good night to risk a sleepless night in hopes that I'll be able to fall asleep on my own the following evening".  But when I suddenly don't have any pills at 2am and have to work at 9:30 the next morning I find myself in the familiar panic I've been fortunate to be free of for over a year.

I've spent most of the day frustrated with myself, going over and over in my head all the ways this situation could have been prevented.  I knew I should have double checked my purchase over the course of the days which I meticulously allowed to steer clear of any further issue with the pharmacy from hell.  I often don't know if the nagging voice insisting on the completion of neurotic tasks is a product of my OCD (even at a daily dose of 200mg I still struggle, but not in any way close to where I was prior to treatment), or if it's my gut preemptively signaling a potential problem.  I'd like to proclaim that I will now take control and let it go by halting the cycle of recurring thoughts and what-if's, but the truth is I will continue to weave in and out of recounting recent events until I have slept and tomorrow returns to my version of normal.

Hey, look at me.  I'm starting a blog.  For what... the 4th time?  I'm committed this time.  It's one of my resolutions for the coming year.

I do not think I'm very important.  Nothing I have to say is more important or interesting than what you have to say.  I just happen to enjoy writing, and I don't see the point in writing if it goes unread.  I'm putting my business out there.  Anna "TMI" McKie at your service.

Reservations about blogging:

1. Current and present employers.  The internet is a sea of reasons not to hire me, or better yet perceived reasons not to hire me.  I want very much to be a badass and proclaim that any potential employer who reads my blog and decides I'm an unfit pick is an employer I care not to work for.  This is obviously a load of shit since even in a good economy I don't want to rattle the cage and risk much needed income.  Now is when I proclaim that we are servants to cultural censorship and we should be free to express ourselves in a public forum.  This is also bullshit.  It's not about my right to do anything, it's knowing from experience and common fucking sense that people have opinions, many which differ from mine, including but not limited to the following:

*I swear too much.

*I fail to present myself as a lady, which is not meant to sound tongue and cheek.  I often prefer to be treated as a lady, but don't expect as much when I fail to act like one.  Treating me like a lady is the accepted default.  Once I open my mouth I know all bets are off.

*It's unsightly to share one's dirty laundry.  This falls under the you-don't-have-to-read-what-I-write tab.  I don't say this to be rude or to give myself permission to verbally vomit all over the internet, but I think it's important that we individually decide our level of comfort with what and how much we share about ourselves.  I find more often than not the more I share the easier it is for me to connect with others.  I've also found that people who share personal stories with me are granting me the opportunity to step outside myself and assess my own experiences.  When I share my personal stories and life events I'm comforted to discover that I'm not the only one who feels what I feel or has experienced what I experienced.  It helps me feel less alone and it makes me feel good.

My family tends to not overshare.  We overshare with each other, but not publicly.  I have exceedingly liberal parents and they support my endeavors, but I'm acutely aware of the fact that I occasionally publicly share what they consider to be private.  This will always make me feel subconscious and a little defensive, but it's important to me to find the right balance that allows me to openly share while not driving my parents to an early grave.  My plan is to speak with as much class as possible through a forest of F bombs.

2012 was a unique year.  The unexpected life changes 2012 had in store were abrupt, disorienting, and surreal to say the least.  I believe it's a story worth telling.  I'm sure many would disagree, and that's okay.  Some would consider it an overshare, and that's okay, too.  I respectfully invite you to not read my blog, because I have a lot to say and you might not like it.  It may cause you to gossip or say unflattering things about me.  You may think I'm a liar or that I'm spinning my stories in order to present myself in a more flattering light.  I'll tell you, one of my most striking discoveries in the past year is how liberating it is to own my mistakes and my faults.  I'm not perfect and never claimed to be.  I do the best I can from day to day, and I can say with little hesitation that I am a good person and I have enough empathy to fill a sinkhole.  I've struggled with guilt and personal labels.  I can assure you that nothing I write is a lie.  My writing is biased because it's me writing about my experiences as I experienced them, but I am not a liar.  The facts are intense enough without my embellishment.  My goal is not to demonize anyone.  I just want to tell my story.  

I don't believe in changing names.  I have no intention of changing anyone's name.  That doesn't mean I'll use surnames and social security numbers, but I'm not interested in preserving anyone's reputation.  Most of you know who I'm talking about anyway.

Please feel free to leave me comments and begin discussions with me or each other.  I promise to avoid being combative and I hope you in return will respect me and my position.

I've told many people over the past year that I was going to write this blog in an effort to hold myself accountable for following through.  I'm committed to keeping this promise to myself.