Hurricane Recap

As I wrap myself in the nostalgia of old Halloween specials and multitask working on a cellphone battery issue, my NaNoWriMo book cover/blurb and a few other odds and ends, I'm fairly removed from the events of the last few days.

It's been 10 years since a hurricane approached our doorstep. I only know that because the news coverage here made sure to mention it at least once every ten minutes during the round the clock broadcasts.

And while I have a hearty dose of derision for the local reporting on hurricanes (or pretty much any half-way major story), please understand that I was well aware of the dangerous potential a Category 4 hurricane possesses.

Family Guy gets it.

I spent most of my childhood on the southeastern coast of Florida. The first hurricane I remember going through, they closed my elementary school AFTER the waters started rising. My friend's mom took a few of us home because she could get to the school first. I distinctly remember having to sit with my legs folded up on the backseat because the water was so high, her expensive European import had at least 2 inches of water inside on the floorboards. Once home, our front and side yards were more like swimming pools. I was probably 7. I'd learned all about keeping a hurricane box of canned goods, candles, water & flashlights) since I started school. Parents had a heck of a time keeping kids from sneaking a can of Chef-tomato-paste-and-sugar from the emergency supplies in regular weather. My mom avoided this by buying the big, family size cans.

I couldn't tell you if we lost power, though I'm sure we did. I couldn't tell you what the wind sounded like, but given my desire to crawl under the dining room table during summer storms at the time I'm sure it was impressive. I don't even remember if I was scared (I was probably hiding under the dining table in case the roof was ripped off), though I was deeply excited at the idea of having swimming pools in my yard and annoyed that I wasn't allowed to play in the standing water. Some nonsense about critters, disease, debris... you know, real danger stuff that 7 year olds don't get.

The next major hurricane-related memory I have is Andrew. The hurricane that seemed to wipe the southern chunk of Florida from the face of the Earth.

I don't remember what Andrew was like at my house. Looking at the picture, it seems strange because we lived in the white & pink area above the center. It happened right around my birthday, but I've got nothing concrete about the event until AFTER. Until we knew how catastrophic it had been just to our south. Weather stations designed to capture windspeed were obliterated. It was the most destructive hurricane to hit the US at the time (and for some time after) and was a Category 5.

I remember after so well because everything to the south of us was devastated. Whole communities flattened. Nothing left but some block foundations. Price gouging like you couldn't believe. People charging obscene prices for bags of ice, water, gasoline. Food. My dad's company had an office or warehouse in the hardest hit area. People my dad knew well. He and his friend, another coworker, put together semi trucks full of supplies. My siblings and I put together all the extra clothes, books and toys we had - whatever we could do to help. As soon as they had the trucks full, my dad led the convoy down to help take care of those he could.

My first hurricane as an "adult" living on my own, I had to evacuate. This was a year or two into college and evacuate meant I drove to the next town up and stayed with my oldest sibling. In the end, the storm wasn't a big deal, but I remember it because I had to drive across the county to pick up my mother at another sibling's house (she was visiting) because for whatever reason (*cough* favorite kid *cough*) she wanted to stay with her favorite child the oldest kid. So me, the youngest (and least favorite and least experienced driver) drove in ridiculous weather to pick up my mother from my bewildered sibling's apartment, stop at a drive thru at Mom's request (while the car rocked from the wind) and finally manage to get us back to the glorious child's my oldest sibling's house.

A couple of years later, I was a young married woman with a new puppy living on the second floor of a new-ish apartment complex in Central Florida.

And in what I assume was the Atlantic Ocean unleashing pent up energy along the lines of the Flight of the Valkyries, we had 3 direct hits from hurricanes and a couple of tropical storms. We had power and cable when most others in our area wouldn't for weeks to come, and my husband pointed out during one weather update "Hey look! There's the eye of the hurricane and we're right in the middle of it!". Not a pleasant thought. The eye of the hurricane? Calm. Everything surrounding the eye? The worst of the storm. At several points during Hurricane Charley, the glass in our windows was flexing. Ever seen your windows undulate? It's not a comforting feeling; I don't recommend it. Afterwards, our town and the surrounding, well, entire counties of homes were a sea of tarp-covered roofs. It was like a weird Oprah episode. "You get a new roof, and you get a new roof. Everybody's getting a new roof!" And quicker than Samantha could twitch her nose, most major home insurers dropped coverage for the state of Florida. 

Here's to piss-poor coverage and sky-high insurance rates.

A year later, plenty of local homes still sporting blue tarps, my husband and I went on a little weekend getaway. The good news was, we only drove a few hours away to a place along the Atlantic Coast. But while Hurricane Katrina was ravaging Louisiana, it was large enough that we drove through the outer bands and the area we were staying in basically closed down from the weather. Don't mistake that for complaining. At all. I'll take staying in a ghost town any day over being in the direct path of one of the deadliest hurricanes in history. 

Here's where I'm going with all this: hurricanes are a part of living where I live. They weaken, strengthen, wobble, completely change course. The only certainty is the local media folks are going to practically fling themselves around on trapezes while screaming "savage", "devastation", "severe", "shortages", "emergency" and "death to all". They are 10% information and 90% ratings and fear mongering. By the grace of God or just pure dumb luck, we've been okay so far. 

You monitor, collect the facts and then tune out the hype. You plan. If I stay, then what. If I go, then what. You prepare. What do we need, what needs to be done, where is the best place to put necessities? You wait. Am I donating the canned good again this year or are we going to need to use them? Is this thing still heading for us or are we getting a glancing blow? You learn. How quickly do gas stations and grocery stores resupply afterwards? Next time less lima beans and more tuna. Probably should trim the trees at the start of the season from now on. Really should get a couple plastic storage containers to keep the hurricane stuff in. Etc, etc etc. 

Now if we can have another 10+ years before the next hurricane, that'll be just peachy by me. 

I'd also like to take a moment to point out that while the relative impact on the US was less than expected (though still devastating in the coastal areas), the Caribbean bore the full strength of Hurricane Matthew. In this day and age, if you're interested in helping I implore you to do a little research before selecting a charity. Consider organizations with proven track records (particularly those who have served or currently serve the hardest hit areas) and transparency of donations. 

No Stigma, but not my finest hour

My family story is not as convoluted as I once pictured it. Sure, we're weird and have a hefty dose of things plenty of people only whisper about as part of our day to day life, but (and I mean this with all every iota of sincerity in my being) plenty of other people are royally messed up. Like, next level warped.

And regardless of how intense things can get on a daily basis when my mom is having troubles, it is what it is. My mom is an abuse survivor. She has been battling a mental illness for more than three decades. If you've been around on my blog at all, this is not news to you. But I say it, I repeat it, I state it over and over. On purpose. Because so many others will not.

So my dad and I do our best to take care of her, to get her the help she needs and do what we can. I have tried over the course of my life to come to terms with my mom's illness and history and how it has impacted my life and our relationship. And just when I think I've got a handle on it, as is often the case (at least in my experience) I uncover some unexpected wrinkle.

The other day my aunt, a woman I haven't seen in almost 20 years (unless you count social media re-posts of recipes), posted a cute picture. A sweet image about loving your sister.

And it set me the fuck off.

I fought the urge, over several days, to start some serious drama. WTF, me? Get a grip!

See, the last time my aunt and mom saw each other it was going through their mom's stuff after her funeral. There has probably been less than a handful of calls in all the time. Maybe one letter. But hey, at least there's pre-printed Christmas cards most years from her! And she comments on my social media posts regarding my mom to say hello or wish her well on her behalf.

On that sweet, sisterly post she put up, a friend of hers asked how her sister was doing. My aunt liked her comment but said nothing. At least not publicly. Nobody else between her family or 'ours' liked or commented. While I seethed, my fingers threatening to unleash venom.

I want to reply to this person and say that my aunt wouldn't know how her sister is. That her illness has ravaged her life. That my aunt can't deal with their past and more or less walked away from my mom decades ago.  That when I wrote to my mom's siblings years ago at one of mom's worst points in her illness, nothing changed.

This is wounded and protective daughter. This is the me that howls for the agony my parents have endured on their own. I want reparations for a wound that will never heal.

A wound that wasn't my aunt's fault.

My aunt is an abuse survivor, too. While I mourn the connections my parents lost over the years, families don't fracture for no reason. The strain on her over the years took a toll as well. I know bits and pieces, enough to know it's not been easy. Enough to know she probably misses my mom but doesn't know how to bridge that divide. Enough to know that when I wrote to her, detailing what I'd learned about my mom's past and their childhood, she wept. It's not fair of me to have expectations of these people I never really have gotten to know, my aunt or the other siblings. It's not fair to me or them.

It's a convenient lightening rod for my frustrations. Assign a blame or blow up at the slightest of provocations over something well-meant or at the very least not well thought through. Not my finest moment to be sure. Not my worst either.

The timing didn't help. Mom's been declining enough to make her psychiatrist concerned. As a family, we've begun discussing what may be coming next and consider what plans or arrangements we should be preparing for. I've tried over the course of a few cards to explain to my mom's siblings that Mom is declining. I gave up on the updates when all I get in response are those lovely pre-printed holiday cards. But mostly silence.

Again, these people have their demons, too. If you've tried desperately to forget hell on earth, how would you handle random reminders of that time? And my mom isn't capable of having a deep and meaningful connection with these people anymore (not that they know it). If I'm being honest, at this point trying to interact with them doesn't benefit her as far as I can tell. So the updates from me have stopped.

Maybe one day I'll get the opportunity to sit down with my aunt and talk to her. Maybe it'll be healing and cathartic. Maybe it'll be nothing of the kind. It's just as likely it won't happen. It's becoming more clear to me that there is no information I could get, no extra piece of their story, that's going to make things any better. It happened. They both are the way they are and their kids are the way we are. There are things I don't need to know. Nightmares I don't need made more real.

I'm down from seething over that post to mildly irked. For me, it represents such loss. A gigantic disconnection. And no good will come from my flying off the handle about it. I can march around with a banner about mental illness and supporting my mom all day, it doesn't mean the rest of her family is there. Or will ever be there.

Like riding a bicycle. Then falling off again.

Over the course of this week, I have tried 5 times to come up with even a short blog post.

Aside from the unexpected death of my friend, the last few weeks have been full of family health issues. Thankfully everything emerging seems to be healed.

The icing on the last few hectic and stressful health-focused weeks has to be my spiking a 102.6 fever along with crippling pain. I tossed back over the counter fever reducers and stomach meds instead of doing the sensible thing of going to an urgent care center or ER. I lived off yogurt and watered down electrolyte-dense fluids. I couldn't do the parental unit who was hospitalized any good if I was in the hospital bed next to them, but clearly I'd do no one any good if I keeled over.

The fever slowly went down, but perhaps in part of my autoimmune disorder or perhaps because I should have been given prescription medication (you know, and received medical care), a low grade one lingered. This week it seemed to finally be gone.

Until I was about to leave the house for a little writing jaunt for the first time in a long time. My husband felt my face and immediately had me take my temperature. Hello 100+ degrees.

Bollocks.

So I'm benched at the moment, watching the Chocolate Factory 2.0 and downing water. I've put off taking care of myself a little too long. I made a long overdue doctor's appointment for myself the other day, dreading the coming laundry list of expensive tests. Procedures. But it's got to be done. Life is short and people depend on me. And I'd like to feel better and enjoy life.

Here's hoping the random fever is gone by morning.

Cheesecake Tribute

Yesterday, while my husband and I were driving home from an early evening appointment, a bird hit the windshield where I was sitting. From the size of the smear, despite the bird going up and over the roof of the car after hitting the windshield, I was pretty sure the bird was no longer among the land of the living. I can't recall that ever happening before and it was jarring. My first thought was, someone might consider that an omen.

Specifically, my friend of more than a decade Micki* would. (*as ever, I do not use real names in my posts). Micki is a deeply religious and spiritual person. She would see signs of spirit, of deceased loved ones, of evil, and so on depending on what was going on in her life. When we worked together, which is how we first met, I recall her driving us to a meeting and her taking note of the sudden appearance of crows near the vehicle. That was probably my first introduction to how seriously she took signs.

Early this afternoon her husband, also a friend, contacted me to let me know she had passed away.

I felt dumbstruck. Sideswiped. Bereft. Omen, coincidence or a goodbye message, it's up to you.

Micki was less than a decade older than me but she had battled serious illness all her life. She was given weeks (or less) to live at least a handful of times over the course of her life and each time beat odds that defied science. She was, quite simply, amazing. Bright and joyful, devout and someone who took no shit from anyone. I don't believe I ever swore in front of her, because that was just something you didn't do in her presence.

I loved her like the older sister I never had. She guided and taught me about so much, especially as I was only a few years into marriage. I was terribly afraid of disappointing her, of not living up to her exceptionally high moral standards - something of a private bit of contention I kept to myself. As amazing as she was, we did not agree on certain, shall we say human rights issues that tend to go hand in hand with being a woman raised in the deep South in a religious family. We had plenty in common though. Devotion to our family. Infertility struggles. A deep need to help others. My husband and I spent a fair share of evenings with Micki & her husband hanging out, playing games, watching sports, going out to eat.

Each of us moved and slowly communication became less regular. She was not a big technology person, so when she joined social media (long after her husband had and reconnected with my husband and I) it was nice to have that easy checking in process again.

I sat with her husband during one of her many surgeries ages ago at a specialty hospital she'd had to travel to. I learned from her that red wine is supposed to help settle the stomach, but as she didn't drink, her doctor told her grape juice can help too. When Leslie Jones screamed "The devil is a liar!" in Ghostbusters this summer, it was Micki's face I saw belting that out while playing cards with us when her husband won.

My first thought when I found out she died, outside of the shock and knee buckling, was how much safer I should feel now that she's looking after everyone now. My second thought was how dim the world felt without her in it. I cried.

Later, after I had compartmentalized the grief and was left numb to go run needed errands, I was struck by the idea of cheesecake covered in strawberries - our go-to treat to get us through a hellish week at work. So much so I printed a picture of a piece and pinned it over her desk. So one day very soon, I'm going to treat myself to a piece of cheesecake in her honor and appreciate how much better my world was for having known her.

Echoes of wedding bells

About a thousand and a half eons ago, I got married.
There were witnesses and officially signed paperwork. Vows and rings were exchanged. There was even a (surprise) bouquet of roses gifted to me by the groom.

Aside from a technical ceremony in a government office, there wasn't what most people consider a wedding. My dress was a sundress purchased at the last minute at a closeout store in bright spring colors. The groom wore his best button up long sleeve plaid shirt. Our rings were some kind of silver that my skin had a reaction to within days of wearing. There was no reception aside from 2 of my friends grabbing lunch with us at our favorite mom & pop tex-mex place. My husband's best friend at the time didn't even bother to take off work from the bowling alley to show up. And our wedding night dinner? Fast food drive thru on the way to a hotel we maxed out our credit cards to stay in for a few nights. We were so freaking young and naive. It blows my mind now.

We didn't have two dimes to rub together. None of our families approved. And contrary to the catty rumor mill, I was not knocked up. Even if my folks had been pleased, they certainly couldn't afford to spring for the wedding of my dreams. Or even a barefoot backyard one. We (my hubby and I) were, in fact, a gnat's ass hair away from being homeless upon our return from the mini-honeymoon. By the grace of no less than 2 deceased grandparents and a slew of guardian angels pushed to their limits, we managed to pool enough resources to split an apartment with a friend and sleep on a mattress on the floor in the apt that night. The ink on our lease probably wasn't even dry. Eventually and begrudgingly, each side of parents contributed the odd bed frame, love seat and cooking implements. Years later when I happily purchased a matched set of silverware (without plastic handles), an in-law of mine pointed out that if I'd had a real wedding and registered at a store I could have had something that nice sooner.

With love and support like that, how surprised are we really that I eloped?

Here's where we get back to this horrific, first world problem. I dreamed of a poofy dress, the perfect cake, all of it, most of my life. Not because I needed a man. Not to fulfill some expectation of female excess. No, because I wanted the big party and the big dress with the right guy. I wanted a celebration - good food, good music, a good time. I didn't expect my parents to get a second and third mortgage - I'd been in and gone to weddings that were paid for that way. All divorced now, FYI.

After the thrill of being married!! settled into domestic life, I resolved that someday we'd renew our vows. In a pretty, fluffy dress. You know, for me. Hubby's got a nice suit or two that work just fine. Anniversaries 5 & 10, solid numbers for renewals in my mind, came and went. Life happened. There were no babies to pass on a beautiful wedding dress to. Our social circle narrowed. I eyed a little 20-seater chapel that was part of a larger church. Did I mention I've never gone cake tasting? No top tier ever sat in my freezer for the next anniversary.

My husband, as I honestly would expect, is ambivalent about the whole idea. He's not the guy who tears up with joy. If I were to make this happen, it's up to me.

I don't even think the majority of my siblings would attend. That alone cuts out almost half the guest list. And I was in all their weddings. I even helped prep, cook and clean up for one of them.

My parents aren't getting any younger. It is a very real possibility my mom wouldn't even be able to attend something like that given her current rate of decline.

But I realize it's still on my bucket list. I still want the dress. And the cake. And all 8 guests to hang out afterwards. I still want that one glorious party. To tip the hat to 2 young kids fresh out of college who didn't know what the hell they were getting into. And amazingly enough still have a lot of fun (and eye rolling) together.

Impostor Syndrome - Artist level

One of the wonders of the internet, if you're the kind of person who dodges comment section vitriol, 'guaranteed' home remedies, click bait and the like, is stumbling across pockets of information or like-minded squirrelly folks who enlighten you about things you'd otherwise dare not speak. Or, you know, just not have a name for.

For instance, a month or two ago I came across someone who introduced me to the term "ghosting". It's where people suddenly drop any and all contact with you, avoiding you even, with no warning or explanation. I'm familiar with this situation from a number of experiences, mostly though when I stop enabling users to suck all the goodie out of me so they drop me like a bad habit in search of their next lackey. In reality, when I'm not in a catty mood about it, it's when someone I thought I was close to suddenly can't handle a mature, mutually respectful relationship so they push me away. And then usually lament, on social media, of some mysterious loss in their life they don't understand. I've hit the point in my life I don't chase them down and help figure things out. If I don't have to help bathe, clothe or feed ya, I don't need to respond to your drama.

On a more personally applicable level, an ah-ha moment came for me when I read about impostor syndrome (or phenomenon). Essentially, a person believes that she or he is less capable, intelligent, successful than the rest of the world perceives them.

Holy shitballs, you mean other people feel that way, too?!

Curious to see where you score on a questionnaire designed by one of the psychologists who coined the phrase?  Impostor Phenomenon Questionnaire  I came across this while doing a bit of research for this post, so it didn't factor in how I viewed this IP (impostor phenomenon) relating to me. I'm only slightly amazed that I aced the hell out of this test! Like broke the curve on that bad boy.

Let's move forward a bit from the realization that there is in fact a name for this soul crushing paranoia. That it's a little more than just a lack of self esteem or insecurities. And let's move on to the double jeopardy round.

So one of the coolest things to come out of the last few years is leaving my comfort zone, going out into the world and making some new friends. Friends who actually share my interests and expand my horizons. Creative types.

What does that have to do with IP you may be wondering? Because they are crazy, amazing talented. Drop a house on me and knock my shoes off potential. In short, they are annoyingly fantastic in their chosen areas of the written word.

Their book suggestions? Leaps and bounds ahead of the pure entertainment tomes I reach for most often. My TBR pile has grown exponentially to impossible proportions since meeting them. And music? Pardon me while I hide my pop predilections, my reverie for hard rock, my... well, you get the picture. Don't even get me started on the quality, content and volume of movies between us.

I take a little crap, completely good natured, for the way I brush off even the mildest complement about my writing from them. Because I cannot believe pity or scorn is not wrapped firmly around the kindness. Don't they know?! Don't they know that I'm still a 13 year old nerd with buck teeth and glasses, hiding in the downstairs spare room writing fan fiction?! Before that was cool, before there were forums and sites and people who parlayed it into a million-dollar writing career. When are they going to finally rip off the veil and reveal my impostor-dom?

Whew.

Aside from shedding an uncomfortable light on this particular shade of personal anxiety, it's my intent and hope that this topic helps someone else. I'm really big about wanting people to know they aren't alone. When someone shares something, I try to converse with them in such a way that it shows they aren't alone in going through it. NOT to take away their feelings or invalidate their experience, but so that it doesn't foster that sense of isolation. "Hey, me too!" has a ridiculous amount of healing power.

And hopefully it deflects from them noticing I'm an impostor.

On another note, last month marked the 1 year anniversary of this blog. Quality of content and rambling aside, I'm impressed I've kept it going for a whole year.

Annual Rite of Passage

In the not too distant future, I will officially turn another year older.

And historically, this is how I feel about my birthday:

It's not about the uptick in my age, although that number's starting to make me twitch just a little.

While I secretly wouldn't mind some kind of fuss, I am deeply embarrassed by the attention and feel undeserving. When someone is kind to me, I vacillate between wanting to gush like a goober and averting my eyes and turning seven shades of please-let-the-floor-eat-me red. There's a few other issues when it comes to my birthday, like my mom people who have a compulsive need to make it about them.

And that boys and girls, aside from truly being a first world problem, is a personal thing I've got to get a handle on.

So much in the same way I'm trying to figure out who I am (and to borrow from and paraphrase my favorite cousin) how to get my head screwed back on again, I'm working on making this birthday thing comfortable for me. Whatever that means. No gifts? No cake? No candles? No special dinner everyone but me complains about?

I don't know.

And I'm not worried about it one bit. For a refreshing change. I'll figure it out as I go.

*party may mean read a book and eat a bagel w/cream cheese.