Back against wall
Perfume bottle thrown
Fist on face
Tears down neck
Police not called
Back against wall
Perfume bottle thrown
Fist on face
Tears down neck
Police not called
I made meatballs today. Homemade, real Italian, authentic meatballs.
I felt nostalgic like I always do when I make meatballs.
It’s a really long process for me. I have to take my time, getting all the different ingredients, lining them up on our dining room table. setting out the mixing bowl, the cutting board, the pan for the cooking. Double check to make sure I have everything I need.
And then I rest. Today I laid down and watched a TV episode while I recuperated from my meatball setup.
Then I start the meatballs. Chopping the onions, cracking the eggs, smashing the meat together with the herbs, garlic and breadcrumbs. This is a long process. It usually takes an hour before I’m even ready to roll them up in my hands.
I don’t know why meatballs make me feel nostalgic. I have no memory of eating them when I was a child. My mother didn’t keep me by her side in the kitchen while she handed down her family recipe. Or at least not that I remember. I have no recollection at all of when or where I actually learned how to make meatballs. My mother, while a great cook, did not teach me her skills. I mostly taught myself.
My mother is Italian. Or as close to Italian as a 3rd generation American can get now a days I guess. My great grandmother came over here from Italy. My mother was raised in an all Italian town in Upstate New York. She’d never seen a taco until she met my dad and he whisked her away to the various military bases he was assigned to.
So I feel very Italian even though I barely qualify as such. Food has always held a cherished place in my heart. Especially Italian food. And especially meatballs.
There’s just something about the aroma and rolling every individual meatball and simmering them in the sauce until your whole house smells heavenly, that makes me feel peaceful.
At least it usually does. Today it almost worked. Today I almost found my meatball heaven. But I was so tired. I had to stop and rest more times than I usually do. And when I got to the simmering part, something insignificant happened that made me mad and I started drinking. I’ve been doing that lately. Drinking to avoid being uncomfortable. In the end, dinner was great. The effort was monumental but I am quite a good cook when I can remember how to be.
But my shimmering meatball heaven never materialized. Sometimes I feel like nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.
I worked full time with rarely a vacation or a day off for 10 years and 2 months. I started my senior year of high school and stopped when I was laid off from my job in 2009.
I started at a restaurant and rose through the ranks to become a manager by the time I was 19. That turned into regional training manager by the time I was 20. I was good at management. I learned quickly, delegated well and had an innate knack for efficiency and creating systems.
Because I progressed so fast (and to be frank, made such good money) and had never really been expected to go to college, I didn’t. I just kept working, thinking because I was doing well for myself now, there was no reason I wouldn’t continue doing well for the rest of my life.
I switched companies and turned that restaurant management job into other management jobs, such as office, loan, and business management. I was very successful and worked hard. If I wanted a job, I tended to get it.
I was Assistant Operation Manager at a very large food manufacturer when I was 27 in 2009. I had just had my first daughter and had been back from maternity leave (the longest I hadn’t worked since the summer before my senior year of high school) for two months. My husband and I had just gotten married the Sunday before when on Tuesday, my boss informed me that I was laid off.
Due to the recent economic crash and the beginning of the recession, company wide lay offs were happening. They had discovered while I was on maternity leave that a cheaper employee could do some of my job while the operations manager would absorb the rest. They also decided that a my job paid too much for someone without a college degree.
That last problem would haunt me for the next several years. After I was laid off, I immediately began to look for a new job. I’d never been out of work before. I brushed up my resume and submitted it all sorts of places. But most every job I applied for, they wanted a college degree. And most of the other applicants had one. I didn’t.
In one year, I had 2 interviews. The first one, I didn’t hear back from afterward. But 9 months after being laid off, I accepted a very part time job as an assistant Bed and Breakfast Manager. It mostly consisted of a few hours a week helping the husband and wife run the B&B and then covering for them on the random weekend off and for their big summer vacation. It was a good job and I was thankful for it but that was the best I could do after almost an entire year of endlessly applying for jobs. That’s just what it was like here in the late aughts. Hardly any jobs for anybody.
I had started to notice after my daughter was born that I wasn’t quite the same as before. My quick mind wasn’t quite as quick and I was so tired.
I attributed these things to being a new mom and not having a job to stimulate and motivate me.
After my employers vacation came and went, and after having some inspiring talks with my female boss, I decided to go back to school. And due to the short time frame, the availability of government grants and a previously subdued life long passion for doing amateur hair and makeup, I decided to go to cosmetology school.
In order to afford school and rent, I used the grant, some student loans and almost all of my husbands inheritance from his grandmother. This didn’t seem risky at the time because I was ambitious, motivated, and had decided on a field with unlimited potential. I was going to do big things. And I’d be able to pay him back.
Hind sight being what it is, that’s a risk we shouldn’t have taken. I didn’t know what the future was to hold.
I’d begun going to the doctor to figure out what wasn’t quite right with me but I was doing okay. I was working my ass off in school and was understandably worn out from it.
I was the top student in the school. Perfect grades, perfect attendance. I participated in every extra curricular. I was in school for only 4 months when I participated and won a competition against the best (and most senior) students in the school. I won trips to a Long Beach hair expo (where I met several hair stylists in the big leagues and was personally invited to apply at a prodigious hair salon in NYC) and a trip to a Chicago hair training course. After my 5th month in school I was chosen by the head of the school to do her very picky mother in laws hair. In my 6th month I was picked as one of two students to assist doing hair and makeup at the Sundance Film Festival. I was not your run of the mill beauty school student. I was already going places. And of course, I expected things to keep going my way. What could go wrong.
With 2 months to go, 2 job offers already under my belt (1 at the school owners salon, the other to teach at the school myself after graduation), and a trip to NYC for job interviews planned for after graduation, I had a breakdown. I couldn’t get out of bed due to pain and lightheadedness, I’d pulled out all of my eyelashes and was picking holes in my skin, I was having blinding headaches, and was completely miserable. I had to take a break from school. I didn’t go back for 6 weeks. I spent most of that time collecting diagnoses and possible diagnoses from a lot of different doctors. Some of those labels I still have. Fibromyalgia, Narcolepsy, Chronic Migraines. Some luckily didn’t come to fruition. Multiple Sclerosis, Lupus, and a few other autoimmune disorders. I started treatment and went back to school.
But nothing was the same. I made mistakes I never made before. My grades dropped. My attendance was spotty. The head of the schools mother in law was transferred to someone else. I had a hard time standing up for my appointments and the head of the school started letting me take breaks when I needed to. She had lupus and because we had history and she liked me, she helped me finish up my schooling so I could graduate. Concessions were made for me and I was lucky. I graduated in December of 2011.
I haven’t worked since. I had to decline the job offers because I just kept getting worse. Not long after I applied for federal disability because I needed to support my family somehow. It was an 18 month long process that thankfully ended with approval almost 4 years ago.
To be frank, that was the easy part (and it wasn’t easy at all). The harder part was not working. And being okay with not working. Luckily I loved being a parent and my daughter was a fun toddler so I spent most of my days focused on her. And then my son was born and I got to do the same with him. They were wonderful distractions. It was almost as if it wasn’t that I “couldn’t” work but that I was staying at home with my children instead. Almost.
My daughter is 8 now. My son turns 4 in 3 months. We’re done with the night time feedings, the several naps a day. They don’t take up all of my time like they use to.
I’ve been not dealing with that for a while now. The last 6 months have been some of the worst I’ve had in a decade. I have been writing this blog as an outlet for my mental health. But I’ve also been writing a screenplay. That in itself is it’s own story. And during that time there’s been a hint of something floating around in my head.
Writing this screenplay isn’t just something to do.
It’s the only thing I can do.
I have nothing to offer anymore. I can’t stand or sit. I can’t perform motor functions proficiently. I can’t concentrate consistently or reliably.
Everyone once in a while, I can write. And that’s the only thing I can do anymore to support my family other than being sick.
So for me writing isn’t a hobby. It’s not even a prospective career. It’s a desperation. It’s all I have left of the once motivated, ambitious, successful over achiever I used to be.
It’s me grasping for any semblance of mattering, or participating in a life outside of my home and my family (who I love unconditionally).
There was one line he wrote. It hit too close to home.
“Housewife with medical problems. Self obsessed with you not pulling your own weight.”
He was correct. He was a dick but he was correct.
I’m not sure there is anything I can do about it other than what I’m doing. I’m living my life every day just like I was before. Only now, I’m taking the words out of my head and putting them somewhere else in the hopes that someday they may help me change my life.
Does that make me pathetic? I don’t think so. He can be accurate with out being right. I can be those things without them being an insult. I’m doing the best I can and still trying to make my life better. I think those things are virtuous struggles. And I’m not going to be shamed by them.
I am still bothered by the incident I posted about yesterday.
One of the biggest reasons I avoid confrontation is because it haunts me for so long. There’s that phrase thin skinned. I am the epitome of thin skinned but not in the way it’s usually meant. I can take criticism and insults and have been through a surprising amount of shit in my life and I can handle it all.
The reason I don’t handle confrontation and the backdraft of confrontation is because I’m too nice. Not on purpose. I’m just built this way.
I’m quick to get over my anger. I’m quick to forgive others. I can’t hold grudges. (except for extreme and rare circumstances) .
So what I’m left with after a confrontation like I had the other day is forgiveness and understanding for the other person. And shame, frustration, embarrassment and derision for myself.
I could have done better. I could have avoided the argument. I didn’t have to escalate or react and having done so was childish and immature. The other persons behavior is justifiable based on any number of excuses that my empathetic nature can come up with. My behavior, because I have a front row view and absolute knowledge of my thoughts and actions, is inexcusable.
I can forgive everyone but myself.
For the last 36 days, my life has been kind of a mess. I’ve had a flicker of inspiration that I tried to keep alive. When I had words, I pored them all into my screenplay. I was sick a lot and there were many days that I had no words at all. I’ve watched a lot of TV and movies in the last month. When I was tired and empty but felt productive I focused on my other creative outlet, crochet. Yes, I’m 35 and I crochet. I’ve been making a grannie square afghan for over a year and I’m a few rows from being finished. That at least gave me a sense of accomplishment. The last thing that has filled my days has been trying to find a new home for my family. It’s been very hard and very discouraging. There might be places in the U.S. where I can get a two bedroom apartment (we should really have a 3 bedroom, one for each kid) in a good school zone for $800 a month but it’s certainly not anywhere in fucking Utah. We’re planning on leaving Utah soon but can’t yet. More on that another day.
So it’s been a rough month. I have been sick a lot. There have been more days than I can count that I didn’t get out of bed. My pain has been terrible, I’ve been exhausted without relief and mostly in despair with small glimpses of hope and at the very most, okayness. Once in a while I would have days that weren’t just complete shit.
At the end of May, I’d done so much work on my screenplay that it stood at 90 pages. It’s almost done. But there was still some stuff missing and no matter what angle I looked at it, I couldn’t figure out what it was. So I turned to my editor.
I have been angry all day today.
I can’t say I didn’t have some reason to wake up angry. Waking up moist from your son sleeping with you in a very wet diaper because your husband didn’t change him before bed, would probably make anyone a bit testy. I mean it’s pretty gross and really uncomfortable. But it usually doesn’t bother me for very long. So that’s not why.
I have never been a very angry person. I’m more, temperamentally, what you’d call chill, or easy going. I went 28 years without ever saying the words “I am mad”. I will admit, for a very long time I was non-confrontational but a big part of the reason why was because I don’t get mad very often.
I’m feeling panicky today.
Not so much anxious as restless.
If I’m sitting, I should be standing. If I’m laying down, I should be walking around. If I’m watching a TV show, I need to be doing something else too. If I’m not doing anything, I should be writing.
It’s not anxiety it’s fear of missing out induced panic.