Dear Insomnia

Dear Insomnia,

Long time, no see, old buddy! 2 summers ago, you came for a visit and moved your pesky butt right in with me for over 6 months. You showed up without warning. We looked for medical reasons, psychological reasons, tried medication, etc., and there seemed to be no answers and nothing really helped. You finally packed your bags and moved out when I embarked on the most exhausting experience of my life up to that point - pregnancy.

Holy crap, I had no idea how exhausting it would be to be pregnant! Not sleeping because "OMG I AM JUST SO STRESSED OUT AND SLIGHTLY OCD!" would not fly at that juncture in my life. So, for 9 glorious months, I slept. And slept.

Now that pregnancy is over and I have my lovely daughter, I am writing to say thank you. If only I had known that you, Insomnia, were preparing me for parenthood, I would have been much more appreciative of your presence in my life.

Now, I get precious little sleep, but insomnia is not the cause. The cause now is that my kid needs something. She needs to eat or she needs a hug. Whatever. She needs me. And when she needs me, she gets me, sleep be damned.

I understand that this sleep deprivation is stressful for new mothers. Yeah, it sucks, I guess. But I think that it is freaking me out a LOT less because I got to stay up so many nights with YOU last year, Insomnia. Now, the nights I spent with you weren't any fun at all, so in that way, they were much different. I tossed and turned and watched lots of bad late night TV. I cried a LOT. I missed some work, too, before I realized that I just needed to suck it up and deal. I learned that I can function without sleep. It m ay not be as much fun, but I can get through. This has turned out to be an invaluable lesson to my new-mom self.

The nights I spend up with my baby are much more enjoyable. She doesn't usually fuss (anymore). Usually, she is just wide awake and staring up at me. Sometimes she wants to eat, so I feed her. There are worse things in life than sharing a meal in the middle of the night with someone you love. Sometimes she just needs to snuggle, like last night. On those nights, I put her in bed with me and we sleep. I sleep very lightly and very uncomfortably, listening for her breath, my arm falling asleep under her head as I stiffen all my muscles so I don't inadvertently roll over on her. It's the best thing ever.

So, thank you. Without your little visit last year, I might be getting hung up on the not sleeping thing and be all, "Woe is me! HOWEVER shall I survive without my full 8 hours?!" Since I know that I will be a-ok without all that slumber, I can enjoy all these precious moments 100% worry-free.

With appreciation,
Jess

101 Reasons I Love Scott Disick

I'll skip the apologies for not blogging. I recently read a quote on someone else's blog comments that said, "Instead of apologizing for not blogging, just delete your fucking blog." Touche.

I need to tell you all about my new hobby, because it has been a long time since someone or something entertained me this much.

Once upon a weekend, I turned on the TV to get some background noise while I showered and got ready for something or the other. I watch Chelsea Lately every night, so the TV was already on E!, and since I just turned the TV on and scooted into the bathroom, I didn't bother changing it. When I got out, "Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami" was on.

Now, I have never been a huge fan of reality TV. In most cases, I downright abhor it. Recently, however, I have warmed up to a few reality shows, mostly stuff like America's Got Talent or Last Comic Standing. "Celeb - reality" is not something I would have ever seen myself watching. But there I was, with the K's in the background, and I started picking up on little things that were going on. Then, out of nowhere I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed, half dressed, cheering Khloe on in a fight with her sister who was (at least in this case) being a massive bitch.

Normally, I would be ashamed of myself. But, after only a few episodes, a new obsession was

born, and I have NO shame about it whatsoever.

His name is Scott. Scott Disick.

Scott Disick is Kourtney Kardashian's boyfriend. He is a ridiculous human being. And I love him.

"Love" and "Scott Disick" are not things you hear in the same sentence from many people other than Kourtney. Most people hate this guy. But my stance is this: if you love to laugh, you should love this man. Plain and simple.

Here are the reasons I love Scott Disick. OK, so maybe there aren't quite 101, but they all count for more than one reason, because they are all such awesome reasons.

1. Scott Disick's sweaters

Scott Disick perpetually has a sweater draped oh-so-delicately across his dainty little shoulders. WHO DOES THAT?!?! It isn't stylish. It doesn't make him look suave. It makes him look like a douchebag, and it makes me LAUGH AND LAUGH. This, at least, I don't seem to be alone in thinking, as someone saw fit to give Scott's sweater it's own Twitter account.

2. Scott Disick's hair (see above)

Yeah, it's pretty much always slicked back like that. It makes me think of "Friends" and how Rachel's dad always gave Ross a hard time about how much product he used in his hair. "Hey, Ross, you swim here?!" Scott looks like he swims everywhere. Maybe he does. There seems to always be a pool or a beach nearby.

3. The way Scott Disick drinks water

In one episode of K&K, Scott was visited by Kris (the girls' mother). He was wearing a fluffy hotel bathrobe (which was almost a reason all it's own), and drinking a glass of water. But this was not just any glass of water. The water was chilled, but not iced, and was in a stemless wine glass. I swear I saw a lifted pinkie. During Kris' entire tearful plea that he get his act together, I couldn't stop laughing.

4. Scott Disick's Sissy Alcoholism

Nothing about alcoholism is funny. Now that we have that out in the open, leave it to this guy to make it funny. Scott is known to get wasted and make an ass of himself on a regular basis. You'd think that a guy of his timeless dignity and class would be a scotch man, or brandy even. Well, then, you'd think WRONG! What does Scott Disick drink? Here are the funniest things I have seen him get wasted on -

- Champagne

- Corona Light

- Bottles of wine stolen from Kim.

I mean, HELL. If you're going to be an alkie, at least be a man about it, you know?

5. Scott Disick's new line of self tanner

Apparently, it's like liquid sunshine. LINK

6. Scott Disick's Twitter page

Scott's Twitter page is comedy gold. It is full of replies and retweets from Scott haters with replies from the man himself. And boy does he know how to shake them off. Case in point -

"@scottdisick We all hope you fall off that roof you get drunk on"

His reply?

"Don't hate, just because your 2 poor to have a roof to jump off"

Well played, sir. Well played.

Life. Changing.

It's Friday night. This is what I am doing. I am sitting on my couch, where I have been all day, watching a Dane Cook comedy special and trying really, really, really hard not to throw up. And the feeling like I need to throw up has nothing to do with the fact that I am watching a Dane Cook comedy special. Mind you, it is also my birthday weekend.

So how did this happen? How did I wind up as such a loser? Well, it all started a few months ago, when I started having unprotected sex with my husband. You guessed it. My husband has given me that ever-so-common sexually transmitted disease commonly known as pregnancy.

In spite of how sick I am, I really am ecstatically happy about it. It's just hard to show it with one's head in the toilet.

I think that even though I am sick as a dog, it has not quite sunk in yet with me that this is for real. Instead, it is as if I have a tiny hope, burning inside like a little flame. Every so often, it comes shining through, like when I look at my office and imagine what it will look like as a nursery, or when I watch those cheesy shows on Discovery Health and cry EVERY. TIME. they hand that sweet newborn to its mother for the first time. I know that tiny flame will be fanned to full life on Monday, when I go to the doctor and hear our itty baby's heartbeat for the first time. I really and truly can't wait for that moment.

I just hope the doctor writes me a scrip for some nausea meds while I am there.

Requisite End-of-the-Year/New Year Blog Post

Back when I was but a young blogger on myspace, I LIVED for the end of the year, and waited with baited breath to compose my always-epic end-of-the year blog. I would recap the happenings of my year in as vague a way as possible to protect the innocent (or the guilty...or my pride...or because being vague in myspace blogs was cool a few years ago), and then spout some hopeful schtick about the upcoming year, all the while avoiding the word "resolution", because making resolutions was like, so uncool.

Now, as a (sort-of) grown-up, I find myself drawn to stick with the tradition, but I also find myself having to bend over backwards to find the time to write it. So, here I am, at work, where I should be working, writing my New Year's Eve blog. I hope you enjoy it, because if I get fired, you may have to buy it.

Year in review:

- I have to be totally honest. I don't remember January - April. I got married in May, you see, and that was the divisor of my year. Everything leading up to May 9, 2009 was merely planning for May 9, 2009. There is, however, one notable exception...

- Valerie's bachelorette party, where I got drunker than a skunk in a distillery. I'm not saying I had alcohol poisoning, but I am saying that a trip to the ER the next day probably wouldn't have been the worst idea ever. I wasn't merely hungover after that night, I was ill. For days and days. Couldn't eat without puking. Couldn't walk without dizziness and puking. I never knew I was capable of puking that much. I think I puked at least once on TUESDAY. The party was Saturday night. Needless to say, that night ruined drunkenness for me entirely. Now, every time I get to the point just past buzzed, I get PTSD-style flashbacks and freak my shit out, drink a gallon of water and go to sleep IMMEDIATELY, if not sooner. It's kind of bullshit.

- I got married May 9. It was the most awesome, flawless, perfect, wonderful day in the history of my life. Usually, I am a walking, talking, living, breathing example of Murphy's Law in action, so this was a HUGE win. It was ominous cloudy all day, but those clouds made it nice and cool, where early May in Texas would normally already be hot and sticky. It began to rain as we drove away from the chapel. THAT was amazing.

- Went to New Orleans on our honeymoon, which was pretty much the funnest vacation EVER. We got drunk in the street, locals bought us booze, we had ridiculous amounts of sex, and rode/ate on a boat. It doesn't get much better than that.

- We had a car wreck two days before our wedding, totaling our old car. But that brought us Howard, our faithful new sidekick. He is the Kitt to my NightRider. I love that car.

- Beau got laid off. Twice. Which led to several months of poorness mid-year and, well, now.

- I got a new job that is badass. Just the sort of badass position I have long desired.

- I was finally actually diagnosed with ADHD and started seeing a therapist, which is one of the best things I have ever done for myself, easily.

- We moved into a new place that is badass. It is old and huge and awesome. Now all it needs is furniture.

That just about sums it up. As for next year, I have been thinking about what I want for myself. I haven't come up with a whole lot, and I am not going to save this blog for later, so you only get what I have so far. Suck it up and deal.

What I Want For Myself in 2010:

- I've done a lot of getting to know myself this past year, so I definitely want to keep that up.

- In that process, I really want to evaluate what my values are, and how I can most appropriately live those out. Nobody likes a hypocrite.

- I want to get what I want out of life. I want to not do what I SHOULD more than what I really want (as long as what I want is reasonable and legal, of course).

- I want to not have to worry about money as much. Thus, save.

So there you go. That's my story. I am going to go do something very important (get lunch). You enjoy your New Year, and don't pull a me, OK? Take it easy on the booze, and by that I mean don't drink enough to kill yourself, K?

How The Grinch Stole Christmas: Family version

As I may have mentioned before, I live in a bit of a wacky situation. My husband and I, our 2 cats, and my Grandmother, all live under the same roof. I am not sure how my cats feel about it, but as of right now, I am pretty sure that I am the only one in my home with any sort of Christmas cheer.

Saturday, my church held its annual Hanging of the Greens service. It is my hands down favorite church experience of the year. Everyone gets together, sings Christmas carols, and watches fun skits. Who wouldn't love that? Well, I'll tell you who. My husband. I had almost forgotten about it when I checked my Facebook to see that our minister had updated his status with a general "excited about the Hanging of the Greens tonight..." post. I smacked myself for having forgotten, and then called Mr. The Kuh, who was out getting dinner. I told him, "I totally forgot that the Hanging of the Greens is tonight, so when you get back, we're really going to have to hustle, because it starts at 6:30. He said OK. He got back; we ate; I told him I was going to get showered. He said OK. I got out of the shower and dressed, and went into the living room to tell him that he needed to go get ready. So, he got up and got in the shower. When he came out, I was standing at the mirror doing my make-up, and he said, "So, I guess you want me to go with you?"

Let's review. When we talked while he was gone getting food, I specifically said "WE" would have to hustle, to which he replied, "OK". Then, I told him he needed to go get in the shower, and he went, without confusion. He would not have done wither of those things without question if he did not think I wanted him to go with me. Furthermore, I thought, the fact that he said OK so quickly indicates to me that HE remembered, and was hoping I wouldn't. He was willing to let me miss my one of my favorite Christmas festivities just because he didn't want to go. What a douche! I thought all this in the split second before I responded with a pissy and sarcastic, "*humph* No, I guess not."

"You know I don't like this stuff!" he says.

After a short argument and a lot of whining on his part, he ended up going, but it was ruined all the same. All I could think the whole time was how deeply I was torturing him by forcing him to go.

Then, yesterday, it came time to do the Christmas decorating. While we were putting up the tree, he bitched and whined and moaned the whole damn time. After we actually got the damn thing put together, he said he was going to go take a shower. He was gone for at least one full hour. It takes my husband approximately 10 minutes to shower. I went in the bedroom to find him tinkering with his computer, "fixing it", he said. By the time he was done "fixing his computer", I was pretty much done decorating, and he went to sleep, without the slightest offer to help me clean up.

I am pretty sure that one of the bullet points on my list of reasons to get married was "so I will never have to be alone during the holidays." But when my husband refuses to participate in holiday activities without being a massive jerk, that is just as good as being alone. And I was sure as hell alone as I placed the star atop the tree last night. And that is big fat not OK.

Medicated

I was recently diagnosed with ADHD. Well..sort of. I have suspected since I was a teenager that I had ADD (minus the H), but back then (cause it was OH SO LONG AGO) (Not really) it was a disorder for pre-pubescent, hyperactive boys, and I was none of those things. So, finally, with decent health insurance under my belt, I took my butt to a therapist and told her my woes. She agreed that my symptoms were very ADHD-like, and sent me to an actual psychiatrist to get a more firm diagnosis and meds. This guy (who I love, even though the way I am about to describe him may make him seem incompetent) basically listened to my spiel, asked me some family history questions, and prescribed me some meth. That's right ADHD peeps, if you are on ADHD meds, you are basically doing small doses of meth every day to jump start your brain. Let that sink in.

Anyhoo, this all happened this past summer. Since that initial visit, where I was prescribed Vyvanse (basically Adderall, just time-released), I was only switched to something else one time. I started having insomnia, so to be on the safe side, he put me on the milder, non-time-release Ritalin, which was definitely milder, but did nothing for me at all. Now, I am back to Vyvanse, which I have to say, I have a love-hate relationship with.

Things I love about Vyvanse:
- I can focus like a motherfucker.
- I get to make snarky comments about my own mental condition. For example, (though this was Ritalin and not Vyvanse, the same concept applies) "Ritalin and Dr. Pepper. God bless America."

Things I dislike about Vyvanse:
- I can't remember the last time I had a Vyvanse day where I actually felt hungry. I guess I get little "kinda-hungry" moments, but for the most part, my stomach feels like an empty pit in which I have no desire to put anything. Typically, when I get that "kinda" feeling, I eat, and feel full after the first few bites, but continue to eat until I get bored with it. Which doesn't take long. I am FOCUSED! I have shit to do!

- I can't remember the last time the inside of my mouth felt normal. Vyvanse gives you wicked dry mouth, so I am constantly thirsty. Or I feel thirsty, anyway. That, combined with the bitter taste that my sleeping pill leaves in my mouth, makes for bad news, because when I drink water to help alleviate the dryness, I taste the bitterness, and it makes my water taste like ass. Dr. Pepper works, but that, as you know, is a vicious cycle, because the caffeine eventually just makes the dryness worse. Round and round and round we go.

- I missed almost three periods between this summer and a few weeks ago, and though the doctor said he has never heard of meds causing that, I blame them 110%.

- Sometimes, in the morning, I can't seem to shut up, which I am sure drives my coworkers absolutely bonkers.

Anyway. There is my random musings on being a Medicated American; a MA, if you will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go throw out the rest of the soup I got bored with eating, and smoke a cigarette. Cigarettes and Vyvanse. God bless America.

I Am Loved

*I started this blog weeks ago. I haven't had the strength to finish it until now.*

A movie I once watched had a wonderful quote that I think of often. It said something to the effect of, "That's all life is, really, just a string of big days, with a bunch of meaningless ones in between." Or something like that. One of those big days got me here, to this place where I have found a cause for which to devote myself, because this day was one of the worst days of my life.

I was a sophomore in high school, and it was a Monday like any other. I got up. I took the bus to school. I arrived and went to the corner where I hung out with my "new" friends. My old ones hung out by the hangar (yes, my high school had an airplane hangar), and I always felt slightly guilty when I passed it by in the mornings in favor of newer faces and newer personalities and attitudes. I hadn't been there long when I saw a few of my old friends approaching from outside. I was happy to see them, happy that they had decided to take time out of their morning to come see me, even if it shamed me a bit to know that this meant they cared more about me than I did about them.

When they walked in, however, I could see immediately from their swollen eyes that they were not there for a pleasure visit. I knew there was bad news. My best friend from middle school was not with them. It was her sister and someone else (I can't remember who), and I initially thought something had happened to her. I asked if something had happened to her. They said no, but my relief was very short lived. I can't remember them dawdling or beating around the bush. I remember them telling me point blank that our friend, Robert, had shot himself over the weekend. He had gone out into a field (I can't remember whether it was Friday or Saturday night) and shot himself in the head. He was alive, just barely, in the hospital.

I remember that the world turned itself over. It literally felt like that, physically. I don't know how else to describe it except that every thing felt completely upside down. My friends were standing in front of me, and they reached out for me, but I couldn't move toward them. I could only move backwards. I just wanted to get away. I backed further and further, with my hands clasped over my mouth, my eyes welling with tears, silent gasps and sobs escaping my lips. I backed until I could back no further. I was backed into a corner, and I slid, sobbing, down those godawful floor to ceiling windows, until I was in a heap on the floor. Somehow, they got me up. Somehow I made my way back over to where they all were, numb and quiet. Somehow, a bell rang, and we slowly made our way to classes. The world, albeit upside down, continued to turn, and I still had to be in Horticulture.

My Horticulture teacher was my favorite teacher, and he pulled us one by one into his office to give us our progress reports. He gave me mine, and I promptly burst into tears. He started to comfort me, to tell me that it was just one bad grade, that I could make it up. I shook my head, and told him the news I had heard that morning. I remember that he hugged me. He probably wasn't supposed to, but I was so thankful, am still so thankful, for that hug.

The week passed at a slow crawl. I couldn't be anywhere. I skipped most of my classes. I couldn't bear to sit still long enough to think about him. The only way that I could survive was to keep moving, and to tell myself that somehow, he would be OK. I know, in retrospect, how completely irrational that was. People don't just recover, unscathed, from gunshot wounds to the head. But I had myself completely convinced that he was going to be a-OK; that he'd wake up from his coma anytime now, and be terribly sorry that he had worried us all so much. My Pollyanna-esque attitude was impossible for one of my friends to deal with. My coping mechanism was optimism. Hers was anger. And she was sure as hell angry at my optimism, and didn't mind informing me that all we were doing was waiting around for him to die.

One morning late in the week, my Horticulture teacher called me into his office. He told me that Robert had died the night before. They were going to announce it, he said, over the PA, but he didn't want me to hear it that way. He hugged me while I cried, again, and again I was, and remain, thankful. He wrote me a pass to the counselor's office, where I thought I would be united with my friends. Instead, I was ushered into a large room with a large table and two counselors who informed me that I couldn't go to the same counseling group my friends had been in all week. It would interrupt their progress, or something. I said nothing to them, choosing to silently cry, and give them nothing, since they would give me nothing. One of them proceeded to tell me that "you can talk to me, you know. We're not just here to make schedules and help with college applications." I resented her (and still resent her) for using my grief as an avenue for expressing TO ME, a grieving teenager, her frustration with her job. They left me alone in the room. The principal made the announcement over the PA system. I listened and cried all alone. Another friend of mine, and ex-girlfriend of Robert's, came in later with the two evil counselors, and she asked me what happened, as if she didn't know. It was so strange. It was as if she had forgotten the last few days had happened. All she could say, over and over, was, "He used to be my boyfriend. He used to be my boyfriend."

That day, I went to my classes, only because I had been to the counselor's office and someone knew I was at school. Skipping was too risky. I heard the terrible things other kids said about my friend. "Why is it always crazy white kids that do stuff like this?" "Well, at least he only killed himself instead of shooting up the school."

In the days that passed between Robert's death and his funeral, I thought about him constantly. I thought about the days the year before, when he was the first person I would see in the mornings. He was always the first one at school, and I was always the 2nd. I would walk in and find him sitting cross-legged in front of the stairs in his jean jacket, with his big black duffel bag. He would smile at me, and I would sit next to him, and we would get to talk for a while until the next person showed up. I thought about how I never treasured those moments enough.

I thought about the time our friend had her birthday party at the roller skating rink. I remembered us all being out on the rink, everyone joining hands in one long, fast, spinning line. I remembered him being at the end and reaching out for me. To this day, when I think of him, this is how I remember him...skating, smiling, and reaching out to me.

I thought about the last time I saw him, as I was leaving school the Friday before it happened. I remembered how I thought at the time he looked sad. What if I had stopped? What if I had asked what was wrong? What if I had stopped for 2 seconds caring if I missed my bus or if my friends were leaving me and took an interest? Maybe things would have been different. I know now they would not have been. At 16, I was not equipped to give the kind of help that would have prevented Robert from taking his own life. I am not now, at 27. I know that self-blame is common in those who survive victims of suicide. I know, but knowing doesn't stop the wondering.

My friend, Querida, and I went to the funeral together. I remember that it was far away. Her mother drove us, and we held hands all the way there. The funeral home was packed when we got there, and she and I stood against a side wall for the whole service. All I remember about it was that the music seemed wrong. He would have hated it. At the end, we all walked down the center aisle to look at him, and there he lay, in his jean jacket. There was a button pinned to it that said, "I Am Loved." I didn't even remember that until right this very moment. It is an almost overwhelming memory.

"I Am Loved".

I don't know if Robert knew he was loved. But he must have felt alone. He was depressed, and he had no outlet for that. Depression wasn't something we knew about to any serious degree. To us, depression was how we felt after a boyfriend broke up with us, not a serious condition needing medical treatment. If we did know that, we certainly didn't know that it was OK, that we could talk about it. That we could ask for help. That we could get better.

What if he had known? What if all of us had known?

The cause I mentioned in the beginning is To Write Love On Her Arms. To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.

Here is the vision. I thought about condensing, since this post is already so long, but I can't. It needs to be read as a whole.

The vision is that we actually believe these things…

You were created to love and be loved. You were meant to live life in relationship with other people, to know and be known. You need to know that your story is important and that you're part of a bigger story. You need to know that your life matters.

We live in a difficult world, a broken world. My friend Byron is very smart - he says that life is hard for most people most of the time. We believe that everyone can relate to pain, that all of us live with questions, and all of us get stuck in moments. You need to know that you're not alone in the places you feel stuck.

We all wake to the human condition. We wake to mystery and beauty but also to tragedy and loss. Millions of people live with problems of pain. Millions of homes are filled with questions – moments and seasons and cycles that come as thieves and aim to stay. We know that pain is very real. It is our privilege to suggest that hope is real, and that help is real.

You need to know that rescue is possible, that freedom is possible, that God is still in the business of redemption. We're seeing it happen. We're seeing lives change as people get the help they need. People sitting across from a counselor for the first time. People stepping into treatment. In desperate moments, people calling a suicide hotline. We know that the first step to recovery is the hardest to take. We want to say here that it's worth it, that your life is worth fighting for, that it's possible to change.

Beyond treatment, we believe that community is essential, that people need other people, that we were never meant to do life alone.

The vision is that community and hope and help would replace secrets and silence.

The vision is people putting down guns and blades and bottles.

The vision is that we can reduce the suicide rate in America and around the world.

The vision is that we would learn what it means to love our friends, and that we would love ourselves enough to get the help we need.

The vision is better endings. The vision is the restoration of broken families and broken relationships. The vision is people finding life, finding freedom, finding love. The vision is graduation, a Super Bowl, a wedding, a child, a sunrise. The vision is people becoming incredible parents, people breaking cycles, making change.

The vision is the possibility that your best days are ahead.

The vision is the possibility that we're more loved than we'll ever know.

The vision is hope, and hope is real.

You are not alone, and this is not the end of your story.

If you want to help, become a fan of TWLOHA on Facebook, friend on myspace, follow on Twitter, and/or just visit the website at www.twloha.com. One of the best ways to help is to buy a t-shirt. They get a LOT of their funding from t-shirt sales. You get a rad t-shirt, and you do a good deed.

Thank you for reading my purge 10 years in the making. Tell someone you love them today.


♥