Cool Cherry Cream

I wish I blogged with more regularity. I miss every day blogging. I miss Blogathon. That was a great experience. I’d love to just write for 24 hours straight again, but I can’t do it alone. I’ve written this before, what am I doing? (Funnily enough, I checked the Blogathon site and they apparently did it this year — a few days ago. Their RSS feed address changed, so I didn’t get the news, dangit).

Stressful times. My parents are renovating the kitchen, so we’ve been in various stages of having a gaping hole in the back of our house on and off the past few weeks. Basically, the whole back wall and ceiling were taken –

Okay, you know what? Jesus! I am not a fan of my new laptop. It freezes up so much, and I’m just using Firefox. The left shift key is much too fucking small — and for what? A duplicate |\ key! My pinky is working overtime here. I also hate that the keyboard is in French. I mean, it’s in English, but under “caps lock” it also says “verr. maj.”! And there are all these little extra blue symbols that I can’t actually access and it just takes away from the simplicity of it! And I like that there’s a number pad, which was one of my only requirements, but I keep hitting it trying to use the arrow keys — which are much too small now! And I have to use the function button to access the volume control? What?! And the delete key is somewhere in the middle, not the top right like I’m used to. Did I mention my pinky?!

So they took out the whole back wall and ceiling to get rid of the giant windows and skylights — which I quite liked in the first place because it made the kitchen so nice and bright and friendly and it was kind of like I could go outside without actually doing so. Anyway, it looks like now the frame is up and the rain (which is all we bloody have lately!) doesn’t get in, and the outside is mostly done, except it needs to be stained. The inside, however, is just boards and gross. Needs insulation and drywall just, I guess. Anyway, the first day, when my dad was up on the roof hammering out the glass windows, I was kind of freaking out and had to take one of my anxiety pills, which is not actually a pill but a dissolvable little… thing. I haven’t had a freak out sad-for-no-reason moment for quite some time now. The medicine seems to be working. I just feel more like me. I don’t feel weak, I don’t get hunger pangs, I’m not hungry all the time and I’m not afraid of food.

In fact, pretty much every food I see on TV now makes me go “mmm…”. That Wendy’s commercial for Asian chicken? I’ve never had that before. I’ve never had Asian food before. But my god did the look good! My parents brought some home one day and I tried it. It was good, but reaaally spicy. And then there’s those chicken wraps — I don’t know where from, Tim Horton’s? McDonald’s? Even with the tomato and lettuce shit in there — I want it.

But I should probably be weary of just biting into new foods. A few days ago, my parents were working on the house and had me helping, which I usually don’t do. First off, because I’m normally weak and therefore useless in lugging things around or holding things. Secondly, I get off because I’m “sick”.

Have I said how ashamed I am about it? Being depressed sucks! I don’t want to tell people “oh yeah, I’m suffering from depression”. It’s such a sissy thing! It’s dumb! Aggggh! But like… it’s just so dumb. What is the purpose of being depressed? Obviously, there’s no purpose. What’s the purpose of getting cancer, right? But depression is just so girly, so silly sounding. And even though I’m told depression isn’t something we can really control — it’s a medical thing, my brain isn’t producing enough seratonin or some shit like that — I still feel like it’s my fault. I’m weary of that explanation; that depression just happens, it’s a physical problem. I feel like they tell me that so I feel better about myself.

But also, I don’t feel bad about myself. I’ve never had self-esteem issues, but I’m sure people would assume I do, because I’m quiet, I’m smart, I’m a girl, with few friends. Yeah, that’s the kind of person that has self-esteem issues. But I’m like fuck-it, because I don’t care about stuff. Like. I’m not making sense. But no, I think I’m a confident person. I know I’m awesome. I don’t know if you can have self-esteem issues if you’re narcissistic.

I never even told you about the hypnotist that thought I needed to be more self confident. There’s so much missing in my blog because I haven’t been writing.

DAMN, my pinky!

Can I map that other key to mean shift? That’s a good nerdy thing for me to do. I’ll have to try. But I might not because of the whole I don’t have motivation thing.

Now then. I’m getting better. I feel normal. I’m still underweight. I’m like 93-95, thereabouts. I will be happy when I am 100 and above. Until then, I don’t like getting on the scale. When I’m totally normal, I want to be between 110 and 120, and 112 is personally where I’d really like to be because I remember being that weight for a long time. But I mean, I’d also still like to have more weight than that ideally but I’m certainly not counting on it.

Fat girls, damn, you’ve got it made. Well, not fat girls. But I mean, I just wish I was where I had as much weight as I could without being called “chubby”. That is a good weight. I wouldn’t be able to see my ribs all the time. I can’t look at my arms anymore, they’re disgusting how thin they are. I was in denial about my pants falling down and blamed it on the fact that I just don’t like to do them up. But really, they are all bigger on me, and when I walked around with my fly open before, they never fell down. And fat girls get nicer boobs. I’ve got nothing. It would be nice, you know?

Speaking of boobs, I’ve been not wearing a bra lately. Last time I bought a bra, it was the first time I ever bought a pretty bra. It’s light blue with like, I don’t know, pretty white shit designs on it. And it’s pretty. And not just white or beige. And I always said “no” to pretty bras because I was afraid you could see them through my shirt or they would get itchy or this or that. But I said what the hell and bought it and I loooooved it! I loved how I looked in it and it occurred to me I should have got the matching panties. But I just felt so awesome when I wore my pretty bra! I am a woman and I am wearing a pretty bra! I can do anything! I wore it to like all my exams and went “damn, I’m awesome!”.

But lately, it’s been sitting lonely, without any boobs or non-boobs to support. It started mainly because like I don’t wear bras on the weekends when I’m just at home anyway, because let’s face it, bras are not the most comfortable thing in the world. While I was at school, I’d take it off when classes were over and go downstairs for dinner… commando? Bramando? Fuck, I don’t know. Who cares? This is my home now. I don’t have to constrict myself for a roomful of people paying no attention to me.

And then I decided, hey, I’ve only got a COSC tutorial on Tuesday nights. Why wear a bra all day just for one hour later? So I said screw it and went braless to the COSC tutorials. One time, as I was walking down the hall to Academic South, I suddenly realized — my god, I’m not wearing a bra! But there was naught I could do about it then. And I suppose it might have been just a little empowering. Nowadays, I go out to restaurants, to the video store, wherever I want with nothing to support my little chest.

Now — is this wrong? Do normal girls do this? Have I just been watching too much “Three’s Company” which has made me think that it’s alright if people can see little bumps through your shirt? Was that just a ’60s and ’70s thing? Do women do this anymore?

And you know, if one thing, depression has made me moreso not give a shit about stuff like that.

Oh right, which brings me back to not eating foreign objects without giving it some logical thought. My dad likes to eat baloney sandwiches. So do I. My dad like to dip his baloney sandwiches in Kool-Aid (grape, preferably). I think this is insane. We were working on the house one day, and I had been asked to help. We took a lunch break and dad was having his disgusting concoction. He said to the rest of us “whoever takes a bite of this doesn’t have to do anymore work today”. My brother refused. I knew the offer was mainly intended for him, so I didn’t take it seriously, but then I thought, hey, what the heck? I walked over confidently. I took a bite — a real bite, not a nibble, a man’s bite — and quickly found the double baloney-mustard-cherry Kool Aid flavours mixed together was just too much. I ran into the kitchen and spit it into the sink — and then came along with it everything I’d eaten that day.

I think I’ve written about how popsicles come back up all foamy. Ice cream does too. It’s alarming at first, because puke isn’t usually like that, but it’s nice and soft and there’s something inherently funny about throwing up foam. And then came the large chunks of sandwich which I had just eaten, and then I could taste the cinnamon from my McDonald’s cinnamon melt breakfast. That part was gross.

The next day, I threw up again. Undigested hot dog bits, the taste of which coming up reminded me of my dad’s sandwich. My therapist (psychiatrist? I don’t know her actual title, and she’s not really “my therapist”, but just the lady at my doctor’s office who talks to me about my depression) wants me to figure out what triggers my nausea. Obviously, the first time, it was eating the sandwich — fair enough. The second time was also definitely warranted.

We’ve had our dog, Rosie, for about fourteen years. That would mean I was only five when we got her. She has been with us for pretty much my entire life.

I’m not delusional; I know it’s obvious you know what I’m going to be writing about here, but I’m going to drag it out and not really say it right out because I don’t want to.

We’ve known she’s been getting old. She has trouble hearing, maybe she can’t hear at all. Trouble seeing maybe too. No trouble smelling though, that’s for sure. She’s slow to walk around, doesn’t go upstairs anymore. Doesn’t even go up onto the couch. Sits in front of the door, doesn’t jump up and realize when someone is there, trying to open it. Yes, we know she’s getting old.

The past few days, she’s thrown up everything she’s eaten. She’s still smart as ever though — she came over to me at the couch and threw up right beside my laptop power source, which, you know, may have been inconsiderate a little, but she knew if she came to me, I’d let her outside. We’ve always had an understanding. If I was up in my room with the door closed and she wanted out, she’d come upstairs, and I’d know what to do. We got each other, she knew how to get what she wanted.

I sat outside on the porch as she went around the back yard throwing up saliva and water. I looked away when she went to the bathroom, because I know it’s rude to watch her. I petted her and explained I was going through the same thing and knew it was no fun being underweight and not being able to keep food down.

My parents took her to the vet on Friday. They said she had pancreatisis and there was really nothing they could do. We would have a few more days with her and then she would be gone. I don’t know if she was in pain yet, but it was certainly coming if she wasn’t already.

She threw up through the night and couldn’t keep anything down. My dad told me Saturday morning they’d be taking her in at 3:30 to put her down. I nodded. They did what was right; no one wanted her to be in any pain.

It doesn’t seem real to me. Neither yet does the fact that my uncle died in January. It seems like they’re just not here — not dead. I haven’t seen my other uncle all year; that doesn’t mean he’s dead. They’re just… not here. It’s different with Rosie because she is always here. I still expect to hear her stir when I come downstairs in the morning. I made myself a baloney sandwich the other day and realized I had no one to give the edges to. I still look around at the floor, expecting her to be lying there somewhere.

I wish I could hug her, just one more time.

I don’t think I could ever love another dog as much as I love her.

I feel sad and scared for my parents. They’re under so much stress right now, and stress is not good for them. With Rosie, the renovations, and my depression… my mom’s job is very uncertain right now. We’re pretty sure she has one, but the company being bought and sold and moved and this and that… it seems to be getting to an end, but there have been lots of rumours, lots of goings-on.

And last week, we woke up to find my mom’s four tires had been slashed and sugar put in the gas tank. We think it was intended for someone else who has a similar looking car; we had just parked in the wrong place that night. Still not something nice to have to deal with and pay for.

My mom keeps saying how this has been a bad year and she’ll be glad when it’s over. It did start off pretty badly, with my uncle’s death. And everything recently, of course. I don’t know what’s been bad before this, but I’m sure there’s things. My parents don’t tell me everything, and they’ve been going through a lot. It seems when bad things happen, they just keep piling on. Little things that would normally be an annoyance are cause for a breakdown.

Anyway. Life sucks, to sum it all up, I guess.