Ring Ding in the New Year.

It begins in 73 hours and 48 minutes. For about the fiftieth time in my life I will be starting a diet, a classic resolution. Happy New Year to me!

They say that referring to a weight loss endeavor as a "diet" can hurt motivation since the word "diet" is always so poorly received. Please. Everyone knows that any means of weight loss is a diet, and any diet sucks... HARD. Of course in my case, food is an emotional crutch. Not only am I going to have my cookies taken away, I'm going to cry about it. This tweaks the suck meter considerably.

My motivation? Smaller pants. I realize how sad this appears, but the instant gratification of going into a store and being able to pick progressively smaller sizes from the rack makes my mouth water. I continue to suffer under the delusion that smaller pants will cure my emotional and behavioral ills as well. Of course the health benefits of it all are just the icing on the cake. At this point I'd rather clean up the rubble than dwell on the cause of the fire.

So, Happy New Year to you all. Wish me luck because I'm sure going to need it.

While the rest of the world counts down from 10 with Dick Clark and sings that song they don't know the words to, I will be cramming a Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pie into my mouth. I might even attempt two if I can fit them both without choking.

What a beautiful animal...  

Countin my chickens...

I went to visit a client today at 10:00AM. I do Child Protective work for the State. This was not a "sit down and have coffee" kind of visit. On days like today I thank God that I'm not a rookie. During the first year or so it typically takes every ounce of emotional wherewithal to accomplish a visit like this. I have none of that today. None.

I had a hard time finding the apartment. Like many apartment complexes in Augusta there are many poorly numbered buildings that all look exactly the same. I finally found the right building and the hallway smelled like cigarettes and urine. I was getting frustrated until I saw two women standing by the window at the end of the hall...thought I might ask for their assistance in navigation.

Both women were in their pajamas. Both women were smoking a cigarette and the woman wearing the teddy bear nightshirt was drinking a beer. Sitting next to them on the floor was a baby girl. After I asked, they cordially directed me to the correct apartment. I instantly judged these people, not remembering that I wasn't there to see them and that it's none of my damn business how they choose to spend their morning.

I stepped out of the apartment complex onto black ice and promptly fell on my ass. Karma? Probably.

This job has aged me far beyond my years. I'm 25. I'm not supposed to be worried about how clean someone's house is or how appropriately someone dressed their children. I'm supposed to care about going out with my 20 something friends on Friday nights, drinking a beer on the weekend (hopefully not at 10:00Am), and being happy with the time that people are willing to devote to me. I don't feel like I have time to not worry. I worry about getting enough sleep.

Someone that I love very much said something to me recently. He said, "You're putting all of your eggs in my basket and I don't have very good balance." This was so painful for me to hear. I seem to have lost my own basket somewhere along the way.

I took a break for lunch. I had lunch with my friend Tim and we had a nice talk. I suddenly have realized that I haven't fucked my life up as much as I had thought. Thanks Tim.

I walked outside after we were done eating and realized that the sun was shining. And I didn't take any time to analyze why I hadn't noticed before. Cool.

I love you Justin.

Guilty by reason of insanity?

Alright. You've got Major Depression, Antisocial Personality Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Paranoid Schizophrenia, Schizo-typal Personality Disorder, and Panic Disorder.

Then there's the very general Mood Disorder NOS (NOS means "not otherwise specified", which in turn means that a person doesn't quite fit the criteria of the Diagnostical and Statistical Manual however they still display some traits of a specific disorder such as Depression or Mania.)

Oh, and don't forget Histrionic Personality Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and of course my own personal favorite, (drum roll please!)...Hypochondria.

Phew.

From what I've observed, a very high percentage of individuals diagnosed with one of these disorders functions pretty well day to day. (Of course most of them are dulled slightly with Zoloft, Lexapro, Xanex, Valium, Klonipin, Seraquil, Tenex, Lithium, Celexa, Prozac, or one of the hundreds of other psychotropic meds.) But even without meds, most of these people go about their grocery shopping, banking, crapping, sleeping, eating, laughing, crying, and yes, even breathing fairly successfully every...single...day. Of course those who are depressed would cry more intensely, and your typical bulimic would eat in a different manner. Ok.. So?

Well, if you look in the DSM-IV they list certain criteria or symptoms that must be pervasive in a person's life for them to have achieved that specific mental illness. And the clincher? In order for their behavior to become a "diagnosis", the above mentioned symptoms must prevent them from functioning in a normal manner on any given day.

I would be willing to bet some serious cash (And I'm talkin' at least $20 here, folks) that if society's ideals and individuals' awareness of them were to magically disappear that all the loopy loopersons in the world would be very content... maybe even happy. (Dear GOD, not that!)

In other words, namely mine, the mode of measuring the severity of the symptoms preventing a person from functioning in a normal manner becomes less about self-interest and the goal of inner peace and more about to what degree that person is making others uncomfortable. It's not uncommon for a therapist to invite a patient's family member or significant other to a session in order to hold the patient accountable for how their symptoms are affecting the lives of others. Hm. Couldn't the invitee's reaction to the patient's "mental illness" just be a symptom of their own? "Oh, you hate my excessive hand-washing? Maybe you have Avoidant Personality Disorder, asshole." (lol..sorry.)

Take me, for example. I battle some pretty fierce anxiety mixed with a twinge of what people in my life lovingly refer to as Hypochondria. I honestly never even gave my anxiety about possible medical ailments a second thought until almost all of my friends and loved ones teasingly said that was hypochondriac...all independently of each other. I often wonder that if I lacked the ability to understand people's reactions to my behaviors if I would be so adament about changing them. They certainly weren't concerning to me until someone pointed them out!

On some days if it was socially acceptable, I would be in the emergency room at least a couple times just to make sure that something I was experiencing wasn't a life threatening disease or condition. Hm. Ok...So what if I was? Well, I would be bothering other people, that's what. Nevermind that just having a doctor take five minutes to tell me that there's nothing wrong would instantly assuage my fears and prove to me that he or she toiled through medical school for the right reasons. Plus, that would be a hell of a lot easier than talking myself down from the anxiety.
Trust me when I say this... If I presented at Maine General Medical Center with a dull pain in my leg and told the physician that I believed I might have a blood clot (WebMD says so, by the way) the annoyance would be clear and I would feel instantly silly and self-conscious about being there.

I have little to no faith in this world's catagorization of mental illness. Each mental illness seems to be nothing more than an elevated expression of a specific aspect of the human experience. Given this, I've come to a conclusion that makes living a tad bit easier for me. Diagnosed mental illness is nothing more than acknowledgement of an emotional talent.

Sigh. This would be fucking great if we all lived in bubbles. Unfortunately, we can't get rid of each other. Carry on, carry on...and I'll save my $15 co-pay.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

My friend Audrey and I went to the Maine Mall last night. 'Tis the season, after all.

I guess that a brief description of Audrey would help clarify the humor of the excursion. So here we go...

First off, Audrey is a rigorous person. She doesn't mince words and expects that no one else will either. Audrey dresses to the nines and it is a rare occurrence to see her socks not match her shirt or for her pants to be without a crease. Damn do I envy that. She nurses a slight paranoia (well I guess that it's a tad bit more than slight) about things such as giving her Social Security number to anyone for any and all purposes, and telling her address to anyone other than someone she wants to visit her. As for giving her phone number out? Hell no. Mind you, this is all very endearing when it plays out day to day.

Underneath all that, Audrey has a nougat center. But she's most assuredly covered in dark chocolate. (Dark chocolate in general tastes a little bit too real for most people. You don't typically hear of someone drowning their sorrows in a Hershey's Special Dark, do you?)

Last night Audrey and I also discussed babies. We were filtering through some very hip baby clothes in search of something reasonably priced for her niece, Emily. I very deliberately thought to myself that I would let Audrey babysit my baby if I had one. Enough said.


Sooo, back to the Maine Mall. (The place was a fucking zoo, by the way. I still get the hiccups going into Wal-Mart when it's not busy, let alone a labyrinth of stores two weeks before Christmas.)

Our first stop was at Lids, a baseball cap store. Walls and walls of nothing but hats. The employees were less than attentive and Audrey and I stood there for a significant amount of time straining to reach a hat that was perched far beyond her reach and just out of mine. One of the male employees was standing so close to us that I bumped into him twice attempting to reach the hat. His boss pointed out our secret struggle and he offered to help. I think he was busy admiring the classy female employee whose thong was hanging out of her pants. At least I think they were pants...

So, finally Audrey decided on two hats, one for $#*@&^$ and one for her brother-in-law, Jay. Of course, this was after we spent time mulling over which hat had the most appropriately placed stitching and was relatively free of lint. At first glance, all the hats looked fine to me. But I have to give Audrey credit. There are clear differences if you look closely.

The scene at the cash register was priceless. The kid that was ringing up the purchases was maybe 19. He was wearing pants that barely covered the crack of his ass, earrings in both ears, and a baseball cap placed backwards on his head. Given all that, Audrey's tolerance level had dropped considerably and my “funny situation" radar was beeping uncontrollably. I kinda leaned over the counter next to Audrey, placed my hand on my chin and started watching intently.

First, the kid attempted to sell Audrey a discount card to the store. This was his first mistake. She was not having any of this and was unimpressed by his sales tactics, which were annoying at best. Audrey allowed him to talk and then said, "I'll think about it." His response? "Oh come on. It's only 5 bucks and I'll give you the second hat you're buying today at 50% off." That was his second mistake. I was doing the math furiously in my head and decided that this discount card was in fact a great deal. I told Audrey and she bought the damn thing only after it took multiple store employees to inform her of the availability of Lids stores in the South.

Now, on to the kid's third mistake. He asks Audrey for her name and address. Junk mail purposes I'm sure. (Keep in mind that there was a line behind us) She looks at him and asks him why he needs that information. Her demeanor is serious beyond belief at this point. He laughs, adjusts his backwards hat and says, "Yeah, it's not like some guy from Lids is going to stalk you or anything." Sigh. Right kid.

Eventually we got out of the store, only after Audrey explained how her address can pop up in dangerous places and commented how it humored her that she might get kicked out of Lids. After we walked out I simply pinched the bridge of my nose, sighed, and called her a paranoid schizophrenic. She called me a bitch. We laughed hard as we walked to Bath and Body Works.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, but my focus turned to how badly my feet hurt shortly after leaving Lids. I don't remember much after that. Audrey did end up finding appropriate gifts for about half the people on her Christmas list.


What did I buy? Nothing.

The most important meal of the day...

I'm eating oatmeal for breakfast. It would be safe to say that I am on an oatmeal kick.

I recently read an article on WebMD about the health benefits of whole grains. It's absorbing the "bad cholesterol" from my bloodstream as we speak. To what end? Who knows. I became bored and started thinking about taking the tinsel off my Christmas tree long before the end of the article. I certainly wouldn't want to be informed about it. All I know is that I feel a little less guilty eating that double cheeseburger at lunch.

Every morning...oatmeal. No tear open instant oatmeal packets. You know the kind that tastes decent? Nope, not me. I pour my oatmeal from the cardboard canister. I want all 9 cylindrical inches of it. The Quaker Oats man looks really good in that hat not to mention that there is something glaringly sexy about a man who can pull off a white bob and whisper sweet nothings of heart healthy eating in my ear. I even have an antique metal Quaker Canister in my kitchen that holds my wooden utensils. Don't worry Justin...he's 127 years old. :-)

For any and all who are interested, here's a link: http://quakeroatmeal.com/Archives/History/indexoat.cfm

That last statement makes me chuckle considering that only two people, besides yours truly, know that my baby blog exists. So, Justin and Nate... Check out the Quaker Man!

Oh, by the way... The humor in my oatmeal? Just a personal preparation tool (coping mechanism would work too) for my impending diet.

Me. 

Just a side note...

I'm nervous to show Justin that I've started this.
Imagine me, about 2 feet shorter, standing next to someone 6'2".
I'm holding up a masterpiece on a piece of construction paper that I've drawn with fat crayons. It's a picture of people with stubby arms, three fingers, and perfectly round heads. Oh... and the sun is purple.

Sigh.

Here we go...

Well. Hm. Here I am.

I am not a writer or a poet. I don't even pretend to have an affinity for the written word. But damn it, I love to talk and I have a brave soul.

Thoughts knock around in my head all day and I've decided that they need to be put somewhere. They need to be put somewhere where they can be nurtured and taken care of. I certainly do none of that and they're starting to knock me back. My boyfriend, Justin, also has a post. I love reading it and I love the idea of it. So I guess that this is a kind of envious copycat venture into a world that I've never been a part of. Ha. How exciting. Makes me feel a little dirty...in an intellectual way.

After much consultation with my coworker Scott, I've decided to name this post "Diastolic". It's a commonly used medical term pertaining to blood pressure, specifically the pressure that is created when a heart is relaxed and refilling with blood. So take that as you will and I hope that my posts will shed some light on my choice as I fumble through this process. It's a very hopeful name, don't you think?

So again, here I am. Dear God please bear with me... :-)