You have 'OCD'

I always just sort of smile when people tell me they have OCD. I feign despair for their awful burden. I coo concern over their welfare. I smile particularly because they don't mean they have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. They mean that they are particular and they are not lazy (or maybe they are lazy and just overwhelmed with the idea of cleaning. {Or hell, they could just be dramatic.})

I have OCD. I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. My number is 4. I don't know if everyone who has OCD has a number, but mine is 4. 4 is paramount. Not many people know this, but my most favorite thing in the whole entire world is origami paper. 4 in x 4 in paper. First of all, I love paper. I love books. I love that a leaf has a front and a back and four sides. I love that 2 + 2 = 4. I love that 2 x 2 = 4. I love LOVE multiples of 4. There is symmetry and peace and infinite finiteness in 4...for me.  I like to do things in 4 steps or 4 parts. For me most things have a beginning, rising action, climax and resolution. I can apply this formula to almost anything. I don't like leaving work until I have accomplished 4 things or a multiple of 4 things. If I leave work otherwise, I have an awful day/night/next morning. I have a hard time starting something that takes less than three steps, if I do not have 3 more things to accomplish.

My arch-nemesis is circles.  I cannot look at a row of bubbles without needing a scalding hot shower and taking off a layer of skin. [This is no exaggeration. In my formative years (before my diagnosis) I would use a razor blade to scrap off a layer of skin from my neck and face in order to overcome my disgust with circles {seen in bug eggs, soap bubbles, mold/mildew.}]  

Pi irritates me like nothing has every irritated me before. There is nothing glamorous to a fake number with no conclusion. What misery it must be to be Pi to go on FOREVER; forever tooling around; forever empty. I fucking hate Pi.

I still give myself credit that for the most part, unless you've known me forever, or live with me, you'd have no idea how sick I am. I pride myself on my ability to blend in so well with normal people. I think 'faking it' is a skill. I like to think that smiling at people when they say they have OCD is the high road. I always always always want to ask people who/when/where they were diagnosed, but I know that's a shitty thing to do. I just don't see certain people having their days ruined, by not being able to complete four steps (sometimes literal footsteps) and I don't see some people having that same euphoric and calming feeling from paper.

[Did you like the neat box I just wrote?]

You have Sjogren's Syndrome

Venus Williams has Sjogren's Syndrome. She's an athlete. I have Sjogren's Syndrome. I'm pitiful.

Recently, I have been feeling very socially awkward. Especially in my speech. I am having more difficulty forming sentences and moving the left side of my mouth to pronounce words. My dry mouth has been more prominent than usual. I have found myself afraid that this will be permanent.

I've already seen a decline in my fine motor skills. What I know other's perceive as just being clumsy, I know is Sjogren's messing with my muscles.

Sometime that's a relief to me. To have something like that (that I know isn't normal) and have an explanation for it. I also feel like people are seeing my SS as an excuse. I have a hard time talking to people about my disease. I either feel like an info-mercial or a PSA. I don't like feeling like either of those. I don't think that anyone in my immediate circle cares about what it is or what my symptoms are.

One of the side effects of taking Plaquinil is vision problems, such as blindness. I have noticed in my left eye, there are dark shades and it tends to get tired more quickly than the right. Plaquinil is used to treat malaria, but they give it to patients with auto immune disorders to help alleviate some of the symptoms (such as dryness and muscle erosion and joint damage.)

I also have a hard time getting up from a sitting position. My hips hurt all the time. ALL THE TIME. I have awakened from sleep to flip sides as if I were a HUGE seal trying to turn on sand. {There wouldn't be that thin layer of water to help the seal turn, so instead it would have to flop in small angles to switch sides on which he was previously resting.) At this very point in time, I must give a million praises to my husband. I need to give up to him as much praise as there are stars in the sky; as much mystery there is left in the furthest reaches of the ocean; as much praise as a woman can give a man for being a man. He has never complained about needing to jump out of bed to get one of the kids. Not a single time. I'm not sure if he understands that I just physically canNOT get out of bed as fast as he can or what. I don't care; I appreciate him so much and for so many reasons. I would, with no hesitation, get up to comfort my child even if I had not slept in days! I just physically cannot get my body to respond as fast as his can. {Which in all honesty, I do get jealous of. I get jealous of a lot of people for not having Sjogren's EVEN THOUGH I would never wish this disease on any one.}

I walk with a limp sometimes. When my hip hurts bad enough.

I want people to know that I have Sjogren's because sometimes, for me, getting up out of my chair under two minutes is a win for me. Sometimes, going down stairs terrifies the shit out of me, and yet I do it almost every other day! I also want them to know so they know that my speech isn't shitty and I do know what I'm talking about I just need a few minutes to think about it.

I want to just wear a sign or something that says: I have Sjogren's. That's why I am a complete mess.

I don't actually want to tell anyone about it, because it's depressing. I will succumb to this disease and it may be sooner that what I expected. I don't want to depress people. I just want a bit of praise when I don't fall walking down stairs.  Things everyone expects praise for, right?

If you've ever been a teenage girl.

We've all at some point been a teenage girl. I was a teenage girl for like, pfft, two weeks and was like over it. No big, bro.

Okay, so maybe only some of you have been teenage girl. I really just want to rip on some music lyrics.  I think I'm going to take back my feminist approach on this blog post and go ahead and say:

You only get it if you've ever been a teenager.  Because, lawd knows, that being a teenager is confusing enough and most teenagers use music to feel things that matter.

We have no idea what's going on.

Selena Gomez : Come and Get it

Now, I like Selene Gomez. I think she can sing very well.
I think her lyrics are stupid as $#17.
She's very pretty. {Look at that, compliment sandwich.}

The song that I've been playing for a while now is 'Come and Get it.' Now, she's legal to start with. So, this edgier sexier song isn't pedo-licious. It's just dumb.

Selena is leaving an open invitation to a suitor to 'come and get it.' Which seems pretty provocative and yet not. Since she's basically just waiting for the dude to make the first move and that she theoretically won't say no. It tries so hard to be coquettish and it's just never going to happen that way. I think we (society) still like to think of ladies as demure and passive. I think that's what Selena is trying to say in this song. But, honestly, it don't make no got dang sense:

All day all night I’ll be waitin’ standby 
{Stand by mode; when your PC takes a nap}
Can’t stop because I love it, hate the way I love you 
{makes no got dang sense}
All day all night maybe I’m addicted for life, no lie. 
{addicted to life, but on stand by}
I’m not too shy to show I love you, I got no regrets. 
{she's not shy; just in stand by mode - there's a difference!}
I love you much to, much to hide you, this love ain’t finished yet. This love ain’t finished yet… {This love hasn't even started, so I guess technically it can't be finished?}
So baby whenever you’re ready… {See? no got dang sense! She's actively not doing a damn thing to get you to do something?}

B*tch all be trying to get my man!

I can understand that fine line of wanting to get your crush's attention but not wanting to look like you're trying to get his attention. I remember the girl in high school who used to wear the low cut shirts and just sit around and pout all day. It was like fishing for her. She'd set out the bait and LITERALLY anything that bit she would reel in and take. This was the most bizarre thing that I'd ever see and it almost is like a weird talent to be able to aggressively not get a dude's attention and get their damn attention.

Why these lyrics suck if you're a teenage dude:
This is why young men walk around with 'swag.' They think that young ladies will just be ready for them whenever *they* are ready. Teenage boys already think that they are invincible and music like this would seem to give them the idea that REJECTION DOESN'T EXSIST. If a girl shows interest in you once and you let her stew on it a bit, she'll be all cray cray for the "D" at all times. Now, teenage boys (henceforth referred to as 'Dudes') aren't trying to get all up in the love bid'ness. They don't see the emotional attachment that comes with 'being in love with a teenage girl.' So this first set of lyrics don't sound too bad.

It gets worse as it goes on:

You got the kind of love that I want, let me get that. 
{'let me' means that the man has to allow her to get it; passive position}
And baby once I get it I’m yours no take backs. 
{She's now made herself a possession and not a person - sweet}
I’m gon’ love you for life I ain’t leaving your side 
{That's only really sad; her whole life is going to be stuck to this dude [Honey-boo-boo breedin, I believe]}
Even if you knock it ain’t no way to stop it 
{So, the dude doesn't even have a choice; if he gives in to his desires he will be stuck with her [dang, I already made a honey boo boo reference]}
Forever you’re mine baby I’m addicted no lie, no lie 
{Now, the dude isn't even a dude! He's a substance to be used!}
I’m not too shy to show I love you, I got no regrets. 
{Gentlemen, now is the appropriate time to run}
So baby whenever you’re ready….. {to ruin your life}

I think teenage girls think that you have to find the 'one' as soon as possible and there is a very small window of opportunity to do that. Now, this might be true for some girls. Particularly the ones that THE ONLY THING GOING FOR THEM IS THEIR LOOKS, the ones that only talk about themselves and have absolutely no substance at all.  This is also true for the ones that never want to work a day in their lives and strictly use the money that their resentful teenage husbands give them for allowance. Then yeah you may want to go ahead and just ruin your life. OR you could develop a personality. I kid! I kid! I know that's too much work for your pretty little heads! {If you don't have goals in life, I'm not going to pretend to have them for you. Just bein' honest.}

Okay, last lyric I want to talk about:


This love will be the death of me, but I know I’ll die happily
I’ll know I’ll know I’ll know
Because you love me so…Yeah!

This is just the crazy cherry bomb on top of this stupid flavored sundae. If you are in love and you feel like that love is going to kill you THAT IS BAD. THAT IS ALWAYS BAD. This is bad if you're a young lady or a young gentlemen. You should NEVER be satisfied with a relationship that ends in your death. 

JUST TO RECAP:

DEATH = BAD.

You've followed the story of these lyrics - the two involved are not even in a relationship. She's just hanging it out there and hoping he picks it up. Yet, she knows that she will die happy and her death is caused by being in the relationship. {I mean, WTF.} She knows. She knows. She knows. Because their mutual lack of action is such an immense show of love.

GET A ROOM, YOU TWO!

...You've made up your mind.

It's a really random thing nowadays for a person to make a conscience decision. To me it feels like everyone finds a certain amount of comfort in having 'an out.' It seems like people love to have an excuse in their back pocket, like a hankerchief. Something handy to wipe up a faux pas. -Well, I can't make a decision like that I'm just a leasing agent. You'll have to talk to my manager who is not in the office right now. What's a good contact number for you so I can send her an e-mail explaining all the things that you just told me.- {Gross.}  So, yeah. This is the sick sad part of this new social norm that even the littlest of decision is such a big freakin' deal and have such high importance. For instance, I decided today that no matter what happened I would do things with a smile today. (But only at work.) {This < this<<< is what I felt so freaking cocky about all damn day.}{Double gross.}

That's why making a decision is such an achievement because you've made a solemn vow to yourself. There is a higher level of authority on the idea. It's become a novelty and a great conversation starter. {You know, today I told myself I was going to smile ...no...matter...what. *Collective Gasp*} When you take a stance on something there will always be something/one/duh that is going to attack it and try to bring it down. It's a more sophisticated kinda way to get attention.

So, like everything, every dropped call, every mind splitting headache, every snarky freakin' remarks I had this stupid grin on my face. I felt so 'professional' and cool and shiz. If there was a goddess of business etiquette, she would have smiled down upon me and wished me a long life. I would have gotten at least two thumbs up from a god (2/8). I was amazing...on the outside. Bleh. I'm not at all about hiding my emotions. I felt so fake. Yucky. I don't like myself at this moment and yet, ^ I was all braggin' about being blessed by a goddess. Gross right? I have no idea what that is or how to define expect for a nasty earwaxy texture bitter flavor in my mouth. Eck. Oh, just now. I am proud of myself for being out of my comfort zone twice. Focusing now though, today was a particularly annoying day because everyone around me made 'smiling' a very difficult thing to do. Why would people attack someone who just wants to smile. The only person I was trying to prove anything to was me because I was thinking 'Jesus, Jamie, you are one sarcastic and bit*hy outcast.' Secondly, the only person I told was the Universe and we pinky promised we would tell no one ever.

I am now going to pull what is called an 'unreliable source' which gives me an out. I have had a few to drink and I have become angry and sadish radish. <Meant to make you say it a few times. So I might be remembering or over-reacting right now. So, I myself have no freakin' clue. So now all interpretations of what you have made before seem moot. {Honestly, who do I need to sell my genius to?}{That's not my husband.}{Because we share the same bank account.} Which might be why I'm being so critical on myself. Maybe I just want to be myself in front of people instead of that 'whitebread halfie' that I put on every morning. Le sigh. Eh, whatevs. I didn't I win today, but I really can't expect to win them all. {Oh, look! I've made up my mind.}

...You have a pantry.

A pantry is neither a place where you keep pants nor a chivalrous state in which you are panting. A pantry is a place where you keep foods like canned corn, canned green beans, boxes of hamburger help and other various non-perishable foodstuffs.

Right now we are kind of on a budget and so everything has to be well thought out before it is purchased. Previous to me finding this job I was on food stamps. {I MISS YOU FOODSTAMPS. PLEASE TAKE ME BACK! I DON'T CARE ANYMORE THAT PEOPLE LOOKED DOWN AT US AT THE GROCERY STORE! WE WERE GOOD TOGETHER! TAKE ME BACK! BRU-HOO-HOO.} I liked being on food stamps. It was 300+ smack-a-roos (that was not taxed) that I could spend willy-freakin'-nilly on any stupid thing I wanted (that was a food-stuffs.) Life was goo~o~ood.

'Cept... ever notice when you have a fully stocked pantry (not a pant-related joke) that - a) nothing in that pantry looks 1)good/tasty 2)fast enough to make 3)has all the ingredients or 4)already made and ready for consumption b)no one wants to cook anything c)you always want to go out to eat even though there is plenty of food at the house? {If you read that sentence only once, two  gold stars. If read at least twice, one silver star, if read more than twice, bad. bad. bad!}  I mean, I can third-person-view myself looking into my pantry, that is from top to bottom stocked with yummy food, and distinctly remember thinking at that moment: Uh, but I'm the one who has to cook it!

I wonder if all that non-perishable food stuffs wealth somehow made me an lazy jerk face? I've never been money wealthy so I wouldn't know if that has any affect on my laziness. I am plenty love-wealthy...and I kinda do abuse that one.

I'm the kind of person (I hate that phrase 'I'm that kind of person' because that makes you the kind of person that has to overcompensate your ego with delusions of grandeur) that if the pantry is still stocked, I am not going to the grocery store. If we are out of hamburger for the hamburger helper then, guess what? We aren't having hamburger helper.  {Dang it. Dang it, Jamie.}

Anyway, I guess what I am setting up here is that our pantry is empty. Suddenly, things have never tasted better to me. I had white rice and canned tuna the other day. I became a freaking chef the other day. I had taken two separate ingredients, done some cooking magic on it, and made it into white rice and canned freaking tuna. We are out of rice and tuna right now. :( So tonight I made, leftover chicken tenders (from Kisig's lunch yesterday) heated them up and made 'dipping sauce' of mayo and sriracha.

I mean, they should just give me a chef-ing diploma.
I am a chef of highest of classiness.

Now that my pantry is empty, I have such an amazing appreciation of food. Especially bottled water. Ice-cold bottled water; that isn't open yet. I am drooling just thinking about it and my mouth is dry. Ugh. Also, I have found that my imagination for dinner is unbelievably rampant. I see uncooked pasta shells and I'm like: Oh, my lawd! If I add seasoned hamburger meat and red sauce on this it's like spaghetti only with shells! OK, so that wasn't that creative {I just ate sriracha mayo with microwaved soggy chicken tenders - back.off.}, but something very similar to that effect. The other thing I noticed, when the pantry is a shiver, is that everybody in the house is a chef suddenly and everybody wants to cook. I, then wonder, why my other 'poor' qualities have not sparked me in such a way. {Dang it, I am money poor and I do keep looking for more ways to be more money wealthy. Hm.} I wonder, how many other environmental stimulations I get. Do I actually want to blog or is it because the fire is very toasty? I know there are emotional responses to environmental situations. {Whoops, rein it it.}

{A chef can be a cook. A chef cooks. A cook can neither chef nor do chefry things in the pantry.}{Last one.}

I'm not sure in which state of being that I prefer. I kinda, right at this moment, am leaning towards having a full pantry. If only because I have a two year old reason for living. There is a small part of me that likes being humbled and grateful. I think this is a good state of being to be in, so I can remember to always strive forward and to never be stagnate. I wonder if there is a way to find (or even speculate) a good balance.

Remember (the parenthesis mean this statement is a part of the sentence!) {The squiggle thing is me taking to myself while I am talked to my readers.}{Dang it.}

You're in Therapy.

So, I would hope by now my readers have caught on to my writing style (or vicious ramblings of insanity.)

I like to use first person narrative to introduce my subject {"I" like toast {I actually hate toast}) and then leap into second person narrative ("You" [You the reader]) forcing the reader to be me via stream of conscious or "our" collective conscious.  HA! I am so clever. This is why I live on land and yet not in an igloo. The series of narratives allows for an awkward fluidity. A familiarity of phrase or voice that sucks you into my crazy and allows you to safely return to your normal every day life. Everybody wins! Fersrsly, I deserve a cake for this genius.

I also really like to use the /bold, /italic and /underline as well as fancy parenthetical things.I think letters (symbols) combined with symbols look very beautiful. Recognizable and sexy.

My therapist today said that I need to allow myself to grieve and that my "crazy and my trauma are intermingled and inseparable by my mind" (I paraphrased.) I feel reluctant. I also have such mixed emotions about therapy.

I've been thinking a lot about my friend, Laron, and how she lived her life. I still have an intense fear of being me in public. While, I think, Laron had her ups and downs for the most part she had a great grasp or who she was. I know who I am, I just don't like me.

I don't think I would mind being (because, unwittingly I have been), an advocate for mental health. This shiz is real. Yo. Diggity. No doubt. ... :D

Do you really think it's normal push every one away and be so selfish? Do you really think that it's normal to 'fly off the handle' when dishes are not put away? Does your mind sometimes not have that 'fresh' feeling? If you answered yes to any of these questions : 

Get Help and Quit being a selfish jerk.

I don't think there's anything wrong with me taking medication and going to therapy (privately, obviously, but I am trying to live like Laron for one week.) There are so many people living day-to-day who are undiagnosed with mental issues, who struggle much harder than I do. Or there are people who are well aware that there are issues to be dealt but would rather get the attention and be snobbish whores (I don't like those people.) I have danced around for a very long time and light-heartedly admitted to my problems. Well, now I want to own them, so they can't own me anymore. {Please search your IPOD for "Eye of the Tiger".}The difference between me and the 'people abusing the system' or 'the people getting hopped up on drugs' or 'people not like me' is that I am trying my damndest to be a normal functioning adult. I want to be happy. I want to work and support myself and my son. I want to not have a crippling fear every time I go out in public. I want to fight this epic battle. I am not giving up on myself yet.

I feel well aware of the stigma I get from the public because in private I feel the disapproving aura prickle my skin when I talk to loved ones. It's ok. Everyone is entitled to an opinion and I've always just kept it at that. I just think at this point in my life, during the circumstances, I need to be more assertive. I need to be me. I am mine. {And somehow I forgot.}

You wake up and you are sad. You go about your day because that's what you do everyday. Your mind is foggy, you act without thinking, your life is a blur. You eat your dinner with a dessert of a handful of pills and you go to bed sad. You can change your life. You can change the life of those around you. You don't have to be sad. You get up and you do the bravest thing you can think of: you ask for help. It's humiliating. You cry in front of your doctor (who has seen you blow dime sized boogers from every orifice {yet, telling your doctor you cry two to three times a day is so much worse}) and your doctor asks you a series of stupid and prying questions. Just answer them. Just get the help you need. You take the script to your local CVS and hope that no one knows the generic names for Prozac or Valium. You feel sad at the thought of needing to take pills to function. You reconsider 'getting help.' Just take your pills. It's okay to ask for help.

If your liver was failing and was acting up in such a way that the rest of your body was not able to function properly you would go to the doctor. The doctor would prescribe medicine and treatment to fix your liver and your life would slowly get better.

Your brain is an organ in your body. When it is sick; it needs treatment.

See? See what I did there? Srsly, guys, how do I turn this into a living? Man, I am going to bake myself a cake.

You shoulda/coulda/woulda (A series of incomplete thoughts)

I cannot preface enough: This is going to be ramblings. Feverish and unrefined. I am literally spewing (Shakespeare just high-fived me.)

Laron was born exactly one week before I was. I have no idea what happened in that one week that made us so dynamically different and yet so spiritually the same.

Laron and I graduated at the same time. We have the same sense of humor. We are both unbelievably hot.

If I could live that one week like she lived her life....

Everyone has their own way of grieving. I am an insane person. This is how I have grieved:

I feel like my body was the first to get over the grieving: I no longer moped and laid in misery sinking into ritualistic unhappiness. My mind was next. Logically, I cannot be mopey. I have a two year old. Logically, I cannot be a victim to my sadness; I was a lucky one. I knew Laron Short. She touched my life. She let me love her. She was a phantasmagoric gem in my spectrum of love. However, it is my heart that will not allow me to let her go. My heart yearns to the shoulda/coulda/wouldas. My heart aches to hug my friend and feel her warmth. My heart hurts.

Denial -
You awaken. Bluntly, you are told your friend has died.

Impossible. Laron just got home. She just lost her phone. No. She is still delayed in CA. She's not even in OK right now. This is stupid, Laron just got home. Home is a safe place. Laron is safe. Fumbling. Rearranging things to be orderly and correct (as you have severe OCD) No, see the shoes are in the shoe rack so Laron is safe and alive. She's laughing at the idea that everyone thinks she is dead.

There is a crippling pain in your back. You realize it's not your back. It's your heart and chest crumpled in over itself making your back ache. You have an anxiety disorder attached to a heart disorder. Your heart is not healthy. Your mind is not healthy. In turn, it makes your body not healthy. The pain in your back aches and you focus on your chest crippled in on itself. You feel like this concaveness is making you lurch forward. Falling.

Listlessness-
Luckily, your OCD is so bad that routine just falls into place. Work. Unfortunately, your OCD asks you to count in fours and your overwhelming sadness has cleaned your memory of numbers. Which means your world is not right; which means your friend is dead. Blank. Stop. Stare. Why didn't I talk to her more? Why can't I manage my time better to be a better friend? Why does my back keep hurting? Your mind snaps back. You're at work. Four steps to the ice machine. Four scoops of ice. Four steps to customer. Which means your friend is alive because everything makes sense. Success! Your heart aches. You don't deserve to be happy. You're in mourning. Wait? What am I doing?

Anger -
Chickasha is FILLED with assholes. Evil meth heads. Twisted drug dealers. Liars. Cheats. Thieves. But Laron was the one who died. JUST HOW FAIR IS THAT? It is UNACCEPTABLE. She was making a difference. She was challenging the world; the people; the collective mind to think and change and be better. She had such a defined sense of truth of right and wrong and the world is filled with EVIL. SO WHY HER? SO WHY HER?
There is no answer in the air. The world; the people; the collective mind is silent.
There is a building of tension in the shoulders at the base of the neck and the root of your mind that is filled with anger. It hurts. Which pisses you off more. Destruction is not an answer. Yet release is not in sight. anger anger anger.
There are people laughing at the restaurant. Without notice you are violently angry with them. How dare they laugh when precious joy has left the Earth? What fathomable reason do they have to feel the bubble of giggles when there should be a solemn pain. Hate.

Compliance-
Mind; body. They wait for you. With open arms. Just accept that you are hurting. Your mind and your body have accepted it. So why is the heart of you refusing to come?

I keep missing opportunities. I missed them with Laron and my heart aches uncontrollably. Who else have I been a bad friend too? Who else doesn't know how much I love them? My heart aches so bad. If I could just live one week like she lived her whole life I could be a better person.


In the same day someone has died and another has been born. The world is cyclical. My heart (my racing thoughts are/) is cyclical. I am a remorseful ball of confusion and yet of hope. This ball of confusion just keeps rolling forward. Stronger. Faster. With more confidence.