Multiple Sclerosis - My Diagnosis

I him and haw over what to blog about all the time. There are always thoughts running through my head. I usually try to write about something that has happened to me to make me a better person, or make me realize my mistakes, etc. Then I listened to an episode of This American Life entitled “Our Friend David”. It was in memoriam of David Rakof, a brilliant writer who recently passed away from cancer. One of the most poignant stories in the series was the one highlighting his cancer diagnosis and then his inevitable death. He spoke about it with such grace that I didn’t feel like I was hearing of a stranger’s story, but a story of someone I loved. I reflected on how difficult it must be to write about something so tragic, to write about something that will change your life forever, to write about death, it’s intimate. 

I have a problem being vulnerable. I don’t believe in actuality that anyone really likes to be vulnerable, but in my case I tend to cover up so much of what I actually go through, simply because the thought of people feeling sorry for me makes me sick. I don’t want people to look at me with pity. I would rather be looked at with awe. And so I decided to let me guard down (probably temporarily) and write about the day(s) that changed my life. Grab a beverage; this might be a long one…

I have this weird habit of rubbing my eyes super hard after I wash my face. You know when you rub your eyes so hard that when you open them, it’s a bit blurry? That’s what I did. When I opened them, they were a bit blurry, but I paid no mind. I went about my normal day, but soon started to realize that the blurriness was not leaving my left eye. It wasn’t disturbing at first, just a little annoying, but one night as I sat down at my computer to write, I noticed that I couldn’t see the bottom half of the page I was looking at. It was as if someone had drawn a line with sharpie marker horizontally across my eyeball, then blackened in the bottom part. It was time to go to the doctor. 

Local urgent care told me they thought there was a piece of something behind my eye. I figured with all the rubbing I had done from the towel, I probably scratched something or rubbed something right in. I was referred to an optometrist. I was waiting for results after several crazy tests. I sat in the lobby, I remember this sweet old woman who was sitting next to me asked, “are you ok, dear?” I replied “oh yeah, I’m just waiting for results, the doctors think I have something in my eye.” She smiled at me, seriously one of the warmest smiles I’ve ever seen and said “I’m sure things will be just fine dear.” I thought it was an odd response to something that I was feeling was no big deal. The doc returned and told me that I was definitely experiencing vision loss in that eye from what they believed was something called Optic Neuritis. It was briefly explained that this was an inflammation of the nerve behind my eye and I would be referred to a neuro-opthamologistat. “Well that makes sense.” I thought. I probably rubbed my eye so hard that I caused my nerves to become really irritated. I called my mom, I have been to a million doctor appointments in my life (that’s not an exaggeration) and I know when I want my mom there and I know when I don’t. I didn’t feel like this was a big deal, but she insisted saying “I know, but I just think I should come.”

An example of what some patients with Optic Neuritis see.

The next morning I waited in a cold gray room for my neuro-opthamologist. I remember now thinking how dank that room seemed, like nothing good ever happened there. The lights were too low and there were too many unfamiliar objects around. My mom and I joked as we always do when waiting for a doctor. We caught up on family news and then my mom mentioned a friend of hers, Tom*. Tom had been suffering from Multiple Sclerosis for quite some time, and my mom would always ask about his progress when she saw him. She told me how she had recently ran into him and how well he was doing and commented on some new meds he was taking. We both talked about how nice he was and how upbeat he was even with a debilitating disease. 

Neuro-opthamologist walked in. He sat down on his cold metal stool and looked at me. “Well, you do have optic neuritis.” He continued, “And I’m sure you know from googling it that it is the first sign of Multiple Sclerosis.” I’m not going to lie; I cannot remember one single word he said after that. I became cold instantly. I looked at my mom and I could feel the tears coming into my eyes. I started to cry. My mom took my hand it was cool to the touch and made me feel like a little girl. She spoke to the doctor; again I had no idea what they exchanged. I knew nothing about Multiple Sclerosis, besides what I had been told about Tom. I knew it caused people to use wheelchairs and expensive drugs, but aside from that, I knew nothing. I felt like I had been slapped in the face. I couldn’t stop my tears. The doctor left us with a referral to a neurologist and steroid treatments. 

I remember getting in my mom’s car. I remember her calling my stepdad and crying. I remember calling my then-husband and telling him. I don’t remember the ride home. Looking back now, it seems like I cried for days. I remember at one point putting my head in my mom’s lap, still not knowing anything about this disease and saying “I don’t want to die.” She hugged me close and through her own tears said “oh honey, you are not going to die.” 

The days after that ran together. I went in for the steroid treatments. Steroids are not new to me. I have taken them since I was a kid for my asthma. They are both a nightmare and a wonder drug. A “normal” dose when treating an asthma attack is somewhere between 100 – 150mg tapered off over time. Unfortunately for me, I’ve been on steroids so much, that I experience horrible side effects including disabling joint pain, terrible mood swings, extreme hunger and weight gain as well as hair loss.  I’m usually able to convince my doctors to give me a 50mg dose and taper from there. However, the recommended dose of steroids for someone having a multiple sclerosis “attack” or “relapse” as they are sometimes called, is 1000mg via IV for 3 days. I cried again. 

Now I sat in an old patient hospital room. The beds had been moved and replaced with fake leather type arm chairs. Sort of like the chair you sit in at the dentist. It was explained that a nurse would insert an IV and they would administer the steroids over the course of an hour. The first thing I freaked out about was the IV. I have had terrible experiences with IVs in my life. Because of my asthma and I suppose some genetics, I have small, flat veins. I’m terribly hard to start an IV on and it usually takes more than once to get a good stick. The second part of this ordeal that terrified me was the thought of having an IV port in my arm for 3 days. Since I would be having this treatment 3 days in succession, the nurse thought it best to leave my IV in so they didn’t have to restart one each day. I felt lower than low. Might as well wear a sign that says “I HAVE A DIESEASE”. 

 At this point my mom had gone home. I cannot remember how many days exactly were between the days I was diagnosed with optic neuritis to the day I started treatment, but I know it was quick. I was scared and alone. My then husband was at work and wouldn’t/couldn’t take the time off to go with me to my treatment. I remember sitting in that off white dentist type chair sucking on a piece of candy. Because of the rapidity at which they were administering the drug, I would acquire an awful taste in my mouth. I started up at the tv that was turned on for me and for the first time since this happened thought “why me”?

I’ve had my fair share of medical issues in my life. I spent a great deal of my childhood in the hospital or at home sick. I was even homeschooled for a brief period of time when I was too ill to go to school. I had terrible asthma, disgusting eczema and a plethora of allergies and now I was looking at the possibility of Multiple Sclerosis. I still kept a faint light of hope in the back of my mind, that maybe…just maybe, I would see the neurologist and he would tell me this was just a fluke incident. I held on to my eye rubbing theory, even though in my heart I knew it wasn’t true. 

For anyone who hasn’t had an MRI let me tell you, it’s an experience in itself. I lay on table maybe three feet wide. My hands are placed on my stomach. I had a brain/spine MRI, so I had my head locked in place by something I can only compare to a vice grip. It’s tightened around both sides of my head. Not to the point of pain, but it’s definitely uncomfortable. Then they placed a sort of mask over my face. It reminded me of a hockey goalie’s mask. You could see out of it, but it was close to my skin. Then I was rolled backwards into a metal tube. I got to wear headphones and listen to “music of my choice”. Really? You’re sticking me in an open ended coffin and you want to know if I want to listen to Lite Rock or Bach? I was in for an hour. I was rolled out briefly so a tech could administer a dye into my body. The dye would highlight any lesions on my brain that were “active”.  That hour may have been the longest of my life. There isn’t much to do when you’re stuck in a tube, but think and think and think. 

The green highlighted areas show "active" lesions in an MS patient.

I met Dr. Garreth Parry the second week in December 2006. To this day I think of him as one of the kindest persons I have ever met. He saw me right after my MRI. I remember how kind his eyes were. When he spoke to me I felt a sense of calm. He sat down and explained to my mom and me what he had seen on my MRI. I had an “active” lesion which was what was causing my optic problem. There were also several other inactive lesions. They are sort of like little scars left on your brain after an MS relapse. Because of the number of lesions, active and inactive, that were spotted I was diagnosed with Relapsing Remitting Multiple Sclerosis. Dr. Parry explained that this was not a death sentence and that many people with MS lead very active normal lives. He explained that I didn’t have to start any medication right away but the option was there if something happened again. 

I left his office feeling both anxious and relieved. I was relieved that I would regain my sight, I was relieved that I was not going to die, I was relieved that my MRI wasn’t worse than it was, but I was anxious, now I entered into a waiting game. 

The ironic part of this story and my diagnosis (and why I often believe this was bestowed upon me) is the fact that Multiple Sclerosis is unpredictable. I could at any time, even as I sit here typing this, lose feeling in my feet, feel tingling in my hands, experience painful muscle spasms. There are no warning signs; there is nothing to prevent another attack. It’s a waiting game. Anyone who knows me well enough knows I am a self-proclaimed and medically diagnosed control freak. I like things done my way, in my time, under my circumstances. With this disease, I can’t do that and it was initially driving me crazy! I had more anxiety about what could happen than I did about what actually happened. It took a very long time to come to terms with the fact that just because this is my body and just because I am bossy, does not mean I have any control as to what goes on inside. Sure, I can do some preventative measures. I can keep out of the heat and eat healthy. I can exercise to keep my muscles in shape, but I can’t stop another attack from happening. 

It is five years later now, almost 6 actually, and aside from a few strange feelings I’ve had in my limbs, I have not had another diagnosed relapse. My MRIs continue to go unchanged and there are some days when I don’t even think about having MS. Most days I do think though. Sometimes I have pity parties. I am terrified to imagine what my life might be when I get older. Will I be able to handle having children? Will I ever be in a wheelchair? But more frequently I think of how lucky I am. I have been dealt a shit hand but I feel like I’ve managed to play my cards right. My mom constantly reminds me of the good things in life. My friends and family have been 110% supportive, offering up any and everything I could possibly need, and my sweet boyfriend looks at me with eyes that hint that he doesn’t see a single thing wrong with me. And last but not least I have Luxie Lou. My lou dog. I can’t help but smile while I type this. She has been with me every single day since this happened. No matter how sad or pissed off I’ve been because of this, she always greets me with her wiggly butt and happy tail. I’ve found it’s those simple things like that, that keep me going every day. 

How can you not love that smile!

I didn’t write this so people would pity me, I wrote it to prove to myself that I shouldn’t be ashamed of the person I am and have become. I wrote it so other could understand why I’m sometimes a crank. I wrote it because I’ve never told some of those details to anyone. I don’t have a cute quippy ending for this post, quite simply because this disease changes me every day. It changes the way I look at my life and the lives of others and because of that, I don’t think I can end this with a ‘lesson learned’ sort of paragraph. So I shall end with this: “The lotus is the most beautiful flower, whose petals open one by one. But it will only grow in the mud. In order to grow and gain wisdom, first you must have the mud --- the obstacles of life and its suffering. ... The mud speaks of the common ground that humans share, no matter what our stations in life. ... Whether we have it all or we have nothing, we are all faced with the same obstacles: sadness, loss, illness, dying and death. If we are to strive as human beings to gain more wisdom, more kindness and more compassion, we must have the intention to grow as a lotus and open each petal one by one. ” – Goldie Hawn   

GAY

I don’t often write about politically charged issues, but hey, it’s an Election year. So in the spirit of Michelle Bachmann and Sarah Palin, I thought I’d voice a topic close to my heart, gay marriage.

If you do your research and look into the history of marriage, it is anything but romantic. Marriage was not a mere personal matter concerning only a husband and wife, but the business of their two families which brought them together. Most marriages were arranged. The wife had fewer rights than her husband and was expected to be subservient to him. Marriage was also seen as an economic arrangement. Procreation and cooperation were the main marital duties. Sweet, huh? 

Things have changed. We can have or adopt and raise children on our own. We can start and run our own multi-million dollar corporations. We do not need to legally bond ourselves to someone in order to survive. Most Americans know this. Therefore, the idea that marriage should only be viewed as a contract to ensure kids and money is preposterous. Again, most Americans know this, in fact, I would argue that most of world knows this – though it may not be practiced or spoken of so freely.

Marriage now is entered into for love.  Your wedding is the one day of your life that you get to stand up in front of your family and friends and tell them all how much you love this other person. You love them so much, that you are willing to legally bind yourself to them forever.  We dance, we eat, we drink, and we celebrate the love of two people. 

The Constitution of the United States says nothing specifically about marriage itself, so how can one say whether bans on gay marriage are constitutional? The Constitution does mention equal rights to all citizens. Is it not unequal to offer legalized marriage to one couple and not another? Was it unequal to keep black and white citizens separate? Was it unequal to not allow women to vote? I believe the problem lies in the fact that so many Americans (in particular) do not view marriage as a contract between two individuals who love each other; they view it as a contract between two individuals who love each other AND God. 

Guess who isn’t mentioned in the Constitution? That’s right, it’s God. In fact it is written in the First Amendment: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof..." Separation of Church and State, baby! So, according to the Constitution, religious establishments can choose not to marry a same sex couple, but the government intuitions cannot. The way I see it, it’s unconstitutional to ban same sex marriages. 

However, I not only see it as unconstitutional, I see it as callous. Assuming there are no legal barriers to same sex marriages, there seem to be only religious/moral barriers. Though I no longer consider myself a religious person, I do remember what I was taught. “Judge not lest ye be judged”. From what I know of religion, in the end, it is not we who decide if we go to “heaven” or “hell”, is it not we who decide what is sinful or not. We are not the final judgment, God is. So, as mortal individuals put here on earth by God and instructed by God to judge not, where do we get off telling people they cannot marry someone they love because of their sexual preference? We are all human beings. We all deserve to be treated with respect and dignity. Perhaps if we practiced tolerance instead of prejudice the world would be a little bit of a better place. 

An estimated 1.8 million people worldwide died of AIDS in 2010. According to the United Nations about 25,000 people die every day of hunger or hunger-related causes. Cancer kills roughly 1,500 people per day in the US. These are the issues we should be worried about. These are the issues that are changing the world. Throwing up arms in response to two same sex individuals legally marrying each other seems a bit petty to me when you look at the big picture. But as Americans we’re good at that aren’t we, turning our heads at the ugly, shielding our eyes from the bad.  I don't know about you, but I think it’s time we took the blindfold off. 

Presence

Yeah, I watched the season finale of The Bachelorette. Yes, I got a little teary eyed when Jef (who I knew would win) proposed. I even watched the “After the Final Rose” show… I was a little obsessed this year. Turns out, so are millions of other women. Is it because we get to live vicariously through other people? Is it because the men are cute? Is it because we like drama? Yes, but I also think it’s because we are watching something that lacks in our relationships – and it fascinates us.

In an age where you can find a potential husband on the internet, have complete conversations via text message, and discuss weekend plans over email, romance has been lost. Not saying I don’t value these technological tools, I did find my boyfriend on the internet, he makes my whole day when he texts me good morning, and I love seeing his name in my inbox, but I also daydream about the old fashioned sort of stuff. 

I think women like the idea of the bachelorette because we want amorousness and butterflies in our stomach. These couples go on exotic dates; the men say hopelessly romantic things, they talk about their (gasp!) future together, they bring flowers and in the end there is a huge diamond ring. Never in the show do you see someone check their cell phone mid-dinner or flip on the tv to get Sports Center updates. There is hand holding and talking over a glass of wine. There are walks on the beach and picnics in the woods. I know “normal” couples don’t do these sorts of things on a regular basis, but what if we could get back to the basics, take a break from technology, unplug and get to know someone? 

My first date with my now boyfriend was 5 hours long. We literally sat at a bar, drank beer and talked for 5 hours. It was one of the best dates I’ve been on. He didn’t keep his cell phone sitting next to him on the bar; his attention was 100% on me. He looked me in the eye when he talked. He was confident and didn’t need a crutch to make the date go well. It was perfect. And several of our other dates following were the same thing. But then life sets in, and you get comfortable with someone. We hang out on the couch more and go to dinner less. There is more tv watching than face-to-face talking, and pretty soon I’m are wondering what the heck happened? I realized the other night that my boyfriend sees me more in my lounge pants and an oversized tee-shirt than he does in regular clothes…hot. I feel like I’ve gotten lazy with him. I take for granted the times he’s over – letting them fly by while each of us is doing something completely separate from one another. While I think it’s very important for each of us to have our own hobbies, I should be taking advantage of the times I do have him around. 

Eventually (hopefully sooner than later) I want to marry my best friend. I want to marry the man who knows me so well, he could write my life story. I’m not going to find that sitting in my lounge pants watching Dexter. I’m going to find that with more conversation and sharing experiences together. My cell phone will always be around (even though most the time I can’t find it) and you can record tv now. There’s no excuse not to be more present when you’re with the person you care about. 

So I challenge you to turn off your cell phone, close your laptop, flip off the tv and be present. There are countless times I wish I could have had that opportunity with loved ones I no longer have. I don’t care to make the same mistakes twice. So, grab a drink and find a comfy spot and sit down and talk to the person you care about. Cheers!

Silhouettes

When I think of moving on, I picture a particular incident or a situation, and I picture myself packing up a backpack and walking away from it. Sometimes I feel like I’m running down the road, the situation is literally behind me, so far behind me that I can’t see it through the dust I’ve kicked up. And then there are the other times, where it seems to take me forever to even find my pack. I eventually start stuffing the bag, but man I am moving at a snail’s pace. Sometimes I want to strap on my Nikes and hightail it, and sometimes, I’m too scared to even lace them up. And, that – right there – is why I believe so many people (sometimes I included) hang onto their pasts. Fear of the future.

The future is uncertain. We all know this - there are no guarantees. I could die before I finish writing this post. For some people, this is exhilarating, the unknown, the excitement and anticipation of what is to come. For others, like me (IE: control freaks) unknowns are terrifying. I would much rather make a giant list and plan out the next 10 years of my life, than live as I am currently forced to – leaving it up to the stars. Uncertainty makes me anxious; it makes me physically ill at times. However, through many (many, many, many) therapy sessions, I’ve learned just because I cannot control things external to myself, does not mean I lack all control. Once I discovered this – I felt somewhat liberated. No, I can’t control my future, I can’t make someone promise to not break my heart, I can’t be guaranteed I’ll keep this secure job. But I can control how I react to these events should they occur. I can control how I handle the situation, and that can be quite powerful. 

Now… back to moving on. We’ve established that the future is one big question mark – in contrast, the past is a big exclamation point. We look at the past and hold onto it because it’s secure. We know the outcome; we know if we continue to follow the paths we’ve been on for years, we will go the same places. Some people are content to keep on these same paths. They like these routes, they are pretty and rewarding enough in themselves that straying to something different isn’t necessary. For others, this becomes monotonous. The paths get boring, the person you’re hiking with turns out to be a bad travel partner and so, you have to make a decision. You can keep walking and hope after enough miles you’ll feel that contentment, or you can take a different route. 

The catch is, and one that I feel so many “hikers” fail to think of is that it’s physically impossible to travel two trails at once, and even if you could, there is no way to have the utmost rewarding experience one trail has to offer, if you keep looking back at the other. In order to fully embrace what the future has to offer, you have to let go of your past. 

The last man I was extremely serious about melted me. When he left I barely recognized myself in the mirror, but I couldn’t let him go. Sure, I physically didn’t have him anymore, but I wouldn’t let myself move completely forward. He had moved on, and I needed to so badly, but it took me FOREVER. I looked for every excuse not to, but eventually I packed up my bag, I tied my shoes, I started down my new path.  I stopped every few steps to look over my shoulder, hoping that I was making the right choice, but while looking over my shoulder I was missing the beautiful scenery around me. I was so focused on what was behind me; I was missing what was right in front of me. It was only when something caught my attention and drew my eyes forward that I really moved on. I started walking faster and looking back less frequently. Soon enough, I was able to look behind me and see just the silhouettes. And I liked that, the silhouette reminders of my past. Some were pretty, some made me laugh; others reminded me why I left, but none beckoned me to return. 

I’m not saying that the trail I’m on now is the one I’ll be on forever, but so far it’s a great one. I am living each day in the present, appreciating the people and experiences I have in my life right now, not the ones I wish were or have been, and I believe it’s because of this I can look back every once in a while, if not for perspective but for prosperity. 

So I dare you to let go. I dare you to confront an issue that you’re too scared to tackle and hit it head on. Leave the remnants in your dust and look forward to this gorgeous path you’re on. After all, nothing ruins a future like holding onto the past.

My future's so bright, I gotta wear shades

Baggage

I strive to be seen and live my life as a strong, independent woman, but there are times, especially of late when I think it’s all a façade. I’m 29 (ok…almost 30). I’ve been through more things in my almost 30 years here on earth, than most people go through in a whole lifetime. I spent a good majority of my childhood bouncing from ERs to ICUs. I was married and divorced early in my twenties and I lost my dad when I was far too young. But, I don’t focus on the difficulties my health issues pose and I haven’t let my failures define me. I keep my head up and my eyes focused down the road.

I come with more than my fair share of baggage. Granted, I like to think of it more like designer Louis Vuitton trunks than Hefty bags. My health is probably the biggest in my luggage ensemble. When I strip myself down to the core of my issues, I’m pretty high maintenance. No, it doesn’t take me 2 hours to get ready in the morning, but I am very limited as to what I can do in my daily life. I have to watch what I eat, where I go, what I breathe, how hot or cold I get. I have to pay attention to what meds I’ve taken and how accessible I am to medical care in the case of an emergency. These are all things I keep for the most part, hidden. Thoughts of this nature probably run through my mind at least 10 times a day, and that’s not an exaggeration. My luggage – designer or not, has started to wear me down. 

I’ve been carrying these suitcases of thoughts and issues all by myself for years now. I’ve tried to do so with grace and dignity, but I’m starting to stumble. I’m having a hard time asking for a hand. I do not like to be looked upon with pity. When people see me, I want them to see what I’ve accomplished and who I am as a person, before they see the pile of Louis Vuitton bags behind me, so I do things for others to let them know that not only can I take care of myself, but I can take care of them too.  For me, asking for help is admitting I can’t do it on my own, and doing it on my own is what I’ve been trying to do all along. 

I’m not looking for someone to take on my problems and fix them. I’m more looking for someone to walk next to me and carry a couple of my bags, but everyone holds on to some of their issues and yeah, mine are wrapped up in pretty packaging, but these suckers are heavy! It’s going to take someone pretty extraordinary to look past their own collection of baggage and say to me “hey, I see the mass amount of couture luggage you have there. Looks a bit heavy, why don’t I give you a hand?”. I don’t want someone to take away all my problems, I just want someone to look at them with me and tell me that in the end, they aren’t as big as they seem.

While I appreciate the fact that I have and have had to struggle to get places in my life (I feel that hardships make my victories sweeter) I’m ready to be done facing my battles alone.

Cherry

As I’m sure most of you know, I recently broke up with my boyfriend. I’m not one to rehash the gory details of relationships past and I have too much respect for Him to play the “fault” game; therefore I will not be writing the details of why this past union didn’t pan out. I am going to write about how awesome it felt to put myself first.

 In no way was this an easy decision. My heart broke, I cried. I cried a lot. I cried the ugly cry. I made a trip home, I ate junk food, I prayed (and for those of you who really know me, you know how desperate I must have been at that point) I begged, literally and I pleaded. Then like a cold slap in my face, I got off my knees, wiped my nose and stood up for myself.

My problem is one I believe many women deal with when in relationships. We are looking for our other half. When we start dating someone, we realize how special they are, we start to merge lives together. Before you know it that person has their own towel in your bathroom, their own cereal in your cupboard and their own “spot “on your couch. While that’s all fine and good, if you’re not careful you start to get sucked into thinking that you are a better person now then you were before Mr. Towel-in-the-Bathroom came along.  And who can blame us? Being the other half to someone is romanticized. How many times have we heard “you complete me” or “two minds, one heart”?  I’m here to tell you, ladies, that’s BULLSHIT! 

We are not here to complete another person or to fill their missing piece. A partner, lover, boyfriend, girlfriend should be seen before us as a gift that we are to compliment. You don’t complete the present, you make it better. It’s like the cherry on top of a sundae, the sundae is amazing without the cherry. It has all that yummy fudge and whipped cream. It’s clearly a deliciously edible treat all on its very own, and just when you think it can’t get any better, BOOM! You throw that cherry on top! Perfect. Our significant others should be that cherry!

Now, back to my breakup. I was a tasty sundae all on my own before my boyfriend stepped into the picture. I had just the right amount of fudge to ice cream ratio and for the first time in a long time, I was emotionally healthy all by myself. When he came along, I looked at Him as my cherry on top.  He didn’t make me a better person; he made me want to be a better person. As certain problems began to arise in our relationship I started to lose that feeling. I started panicking thinking “what am I going to do if he dumps me? I’m going to be that pathetic, almost 30 year old, single girl!” In my scared, anxious state, I told myself, “I will do whatever it takes to keep Him and to show Him how much he means to me.”! I no longer looked like a delicious ice cream treat; I started to look like a melty, sticky mess on the floor.

But I saw it, I was able, even if for the briefest of seconds,  to step back and see myself – sad and melting on my living room floor, promising this Man that I would be whatever he wanted me to be, if he’d just try to make this work. I didn’t recognize myself. This wasn’t the woman I had been striving to be. This was a fear stricken girl, afraid of being alone. A clear thought started to come to me again, and again, “this is not who you are”. And indeed, that was not who I was. I was a strong healthy woman before this Man came along and I would be a strong healthy woman without him.  He does not make me who I am. He fell in love with me for the woman I was, not the woman he wanted me to be... And that was that. 

It took a bit, and I’m still finding sticky spots on my carpet, but I cleaned up that melted mess I left on the floor. Then I took out my ice cream scoop and my favorite pint of Ben and Jerry’s. I loaded up a bowl with Cherry Garcia and topped it with an obscene amount of hot fudge. The only thing that could make this any better, would be that cherry, but I’m not about to turn down a bowl of ice cream without one ;)

Grow Up!

It’s starting to get to me, the angst ridden facebook posts, the bad mouthing behind one anothers backs, the desire to create unnecessary drama. I know most of you reading this are in your mid to late twenties if not older, so I feel that this is an appropriate audience to voice this issue. Where do we draw the line on adolescent behavior and start expecting more from women? 

I’m 29 now and it shocks me on a daily basis how immature women my age act and I think social media has a great deal to do with this situation. Facebook and Twitter are now giant billboards on which we can write how we’ve been wronged, post snarky remarks about individuals and add nasty comments to other people’s words. Perhaps it’s been that these adolescent women have not had a channel in which to display their immaturity. Well, it’s here, and it’s ridiculous! 

For ages women have been looked down upon as the inferior sex. It seems we have constantly had to prove ourselves. Incredibly, it was less than 100 years ago that women weren’t allowed to vote. Since then, we’ve fought to vote, we’ve taken over corporations; we’ve become working mothers and independent home owners. We’ve done all this to prove that we are strong, smart, self-sufficient people. Why are we personally sabotaging this image? Or is that what it really is, just an image? Perhaps these women are not strong and independent. Perhaps they are just simple, catty and materialistic. 

Personally, I don’t care if you boyfriend didn’t get you a ring for Christmas; I don’t care about how many tequila shots you had last night, I don’t care about the tormented song lyrics that “just get you”.  Social media is not your therapist. You cannot gain real life perspective by putting up short paragraphs about your drama filled life on a website.  Drama is created and festers if not dealt with, and you can’t deal with your problems on a webpage. 

Women need to slow down their hectic lives and to learn how to reconnect with actual individuals, face to face. We need to learn how to stand up for ourselves and stop hiding behind the keyboard, for when you tackle something head on, you see results. Beat around the bush and hype it up on your facebook page and you’re only going to create a bigger mess. 

So, angsty-drama filled-immature women, please wake up. It’s time to put away your prom dress and pull up your big girl pants. This is the real world, where real people exist. Try living in it. I guarantee you’ll get more satisfactory results than the responses to that “cryptic” facebook status you think no one will understand.