Some jackass back East

This morning as I was groggily drinking my day old coffee and eating oatmeal that had gone cold, I received a text message saying that there was a possibly fraudulent charge on my debit card for a large amount. I was instantly sent into a cold sweat and my mind started whirring. Before responding to the text to confirm, I did some Googling to make sure that THIS wasn't actually fraud, but the number that sent the text was legitimate. I signed into my online banking and sure enough that money was missing. Clint spoke to the fraud specialist who called after I responded to the text and they froze our bank cards, but there is nothing we can do and no one we can call because today is Sunday and tomorrow is Veteran's Day. Apparently some jackass back East went on a shopping spree at Target with our money. Our mortgage payment is scheduled to come out ASAP and these missing funds pose a major problem until we can file a claim and have it honored. This situation couldn't have happened at a worse time and it sent me into a panic, but I know we can fix this, so I'm trying to talk myself back down.

I spent the first shaky, panicky, adrenaline fueled minutes talking to my mom on the phone about it until I stopped sweating. Then, I used the leftover sick-feeling energy to scour the kitchen and make snickerdoodle cookie dough, which is now chilling in the fridge. Baking something delicious seems like the only thing that can be done.

Balls.

Why I don't, and won't, drive a car.

Over the last couple of days I've had a few conversations that have driven me to share this story. One of the conversations was with a like-minded friend and it was so great to be able to talk to someone who is experiencing life on the same frequency that I am, even though it's hard, and even though most people can't even pick up this frequency on their radios. Another conversation involved someone who doesn't understand my anxiety disorder, doesn't believe my problems are real, and put me down harshly. Lastly, a conversation with a kindly relative was a soft touch on very sore spot.

So, here it is, an in depth explanation of why I do not drive a car and WILL NOT ever drive again.

My fear of driving began when I was about 3 years old. I know that sounds weird, but bear with me. Beginning at the age of 3 I had recurring nightmares that I was driving a car on a winding mountain road and I would plunge off the side of a cliff. I always woke just before impact with the ground below, but even at 3 I knew it would have meant death had it been real. In those dreams I was always an adult driving that car, but there were other recurring nightmares in which I was sitting in the backseat with my baby sister and my mom was driving. I would look to the front seat and see that my mom had disappeared and the car was swerving wildly. In these dreams I had to scramble into the driver's seat and try to gain control of the vehicle to save myself and my sister from certain death. I rarely, if ever, succeeded. At that point in my life I had never been involved in a car accident, nor did I have any understandable reason to be having these dreams or forming these fears, but the fact remains that I did and they have obviously stuck with me in a big way my whole life.

I became convinced at an early age that I had either died in a horrible car accident in a past life, or I was psychic and I had seen how I was going to die in this life. It was the fear that I might be psychic that caused an active dread in me that surrounded the idea of my 16th birthday and the impending doom that was driver's ed. Shortly before I turned 16, my family moved from big city Washington to small town Idaho and I was faced with the reality that kids here in Idaho start driving a couple years younger than I was used to. So, not only was I dreading this rite of passage, I was also suddenly lagging behind my peers, which added another layer of anxiety and a sense of urgency to my terror. I won't bore you with the details of my education, but I got my driver's permit later that year (in the godforsaken dead of winter, no less) and I did absolutely everything in my power to delay getting my actual license. I took my sweet time racking up those hours behind the wheel with my dad as my passenger and after a couple of years I finally decided I needed to bite the bullet and take the driver's test to get my license. By this time I had also been the passenger in a couple of minor, though frightening, car accidents and I was growing less confident by the minute.

This leads me to Bob. Bob is an insufferable asshole of a bitter old man who bathes in the tears of scared driving students and eats kittens at every meal (I may or may not be exaggerating SLIGHTLY). The man is a monster. Needless to say, I did not pass my first drivers test and the shame and humiliation had me crying for days. I didn't get behind the wheel again for at least a year. I went off to university and walked everywhere and hated everything.

Fast forward to June 9, 2007, the day of my younger sister's high school graduation. I was with my then boyfriend, his mom, and her boyfriend on our way back from an out-of-town shopping trip at Costco. I was in the back right seat and behind me were all of the many groceries in bulk and other new items. We were on a two lane stretch of highway, speeding up just enough to get into the left lane, when a truck cut us off without warning. Our driver over-corrected as he tried to avoid a collision, but we collided with another vehicle anyway, which sent our car spinning 180° into oncoming traffic, until the skidding tires met the dirt at the side of the road and the car flipped. All I could hear was the sound of my own screaming as my body was at the mercy of all of that force and all I could think was, "I knew I would die this way".

When everything had stopped there was a moment of such stillness and quiet, and I couldn't believe that I was still able to think and that nothing hurt. I was alive when it didn't seem possible and it was a powerful emotion beyond measure. We soon realized that the passenger in the front seat had been knocked unconscious and there was a horrible moment when we thought she might be dead, but she came to quickly and amazingly none of us were seriously injured. I was openly sobbing and there was no part of my body that wasn't shaking violently as people came running to help us. My mouth was gritty with the dirt I'd inhaled while screaming and I was still clutching my cellphone and my Diet Coke. My window had exploded outward when the car had landed on it's roof and my door had bowed out just as my head had struck it. I could see a large clump of my hair trapped at the top of the door where it had snatched it from my scalp as we came back down. I reached my hand to my head to feel for blood and I felt something sticky and my heart dropped, but when I looked at my fingers there was no blood. I realized that I was sticky all over, especially my hair. It turned out that in the chaos a gallon of maple syrup had struck me on the head and burst. That is what I clung to, the hilariousness of that maple syrup exploding on my head. But I wasn't laughing, I wasn't making any discernibly human sounds whatsoever, because in those first moments I couldn't be anything but an animal who had survived the worst. I didn't make it to my sister's graduation.

This post is reaching novel length as it is, so I'll try to make the rest of this story short. Before the end of that year I got my driver's license at the age of 20 and I was an independent adult for a few proud months with the help of my anxiety medication and a new lease on life. Everything had changed, I had met and married my soulmate and we moved to Missouri, where I continued to drive. Shortly before moving to Missouri, however, I made the decision to go off of my medication because we wanted to have a baby. I was struggling with the returning anxiety and stress of a new (and strange) living situation, but I persevered... until a semi-truck tried to put me in a ditch on a winding back road. The subsequent panic attack and mental breakdown was unlike any I'd experienced before and one that I would do anything to avoid experiencing again.

I haven't driven since November of 2008. I will not drive again. I won't let anyone make me feel bad or stupid or broken because of that fact. I have an anxiety disorder, I have phobias, and I'm ok living my life the way I live it and coping the ways I know how to cope. If you took the time to read this post, I thank you.

Fighting the urge to punch and flee.

I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) and began treatment at the age of 20, after dealing with it on my own since age 5. I may have covered some of this in previous posts, so I won't go into my history with it much now. I have tried 2 different medications with success, but chose to go drug-free for my pregnancies... it hasn't been easy, but I manage to stay afloat most days. Now, onto my story:

Recently, I needed to make it to a scheduled appointment with my midwife for a checkup (I'm nearly halfway through my pregnancy!), but Clint couldn't take me because he'd been awake more than 24 hours with work and school. I can't drive because part of my anxiety disorder is that I get to have these really fun debilitating phobias. So, I had to call my dad to drive an hour to pick me up and take me to my appointment, a 15 minute drive from my house. He was more than willing to oblige, but it's painfully obvious to me that he doesn't understand where I'm coming from and his comments on the subject are cutting. I'm only barely comfortable being a passenger, so by the time I made to the clinic I was a frazzled mess and beyond jumpy. 

Another aspect about this whole situation that was giving me anxiety was the fact that I had to go in alone, when usually Clint is there with me, talking to me and keeping me distracted. When I have to do anything out in the real world by myself (like an adult) I panic. I was so anxious that I was unable to leave a urine sample, which is impressive for a pregnant woman who generally has to pee every 20 minutes. The nursed poked fun at me a bit, which wasn't helpful. My appointment went well overall, but my midwife could tell that I was on the verge of bolting. She expressed concern that I'm not currently on anxiety meds even though I'm pregnant and she wants me back on them immediately after I give birth. The way she was looking at me and the measured, soft way that she was speaking to me made me feel about an inch tall. In a moment like that it's hard not feel like the weirdest weirdo in town.

After my dad dropped me off at home, I told Clint all about it. I don't know what response I was expecting, but the one I got was, "Oh yeah, you definitely need to be on something. No question".

At least he loves me anyway.

Be your own friend first.

A lot of life has happened since my last post and I guess I just got busy living it. In the last few months I found out that I'm pregnant with my second son (yay!) and my first son turned 3 years old. I've been doing a lot of reflecting and soul searching lately, and it's only partly hormonal.

Case in point: I have never been one of those people who have a lot of friends, but I truly value the few that I do have. Sometimes, though, I find myself valuing that friendship far more than my friend seems to value it. In the past that has meant that I become preoccupied with mending the fences and trying so very hard to please that person in the hopes that I can convince them stop being an asshole to me. I can tell you, that is very taxing and not at all healthy. But no more!

Dear friend, 

You have been a jerk on multiple occasions.

You are not allowed to call me just because you need something.

I won't be used.

Don't call me to make plans, I know you won't be there.

I deserve respect and consideration.

Good-bye,

Katie the Self-Respecting

Conversely, I've been having a wonderful time with my true friends. Coffee dates, fulfilling conversations, much needed support and all those little necessary details of love. The key is quality over quantity in all things (except money, ha!) and I'm grateful for what I have. It's pointless to put energy into anything else, really.

I don't want to drag this post out even though I have stories for you. I'll save those for the posts I plan to write very soon.

Sally Sue, come home!

On one hand I'm antisocial and introverted, but on the other hand I'm eager to help and eager to please. It was that hand that landed me in a hot, dusty old house that smelled of cats yesterday.

I had been reading this page (I urge you to click the link, read, and donate if you can) when my doorbell rang. Normally when my husband isn't here I don't answer the door to strangers, but I had seen this man earlier that day checking the mail, so I figured he must be a neighbor. He told me that Cathy, the elderly lady who lives next door, had fallen and couldn't get up. He wanted to know if I could help him assist her. I took my 2 year old son with me into this woman's house, which was empty of furniture and most of her belongings because she was in the process of moving out. The gentleman, another woman, and I helped Cathy up off the floor and then we all stayed to help her pack the rest of her things into her car. Sadly, what didn't fit in the car had to be left behind, but I made sure she had all of the important things. This poor woman was rather upset that she couldn't take her massive 20 year old microwave with her. She ended up giving me her Hoover SteamVac Carpet Cleaner and some other cleaning supplies because she couldn't take them with her. I'm going to have my dad professionally clean out the appliance before I decide if I ought to keep it or donate it. At one point her cat bolted out of the house and couldn't be found, so she sat in her back yard calling out "Sally Sue! Sally Sue, come home!" and I suppose the cat eventually returned, because Cathy left later that night.

This morning I awoke to the sounds of construction work. I looked out the window and saw Cathy's abandoned belongings being thrown into a large dumpster along with the carpet. The man who had come to my door looking for help yesterday was actually the realtor and he told me that a contractor had bought the house and would be renovating it today. I have no idea what all is being done to the house, but it sounds like whole walls are coming down. I'm curious who my new neighbors will be.

An education in humiliation and homicidal planning

90% of my experience attending Boise State University was soul-crushing embarrassment and the reinforcement of all of my worst fears. Case in point was the arch nemesis I made in Stephen.

Stephen was even more socially awkward than I was (this is hard to imagine, even for me) and he made my skin crawl instinctively. I made every effort to avoid any interaction with him, which was made all the more difficult by the facts that he both lived on the same floor of the same building as I did and he was friendly with the girls who I was becoming friendly with. Their friendship seemed offensively incongruous, because the girls were pretty, popular, fun and socially-aware... while he was the opposite of all of those things plus the worst personality traits you can imagine. I decided that these girls were just being fashionably "nice" to him. I would compare this to the way that hipsters "enjoy" anything. It's trendy and they think it makes them look ironically cool. But instead of a heavy vintage typewriter with missing keys, these girls were carting around the male equivalent to the girl from "The Ring" and telling it that it was adorable.

He was the farthest thing from adorable.

One night, some people from my floor decided to go downstairs to watch a movie. Stephen sat next to me on the couch with his lanky, uncoordinated body, long, creepy, black hair (a la "The Ring") and weirdly bothersome John Lennon glasses. This was the first time that I was forced to have him inside of my personal bubble and it felt icky. I promise you that I wasn't just judging this creature by his appearance; I just felt so upset and uncomfortable around him and I don't know exactly why. Every time I was forced by the dorm gods to be near him for any reason I was overcome by the overwhelming urge to spew curses upon his house and throw hot coals at his face.

Part of my aversion to him was my inability to sense his presence without actually seeing him. I'll try to illustrate this for you:

Imagine, you are in your house, but you are in a separate room from the other people in your house. You "sense" that a TV is on somewhere in the house. You can feel the TV even though you can't actually hear any perceptible sound being emitted by it. You would be aware if the TV was suddenly turned off because you would feel this change in the energy more than you would hear it. Do you know this feeling? For me, if I'm standing in a room and someone walks quietly in behind me I can feel them the way that I can feel that TV. It is the exact same sensation. Stephen was a broken TV and I tried to rationalize this by telling myself that he must not have a soul.

Things escalated quickly one night when I quietly left my dorm room, crossed the well-lit circular lounging area and approached my long-time boyfriend's door for a spontaneous midnight tryst. I knocked and waited, and then I knocked some more. I started to think he was asleep, which would be pretty normal at that hour, and my focus drifted as it is wont to do. I was probably thinking about the number of calories in the bananas foster that I had unwisely consumed in a moment of weakness earlier that day as I turned around to head back to my room. Once I completed my turn, my face was MAYBE an inch from Disturbing Stephen's face. He had sneaked up on me so expertly it was shocking. I was so caught off guard by his sudden and intrusively close presence that I blurted out the first thought that entered my mind which was, "You are so fucking creepy!" Little did I know, that single assessment of his creepiness level would set off a chain of reactions (not a chain reaction mind you, but a fucking chain of reactions) that to this day I sometimes still find myself feeling anxious about.

Reaction #1: Epic Pranking

On a subsequent night I prepared to leave my room and, as always, I first looked out the peephole of my door before exiting. I was less concerned about psycho murderers and more concerned about my peers' judgy eyes. I was baffled by the nonsensical blur that met my eye instead. I tried, unsuccessfully, for a moment to translate what I saw into the shapes of the couches that I knew must still be out there. Finally, out of frustrated confusion I flung open the door and... A STARTLING CURTAIN OF NEWSPAPER. I was angrily surprised by this lame prank and I simultaneously ripped down the paper and forcefully walked forward and TRIPPED OVER THE FUCKING SOFA THAT WAS HIDDEN BY THE CURTAIN OF NEWSPAPER. My rage-fueled adrenaline rush quadrupled my strength (read: Hulk) and I veritably tossed the offending furniture aside. I lurched toward my boyfriend's door and started angrily pounding on it, thinking he would burst forth and valiantly defend my honor, but no. Instead I proceeded to bang on Stephen's door and I let loose a string of expletives so acidly vitriolic that my potty-mouthed mother would have been shocked and awed. I don't know that this string of expletives was necessarily coherent in any way, but the fact that I was able to speak at all was impressive, considering that I had bubbling lava in my veins.... and then nothing. Nothing happened. No one appeared. The hatred that I felt was swiftly morphing into a humiliation panic. That's when I saw the sign on the wall next to my dorm room door:

SMILE FOR THE CAMERA, KATIE :)

And there it was, on the floor, a webcam. To this day I have no idea whether or not that webcam was actually recording me. The silence suggested not. The lack of any triumphant glee on Stephen's part gives me a sliver of hope that my embarrassment miraculously went unnoticed. Utterly defeated, I sulked back to my room. As I approached I saw that toothpaste had been smeared over the peephole.

Reaction #2: Toilet Paper Tussle

One day I walked into my dorm room and I was alarmed to find Stephen inside, toilet papering the half of the room that my friends lived in. My instant blind rage out-weighed all logic and reason and I went ape-shit. At first I was only verbally abusive, but when this turd of a human refused to leave my living space I resorted to attempting to physically throw him out. My rage-monster strength was apparently an equal match to his soulless-creep strength and the ensuing violence resulted in frenzied shoving with very little actual movement. This resulted in his shirt being ripped at the collar and that's about it. We were at a standstill. I ended up fleeing the scene to find "help" in the form of my friendly neighborhood RA. What I meant to do was get assistance eradicating the psycho from my room. What I actually did was accost, confuse and frighten the RA as well as the nice family he was giving a campus tour to. I said something along the lines of, "Stephen just put HIS HANDS ON ME!" which just sounded weird. All that came of this was that I ended up looking like the bigger psycho in the scenario than Stephen did. Nothing was done about it. No one helped me. I started being more vigilant about checking the lock on my door at all hours.

Reaction #3: Toilet Paper Bomb

*Muffled thud*

Me: Whaa?

*opens door*

There is a roll of toilet paper on the ground.

There are messages written in Sharpie that go many layers deep.

"YOU ARE SO FUCKING PATHETIC, WHAT A BITCH. YOU ARE SUCH A STUPID BITCH" ad nauseum.

So, what did I do? Something logical or effective? Haha, of course not! No, I picked up the rude tissue and hefted it mightily back at Stephen's door... and it only flew halfway before falling impotently to the ground. It's surprisingly difficult to lob a roll of toilet paper intimidatingly, even with rage-y Hulk-strength. Instead of leaving the stupid roll on the floor and protecting my last scrap dignity I charged toward it, picked it up and threw it again. I then stormed through the first open door I saw to tell everyone and anyone how much I hated that creepy little prick. I'm telling you, I didn't even know the girls who I walked in on. I just stomped into their room and began berating them with my all-encompassing hatred of someone else. I had lost all ability to reason with myself and I simply needed to tell someone just how badly I was losing my shit. I remember seeing alarmed faces and almost nothing else about that moment.

And you know what? Stephen won all of the battles and he most certainly won the war. All I managed to do with my Hulk-smashing was to humiliate myself more than he could humiliate me on his own.

Touché, ass-wipe.

My neighbor wants me to help him vomit

Moments ago I was unloading the dishwasher when I heard a timid knock at my door. When I saw that it was my strange neighbor I was tempted to pretend I wasn't at home, but he knows my habits too well. He asked if Clint was available because he needs medical advice. My husband works at the hospital, but he isn't a doctor, and since he is sleeping between shifts I refused to wake him. This neighbor then tells me that he thought he was eating his customary meal of raw beef, but to his great dismay he realized too late that it was actually raw pork. To his knowledge raw pork is much more dangerous to ingest than raw beef and he is desperate for advice on how to induce vomiting. He was shocked that he couldn't find ipecac syrup available anywhere and I informed him that it is rarely used now because it has potentially dangerous side effects. He has been unable to induce vomiting on his own and he told me that if he doesn't find a solution to his situation that he will be back at my door in a couple of hours when Clint wakes up. I told him to call a nurse and ask for advice, but he is phobic of nurses and doctors... This man mends his own broken bones in his garage. I really don't want to find him on my doorstep again at 4:00. You guys, this is some seriously weird shit.