Raped

Gather round, kiddies. I'm going to tell you a story....

Once upon a time, there was a girl who ran with a whole bunch of fraternity boys. Notice I said "ran with" and not rode a train with....big difference. She dated a few, had a fairly serious relationship with one, and drank a whole lot of alcohol and had a whole lot of fun with the rest. 

She went to their parties. She drug herself out--half dead with bronchitis--to show face at their regional conference party, and looked really fucking good at that party, despite the fever--because she promised she'd be there to be shown off to brothers from far away. 

They threw her a fabulous 24th birthday party, complete with a keg, a pinata stuffed with condoms, and a penis cake, let her haze their pledges, and introduced her to the girl who would become the best friend she would ever have.

All around a really great, fun group of guys. 

Except...

There's always one. 

One that could be in the pages of GQ as a model. One who's physical beauty was unreal: beautiful body, beautiful face....what she thought was a beautiful soul. Attached himself to her. Told her she was an angel. He made her believe him. 

Except...

He was really only a beautiful disaster.

What she didn't really know, and would soon learn was that he was a mess. Unsettled. Lost. Inner demons that made him rage...disappear....show up again bruised and cut from head to toe. Took any and every drug he could get his hands on....drop liquid acid in his eyes....pop a Ketamine....take bong hits through his infamous gas mask. And even though she was warned, she just had to figure it out for herself. 

He was the one that would teach her, the extremely hard way, that you can't fix anybody. And when you try, you're the one who runs the risk of being broken. 

And here, my friends, is where the story gets not so nice....And I stop using the third person. 

He was such a mess. I don't think I realized just how much at the time, but in retrospect, disaster isn't a strong enough word. I don't know if there is one. What's the strongest category of tornado? That might come close. 

But he hid the severity of the storm from me. 

Until he didn't. 

Once.

I had been out with the guy I was seeing. In those days, I dared not bring an unaffiliated boyfriend around those guys. It would have been brutal. My boyfriend went home. I went to the bar where my circle practically lived in those days.

And there he was. Fucked up 12 different ways, with those demons bubbling at the surface. Ready to rage and disappear. I should have let him. Instead I decided to intervene.

Took him home. Tried to put him to bed. Found myself pinned underneath him. He was so strong.

Raped.

It's been fifteen years. I can still remember every second. I can play it in my head like a movie.

When it was done, I got up, found my clothes. Put them on. Went home.

I didn't realize until the next day when I talked to my 2 closest girlfriends what it was. Susan, the one who remains probably the closest person to me in the world, asked me:

Did you say no? Did you say stop? 

I did. Over and over.

He raped you. 

And in a heartbeat I was a statistic.

I probably perpetuated that by not reporting it....I didn't go to the police. At the time, the thought of the shit storm that would have caused was too much for me to handle, much less live. I'm not so sure if I had to go back and do it all over again I'd do it any differently. I don't think I would.

Self preservation comes in many different forms, you know.

There was a shit storm of a different kind. One I didn't expect. He told mutual friends we'd had "bad sex."

I guess that's one way to put it, though not entirely accurate.

I lost a very close friend over his version. One I adored. That one still stings all these years later.

Bros before hos, after all.

I never felt like that experience crushed me or made me a shell of a person. It easily could have. What it did affect, for a long time, was my ability to have sex with someone without having a guard up so high it was impossible to enjoy it. I wanted to. I tried. Didn't work. Slowly, after about 2 years, and a lot of therapy, that started to work itself out.

And after all this time, here's the monster that still lives under my bed: I can't have sex in the dark. The lights have to be on.

It was so dark.

It's more fun with the lights on anyway.

So what's the moral of the story? Shit. I don't know.

It happened to me. It taught me some things for damn sure. It's a part of why I am who I am now.

It's like any of the other hurtful and traumatic things in life; you live through it and with any luck you find some clarity on the other side of it, and refuse to let it define you.

That's the best you can do.

Mount Med Surg

This is the mountain I have been climbing for the last 8 weeks while I have been neglecting my life, my children, and of course, my blog.

I feel physically beaten. I have one clinical day and the day of the final left, and I question whether I can make it through those two things to make it on to the next class. I keep telling myself 7 more months, and I'll be finished, but 7 months is a lifetime when you're not sure how you're going to make it through the next 2 days.

I would take into consideration that I might be whining if I didn't see the same affliction in each one of my classmates in different ways. We sit in class with our thousand yard stares, holding ourselves back from scaling the tables in the classroom to injure our professor. Legs bounce under tables. Pens tap. Many nasty, evil (and hilarious, might I add) comments are mumbled to surrounding classmates. Random bursts of maniacal laughter from a table here, a table there....We're all thinking the same thing.

We are 32 homicidal nursing students...stretched to the limit and ready to snap at any second. I don't think I can adequately describe the chaos that would ensue if just one of us snapped. Cuz when that happened, we'd all go in one ugly rage-fueled mob of resentment over shitty test questions and even shittier test grades....lectures that make absolutely no sense and even less when we're told, "Oh! Excuse me!! That's not what I meant....I meant this total other opposite disorder....Wait. Or did I?"

And we would light torches and let that motherfucker burn over the prerecorded lectures including such touching family moments of our instructor's as..."I have to take a shit!!!!....*dog barking in background*...TURN THE TV OFF!!!!!!...*fart* OH! EXCUSE ME!!!!"

Oh...excuse me...

48 hours, and I will summit this bitch.

48 hours.

Just a note...

Obviously, this is my blog and I am happy you're reading it. Writing is one of the most cathartic activities I have ever found, and for this reason I have kept journals almost my entire adult life, even if I've been a spotty writer at times.

The decision to take a blog and go public was not an easy one for me. Largely everything I have ever written that focuses on my life and all the challenges that come with it has been in a notebook, tucked away out of anyone's sight but my own. And I still journal away from here because it helps me to get out all the stuff I'd never publicly write about, though sometimes you can be sure a post I've made here started in a wire bound notebook. In fact,  more than likely they all do.

The point I am trying to make here is that I take my writing in my journal--and by the same token--my blog pretty seriously. It's not me trying to find a way to fill my spare time. I have none. This blog is the equivalent of me slicing my soul open and asking everyone to have a look. You may have noticed my posts really aren't all about unicorns farting glitter, and they aren't meant to be.

I have had some amazing feedback about what I have written,  and it makes me feel proud and slightly embarrassed to be honest. I appreciate all of the kind words and compliments I've gotten, from my best friend who knows every bit of what I write by virtue of who she is, to people I don't know very well at all who have made it a point to tell me. Thank you. You totally get it.

Someone told me today--totally unsolicited,  mind you--that my blog is "cute." This I find insulting if not completely condescending.  Clearly the person who said this hasn't taken a moment to read my posts and if he has, well, I just don't know what to say. Way to minimize something that means this much to me. All of the adjectives you could have chosen,  and cute is all you could manage?

Unicorns farting glitter are cute,  but we already talked about those.

What I'm getting at is this: don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining.  Be genuine. You haven't read my blog? That's cool. I think it's pretty kick ass, but I'm biased. You don't like my blog? Hey, there's no helping bad taste. Let me assure you this endeavor is more about me than what anyone thinks of me...so is my life. I hope I reflect that in what I write.

Meanwhile do me the favor of keeping your stupid thoughtless comments to yourself while you watch those unicorns blowing glitter out their asses,  thanks.

Blue

I have been a raging bitch lately. For about a week, I have been in what I can only call a funk....and not the George Clinton variety. I have been weepy, cranky, snarling and mean.

PMS, you ask? Negative. But thanks for the suggestion.

The past few years have been rough for more reasons than I can ever begin to explain. Life changes, love changes, changes I welcomed with open arms and changes I never saw coming that knocked me on my ass....opened my eyes...taught me things about myself that I never knew....answered questions that lingered in my head for years and brought new questions I may never get answers to.

I'm a worrier by nature. These things tend to pile up and weigh on me. When that happens, I get blue.

As of Tuesday, I've officially been in nursing school for a year. I have 9 months left. Barring any tragedy, in December I will be pinned and graduate, take my boards and officially be a nurse. I'm doing pretty well in school. I work my ass off to try to learn everything I'm supposed to while trying like hell not to let anybody down.

It's exhausting.

It's up at the ass crack of dawn, drink as much coffee as I can, get the kids ready for school, get myself ready for work or school or work and school, drop off Small Blond and Bitter, go to work, go to school, go back to work, pick up SB&B, go home, do homework with the boys, have dinner, do my own homework, go to bed. Glorious sleep.

Then I get up and do it again.

I'm burning out. I can feel it. I can feel it in my schoolwork, at my job, at home. The pace I have to keep up is wearing me out. And it feels like there just isn't a way to get a break. This week was supposed to be my "spring break." Remember spring break when you piled in a car or on a plane to go to fabulous destinations with your friends, sat in the sun, drank cheap beer and danced until 7am?

Yep. Me too. That was 20 years ago.

Here's my spring break reality these days: I have 300 pages to read in an IV therapy book and a 4-hour online lecture to listen to and take notes on. I was looking forward to a full 40 hour week at work for the first time in God knows how long, until I got a call the other day that I had a puking kid. I swear I've tried to read that IV book. It puts me to sleep. I'm not hearing rave reviews on the lecture that I will have to focus on this weekend. I've completely spaced on fluid & electrolyte balance and only maintain a faint recollection of acid/base balance--the concepts that will dominate the next 8 weeks of my life. Throw in the time change. Who knew one stinking hour could contribute to the juicy frothing mess that is currently me?

I am not complaining. I chose this. I just need to find my mojo cuz I seem to have misplaced it. Sleep every second that I can. Try to file the unanswered questions in the "To Be Determined" file. Keep telling myself everything happens for a reason and no one knows what the future holds. Drink coffee. Read chapters. Hide in my lair when my snarling gets out of control. Keep working my ass off because really, what other choice would I allow myself?

I just have to remind myself to breathe....to let go of the things that are beyond my control. To do nice things for myself and count my blessings. To laugh and eat ice cream and spend 3 hours on the phone with my best friend...to soak up the time I spend with the boys. To keep my sense of humor to not be so blue.

After all, blue is not my color.

To My 23 Year Old Self....

What would I (at close to 40) say to my 23 year old self?

I've been kicking this blog post around in my mind for close to 2 years now. Not exactly "if you could go back and do it again....," because I truly have few regrets. If given the chance, some things I would have done differently, some things I might not have done at all, but there are really not many things I'm so sorry about that I hold deep regret. This is sort of like, "if I knew then what I know now...." I imagine, though, that would have quashed the 20's angst I had, and really--what's the point of your 20's if you don't have drama and angst?

Still though....There are some things I would like to tell me....

Things like....
-Girl. That hair color? So not for you.
-You're going to be a nurse one day. No. Seriously. Stop laughing.
-Passion is a double edged sword.
-Don't care so much what other people think of you. It just doesn't matter.
-Be kind to yourself. Do nice things for yourself. Sometimes you're all you have.
-Stop fighting the curly hair. Embrace it, find a good curl product and carry on.
-You never get over losing your parents. Ever.
-Mardi Gras. Do it.
-Enjoy the time you have with your mom the way she is now. You won't have her this way much longer.
-Stand up for yourself. Always.
-You have to go after the things you want, because they sure as hell aren't going to lay themselves on your doorstep.
-He loves you. And he will always love you.
-Your heart is too squishy, your brain is too logical. Listen to your gut. It will never steer you wrong.
-You still know more about art than your brother ever will, but he was right when he said you'd be a Conservative one day. No. Seriously. Stop laughing.
-Two little boys will come into your life and when they do you will learn the meaning of completely selfless unconditional love. Your heart will burst with it every day of your life with them.
-I hope you like Volkswagens. Cuz you're gonna be driving one for a loooooonnnnng time.
-Oh so next year? You're going to have this phase where you're a total slut. And you're going to have a whole lot of fun for several months. You're welcome.
-151 is The Devil.
-Things aren't always what they seem, no matter how long they've seemed that way.
-Your close girlfriends are your lifeline. They are your sounding board, your mirror, your rock. Value them. They are worth their weight in gold.
-Yes, Bono is still as hot as ever.

I'm sure there are other things I could say, but I think this pretty much covers what I would want me to know. Makes me wonder what my 60 year old self would say to me at the age I am now......

Psych Nursing

For those of you that don't know it, in nursing school you go through several rotations, much like students in med school do. In my particular program, our rotations are about 5-6 weeks of our 8 week classes. Fast paced, but enough time to get a feel for what you like or do not like about a particular area of nursing.

Thus far, I've been on an Orthopedic Unit, in a nursing home, on a Med Surg Unit, a Mother/Baby Unit, and currently I am on a psych unit in one of my local hospitals.

Ortho and Med Surg...meh...they're ok. I could do it. Wiping butts and pushing meds, helping patients (oh...excuse me...CLIENTS...) get cleaned up. I particularly enjoy giving injections for some odd reason. I think its the most nursey-nurse thing I've done yet, and there's something about the actions of putting the med in the syringe and giving the injection that I find appeals to me.

Mother/Baby? LOVE. I loved it. Healthy patients who, for the most part, are celebrating the addition of a new life to their families. Some sad stories, for sure. Despite the sad stories, and the methadone baby, born addicted to Percocet that I saw to most of my day in the nursery, and the little guy who was clearly born with genetic abnormalities who was transferred to the Children's hospital....I adored the nursery. I watched a baby be born and tended to many others that day. It was my favorite day in nursing school, and I am preparing to launch an all-out assault on the nurseries at the hospital where I work to allow me to precept there later this year.  

Nursing home? Please, God, no. Geriatrics is not my forte by any means. It was too overwhelmingly sad to me to see these elderly who had dementia, couldn't remember who or where they were....I didn't think it could get any more sad or overwhelming than the nursing home.

Until Psych.

The unit I'm on is divided into 4 sub-units. 1 regular adult unit, 1 child/adolescent unit and 2 special treatment units for acutely mentally ill patients.

I was on the special treatment unit for the most acutely ill this past week. It was a bad day. I was surrounded by patients who are so ill that I found it hard to believe that they could be helped in their current state. Very few--if any of them--were grounded in reality for more than a few moments at a time. One man on the unit has been institutionalized for 47 years. Forty-seven years of his life he has been an inpatient in a mental health facility.

At this facility, we sit on the unit, my partner and I, and color. On the other few units I've been on there, you get a crayon and a coloring sheet in front of somebody and they just start talking. Its amazing. I think its safe to say that after these next 2 weeks of clinical, I won't be coloring any time soon. My neck aches the next day from having my head bent over my coloring all day. My instructor is an art therapist, and she has a seemingly endless amount of coloring sheets.

In the last few weeks, I've had discussions with heroin addicts, bi-polar patients, schizophrenic patients--my schizophrenic patient was my favorite. He was physically imposing and scared the shit out of me half the day. Until he got a crayon in his hand. Then he told me about his life, his history of hospitalizations, the voice that talks to him constantly and doesn't allow him to sleep.

There are many reasons I'm finding this field doesn't appeal to me. I'm used to being up on my feet for 12 hours, checking on my patients, giving them meds, taking them juice, talking with them and their families. Physical exhaustion comes with the territory. But this class--this is a pure 12 hours of mental and emotional exhaustion. You constantly have to be vigilant. Don't turn your back on the client...make sure you know where their hands are at all times...don't ever stand directly in front of them, you have no idea if or when they will strike out. One patient spent half of the day pacing circles around the table where I was seated. He never spoke. I was unnerved.

These units are supposed to be therapeutic, but outside of the art therapy groups that we run for them, I don't see any of that. I see nurses and techs not interacting with the patients unless they're being told its time to eat or time to take their meds. Psychiatrists are in and out. They spend maybe a few moments with each patient, and they're gone again. I wonder how this is helping any of them, outside of the medications. It just doesn't seem right.

And here's the thing that keeps coming back to me. Most especially when I spent time on the regular Adult unit: that could have been me.

I've suffered with anxiety for as long as I can remember. I remember it as a kid, a teenager, a 20-something, and beyond. For most of my life, it came and went. Inconvenient, scary, but manageable.

Until.

My oldest was about a year old. The anxiety had kicked up quite a bit in the months after his birth. Probably a combination of being a new mom and the stresses that come with that, and a healthy dose of Post-partum Depression thrown in just for fun. When he was about a year old, I dropped my basket, so to speak. In a matter of a few months, I became so overtaken with anxiety that I could not function. I would have massive panic attacks any and all hours of the day--particularly while driving. I'd started a new job that was intensely stressful and I was isolated all day, being piled with more and more responsibility. One day I had chest pains and ended up in the Emergency Room. After x-rays, a CT scan during which I reacted to the contrast (listen to your patients when they tell you they're allergic to red dyes and iodine, please) and a blank look on a doctor's face, I left AMA. When I saw my own doctor she handed me a prescription for Xanax and a handful of Lexapro samples. My therapist wholeheartedly agreed that was exactly what I needed.

Except.

Taking medicine scares me. One of those fun phobias. I was terrified they would worsen the problem and allowed myself to get to the point where I walked out on my job, got in my bed, and stayed there. For about a month. Walking into the bathroom brought on intense panic. Walking outside? Forget about it. I was a mess. I wasn't eating much. Wasn't sleeping much. And still in abject terror when I thought about taking the meds. Incidentally--I now know that this thing I'm afflicted with is called Panic Disorder. Look it up.

Finally, my husband gave me an ultimatum: Try the meds. If you don't, I'm taking the baby and leaving.

The thought of being without my son was more unbearable to me than the thought of the meds. I took them. My sisters (also interestingly both on similar meds) cautioned me I would feel strange for the first few weeks and really want to stop taking them, but to keep on. They would work.

And they did. And it is the best thing I have ever done for my own health. That little white pill that regulates my serotonin levels has saved my sanity. It is my equalizer. It keeps my panic away and allows me to function as a normal human being.

So you can see how being on a mental health unit where no one has an equalizer may hit a little too close to home for me. One thing we're taught in nursing school is "know thyself." Examine your own thoughts and beliefs so that you can know what to put aside when you are working with patients. I do my best to put my own baggage aside, and I want to help as much as I can in the limited amount of time I have with these people.

So, I color and make collages, and encourage these very emotionally frail people to share with me the darkest corners of their minds, in the name of therapeutic communication.

And after this semester, I never want to do it again.

When you have little boys...

I once heard someone say, "The definition of a little boy is noise with dirt on it." I don't know who came up with that, but man, is it ever true.

I find myself at home with my boys today. School and daycare are closed, and so I took the day off to hang out at home with my 2 little dirty noise balls. They're my squirrels. They are affectionately known around the house as Stink Pot, age 8 and Small Blond and Bitter, age 5.

Currently, SB&B is in his underwear, riding his scooter in circles around me, negotiating for an orange soda. His attempts began at 9 this morning, and when the answer was no, he called me mean. Are you figuring out where the "Bitter" part comes from? He just heaved a big sigh and said, "I'm sooooo thirsty!!" in the most pitiful voice he could muster.

SP has already broken the light cover over my bed this morning, when he hit it with a ball. Oh well. I needed to wash my comforter anyway....

These are the things that happen when you have little boys. They break stuff. They argue with each other. Heads get bumped, stuff gets lost. You find yourself stepping on Legos and cursing, chase them out of the kitchen, wipe faces that are dirty again approximately 10 seconds later. You find Transformers in your fridge and Hot Wheels cars in your bed.

But here's what else happens when you have little boys...

As their mom, you are loved above all others.

When they are hurt or sick, scared or sad, they look to you to make it better, because you always have. And if you're lucky enough, you can make it better. Though you know there will come a day when you can't, you do your damnedest to fix the boo boos, hug away the bad dreams, snuggle the fevers and kiss away the tears. Because you're Mom. You are their nurse, their teacher, their comfort, their all-knowing.

When you've been gone all day for a 12 hour clinical, and you walk in the door, the first thing you hear is "Moooooommmmmyyyyy!" and you are covered with hugs and kisses because they missed you.

When you're driving down the road, and out of nowhere you hear from the back seat, "Mommy? I just love you."

When they climb onto the couch to snuggle with you and say, "Mommy. You're so pretty. You're the best mom ever."

When they ask me what I got on my test or how my clinical went that day and I tell them, and they high five me and say, "Great job, Mom!"

When SP knows I'm not feeling well or I'm having a bad morning, and he gives me his most loved and favorite stuffed elephant to take to work with me so I'll feel better.

These are the things that make every moment, every struggle, everything worth it when you have little boys.

And to think I wanted girls.