On Making Oneself Happy

A few months ago, I saw this wave of Facebook posts (and ostensibly twitter posts, but I struggle with twitter -- #whatswrongwithcompletesentencesandpunctuation?).  These posts were "hash-tagged"(that's when you put a number, or "pound" sign in front of words without spaces and punctuation--all my work teaching kindergarten undone by a character limit) as "100 happy days."

One particular story caught my attention.  A friend of a friend, (we'll call my friend 'Jane' and the lady she was friends with 'Carla') had been posting about her happy days, and apparently 'Carla' passed away before she could finish.  I did not even know Carla (but I did know Jane, who continued posting her happy days after her friend had gone) and I thought, if these two people, one who was facing her final days, and the other who lost her friend, could find things to be happy about, then maybe I need to make more of an effort to find happiness.

So I started doing it.

And at first, it was a really enriching experience.  Some days were so wonderful, I was challenged to find just one thing to settle on as my 'reason to be happy'.  Some days were so terrible, it was a challenge to find anything.  But I soldiered on, dutifully posting about one thing each day that made me happy.

About 30 days in, I realized something.  100 days is a really long time.

And the truth of the matter is, frequently, I was generally finding pleasure in the same things on a daily basis: riding my bike, eating tacos, laying in the hammock, watching trashy television, going to bed reeeeeaaalllly early.  But because I was posting publicly, I felt like I needed to post a different thing each day.  That started to get tricky.

And then, there have been some really tough days.  Like, a few months ago when the manperson and I finally decided, "this is it, this is the last time we 'try' to get pregnant.  After this, I'm buying a surfboard and throwing in the towel."  So I'm probably not going to be a mother.  Alternate options are, well...we've just decided that we're going to not, probably.  And while I'm satisfied with our collective decision, I can't say I'm exactly 'happy' about it, and that some grieving isn't taking place (along with a sense of relief).  That's a complicated emotion that doesn't fit neatly into a #hashtag. And my mom has been sick.  She'll probably be okay, but she's been sick.  And then *I* got sick, so I can't go visit her, cuz I'l make her sicker.  And my car needed a new battery and axle.  And I'm missing Halloween because of the aforementioned pestilence. And work has been really, really hard, even though it's been really, really fulfilling.  And I'm seriously burned out and want to cry frequently and sometimes I just don't feel so very happy about much of anything and sometimes I'd like to express that.

But I felt like, well, "not on Facebook."  Because I'm doing #100happydays and I don't want to confuse people and let them know that my emotions are complicated.  #hashtagscannothaveapostrophes #itscomplicatedisthereforepossessive #apostrophesmatter

And that's when #100happydays began to turn into a source of aggravation.  I began to dread it.  "God, what am I going to post about for #100happydays today?  The bug bites driving me insane that I fear might be #bedbugs?  The parent-teacher conferences where my student's mom seems on the verge of tears because she really doesn't know what to do to help her son anymore?  Avocado.  Whatever.  I like avocado.  Pajamas.  Those are innocuous."

By now I was in the 80s of days, and I couldn't bear to quit.  Because I'd made some arbitrary commitment to myself and my 'readers', I kept plugging away.  (Oh, come on, Dianna.  Get over yourself.  It's FACEBOOK.  No one cares.  Everyone's on twitter and snapchat and FaceTime and reddit and wherever #kidsthesedays are these days.)

All these thoughts reminded me of a woman I met a few years ago (okay--14 years ago--#wheredoesthetimego) who refused to use the expression "to make (one) happy."  She insisted that the statement implied force--that one could be made to be happy by someone or something else, and that's exactly what I felt I was endeavoring to do, one insidious Facebook post at a time.  (Just imagine the internal dialogue: "Be happy!"  "You can't make me!") Doggedly searching for an original, daily 'affirmation' (that is 'clean' enough to post publicly) every single day for over three months does not make you happy, let me tell you.  And I agree with my old acquaintance.  I don't want to be 'made happy'.

When I was a student in France, I took ballet.  (I swear this is all leading to a conclusion!) I was the lumpiest, clumsiest, Americanest ballerina you ever did see.  The instructor was a drill sergeant to the French girls who learned with her.  She was very kind to me, though, mostly because I think she believed I had probably been dropped on the head a few times.  After the first class, I asked her if it would be all right to continue lessons with her, even though I'd be leaving France before the end of the semester.  She said "Si ça te donne de la joie." (If it gives you joy).  And it did.  Along with sore muscles and bruised pride, learning ballet gave me joy.

And since that day, this is how I choose, generally, to speak of those things that bring smiles to my face and brightness to my life.  Those things give me joy.

I wouldn't say, after all this, that one shouldn't do things like #100happydays and other similar affirmation practices...but I also wouldn't say that one should do it.

You should do what brings you joy (even if that means stubbornly plowing through a personal emotional experiment just so that you can write a preachy blog post to air your dirty laundry to the three people who still read blogs).

You should recognize what  brings you joy and recognize what brings you sorrow because you need both to be, well, happy.

In truth, no one needs a reason to be happy, just like no one needs a reason to be sad or to be scared or to be amused or to be tired or to be aroused.  100 actual "happy" days seems like some kind of weird purgatory, now that I really think about it (I'm imagining a pink cotton candy land where Pharrel plays nonstop and the sun always shines...).

As for the #100happydays thing,  I'm glad Carla and Jane did it.  I'm glad I did it.  I'm glad I'm not doing it any more.  Do it if it brings you joy.  Don't if it doesn't.

May all your days bring you: joy, sorrow, humor, grief, pleasure, pain, and growth.  We should cherish them all.

#allthedaysallthefeels

Shifty Squirrel

ICHC Limerick--I never done it, I swear!

Exposing the squirrel's nutty ruse
was a case no one wanted to choose

sans a gumshoe to run it

I sussed out who done it

by gath'ring and solving the clues

To Get to the Other Side

ICHC dabbles in darkness

Once the tears of the poultry were dried,
’twas the Tomcat who cast off his pride.
Nestled ‘mongst hay and bricks
he stood guard o’er the chicks

keeping all safe and sound on this side

original post: http://cheezburger.com/8318741248

ICHC Limerick--Frau Maus

There once was a nosy old mouse
who spread vicious lies through the house.
She gossiped and gabbed,
and blathered and blabbed
til the housemistress hollered “Sie! AUS!!”

ICHC Limerick: Nice Wheels

It's another limerick based on an icanhascheezburger post!

A cat who liked cars very much

found himself just a tad out of touch.

To the humans they pandered

when making a standard;

his paws were too short for the clutch.

On Making a Donation

There is a lot of dialogue regarding giving and charity and the complexities therein lately, and I think it's a good conversation to have.

I didn't really want to engage in that conversation, but it was only a matter of time before my name popped up in blue, inviting me to post a video of someone (including but not exclusively me) dumping a bucket of ice water on themselves.

I admire and support all my fun-loving friends who have participated in this campaign.

But I'm terrible at following directions.  Also, we just moved and it occurs to me that we literally don't own a bucket.

However, the nomination did give me the opportunity to evaluate my giving practices, and it occurs to me that I cannot remember the last time I donated to a nonprofit, which is shameful.

So even though we're not exactly flush with cash (just bought mahself a new hoopty! -- She's old enough to drive herself, and I love her so), I figure that if I can justify spending $20 on a filtration pitcher to make our already clean drinking water EVEN CLEANER, I can justify spending the same to help others have that human need.

So I'm making a donation to charity:water.  You can read all about them here:  http://www.charitywater.org

And you can see how they rate in terms of how they use their funding here:  http://www.charitynavigator.org/index.cfm?bay=search.summary&orgid=12548#.U_SAE15H1SU

And I would like to invite anyone who has a spare dime to give to find a good cause and donate to it, because....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuUZiPh-h7c

On Making Things Okay

Since the faeries are on hiatus (awaiting a new scanner--see the latest memo here), and a great deal of discussion surrounding the topic of mental wellness has come to the surface of many conversations, I feel the urge to write this post about my personal journey of wellness.

In 2007, at the tender age of 29, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc.  There was no sudden accident, no particular reason that what started as mild scoliosis in my teen years became an acute herniation; it simply 'developed' over the years. I learned that I had a herniated disc when I decided to (finally) see a doctor about my back pain which I had been "dealing with" (isn't that a hilarious way to convince yourself it's all okay?) since I was a teenager.  I had been experiencing pain, muscle spasms, and stiffness for nigh on 15 years before I sought help.

Because up until then I was okay.

But as my mom recently (wisely) stated, "You're always okay until you're not okay anymore."

I got some advice from my doctor to, you know, care for myself so that it wouldn't get worse.

But of course I didn't.

And it did.  Get worse.  Much worse.

There was the night at the emergency room, when the pain was so severe I was screaming in my sleep.

There were the days I staggered from lamppost to lamppost, weeping at street corners, unable to make my paralyzed and agonized leg (the sciatic nerve was pinched) walk more than a few steps.

There were the two weeks I spent lying on one side on the floor, unable to sit or stand, unable to work.  Unable to be on my feet long enough to boil water (I, the pan, and the scalding water wound up on the ground).

I had to reach this place of helpless debilitation before I took my condition seriously.  I saw more doctors.  They use these charts to try and determine how much pain you are in...

It's absurd.  Where was the "burns like hell lightning down my leg and incapacitates me" face?  Where was the "this Vicodin does nothing, so you may as well give me the whole bottle" face?  Where was the "I literally can't go on living like this" face?
Where was the "I won't be an invalid burden to my family" face?

They told me that the pain of childbirth was a level of 10.  I'll let you know if I ever get a chance to compare it, but this was worse than anything I could imagine.

I think the chart should go to 11.

The short version (too late!) of my story is: after 6 months of doctor visits, psychotherapy, and 1 cortisone shot that started wearing off far too quickly, I selected surgery: a discectomy.  It's a somewhat risky procedure, in that many people who get it don't feel a whole lot better afterward.  But I knew I couldn't feel worse.

They say surgery hurts.  They say recovering from it hurts.

When I woke up from surgery, I felt like I had been released.  I had forgotten how it felt to be feeling only a quite a bit of pain, as opposed to a horrifying amount.  I begged the nurses to stop giving me the "big crazy pills" (percoset) which gave me vivid hallucinations involving Sarah Palin and Joe Biden In Flagrante Delicto (it was fall of 2008 by this point) and to please just give me Tylenol instead, because it really didn't hurt any more.  The pain of surgery was nothing compared to the pain before surgery.  I welcomed it.

I don't mean to say I'm cured.  I'm not.  I still live with pain, muscle spasms, and stiffness.  And one day, I may have to re-live the hell I went through that year.  I'll cross that bridge if I come to it.  In the meantime, I live with my injury.  In some ways, it's a blessing.  I feel best when I am in constant motion.  I cannot sit, stand, or even lie in one position for very long.  In that way, I stay very fit and active.  It's not so I look cute in a bikini.  It's not so I have big strong muscles. It's so I can function.  It's so I can be self-sufficient and able to work and live with only a 'life is tough, sometimes things hurt' amount of pain.

What does this have to do with mental wellness?

Well.

If people who battle with conditions such as depression, anxiety, OCD, bipolar, or anything else I'm failing to mention (because hasn't this post gone on long enough?) feel even a fraction of what I felt, whether it's above your neck or below your waist, or visible or invisible or in your spine or in your brain...

If anyone has to feel pain that is anything like what I felt...

It's horrible.  It doesn't care if you're young or skinny or fat or light or dark.  It doesn't care if you're rich or poor or whom you love.  It attacks viciously and with little warning.

And that pain is as much in any person's control as mine was in my control.  Which is to say, it is, a bit.  To an extent.  But sometimes it goes beyond 'dealing with it.'

And then you need to get help.

Because sometimes you're okay.  Until you're not okay.

And if you're not okay, it's okay to say so.

ICHC Limerick: TP

What's that, you say?  It's been ages since you last heard a limerick based on captioned photos of animals?  Oh, all right.

A cat who preferred the world numbered

slipped into the loo unencumbered.

When confronted with tissue,

he conquered the issue,

posed for photos, then spit up, and slumbered.

ICHC Limerick: Extra Hops

A good friend of mine (and superb writer) creates fantastic poetry based on a website known as "Texts From Last Night".  (You can read his work here: http://21stcenturynonsense.blogspot.com)

So I have decided, as rebuttal, to start writing limericks based on the hilariously and adorably captioned images from "icanhascheezburger.com".

Here is my inspiration:  http://cheezburger.com/8265308928

And here is my poem:

A rabbit with rather short ears
found himself midst a carton of beers
He licked every bottle
Not a little — a lottle.

For when rabbits find beers, they say “cheers!”

A Human's Garden in the Shade

Apparently my ear worm for the day is by the Beatles.  You're welcome.

I've been living in my Queens apartment for 3?  4? years...(I've lost track a bit).  Since then, my 5-container garden has blossomed (you see what I did there?) into a 7-container garden, and I've had a lot of fun learning what you can and can't do with about 2 hours of sunlight.

You can't plant anything that needs any sun.

BUT, you CAN dress it up for the holidays!

Here, the 'evergreens' in the outermost pots and the two front pots are synthetic, but they and the red bows seem to have weathered (I did it again!) the season well enough to re-use for the coming winter.  I would love to light this up, but I've no access to an outlet here.  Future dreams for future homes.

And you CAN plant bulbs (if you never expect them to return the following year; in a shade garden, bulbs have to be treated as annuals once they've bloomed.  Worth it.).

          

Like crocuses...........................................         and grape hyacinths...........................



          

and the one daffodil that came up........................      and tulips!


That was a bit of a surprise, because I could have sworn I planted irises.  That's what happens when 6 months go by between planting and blooming (and you don't label your garden).


I definitely crammed everything in pretty tight, which is why I think 90 percent of the daffodils told me to stick it where the sun don't shine (I'm on a roll!) but I did get that one survivor, and it was a beaut.


Then some critter (dog? raccoon?) trampled all over my bulbs and turned them into weeping tulips.

Jerk.

It was about time for the summer annuals, anyway.

Like impatiens (seen here with hosta)   And begonias!

All Together Now: (Earworm #2)

(And some barely visible bugleweed with the yew.  But you get the idea.)

In a way, gardening in the shade has been a great challenge--there are really very few plants to choose from, but having limited choices isn't the same as having no choices or having bad choices.  I'm pretty pleased with the outcome, and it is pretty much the cutest little garden on the block, if I do say so myself.

And I do.

Go plant something!

For Love of Chips

If I have one life goal, it is to make every vegetable into a chip of some kind.  I love salt.  I love crunch.  I love eating with my fingers.

I've tried my hand at baking kale chips (like every domestic diva on the planet) as well as collard chips, beet chips, and sweet potato chips.  Because I'm lazy, I've tried eating the pre-made kale chips sold in stores.  I find them revolting.  These homemade kale chips, however, are so popular at parties, they have garnered several marriage proposals (which were met with a conflicted blend of pride and jealousy by my husband).

You will find about ten million sets of instructions on the web about how to make these.  Mine are the best.  (These instructions work as well for collard chips.)  (Level:  chip novice)

• Buy some kale.
• Wash it.  Dry it.
• Tear it into chip-sized pieces (not too big--they will shrink as you bake them)
• Dump them in a big bowl and pour a bunch of olive oil over them.  
• Take the pieces out one by one and gently massage the oil on both sides of the leaf.  Do not be shy with the oil.  It's what makes the kale crispy and it is good for your skin, anyway.
• Lay the kale flat on a cookie sheet, no two pieces touching (kale Tetris!)  
• Sprinkle with salt.
• Bake at 325 for about 10 minutes.  This is the 'hard' part.  Check them obsessively.  There is about 10 seconds between 'done' and 'burned'.  If they are starting to turn brown, get them out right away.  They should be crispy and green, in a perfect world.  

I went through about a billion (okay, like, four) burned, limp, broken, over-salted and under-oiled batches before I 'perfected' the technique.  Don't get discouraged.  Practice makes perfect.  Once you get it right, you'll have your chance at polygamy, too.

As for other spices and flavors to 'enhance' the kale/collard chips, I have tried a few.  I always come back to plain old olive oil and salt.  It's just the best.

Root vegetable chips are a little trickier, but they are awesome.  I did sweet potato chips with my kindergarten class, and they told me they were "better than candy" (I almost cried with joy).

This is a beet chip:

For these and sweet potato chips, I use the following system:  (level: chip Jedi)

• Buy some beets (or sweet potatoes).
• Wash them and slice them with a mandoline slicer, at its thinnest setting (leave the skin on--that's how you get the ruffled edge)
• Bathe and massage the slices with olive oil.
• Lay the chips on a baking sheet (not touching) and sprinkle with salt.
• Bake at 325 for somewhere between 30 and 90 minutes.

See why it's tricky?  The baking time varies enormously depending on the whims of the gods or whatever.  You're not so much baking them as dehydrating them, and it needs to be a low temperature or the olive oil scorches and the chips burn.  You will probably want to flip them halfway through, and they will cook at varying speeds depending on the chip.  Remove them when they are mostly dry but still somewhat gummy.  Give them a few hours to dry out the rest of the way.  I lay them out on paper overnight, and in the morning, they are usually hard and crispy.  If not, I pop them in the oven again for a few minutes.  

Anyway, if you're an overachiever or want to hear a five-year old refer to a vitamin-rich vegetable as 'better than candy', it's worth it.  

All hail chips, and go make something.