DANGER: Do not work at a Floral Shop on Valentine’s Day

Since I have returned to my hometown, I work at my old job (a florist).  They were kind enough (desperate) to take me back, and it is nice to come home and be able to start working right away.  I have made it clear to them that I am only working there until I find something else (better) that offers medical benefits and doesn’t involve slave-style duties.

Anyway, other than the usual crap that takes place at that hellhole, I also got to witness one of the biggest shit-shows know to floral shops everywhere: Valentine’s Day.  Since most men do not understand the concept of planning ahead, we were very slow the week before the dreaded day… and the atmosphere was similar to the feel on a beach before a horrific storm, quiet lapping waves of the sea gently tapping the shore before a tsunami.  We prepared the balloons, decorated some azalea plants, memorized the holiday prices, and ordered about a million roses. 

Then came February 13th, the phonecalls began… and they did not stop.  Men calling, leaving it up to me (who could care less) to decide what they should send their girlfriends/ wives for the holiday.  Trying to make small talk as I read off prices of roses and other dumb arrangements that are just going to die in a week anyway.  I convince them to add a balloon, or a stuffed animal, or even an overpriced box of chocolates.  Most men just want a dozen red roses- how very original!  The florists (the one’s who actually make the arrangements- I just take the orders) are abuzz- and by abuzz I mean violent and bitchy.  Snapping everytime I place another invoice on their workstation- yelling that they need a second choice in case they run out of the first, demanding I slit my wrists and flail on the floor to redeem myself.  Well, not really- but they were really mean.

Then the 14th.  I wake up and suddenly know what a death row inmate feels like on his or her big day.  Dreading it, but somewhat releived that all of it is almost over.  I dragged myself to work, trying to meditate and create a calm atmosphere while driving through the type of traffic that only a certain type of neighborhood (shitty) can generate- people walking down the middle of the street, no turn signals, old rust-buckets broken down and taking up a whole lane, and a crater-sized pothole ever 4 meters. 

I pull into work and am immediately yelled at, for no reason at all, and have to start answering the phones before I even get my coat off.  There is a line of loser guys outside the door already, the florists are on suicide watch, and everyone is generally pissed off. 

It was awful, but like many trauma victims, the details of my abuse are fuzzy- I think I’ve blocked it out.  But it sucked, I have worked retail for 11 years now and through all the Christmases, spring blowout sales, and Mother’s Days I have never seen anything like it.  We all survived, but a little piece of me died that day- and my husband will never have to get me a Valentine’s Day present ever again.  And a note to all you men out there- don’t walk into a florist and think you’re cute and sweet for remembering, and expect us to give a shit about you, your girlfriend, whether or not she likes roses, or comment about the prices… we just see you as a hurdle, and want to get over you and move on the the next one as quickly as possible.  Pick your flowers, pay, and get out before you get hurt.

I need a new job in a bad way.

Antidepressants: MY Opinion

 When I was in high school I struggled with your usual teenage problems.  I felt foreign in my own skin, completely alone, and useless.  I also worked myself into a nice little eating disorder too- which was pretty ugly and did not help my teenage angst at all.  It wasn’t like I had a horrible life or anything, I was just a depressed girl with no one to talk to and terribly low self-esteem.

Anyway, as my eating disorder spiraled out of control (like they always do) my poor mother did her best to try and help me.  I refused and refused for the longest time, I loved being at my low weight and had found comfort in the isolated life that eating disorders encourage you to create. 

After an especially scary episode, however, I finally decided to take my mom’s advice (mainly because I couldn’t take the turmoil that was being caused by me at home any more) and went to see a doctor.  My doctor was really nice, she was Scottish and really pretty and skinny so of course I liked her.  I was also under the impression, due to several comments she made during our first visit, that she struggled with an eating disorder at one time or another as well.  Anyway, after some blood tests and all that I was told that if I didn’t improve my nutrition I was going to end up in the emergency room and that I should probably seek treatment.  So I did, and along with treatment guess what else I got?  Anti-depressants.

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*Disclaimer* Antidepressants can really help some people, they could perhaps even save someone’s life.  This is a telling of MY experience with those types of drugs, however, which was horrible, and I personally believe that along with having the potential to do good, anti-depressants can also have the complete opposite effect on some people.  I am in no way saying that no one should take them, my point with this post is that you should always listen to your body, and don’t assume that anti-depressants are your only option.  Please don’t post an assload of comments about how great they worked for you and I don’t know anything/ I’m an asshole for saying they’re bad/You hate me because I am badmouthing prozac/etc.  This is my telling of my reaction. 

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Anyway, off I went to treatment, a semester off school and a full time job of talking about my feelings and my relationship with food, blah blah blah.  I completed treatment, became healed of my eating disorder (well, not really, but I could at least once again function in society), and went back to complete my final year in high school.  One thing that I had to hang onto, along with the mental tools I gained from my stay in the hospital, were those pesky pills that I never liked taking in the first place. 

The first drug I was prescribed is, I believe, what really caused me to crack.  I was messed up before, but after my visit with the Scottish doctor and right before I entered treatment (a span of about 2 weeks), I pretty much went bananas.  I went from counting calories and over exercising (anorexia) to eating 4,000- 5,000 calories a day (sometimes in one or two sittings) and throwing up after each ‘meal’ (bulimia) almost overnight.  I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin, and even felt the need to scratch and scratch myself- one time causing myself to bleed.  I felt like a zombie, hated everyone, and remember laying on the floor numb telling my father that I just hated existing.  After taking this medication for a few weeks, and then being in treatment for a few weeks, I talked to a different doctor and told him I did not like taking anti-depressants because of how they made me feel.  He switched me to a different drug.  Time went by, and like I said, I completed treatment and went back to school. 

I continued taking my prescribed medication for another year, yet still struggled with horrible ‘black moods,’ feeling as though nothing could fix me, and just wanting to cease to exist- a numbness and feeling of hopelessness that I can’t even begin to describe accurately.  I felt like I was just wrong!  Even though I was on this pill that was supposed to keep me from getting in my horrible states, it seemed as though they were worse now than they were before I was taking anything!  I continued to live this way, okay for a few weeks or maybe a month, then would be hit with a feeling of despair so deep I’m amazed I never tried to kill myself (the only thing that kept me from attempting this is the thought of how much it would hurt my mother). 

So I began college, still occassionally struggling with ‘food issues’ (i.e. making myself puke) and began to despise taking my medicine.  I would quit taking it (which is a BAD idea) and would feel even worse, but I knew that I was not myself when I was on it either.  So I would go crazy if I stopped taking it, and would go crazy when I did take it.  I would ask my doctors (three different doctors who I had been seeing since high school) to help me ween myself off (which is what you’re supposed to do when you quit) and they would just switch me to a different pill, which I would then not take because I was pissed.  I would argue with my doctors about whether or not I even needed it, telling them that I was 16 when I started taking it, surely I was different now and maybe no longer needed it.  Maybe my depression was a result of outside factors, not a chemical imbalance.  Their answer to this was: a diabetic can’t just not take insulin anymore- this is something you will have to take the rest of your life.

What a horrible thing to tell a young, thoughtful girl who just happened to have a hard time during her teenage years!!  What I heard when they told me this was:  there is something wrong with you that cannot be fixed, it can only be treated.  The phrase ’situational depression’ was not in their vocabulary, so I finally bit the bullet and threw out all my pills and quit cold turkey.  I do not recommend this, because when you quit abruptly like that it makes your ‘levels’ go totally wacky- leaving you temporarily bat-shit crazy, even if you weren’t that bad to begin with.  But I did it anyway because I figured anything would be better than constantly not feeling like myself and suffering from my ‘black moods.’  Luckily, thanks to smoking pot (I believe- because it got my mind off the bad thoughts I was having as a result of quitting my medicine instead of weening myself off) I managed to survive the following few weeks. 

To this day (4 years later) I have not suffered any ‘black moods,’ have not wanted to kill myself, have not had any urges to return to my old eating disorder habits, and have managed to deal with life’s obstacles.  Sometimes I still get in a bad mood, and feel like I have the weight of the world on my shoulders- but I can still go about my day and don’t feel paralyzed by sadness. 

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I think there are a lot of cases where anti-depressants can be very helpful to people.  But I firmly believe that you cannot just put someone on a pill and forget about them, it’s important to work through whatever is making you depressed, everyone needs coping skills.  And if you are taking medicine and don’t feel like yourself after giving your body a few weeks to adjust, then something is wrong.  You need to establish a working relationship with your doctor and they should listen to you, not brush you off simply because you’re young or you don’t have a medical degree.  If you are taking something and feel weird or feel like something isn’t right or feel like it just isn’t helping you, then you should really talk to someone and perhaps plan a different path for yourself (with the help of a professional of course- don’t do what I did).

Anyway, this is my story of eating disorders, teenage turnmoil, anti-depressants, and doctor’s who maybe need to work on listening to their patients.  During my experience I took varying levels of Paxil, Prozac, Lexapro, Cymbalta, Xanax (which isn’t an anti-depressant), and Fluoxetine (which I was told by my doctor is different than Prozac, but later found out it is just generic Prozac); I was not prescribed Wellbutrin because it can cause people to lose weight, and because of my eating disorder the doctors didn’t want to start anything.

Weird Dream

*This is gross*

I had the most bizarre dream last night, and I think it has to do with my new interest (I would not categorize it as an obsession) with Jeff Bridges and his website. 

My Dream:

I was driving around a subdivision, and then my belly button started to hurt, I knew I had to get to a bathroom and take out my belly button ring- that was obviously the problem.  I happened to be in front of Jeff Bridges’ house, which was really nice by the way.  I knocked on the door and his wife (I guess?) answered.  I asked her if I could please use her bathroom, I had a piercing and had to get to a bathroom right away.  For some reason she let me in, and I went to the bathroom- it was bright yellow- and my belly button (which was also a penis- don’t judge me!  You know how dreams are!!) was obviously messed up, and I couldn’t even see the top part of the ring anymore, and it was disgusting and pussy. 

I stayed in the bathroom a while because I was freaking out, and then someone opened the door and it was Jeff Bridges’ daughter, who looked a lot like Chastity Bono.  I left, and told Jeff’s wife on the way out that I was a big fan of his but not weird about it, so I wasn’t going to stick around and wait for him to get home or anything.

That was my dream, it was weird and kind of gross, and when I woke up my penis was gone!  What the hell?

If anyone has a dream book and can interpret this I would love to hear what the hell that dream could mean.

The Ultimate Stupid Question

Stupid Questions!

Everyone asks stupid questions sometimes, maybe they just want to hear themselves talk.  Maybe they didn’t think before they asked.  Maybe they’re just plain dumb.

I hear a lot of stupid questions throughout my day, but my FAVORITE stupid question of them all is the one I will be focusing on.  So bear with me, it will take a little background information….

First you should know, I have a younger brother (my only sibling if you don’t count my dog-sisters) and along with many other unique characteristics- an intense interest in the keyboard, a passion for Hershey Kisses- and deep hatred for any other type of chocolate, a disproportionate big laugh for his thin frame, and living as one of 5 remaining Randy Travis fans, and eyelashes that women pay money for- he also happens to be disabled, physically and cognitively.  He was born 3 months early, had a ‘headbleed’, uses a wheelchair, is blind, etc.  But, he’s extremely healthy and (which may throw someone off as pegging us siblings) he is always happy. 

So my brother is disabled, which has led him down a different path than others.  He doesn’t go to your typical regular education classroom, he isn’t going to go to college, and he will always live with my parents (which isn’t that different when you look at all the post-grads living in mom’s basement I guess- minus the online gaming).

So whenever people I’m getting to know for the first time eventually ask me about my family, they ask if I have any siblings.  I say I have a younger brother and go on to talk about his age, his interests, etc.  Well when people hear that he is 20 they usually ask about school or college, which leads me to explain his disabilities.  And I kid you not…. 9 times out of 10 the next question goes as follows:

What is his life expectancy?

WHAT?!  And they always ask me with the same nonchalance as if they were asking what color his hair is.  As much as I get asked that question, it never fails to amaze me how fucking stupid everyone is.  Really.  That’s a stupid question.  If you ever meet someone who happens to have a disabled friend, family member, whatever, don’t ask them that.

The last fucking moron to ask me this question was my husband’s grandmother.  She’s usually the most polite person in the world- Grandpa was a mayor back in his day so she’s down with socializing- so this shocked me.  My eyes glazed over and I shrugged and said “I don’t know, normal?”  I should have asked her what hers was, and reminded her that the average life expectancy for Canadians is 80- was she getting nervous?

So that is by far, the most stupid question I have ever been asked.  What is even more stupid is how often I hear it!  What if it’s 21- and we were all terrified that this could be his last year with us?  Not every disability is terminal!  Do you ask someone who’s just been diagnosed with cancer what their life expectancy is?  How can anyone even know that?!?!  And something about my husband’s family (because I’m pretty sure they have all asked the exact same question) is the follow up response to that question, which is usually a story about disabled people getting gassed.  I kid you not.  Gas.

The first time I met my husband’s parents my brother’s disabilities came up, and after the life expectancy question, my father-in-law goes on to inform me that during the Holocaust the Nazis threw handicapped people in the gas chambers alongside the Jews and homosexuals.  Grandma, on the other hand, had a much more original segue.  She, upon hearing about my brother, was reminded of the heartwarming story of the man in Saskatchewan had a disabled daughter and took her out to his car and gassed her because he couldn’t stand to see her suffer.  He’s in jail now, but if he gets out I would like him to gas me too because that’s a hell of a lot better than living in Saskatchewan, thank you.  But, honestly, how am I not in jail for assualting my inlaws?  The Ultimate Stupid Question is one thing- surprisingly everyone pulls that original out of their ass with me- but the follow-up gassing tales? 

My brother may be the disabled individual in this story, but being a rude fucking idiot is a much worse affliction.

Possible future answers to “What is his life expectancy?”

• 457
• longer than yours (*Kill Idiot*)
• The doctors say 20 (*long pause*)  Oh my God!!! (*weep*)
• Well, actually we’re having him cloned…
• Whenever my dad decides to install that gas chamber
• Favorite:  Well that’s a stupid question, isn’t it?