The Struggling Post

The name for this post came so naturally, although coined from someone else, but now I look at it and laugh because the pun-intended side of me reads it like a sign post or tree post that is struggling. I just had to get that out there. Okay, now back to the real deal. Not sure the best beginning.

Social media is a mixed bag. It can help you stay connected or even reconnect, but for an anxious depressive like myself, it can produce a roller-coaster of results. The Rabbit-Hole effect can be intense. What I mean is, you may find yourself on a friend's page looking at cute kid pictures, to see a comment by a frenemy that leads you to their page, where you realize they are dating so and so, and that so and so got divorced or remarried or blah, blah, blah and after 30 minutes you wonder what you are doing with your life since your high school bully now has a yacht and you have late credit card bills! See? Anxiety + Social Media = WHAT!?

To quote Phoebe from Friends when referencing her thought process, "Yeah you don't want to get in here," pointing to her head. I've always referred to Facebook as a "time suck." You look at one thing and 4 clicks later you are reading an article about sloths or sweat shops in Malaysia, you look down and it's 30 minutes later than it was when you checked that one notification about a reaction to your status about a toddler meltdown.

I think I learned about the power of the post and the weight of my words within my first year in our brave new world. Up until I was 24, I was a full time Nanny. When we moved here I had to get my first job in the regular work force born out of, "I need to pay my bills and stuff." My first job at a medical apparel store taught me that much older women tend to hate much younger woman, even if they are the boss and you are just the employee. It also proved that my taking the initiative to be efficient added with my smart ass cynicism only resulted in more disdain.

I remember one frustrating day I kept making unnecessary mistakes and audibly to myself I said "Man, if it's not one thing it's another today." I was then confronted about talking back to my boss, who was a full room away when I said this and I wasn't even speaking to her. Eye roll, my big mouth.

I'm best defined as a "Sasshole," one of my new, favorite meme-generated words. Social media for the win. A "Sasshole," is just as it sounds, a sassy asshole, and my picture may even be next to this in the slang dictionary. I was raised watching and memorizing The Princess Bride, which is the epitome of wit and sarcasm in satire, romance, and comedy, not to mention one of the greatest movies of all time. I do think before I speak but sometimes my snark and spice escape me. I'm that person who learned early that you didn't need to know how to physically fight, you could do far more damage with your words.

Years ago after completing some 15 months in my first and only restaurant job, and working with my husband no less, I moved onto greener pastures by getting a job at a Massage Envy. The restaurant perks were discounted meals and being closed on Sundays. The Massage Envy perks were free massages when meeting your sales quota and actually being allowed to sit.

After my two weeks notice and completion of shifts, I wrote and posted on this blog, a diatribe about my boss. At this time, my blog was so fresh I was pretty sure that my husband, a few close friends, the woman I nanny-ed for and maybe 2 other people actually read anything I wrote that wasn't a music piece for Creative Loafing. I also assumed that anyone who read my stuff, knew my personality enough to understand my tone throughout the piece, and where I was coming from.

Long story short, I had it out with this boss many times because I was no nonsense and very straightforward and serious about a job being done correctly, and tips and hours being allotted fairly and he informed me that my attitude and work ethic had gotten me the reputation of "Bitch."

This was not about my performance on the job. This was about my personality. I encouraged the 16-year-olds to not obsess about condiments in their Pandora bracelets, maybe don't wear those to work, and rather focus on doing a good job so we can all pool a good tip haul. Side note: Pooled tips are crap. I also referred to a very close friend of mine in a picture in which she was hiking the Appalachian Trail as looking "haggard," which apparently was mean. How dare I say someone braving the wilderness looked like she was tired from living off the land!

Regardless, we had a major personality clash as my point of view for my work was not to make friends but to do my job and pay my bills. I needed to coexist on a shift but not braid anyone's hair and go shopping with these girls in my free time. No way.

So when I wrote this "Young Alison Bitter Diatribe," I didn't foresee the boss' wife's sister reading it  as some kind of scathing op-ed piece. This wasn't a time when you would Google the restaurant and my blog would come up to ruin their business. This was a vent session for me. We got called to their judgment table where I was then accused of being fake because I had helped babysit a few times and always sent thank you notes for any kindnesses or extra gifts, like a free meal, and I wrote something unfavorable about my boss being, for lack of a better work, a dick.

I'm an angry, frustrated crier. When I get infuriated my face gets lobster red and I just bawl because all of that emotion has nowhere to pour out of except my tear ducts. To me, being called out for being insensitive or finally living up to my "Bitch" labeling wasn't what made me mad. It was that anyone had a right to comment on my view of the events and why I wanted to share them. This was and is a live journal. You could read any of this and think whatever you would like of me, but did anyone ever stop and think, maybe it's not about you?

See with social media opinions are an epidemic. Although everyone is ALLOWED to have them. But much like what I've been reminded, not all of them need to be shared. And here is my argument on all of that. We live in a place where social media has amplified information access. You can find out who the 16th president was and also where your old friend from high school lives in the same few clicks.

People post about death, divorce, marriage, babies, accidents, new jobs, new homes, new hair cuts, new tattoos, EVERYTHING. What I'm wondering is why we single out a complaint, a rough patch, a bad day or a quick musing and get so defensive? I personally feel like when I read a struggling post, it makes me feel calm and more human. I enjoy complaints about the lines at Starbucks or someone cutting someone off on a busy road, as much as appreciate a post about an overdraft fee or a bounced paycheck, or buying two tickets to Paris! We are REAL HUMANS with emotions. Can we not share our feelings?

Maybe the problem is our audience. I have always said, "Know your audience." This has been big for me. I have always felt anxious when you're in a situation where a friend is complaining about let's say, the process of buying a brand new car, and you're car is falling apart and you can't afford the repairs or a new one. It's not that you can't be a sympathetic ear but that its rough for you to feel badly for them when you just had to beg your dad for money because you have $6.00 in your account for another 8 days.

Perhaps when my diatribe posted, the bosses thought it was more a commentary on how he ran his business, instead of how he treated me as a person and how I didn't want to continue to apologize for my personality. I am who I am, take it or leave it. And I have grown less and less apologetic.

Nearly a decade ago when I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety it was a hush hush thing. Now it is more mainstream and people are speaking out. This gives me comfort. Why? Because maybe in my posts complaining about a co-worker or bad day I was masking a panic attack or a bigger issue. Maybe when I post pictures of a therapeutic walk, it's not about parading a struggle of my mental battles but offering an idea on how to combat them. And what's so magical about the internet? You can positively affect someone random with something so simple!

It's a weird thing letting people in. It is something I struggle with daily. That vulnerability is intense. And on social media you let in anyone on your "friends" list and then almost globally open yourself up, especially if you spark a controversial view. After my group, couples and personal therapy and especially with having a fresh start, I stopped sugar coating things. That really happened for me with the restaurant job. When I spoke my mind and let my "freak flag fly," that was when I realized that I was angry because my job performance had nothing to do with my mental health stuff, but it did create personality clashes. I could get past those, but other people couldn't, apparently, but guess what? That's not MY problem.

After that I spent two years at Massage Envy making the best friends I could ask for, learning about massage and self caring like a boss. I had run-ins with certain people, but nothing real. It wasn't until entering motherhood that the social media storm of opinions took it's toll and I learned new coping mechanisms. I lost touch with writing for a long time while raising a baby. I got stuck in the rabbit holes and time suck to distract. But now I'm really working hard on myself and my family life and I'm not afraid to talk about it. And if you don't like it, CLICK AWAY. Unfollow, delete, block, look away, hide the post, "BYE FELICIA!"

The fact remains, LIFE IS HARD and I happen to like the struggling post. I need to feel human more often than not. So while it may make others uncomfortable, I say, "THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU!" Or, maybe it is in a way, and that is why it is controversial and upsetting warranting the suggestion not to do such things.

All I can say is this, in a world where we have a picture of any "perfect moment" literally in the palm of our hands at any given second, and a post for all to see, I am more grateful for the struggling post, even if it's not from me. You can filter out and post about life as you see it through your own personal lens, but I for one, enjoy knowing that others are human too and that I am not alone. Because some of my loneliest moments have been in a room full of people. And I think very much that social media can have the same effect: you have the facade of support and "following" but one "wrong" post and out of the woods they come with the torches. I personally like to see the light of the flames and feel comfort from the warmth; the struggling post will stand strong!

Poetry in the Paint Blotch: An Engagement-iversary Post

The ceiling paint blotch in our bedroom.

This is the view above the side where I sleep in our king bed in our still new-ish house. This was a point of contention in our marriage for a hot minute, and the reasoning will keep you amused, but first, some back story. Nearly two years ago, after a car accident that broke both our daughter's legs, gave my husband some broken ribs, new shoulder issues, and new sore ankle spots, also leaving me with some bruising, and severe and still surprising PTSD, when all was said and done from the wreckage, my husband bought us a house.

I say he bought us a house not because society deems that husbands buy their family a house. I say that because he spent his medical leave from post accident surgery finding listings in our price and location range, vetoing the ones that I argued, "But the pictures!," and doing all of the logistics for paperwork that was way above my head and got us a house. He made sure I went to see any house that was a serious candidate. I say he bought us a house because he used most of his portion of the settlement from the accident to finally grab some security and a new place to call home, not to mention putting in all the grunt work. 

Now we need to take a turn back in time because much like our engagement and wedding planning, this house was a quick process and I couldn't handle too many choices or too much input from the peanut gallery.  I write this a few days before what marks 9 years to the day, March 17th, 2009 that my then-boyfriend-now-husband asked me to marry him. My Irish man asked this very very Irish lady to be his wife on Saint Patrick's Day.

We were living with my no-relation-but-still-deemed Aunt while I was finishing college, he was working two jobs, and we were saving to move across the country. It was a cold morning, I was slightly under the weather and indulging in my guilty pleasure TV show, "90210" while outlining and doing homework. He was in the office/hangout area where we starting boxing up all the things. Side note: we learned when packing the truck that it is not good to just fill large boxes with all the things when only one of us is large enough to lift it. 

When he was in the office area he said "Honey, come here, what's this box?" I was deep into Donna and David drama, and not into being bothered. My reaction, "What? What are you going on about?"

"This box!," he reiterates, "What is this one?" "I peel myself off of the floor sporting my sweat pants and a sweatshirt and drug myself into the next room while belting out an "Ugggghhhhhhh, what box there is nothing new in there!," only to walk into him on one knee with a ring box.

If memory serves I gasped and said, "What are you doing!?," as he asked me if I would marry him. I think we know what the answer was and at 11ish AM we dropped everything and went to the bar to celebrate. Can you believe we weren't the only ones there? Oh wait, it was St. Patrick's Day. 

In less than 90 days we planned a wedding the day after I walked at my graduation with a Bachelor's Degree, and the day after the wedding we started our drive across the country to start a new life. On June 14th, 2009 we had an epic wedding/goodbye Oregon reception/party and started life as a married couple. On our wedding night my car was broken into and among the packed things that were stolen was my laptop, makeup bag with all my new jewelry including the promise ring he bought me, my backpack with my hair dryer, retainer and random hair stuff, all of my husband's "nice" clothes from 5 years of collecting during dating, and some dignity. 

While trekking across the country, our Penske truck and trailer holding our car with one taped window from the break, wouldn't fit in most of our hotel parking lots so we frequently left the truck at Wal-Mart, got the car down and drove to wherever we were staying. I think you can see we have a very "off" kind of happening or luck or coincidence among us in a "well-that-didn't-go-quite-as-planned" way, but we bounce back pretty quickly and have had plenty of family love and support in the midst of life drama.

It is this happening of coincidence or "off-ness" that makes this photo so amazing. See, we started house hunting in late August, early September, less than 90 days after the accident. We put in one offer on one house, got it, closed two days before Halloween and moved in by Thanksgiving. Again, no patience or room for messing around. 

We got the crazy idea to paint some of the rooms before we moved in. I forever dreamed about an amazing girls room for my daughter and we'd been renters so long. For most of my own childhood I barely got to pick anything for my room besides posters and toys. My mom did everything. I never had a teenage room with wild colors so I went kind of nuts at the hardware store when allowed to make real decisions. We let the 3 year old pick her own, purple and green. The neon first picks didn't make it but she agreed when we rounded down the choices to some more calmer tones. I, cornily enough, picked a turquoise/teal, almost identical to our wedding color for the master bedroom. 

Of course one day into an accent wall the "paint and new house fun" wore off and it was like real work to do this stuff. When we got to our room, the walls slant up. It's really cool actually but impossible for me to even reach after climbing to the ladder. The tall husband needed to step in. This was a few days into painting and trip number four or five to Lowes. It wasn't until he reached up and bent the wrong way that the little blotch showed up. He instantly got mad. He got even more mad when he found the tool to avoid that happening on the following store trip.

When he made that blotch I laughed. Not in a mean way. I had paint all over some of my good clothes and favorite flip flops. I had made a mess all over with barely a care. I was enjoying having a space to call mine and it could look as it would because it was "ours." I think he wanted it to be nicer or cleaner looking, immediately scolding himself for making the mess. 

I said, "So what!?" He replied, "I know I just want it to look good." It was in this moment I had a rare, calm, cool, collected epiphany and made the remark, "Honey, what in our life is perfect or manicured or even looks right? Seriously? What about us says, 'Perfectly Painted Couple?' So why would our bedroom be any different?" He gave me a cutely annoyed look and we moved on and painted until we deemed it, as good as it would get. He knew I was right. 

We are closing in on two years in the house. I stare at that spot a lot. Not scrutinizing; just looking at it. He has threatened to paint over it but during my darkest moments in that house, it brings me a strange comfort. That silly little blotch reminds me that we are imperfect, I am imperfect and flawed but bold and full of stories. That little blotch helps me stay sane when I feel the world pushing insanity towards me. I've stared at it when he puts something on the TV I cannot stand. I've stared at it when I'm soothing a sick or crying toddler. I've stared at it in tears of frustration, depression , anxiety and all the "how-the-fuck-did-we-get-here?," moments. 

Maybe I like it because to me it is just another piece of our story. And even the days when life is looking bleak, I LOVE our story. Maybe some people can't say that. I have grown to love every bad part as much as the good because of what it has taught me and how it has formed me into the wife and mother I am currently. Maybe I like it because I left blotches too and it makes me feel less alone in my blotch-ness. 

So, on the eve of our Engagement-iversary, I post this story not as some cautionary tale or weird diatribe, but because after 9 years of being completely enmeshed with this man I can tell you the flaws and imperfections are the best, most humbling, and most human parts of this life. We have moments where we don't even like each other, we have days that are immeasurably hard, we have days that are Facebook-profile-picture-worthy with updates galore on the goodness, but that blotch is there because on that day, it just happened upon us in an off way and we rolled with it (pun intended) and always will. And I really hope that spot is there as long as we are.