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.

White Elephant Mugging

It is that time of year again! Christmas! Christmas is hard! I hope it's not just me, but as time has passed, Christmas just gets more stressful and often less enjoyable. Don't get me wrong, having Christmas with my daughter makes up for all of that but I'm just being real. Christmas is intense. 

Before baby, Christmas was split into 5 different houses for all the different relatives and the only driving force behind it all was the food. Now that we have a life and home of our own, it's more driven by gift giving. It is literally my dream to only buy stuff for the kid one year, not a single other person, and then be rewarded with an open ended nap and Christmas movies. Every time I mention this, my husband thinks it's a trap, but the debt of the gift giving and the months of tears when the credit card statements roll in, I sure would love a year without that.

Many people have a hard time with Christmas because they have lost loved ones, and those have always been the ones I tend to hug the most and try to spoil in some way, shape or form. I miss the days of true giving and gifting. Occasionally I find someone who does this effortlessly. They will find you the perfect something, something you would never think of for yourself, and it just warms your heart that you were even thought of. These are the people who make me fall back in love with the season.

I had epic Christmases as a kid. Even when my world was upside down I always got amazing things and I can't remember a "bad Christmas." I was a late bloomer and collected toys well into my teen years. It wasn't until my life took on gypsy status that things got lost along the way. I kept everything and loved my toys to death. When I was 18, I was like Buddy the Elf. Making cookies, buying people perfect things, working extra shifts to get wonderful presents for all, and it was completely worth it.  But as adulthood became more intense, it lost some of its magic. The tree took longer to decorate than I remembered and it was exhausting finding the time. The list of whom to buy for got longer and longer and you didn't want to be the cheap one suggesting Secret Santa. Squeezing in family time was daunting, especially with added travel.

We had a couple good years with my Uncles before everyone had kids on their hips where we painted cookies and still got the coolest gifts on the planet, before things took a sharp turn. I had one Christmas where I was super pregnant, and while cool gifts ended up under the tree, all I wanted was a quiet day. We definitely had it, but that Christmas was so bittersweet. My daughter's 1st Christmas when she was 11 months old, it was actually cold and she slept for the longest stint we had ever experienced in her crib. I woke up panicked, not used to that much solid sleep time. We all had a good Christmas nap that day. 

We still haven't had a "bad Christmas." I few years ago my sister and brother-in-law came down and it was everything I wanted it to be and more. Family time, but at my house. I didn't have to travel. I had to kick back and hostess. That, I could handle. Last year we bought a house so that was exciting but we had some job change stuff that distracted me and my mom was living with us and she narrated the gift exchanges. That, I could not handle.

So now we have this year. Usually my spirits are up for this holiday as soon as Thanksgiving passes. I mean, Hanson even released a new Christmas album this year! But this year I felt sad. As someone with Depression and Anxiety, sure, the seasonal stuff can bring up a lot of emotions but I felt so blah. I had found amazing things as gifts for my husband and asked specifically for only projects on the house to be done, not to be bought things. He rolled his eyes but I just felt so uncomfortable having money spent on me. I'd let myself go on being the "controller of the fun" this year and we had racked up a bit of debt. Nothing scary, but I was upset that I hadn't been more tenacious and now with the holidays looming I just felt so heavy about it all.

I knew my husband would think it was a trap. I really would have preferred that neither of us received a single thing besides ornaments (a fun tradition) but then I found the perfect gift and just had to. See my husband's birthday is in December and always gets lumped in with Christmas. He hates this and every year it is my mission to undo the wounds of his childhood and make it epic. I did what I could this year and plotted a lot but it was scaled down a bit. The big Christmas present was my hope and dream to make his life exciting again! But I didn't want stuff. I'm over stuff.

I needed a new bra or two. My purse and wallet are shedding and falling apart so that would be okay. I was running low on makeup. But I wanted a functional garage and clean grout. I wanted an organized closet and scoured bathroom. I wanted mimosas and a nap. I wanted a yard I didn't hate and a reorganized kitchen. I wanted to feel some peace, you know, like in the songs.

This was a busy season for us. We had 5 parties booked, and only one would my husband be attending. There was no time for a Disney trip this year, each weekend from December 1st on was filled with fun. But I also had other duties. I tried to shop early with my mom and just hated it. The stores annoyed me and I knew my daughter would receive a million things from everyone else so I stuck with just a few things I thought she'd really love. I wouldn't say I was being a Grinch, I just lacked my usual cheer.

One party weekend in particular we had a going away party, a Christmas party with mostly adults and then our Church Party. The Church Party I was excited for but it was far away and involved a White Elephant Gift. I found a cute traveler tumbler and put it in a bag and called it good. There were far more people at this event than I'd anticipated and getting around with the little one was tough at times but I was surrounded by my favorite friends. The gift exchange was between about 60 people. I was exhausted just thinking about it.

Most of the gifts were generic: candle holders, candles, nail polish, decorative things. The old ladies went after Snow Men that held tea lights and calendars, planner books, towel sets, etc. I was number 54 out of 60 and had seriously low expectations. While my daughter was happily watching The Polar Express by the fire on the porch on the big screen, I was commenting with church friends how ridiculous it all was. We were joking about stealing a puzzle or a hot chocolate set, people were fighting over "hot ticket items" and I rolled my eyes. The number before me was called and it was an older member of our church whom I'd met and hugged and shook hands with too many times to not feel horribly I always forgot his name. He picked a bag with a Buddy the Elf mug with hot cocoa mix. 

"That is amazing and I need it!," I almost screamed. I told everyone it must be mine. That was my single, favorite Christmas movie and a coffee mug? I always needed more of those, no matter what my husband said! This was the first time this season I was excited. I thought, "See, this is why it is important for you to be social and do things you are hesitant about because cool things happen!" No one else seemed to care about the mug so I White Elephant "stole" it and was ecstatic.

I felt like I was in that Office Episode where the iPod was being fought over but I just wanted the tea pot like Dwight. I knew that was a real gift, haha! I laughed and those who knew me well, were laughing with me and a bit at me. I thought, "Okay, money well spent. I got something nice for someone and got back something of equal value! Score." And then the White Elephant mugging happened. He took it back.

I mean, I had it coming right? I stole it, he stole it back. But now it was frozen. You couldn't take it anymore. I sucked it up but damn, that was crappy! I went back to find another gift and ended up with a knock off M&M Dollar Tree Candy Cane. This made me happy because the whole sermon revolved around the ridiculousness of this candy cane and how much kids love it. I knew my daughter would love it but I ended up leaving exhausted and defeated for the long drive home. He didn't even know or care who Buddy the Elf was! Gosh!

There was a huge part of me throwing an internal tantrum and I couldn't figure out why. It was dumb right? It was a stupid mug. But then I realized that the mug was the epitome of my Christmas funk. My Grinch came out and all I could think was, "THE AUDACITY!" For a moment it wasn't just a mug, it was some kind of symbol of Christmas cheer! It was being excited about something silly and seemingly insignificant just because it reminded me of Christmas and the spirit of the holiday and the fact that I could recite most of that film by heart. The bratty preacher's kid came out in me as I rationalized, well, "God just didn't want me to have that mug. It wasn't meant to be."

I whined about the loss for two days and gave up. In this week I went Christmas shopping and had a completely meltdown about money. I got frustrated at the mall because nothing seemed quite right for shopping for people. I felt defeated and lonely at home because it was a really erratic week and we had a sick dog leaving messes everywhere and a new alarm system working against me. I was more and more down and out about this holiday until Saturday morning when my sister sent my daughter a Buddy the Elf talking ornament. Then we had the Christmas parade, which was mostly fun, and then another Christmas party I was hesitant about but pushed through. Saturday night I got the kid to bed and started doing all the random things, I painted a new table for her room that we needed for new toys arriving. I fixed a cabinet I'd been meaning to. I wrapped more gifts and cleaned up. I sorted parade candy and beads.I stayed up too late and kicked butt!

The next morning I was stressed. My husband was drumming in church and getting us all out of the house any kind of early is so overwhelming and difficult. We made it on time for once and I'd gotten my daughter set up in Sunday school when a close friend came up to me with a small gift. I didn't want to open it until Christmas but she insisted. It was a pair of pug socks with Santa hats. This gift was amazing for 3 reasons: 1. Our pug just turned 7 and in some senior moment ate a bunch of gross things from my bathroom trash and spent 3 days puking and pooping all over my home and mostly on my daughter's bed. 2. My mom always got me ridiculous socks and complained about how horrible my socks were, (well take that mom, I have cool socks now!). 3. It was small, thoughtful, relevant, and what the meaning of Christmas is supposed to be; a small little something that says, "Thought of you, Merry Christmas, you're not so bad!"

It was as I was feeling this sense of calm, this excitement that Christmas eve was a week away and things were stressful but we'd be okay that the older gentleman's wife handed me a plastic bag. "Did you want this?," she asked. "We won't use it, we don't need it and it seemed like you wanted it." It was the mug. The Buddy The Elf mug came back to me. The next morning I used that mug with my coffee and felt calm. 

I will not lie, my week has gotten mountains worse, but I am holding this dear to my heart as that "Thrill of Hope," my pastor keeps talking about. Life is hard, Christmas is hard but we just have to stay hopeful, because there are socks and mugs out there that will make you remember the whole point of what this season is about. And it's not about the gifts. It's about the thoughts and the moments. So have a Merry Christmas all, and remember that your one little thought can get someone out of their Christmas Funk. You can easily turn a Grinch into a Buddy the Elf with a little Christmas cheer!

Crock Pot Contentment

I was able to cook something in the crock pot that was edible and this is why that's a big deal.

I told you the blog was simmering as was my soup! Now to preface: I don't cook. When I say that, I don't mean it in some flippant way. I actually do not cook. I can make an epic sandwich and salad, true, but outside of anything that comes with 3-step instructions in a box, I have mastered very few dishes during my time on earth. I am the person that burns rice, and watches that Friends episode where Rachel talks about following the recipe, "If it says boil 2 cups of salt, you just boil 2 cups of salt!," and I'm too  afraid to ask if that is a real thing or funny because it is so not. 

I grew up with both parents until I was about 12. My dad was domestic. My mom was and is not. My mom shopped and made sure we appeared to rank in some kind of white collar status that she was raised to believe was of utmost importance. My dad was the guy up at 5AM on Thanksgiving making legendary pies. The only thing I ever recall my mother making was lasagna, and I think she literally just put it together but my dad did everything else. I rarely remember her even eating much, let alone cooking. But my dad was planning dinner over his bowl of Total cereal at 7AM, every morning.

My dad and I didn't have bonding activities where I learned things so much. Rather, I just got told what not to do or what I did wrong. We bonded over television shows and cynical humor. My mom was only nice when she bought me things, and then if I exhibited any shred of buyer's remorse, like "Maybe that sassy shirt was a bad idea for a Catholic school girl with no self-esteem," I became an "ungrateful little shit." Terms of endearment. 

When I was in therapy and dating my then-chef-boyfriend, whom is now my chef-husband, one of my depression group homework exercises was to try something new that would give me a sense of accomplishment. Bonus points if it included others. I wanted to make spaghetti sauce with real veggies and tomatoes and stuff. I did this with Eben's prep help and supervision, but had to follow the recipe and do the watching myself, and I was able to feed the house that evening. It came out well. 

Besides occasional peeks over my dad's shoulder, I had one slutty friend in high school show me how to make scrambled eggs when I was 17 so that was a big day. I need to name her, "slutty friend," because all other lessons were merely tales of her sexual triumphs at the ripe age of 16, random how-to's, as laid out by Cosmo, and then where to get thongs on sale if your mom wouldn't buy them for you. The scrambled egg lesson stuck, all other lessons would be for other blog entries or perhaps a conversation accompanied by alcohol.  

Other culinary lessons came from my middle sister. I spent a lot of time with her my first summer in Oregon, mostly because my dad didn't know what to do with me. She taught me how to make grilled cheese with my favorite Oregon cheese and my go-to for all shared mornings hence forth, French Toast. The french toast was fun because we always got epic bread to slather in the eggy mix. I remember my nephew thanking my sister for making it and my sister saying, "Nope, that was Aunt Ali." His response, "Nuh, uh, no way!," will forever be my cooking mantra and one of my favorite moments with him.

My grilled cheese triumph was immediately squashed when I offered to make my dad one in a, "See I learned things," way and he shamed me for the use of too much butter. "Nevermind," I shrugged as I channeled Eeyore in my response. Beyond that as soon as I found Eben it was like, why learn? I had someone who could always make it better. 

In her infinite wisdom, one of my favorite women and ex-employer, "Totally Tess," had warned me that one day I will want a real meal that I will be forced to create myself, and I will find all the shit in my pantry and have a recipe in hand. With a kid by my side I will be so desperate that I will make it. She told me one day it would happen. And damn, she was right!

This was NOT my first time with the crock pot. To be fair, all other experiences were not-so-awesome because my usual theory with cooking is, "It will all end up in the pan together anyway, what difference does the order make?" It was those little details that always made something less edible. That, and my basic and general misjudgment on the effects of heat. I butchered some chicken recently and now my friend will only pay for me to eat out, or cook for me himself. 

So, this recent crock pot exercise could have been some spasm of all things previously hindering my culinary explorations but I'd like to say it's just one big exercise in confidence during a depressive episode. After a row of miscommunication and frustration I decided to find an attainable, easy to understand, uncomplicated recipe that I couldn't really mess up and it happens to be soup season. Much like Jerry Seinfeld had noted in a few episodes of his iconic show, soup is just always good, but I often feel awkward ordering soup in Florida in July. Since it is widely accepted as soup season, I thought, why not. Chicken Noodle Soup, here we come!

I enlisted my 4 year old's help because, as Daddy's sous chef, she actually has a much better cooking understanding than myself, and loves to help with things like that. I followed most of the directions closely so as not to mess up any kind of balance and ruin everything. I got all the ingredients myself at the store and did all the prep in the order of the recipe. It came out edible, edible enough that even the 4 year old volunteered to eat her creation, "except not the onions, mom." She got an onion and celery pass. 

It wasn't that it was "so impressive that I made it," but that it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. I come from a long line of people who can plan amazing things  and nothing ever comes of it. We fail to make those ideas realities. I like to say my half sisters and I are highly intelligent and creative underachievers. My dad likes to scoff because he paid for those under achievements. Mostly, for the soup, I was proud for following through on a plan that was a few days out in the making. Do they call that meal planning in adult life?

This triumph followed  a huge marital miscommunication about shelving. As a bit of a background, my dad built 3 houses in his lifetime, all of them still standing. I was that 7 year old girl who wanted a tool box and got one complete with real, actual tools. I learned how to use them properly and spent many days nailing wood scraps onto other wood scraps as my dad built a deck, a screened-in porch, a play house and a basket ball court for me over my 13 years as a Pastor's kid in Pennsylvania. Some of my  building visions came without me knowing the terminology, but just being able to pick out what I needed in the hardware store by finding it and forming ways to make the vision a reality. When Eben and I were dating I displayed this once and he was astounded that I knew my way around the hardware store. To this day, I love going to Lowe's and Home Depot as I feel like it is a haven of possibility and creativity. 

So, when I gathered a bunch of wire shelving pieces from my last job failure I knew you couldn't just grab a kit at Lowe's and manifest a Closet Maid ad. It would be a little homemade and rigged for necessity. It would require creativity. This is where my Eben and I just disconnected. I lack the vocabulary and have only the vision. And when it comes to ideas, I can Pinterest with the best of them and come out feeling strong so I thought I had planned it all. My understanding was clear. And when we started assembling, Eben was worried about stability. My idea was to reinforce later, for now the budget on the project was already more than I had planned to spend. He disagreed on timing and conveyed it was a no go with what we had on hand. 

Now, part of being the head-case that I am with depression, anxiety, PTSD and the #MeToo situation looming,  which I'm sure will make an epic blog when I can better understand my feelings on the incident, is that small things in the eyes of the normal folk can be huge things for me. So devoting an entire day to a project promoting productivity and order for my manic mind, only to find out it will not be done without more money and more stress than anticipated caused a pretty big mental collapse. It's honestly very tough to explain adequately. So, after a rough few days I pulled myself back up with plan B, one in which I would do solo.

I realized we had a saw --that had never been used-- scrap wood, and drywall screws. It didn't have to look pretty. It had to be functional. In a rare burst of Rosie The Riveter confidence, I started sawing with the hand saw to cut the pieces I needed to secure the shelving. The rest came together with up-cycled crib pieces, zip ties and nails. This was my house. I don't care about holes, I wanted a functional creation! So after I put Luna to bed, and still in my work clothes, I attacked all of these half-pinteresting ideas and made my vision a reality. By the end of that evening, that was when I decided to crock pot something because after my closet masterpiece, what could I NOT create? Let's be real. I was a frigging rock star!

I love how all of this was fueled by a huge mental breakdown. Perhaps I should lose my shit more often. Creativity awaits. I was even more validated in my closet success when my 4 year old said, "The shelf looks good mommy, let me show you!" She walked me back into my closet and said, "You did good mommy! I like it!" That was all the acceptance I needed really. And I carried that excitement the rest of the week and got her to go to the store to help me get all the soup stuff and told her I needed her to help me get it all ready. 

So the soup is a big deal. This is me, sifting through the mania, the broken pieces and the "unstable" moments to grow and get better. Life is so often very heavy, no matter how good you have it. And I spend so much time just praying for my perfect little girl to never end up a mess like her mommy that if I can redeem the bad mom moments by showing her that I can actually do many real things, that I can comfort, create and am capable than more than I even acknowledge myself, it can't all be that bad! And yes, Daddy will always make food better, but mommy also knows where all the best restaurants are in the area. 

Big deals are good for my anxiety-riddled soul. Small accomplishments can be very large wins. After my last blog installment, I was very humbled by those that reached out to me about their struggles with the same mental hurdles. It was such a comfort to feel less alone, and to know that some of the most "together" people I admire most had the  same "irrational" fears and ideas. And maybe this is part of my calling, just to open up about the crazy and embrace anyone who needs a hug and gets comfort from how much fun I can put into the dysfunctional. I am incredibly broken and flawed, but I might be the most amazing train-wreck you'll ever see at the station when you really get to know me. Soup's on! Who's coming by for dinner?

Eccedentesiast

This week I had a lot come up for me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Some people close to me urged me to not quit on this whole writing thing of mine. So I thought I'd put it out there and see what comes back; see what the universe sends me in return. This story comes in three parts. Get ready!

Part One: Owning my Diagnoses

A decade ago, after losing both grandparents within a year, after spending 3 months studying abroad, rekindling my ever broken relationship with my mother only to find out she had completely destroyed her life (yet again) and tried to take us all down with her, and almost disintegrated an important relationship with my then-boyfriend, now-husband, I entered therapy. 

While I was still in college, therapy was attainable. I entered private sessions, where I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety. I did a depression support group and entered couples therapy as well. The first thing they did was offer me medication. To me, it seemed like my family knew how to medicate just fine. I think it was one thing we truly excelled at, but, due to addictive histories I said, "No, thank you, teach me how to manage this stuff." I found therapy helpful. And I made good friends in my depression support group. It's taken me almost a decade to really own that I have these issues though.

When I came out with my diagnoses, I asked those closest to me to let me know their level of comfort in terms of staying in my life during my battle. One of my inherited issues has always been distorted expectations and I needed to know who was in, and who was out. It was one very important person that shook off these things as just "being dramatic," or just acting out because I had a "fucked up childhood." It was those reactions that made me realize these mental illnesses and instabilities were heavily stigmatized. First, I found out most everyone just pops pills instead of finding other coping methods when I found anyone with this stuff in common with me. Eventually, I just stopped telling people.  I realized finding anyone who could really understand was almost impossible.

I feel like I managed myself really well with the tools I had until after Luna was born. Something about pregnancy actually evened out my hormones, and because motherhood was a challenge for me, I stepped up in ways I never thought possible. And this isn't just a postpartum depression thing, because that is very, very real. It was bigger than just that. However, over the past few years, things have been a little darker when my anxieties and depressive episodes flare. 

With social media and technology, wonderful things have happened including wider outreach and normalized conversations about the very things I have felt so alone with. I have also found some other disorders I may be wrestling with. One large positive for me is that with the media mainstreaming this information, I also feel the stigma much less. We have people like Carrie Fisher and Kristen Bell talking about all their struggles just reminding us, we're not alone, we're not abnormal, and getting help is always a good thing. 

Maybe it is life circumstance or maybe it is age but my coping mechanisms have changed drastically. I used to work out more, watch favorite movies, take a walk, call a friend, sneak a cigarette, paint a picture, binge clean or write, write, write. But with parenthood and marriage I rarely have time for myself. Everyone says you make time for what is important, and that how can you care for others when you don't care for yourself? But that's the thing about being an anxious depressive; you're in your head so much, carrying around all these worries and fears you are often too exhausted to muster much else. Before you know it, it's 9PM and you just curl up in front of Netflix and go to bed. 

To some this may seem sad, but mostly it's a reality I live with. It's a reality I'm really done feeling badly or shamed for and it's a reality that must be accepted in order to appreciate all that is Alison. I've opened up a lot the past few months and I've found that when I share this stuff, most people are like, "Well, okay, I'm here for ya," or even better they tell admit to me they wrestle with it too! 

Owning my diagnoses is uncomfortable and difficult but I'm not going back to being closeted about it because nothing good ever came from it. So now it's out in the open because the internet is forever!

Part Two: Trigger Warning

The Harvey Weinstein news after the Las Vegas shooting and just all of the general bad news in this nation and the world has weighed especially heavy on me.  I am someone who is triggered by a lot and it has been an emotional rollercoaster identifying these triggers that often sneak up on me. 

First, let me begin by admitting that my PTSD from the car accident is very real, very alive and can be very intense. Many of my triggers exist around that. New ones have also come up recently. As far as the Las Vegas shooting, I have some pretty strong feelings about guns and I'm an avid concertgoer so knowing that you can just show up at an event with friends and not know that you will walk back out is terrifying to me. It hurts my heart that anyone would go through that. Thinking of all of the trauma the victims and their families have experienced and will carry with them has left me feeling very upset about the mental healthcare, or lack there-of, available to us all. No matter what your experience, if you need help it should be readily available. No one has a right to judge how "big or small" anyone's experience has been. This nation needs help. 

Now we move into the Weinstein allegations, and if that's not how you spell his name I really don't care. I was raised in my most formative years by my father and my uncles. I have never been afraid of men. In fact I truly have a hard time relating to women. I also have always been outgoing and flirty. I've dealt with inappropriate and suggestive rumors about me and co-workers at prior jobs and I've had men say inappropriate things to me, cat-calling and so forth but I've always felt generally safe around men, although also extremely aware of the damage they can do. Earlier this year though, I had a very unfortunate and scary experience that I have been told constitutes as sexual assault.

It's not a story I'm fully ready to share. The baggage and issues surrounding it are very profound but I will say this, when the #metoo campaign came out all over Facebook, I had this odd reaction of both relief, and complete horror. Most of the women on my news feed posted it.  I felt less alone, but then mortified that we all have had this horrible experience to go through like some perverted rite of passage. And then I was triggered right back to that shameful feeling after the incident, and the shameful feeling after I had told the business owner about it, that somehow it was my fault and I had warranted the behavior. 

That idea that I had brought it on myself still plagues me almost as much as the incident itself. I just remember inadvertently dumping the whole scene on a guy friend and having him look at me with worry in his eyes saying, "This is not your fault, you didn't deserve it, you don't deserve it and it's against the law." And as much as I needed that, it made me sad that this seemingly obvious rationale was coming from a man but I was still afraid to talk to anyone else, especially a woman. 

So all of these emotional hurdles feel crippling to my anxious and depressed psyche. I internally tantrum that I'm due for a meltdown but just manage to keep on keeping on. Why am I writing this? Because writing is my thing. It always has been. And one day when I confront my demons about what happened to me I will help someone else feel less lonely and isolated by sharing it. And because in all of the mental mania, moments of clarity heighten my sanity, and writing this has been a comfort.

Part Three: Fleeting Faith

I can remember the exact moment my twelve-year-old self had her entire idea of faith shattered. It all surrounded my mother's addiction and treatment. This is another one of those subjects that has been burned into my mind of being stigmatized. That and "we don't talk about that," is a family motto. I only just started outing myself as an addict's daughter again recently, after a brief stint of telling everyone when I was 18 in an effort to make fun of myself so they couldn't make fun of me. This seemingly got me labeled as the, "Tragic Wild Card," in my teen years and I didn't wear that label so well. 

When I was 12 and lost my faith, I was surrounded by it at Catholic school and my dad's church so I just tried to adopt every method I could. I used to pray an hour every night that my mom would come home and that I was sorry for snapping at so and so and thanking God for everyone in my life, listed by name, even the people I didn't like, and please make me a better person, blah, blah, blah. Then my mom didn't come back for a long time. And my best friend's mother died in a horrible car accident, and faith was of no comfort to her and no one but me understood that no one could really understand what she was going through. Shortly after all this I found this brilliant movie, by one of my favorite directors, called "Dogma." Oh man that movie was perfect for me in my "angsty teen" years! I remember my big take from it was, "It wasn't important what you had faith in, no one had it down perfect, but it was important you HAD FAITH." 

By age 16, I had reconciled with my mother and retired from church. After a year with her and another devastation, I was physically packed up and dragged across the country to new life with Dad in Oregon. With my dad being a preacher and most people screwing me over repeatedly most of my faith just resided in my dad. Even with my worst mistakes, he helped me find a way out of it. Faith has just been a 20 year struggle for me. It comes and goes. 

I didn't even go back to church until I found this amazing boot camp program that was affordable, which led to a job offer, which led to a very strong invitation to church with the boss, and then I fell right back into the routine. We took a few month hiatus when we attended "The Church of Disney," as we called it, which was Disney World on Sundays just us three, but it wasn't until after the car accident that we found a church where we actually fit in. 

Eben still struggles with faith too, but my struggle is super personal and sometimes pretty impetuous. Throw in the anxiety, the depression, the state of the world, the PTSD, the sexual assault and the other facets of life and things seem pretty impossible, right? But that's when I remember why we have faith. All that bible stuff about with God all things are possible, and cast all your anxieties on him, and patience being a virtue are on the laundry list of reminders I have daily, that even when my faith feels like it's barely holding on under a fingernail, it's still there somewhere. And that gets me through the weeds more often than not. So when my faith is fleeting, I always find my way back.

To conclude what some may consider quite the diatribe I say this: to the people who encouraged me to write this out, you get major points. To the people who actually read it, you get points, air hugs and all the good vibes. This isn't something to be shocked or outraged about. This is not meant to incite a long list of commentary or condolences for shitty experiences. They are just a part of life. This is just me; pure, unadulterated, inconvenient, anxious, depressed, rattled, sarcastic, cynical, unapologetic ME. 

The Car Accident - June 15, 2016

I've had a  lot of people ask me if I've shared my story about that morning a year ago. For those of you who are closest to my family, you know it well. Or maybe you heard about the actual accident but not what made it such a profound, life-changing thing. For anyone reading this who has only known me a short time, I write like a pissed off teenager, so don't be offended when I swear. For those of you who knew me before I became a Chriss, or for some, before I even met Eben, you're in for quite a story. Sit tight. I tend to ramble. 

If you're up for a read, please continue. Because this isn't just about a car accident. This is about how one day and one moment can completely alter your perspective on your situation, both in that moment and how you see the world in it's entirety. Before we dive into the worst morning of my 32 years on this planet, I will give you a brief History of Chriss; not a history of us as a family, but where we were in our lives when this event rocked our existence.

Eben and I had just celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary. All I could think of was the, "Seven Year Itch" thing. The year of 2015 was a huge one of change for us. Eben took a big career leap and I stepped up as breadwinner. With that came a seriously tight and controlled budget. I also took charge of getting our debt taken care of because in 2014 I was completely mortified and humiliated to realize we were undesirables as potential homeowners. We were living paycheck to paycheck, direct deposit to direct deposit. 

I don't know many people who had a stellar 2016, but when June rolled around Eben and I weren't in the best place in our lives, our marriage, or even our friendship. Most people won't admit that, let alone write it down, but I will say that marriage is pretty much no longer cupcakes and rainbows after the honeymoon. It turns out you have to work hard in life, and work hard on your loving commitment and partner's needs to function well. It's often tough to feel much more than that you're going through the married motions. We were functioning but that was about it. 

Eben may offer a different view, but in my mind, he was miserable working a less-than-thrilling job, although he loved the people he worked for and the work itself had it's limitations. It fit our needs. I was uncomfortable for the last year or so at my job because my best work buddy moved on and I didn't really fit in. There were parts of my job I loved, but I kept having to talk myself into why it wasn't really making me miserable, reassuring myself it was just my shortcomings that made things difficult. Mostly what I loved was the opportunity to make more money, although you have to bust your ass to get commission in this world. To put it simply, Eben and I were burned at both ends and scraping by to raise our perfect little 3-year-old redhead, Luna.

In the wake of feeling the weight of the world on us, me especially, and just trying to make ends meet and find some peace, Eben was about to leave for a week to check on his dad's health in Oregon and I thought we needed the break from each other. We had been having that never-ending fight of, "This is why you're an asshole and you need to change," with responses like, "I wouldn't have to be such an asshole if you'd quit being such a bitch and lay off of me!" We never got anywhere. We were on the long journey to the middle. We were just conforming to the day to day routine to coexist. In our softer moments we would sneak a movie line jab of, "I love you, but I don't have to like you right now," at each other, but that was the extent of it. 

We were in a shitty place but we had decided not to let our anniversary go un-celebrated. Our favorite, and insanely expensive French restaurant, had a frequent diner program and we were one card away from a free meal. All we would pay for was booze. We are Irish, so we can drink our money quite well but if you've met us, we can also eat most people under the table. It is impressive we aren't morbidly obese. I bribed a friend to give us one of their cards so we could live large on the anniversary. I got a free sitter the weekend before the big anniversary date and we went out in style. 

That was a good night for us. We had good wine and admitted to each other that we were horrible to one another and needed to make better choices. With the ambiance it was easy to buy the sentiment, just as easy as it was to buy the dessert. But two days later it was our actual anniversary and Eben insisted we get really good Chinese food. I, however, needed new makeup. We couldn't afford both. In an effort to save I tried a new makeup line at Walmart even though I detest having to shop at Walmart. Doing that and dinner with the toddler was stressful and I was in a horrible mood on that Tuesday. The food was at least good and I think then Eben conned me into champagne to drown my worries. 

The next day Eben was supposed to take Luna to a water play event at our local church, so they would be dropping me off at work and then going to play, getting things done around the house, which was filthy, and coming to pick me up before Eben went to work. I went to Boot Camp that morning and came home to get ready. This next part is one of those moments they would deadpan back to in a dramatic movie. I remember Luna was running everywhere, Eben was still asleep and I was using the last of my makeup. Luna was climbing on the toilet to watch me, bugging me as I ran around half-dressed yelling for Eben to wake from his stupor. I distinctly remember staring into the mirror as I put my eyeliner on and thinking to myself, "How will we ever get our own house? How will I ever get what I want out of life? This feels impossible." And in that moment I gave myself a stare and told myself, "Fine, I'll fucking do it all myself if I have to." I rushed to get all three of us out of the house on time, and was not successful. 

I had had this weird thing about not letting Luna leave the house in pajamas. We might not have our lives together but we should always be able to put our child in real clothing to leave home. June 15th, 2016 Luna left the house in her pajamas and we left in a frenzy. On the way to work -- the same way we take every day -- we were at the signal to turn left onto the street we always take, and in the intersection we saw an accident happen. Not a big one, no major injuries, but it blocked the traffic and I was already bitching about being late. Eben saw an opening to take the long way, so as not to sit and watch the circus, and took it. I want to add, we had never, ever, ever taken that way to get me to work. Ever. Mostly because the highway my work was situated on was scary and dangerous,  but that route was also completely out of the way on a normal morning.

I remember making the left onto US-19 and looking at the one-mile plus long line of traffic parked on the highway and complaining. I was bitching at Eben as Luna blissfully watched Chicken Little on Eben's phone in her car seat. I remember saying, "Look at this parking lot as a highway! It's going to take me forever! I'm going to be late. AWESOME!" We fought about the lateness and then Eben refocused my energy on the weird Volvo hatchback in front of us. Then I put my phone in my purse and put my purse on the floorboard. That was when it happened. And I'll never forget the sound, although I'm pretty sure I got knocked unconscious for the actual impact.

We were completely stopped for over 3 minutes when a red Ford F-150 slammed into the back of Marietta the Matrix, the first car we had ever purchased on our own, going a whopping 45+ miles an hour. June 15th, 2016 right around 8:25am our world was rocked. There were no brakes. I didn't hear the breaks. I remember the sound of the crunching metal and the broken glass. Just writing about it makes me shiver and cry. We were smashed into the weird Volvo hatchback, which his another car and a Suburban stopped the impact. We ended up completely turned around on 19. 

I woke quickly out of panic and adrenaline into a fog from the impact. I came to screaming and punched the shit out of the airbag to free me to get to Luna. Nothing else entered my mind but that baby. Not Eben, not me. LUNA. I got myself turned around to see her coming out of the shock from the hit with fluttering eyelids. There was a burst of dirt, and debris; a haze. Among the deafening noises from the impact I heard Eben moaning and just started yelling at him about the baby, my baby, about my Luna. My seat had crushed her legs from the airbag throwing me back. I WANTED OUT OF THAT FUCKING CAR.

I started yelling at Luna trying to get her to wake. A bag of gardening dirt had popped open from the trunk and covered us in a fresh brown confetti. Luna looked dirty and fragile, with a small scrape under her eye. She was slowly coming to as I tried to Hulk-smash and grab my seat back to free her. After several failed attempts and not thinking clearly enough to use the lever designed to adjust it, I just unbuckled her from her car seat with trembling hands so someone could free her. That's when I tried to open my car door. It wouldn't open and wave two of panic and hulk mom came in. I realized we couldn't get out I used my Croc wedges, half off of my foot, to try and kick the door out screaming, "My baby! Someone please get my baby out of the car."

The getting out of the car part was and still is blurry. I can tell you that an angel named Penny got me out and helped me sit on the median. An off-duty security guard was holding Luna as she whined and cried but somehow wasn't in hysterics. I could see her ankles turning purple but I couldn't quite grasp everything at that moment. An off duty EMT got Eben out. As horrible as this sounds, I didn't even care about Eben. I left him in that car. But I didn't care about myself either. I just cared about Luna. I remember being afraid she was severely hurt and crying, "She's so smart, please don't let anything bad happen, she's so smart!" 

The security guard just comforted Luna. He held her, standing straight up and keeping her close. He was just sweating and calming my toddler until the ambulance arrived. Eben was holding his ribs and looked completely confused. They got us both sitting on the median of the highway and Eben started petting my leg and slowly saying, "It's okay. We're okay." 

I remember looking at Luna and then someone asked me, "Are you okay, Ma'am?" I remember saying, "Well yeah, I think so, my head hurts, but..." That's when I reached behind my head to touch and I remember pulling my hand back and it was completely covered in blood. "Oh my god!," I screamed and my hand shook. It was at that exact moment that I looked at my daughter, bruised, dirty and scared, and then looked at my delirious husband and somehow thought this was a punishment. Punishment for what? For anything! For not being a good person, for taking my family for granted, for not being enough of something! Yes, punishment crossed my weary mind.

It seemed like the ambulance took forever. Penny later confirmed it kind of did. They were asking us all kinds of questions. I remember the driver of the truck, who of course was unscathed, coming to me frantically to apologize saying he had kids of his own and he was horrified. He looked oddly familiar to me but I couldn't place him in the mania. We found out a week later he went to our church. Eben was extremely confused. When the EMTs arrived they asked us everything and Eben had no idea what year it was. He thought Bush was still president. They got him loaded up for the head trauma unit and on his way to Bayfront in St. Pete. They kept Luna and I together. There was another woman at the scene who let me use her phone, because I needed to call work. It was the only time I had ever called out. 

I could barely hear the receptionist and she could barely hear me. It didn't work. Then Penny brought me my purse and I called. No one that I trusted with the information was immediately available and it ended up falling on the owner's son. I'm sure I scared him to death. When Penny asked me, "Do you have anyone who you would want to call?," I felt so lost. We lived nowhere near family. And the closest family members we had weren't necessarily good in a crisis. There were two options, and the first had a 4 month old baby so...not very conducive to an all day hospital affair. The other option was less than 2 miles away, Luna knew her well, and I knew she was the best mother ever who could handle what we had been through. 

I called my in-town Boot Camp mom, Colleen, and she somehow beat us to the hospital. By the time they loaded us in the ambulance they put me on the flat board with the neck brace-thing, and Luna in a new car seat safely, she was coming to more and more and asking for water. The EMT who rode with us said as a medical professional he needed to suggest a neck brace on Luna but as a dad, it could agitate her and she seemed good, so we should let her be, but he did have to suggest it medically. I went with his fatherly opinion. When she started talking with the guy about Chicken Little I cried in relief. They kept calling me Mrs. Chriss and it sounded so weird to me. We didn't even have insurance, should I just be "Unfortunate Mom of adorable toddler?" That's all I was, just Luna's mom, bruised and worried. That was it. Penny had a daughter less than a year younger than Luna and loaded us up with snacks, coloring books and juice and then went on her way. 

When they got us in, they kept Luna and I in the same room. Colleen was right there and I remember saying to her, "Oh, thank God, please stay with Luna." They were asking me everything. I hurt everywhere but my head was throbbing. I was also getting more and more fatigued. They separated us for X-Rays, Colleen followed Luna for all her tests, and then they went to check all my internal damage. They had to cut off my work shirt, which was covered in blood down the back but I said they couldn't hurt my bra. It was new and expensive; we could barely afford it as it was so I certainly couldn't afford to have it ruined. 

I shivered and was uncomfortable through all the tests. The worst was the CT scan, I almost vomited and passed out. Colleen stayed with Luna for everything and updated me, my head feeling worse and worse. When we met back in the room they told me the news for both of us. I was very very bruised, with the worst of my injuries being a laceration on the back of my head that would require staples. Luna had two broken legs. One full femur and the other clean at the ankle. I remember her yelling at the nurses with her sass, "Just leave me alone guys! Get off of me! No don't touch!" When they told her they needed to cut off her pajamas, she thought that was the most awesome thing ever and calmed down a bit. 

They told me that Luna needed surgery to get her put back together, that I'd be discharged and we would be taken by ambulance to St. Joseph's Children's hospital in Tampa. Eben was at Bayfront but we had no news. Colleen had called his job and told them he wouldn't be in. They gave Luna something for the pain and Colleen said she would get me some clothes from Target and help us get settled, meeting us over in Tampa. 

I remember when they put the staples in my head only two legitimately hurt. One of the sweet nurses helped clean up my blood soaked back. I thought I could at least sneak a nap but being uninsured, they let me go quite quickly. I had to wear XL green scrub pants, hospital socks and one of Colleen's son's fishing shirts in the ambulance ride. This time I had to sit up front. When they loaded us up, it was tough to get in. I'd been hurting more and more. With till no update on Eben, I faced my next mission: making sure someone took care of the dog.

I quickly sent a text to Eben's best friend, Matty, who had our spare house key and stayed with us from time to time. I told him not to freak out, but let him know what happened, and why we needed care for Brodie the pug. He couldn't get away from school and work. It was then that good intentions went awry and social media hell broke loose. Matty posted something sweet asking for prayers for us and tagged us on Facebook. My phone went INSANE. Everyone was checking on us, everyone was worried and freaking out. 

We got Brodie care in place and arrived at the Children's hospital. I could tell how good I looked by the reactions of the nurses watching me hobble slowly behind Luna in the hospital bed with splints. We were in the waiting area and they started talking about surgery and doing MRIs and all the things. When they got her comfortable and rested, that's when I had to address the Facebook onslaught and hysteria. I called the important family heads and started a phone chain. I posted letting everyone know what was going on, as much as we had known at that moment. Colleen brought me warm clothes, shoes, and magazines and got me some soup because I hadn't eaten. Luna could have nothing, not even water because she was officially"pre-op."

The chaplains between hospitals acted as communication letting me know that Eben was fine and stable with only minor, short term head wounds. When we got in our official room later, we could call him. After the Facebooking, and during the whole just sitting and waiting thing I checked in with some of the people closest to our hearts. I managed to keep it together and not break down, until I spoke to my lifelong friend, Angela, and I finally broke down crying while looking at Luna asleep on the bed and admitted, "This really fucking sucks."

I'd left my mom a message but was relieved she lived 4 hours away and had yet to return the call. When my Pastor and friend, Kevin, messaged me saying, "Hey I want to be there for you, is there anything you need?," my quick response was, "A phone charger," and reply his was, "I can do that!" At this point I will confess that my lifelong argument with my faith, my love-hate relationship with religion, God and all things preachy and such, was not what I wanted to deal with. I didn't want prayers, I didn't want someone to hold my hand and assure me God would take care of us. I needed someone to just sit with me and let me feel like everything was fucking horrible that day. I just needed time to process it. 

When Kevin arrived and saw Luna, he looked mortified. And that was some of the best comfort I had received all day. Yeah, shitty things really happen sometimes. Colleen stayed with me through when we met the surgeon. She even dealt with my crazy mother. The accident happened at 8:35am and Luna was due for surgery around 8pm. It felt like the longest day ever. 

The surgeon came to show me everything and explain it to Colleen and Kevin and I. Luna gave the surgeon the stink eye and was super sassy and rude. The surgeon said he liked that kind of attitude and it would serve her well in her recovery. One thing not every person knows about me is my struggle with depression and anxiety. It was diagnosed and I got treatment in my early twenties. It's not something easy for me to talk about. I overthink, I stress very easily and I always worst-case scenario everything. So, I was ready to hear that Luna would have Forrest Gump-like metal braces, she would be in a wheelchair for years, or that she would have a long recovery. It was then that the surgeon said the magic time frame of within 6 weeks! In just 6 weeks the casts would be off and recovery would begin!

The following Sunday, Kevin mentioned us in his sermon. Specifically about how he could see the faith coming over me as this happened. Without even hearing myself he noted that I said, "I can do that. She can do this. We can do that, to every note about the wheelchair, the sponge baths, the time for being lazy versus active, the diapers, all of it. When Kevin and Colleen had to leave it  a few hours before surgery time. This was what frightened me the most...waiting. Just sitting and waiting. I told the Doctor to overshoot it. Tell me 3 hours, not 2.5 because at that exact time if she was not out, I would lose my mind!

So next I called in my dependables: two couples that are closest to us and know us best. One of them, it had been much too long since we'd seen them. They offered me Burger King and even though that is admittedly my least favorite fast food, that whopper tasted so damn good. They came and commiserated with me. They shared some struggles they had been having with me, and they helped distract me and they got me to laugh.

The other couple just came to help with the distraction and keep me sane. They lived closer to the hospital and stayed a little later. Luna came out of the surgery fine but just looked small and fragile. Both of my female friends broke down when they saw her. I took it in stride that she did great. Poor baby just wanted water and all she could have was ice. She refused. Now it was time to get her comfortable. Now it was time to wind down and boy was it late. 

When they finally got us to our own room, I found we had a private shower. There was a little bed/couch for me to sleep on too. The nurses kept saying, "Do you need anything mom? Are you doing okay?," but I barely asked for a thing. It was all about Luna. That night , late like 10 or 11pm, our friends Grayson and Amanda stayed with me. I couldn't take a full shower or wash my hair because of my head staples. But my entire head of hair was caked and covered in blood. I desperately wanted to clean up but we couldn't get the hot water in the shower to work. 

Grayson sat and watched a movie with Luna. Amanda came into the bathroom with me to help me clean up. I probably scarred her for life. We couldn't use too warm of water on my head either. I remember being just in my bra and underpants and freshly bruised. I was purple, black, and blue and getting more and more sore and stiff by the minute. Amanda was alternating a hot wash cloth on my chest and back, while luke-warm hand washing the stale blood from my hair. I remember just shaking from exhaustion and from being cold in the hospital. She got me cleaned up and they went home and promised to check on us the following day, as we were told a good 48 hours before we could think about going home.

I was able to call Eben to let him know Luna did fine on her surgery. But I remember when they finally got her comfortable and we could sleep, I tried to get comfy on the couch bed and just started bawling and shaking. I was wide awake. I had a friend living in a time zone that was 6 hours ahead of me who was waking for the next day and he ended up consoling me via Facebook Messenger as I just completely broke down. I was so angry that my little girl was broken and hurt; angry that Eben was a city away from us and I had to parent alone in an emergency. I was angry that this uprooted our entire existence and my baby would spend her summer in a wheelchair. I was angry that I felt so useless all at the same moment as feeling like it was all on me! 

Then I was overcome with the feelings of being grateful and felt blessed to be alive; so happy that we all survived something so horrible and wouldn't sustain permanent damage. It was such a whirlwind. The first step of all of our recovery, was accepting help. I am the absolute worst at that. I admitted to my friends Melissa and Kelly (two mothers I admired for their organization and sanity amidst having 2 boys each) that my house was filthy and I think it would hurt too much for me to sweep and deep clean for awhile. Being the wonderful mothers that they are, they cleaned my horrible house, stocked the fridge and pantry with necessities, even BEER (thanks again Kelly) and then had the boys get us flowers and make little gifts for Luna!

We'd had hospital visitors bring Luna toys and just offer comfort and entertainment and most importantly, non-hospital food. My boss at the time, it was his wife that was the living angel who introduced Luna to Panera Mac and Cheese and got her to eat for the first time in 48 hours. Eben had had many visitors too, which was comforting for me to know he was taken care of since I was not leaving Luna's side.

Colleen was still my number one. She got the new car seat, got us home from the hospital and got us one of the most amazing gifts we could ask for that was ready for our arrival home. Sidenote: We had been sleeping on a king mattress on the floor of our room. Luna had fallen onto the hardwood out of our queen with the crib sidecar-ed to it, and we never could afford a bed frame. But I couldn't lift Luna in and out of that bed with her casts and neither could 8 broken-ribbed Eben. Then again, Eben could barely lie down with broken ribs, let alone be that low to the ground. So when we arrived home to the clean house two long days after the accident, Colleen, her sons, and Kelly had gotten us a new-to-us King bed frame, box spring and mattress that was all set up and made so we could all sleep comfortably. When I saw that I cried on Colleen our of relief and joy. Blessings  are everywhere, in all forms.

We had so much help. SO MUCH HELP. The list is not just the people mentioned in here. Eben's work set up a benefit for us, my friend and Boot Camp Trainer took donations for us and had people send food. Another Boot Camp friend mowed our lawn every other week for 2 months and would bring me coffee when he arrived! We had people spoil the crap out of Luna with activities, attention, toys and so much love! We had friends and family physically take us where we needed and help for months. We had family members fly or drive down from Oregon to help take care of Luna and the house. 

It took a long time for me to get past the shock though. It felt more like a curse and less like a blessing for the first few months. The support, the love and the people were instant blessings, but the incident itself, it has taken me forever to embrace the good that has come from it. I still have severe PTSD from the crash; the sounds, the impact and the adrenaline of coming to. Randomly I will get pretty bad nightmares about the whole thing. Luna talks about it a lot, which we encourage, and she is physically fully healed. Eben has also made a real recovery after surgery and physical therapy. 

So here we are a year later. Our marriage is still a huge work in progress and didn't get any better with the accident. We became stronger as parents because of the accident, but are still working on our strength as a couple. With all of the gains have come some pretty serious growing pains, but the accident has afforded us that which we did not have beforehand. We learned how important it is to have a village and I have tried to very seriously and continuously appreciate those people who did so much for us in ways we couldn't have before. 

Now I won't say that I am a born again Christian or that my faith is rock solid or that I'm a believer in all things Biblical, but I will say that through such a horrible and traumatic event I did get closer to God and understanding my faith. I allowed myself to better explore my relationship with God again and with the church. I realized that God gave each one of us what we could handle, and what we could grow from. I've been bruised and a complete mental mess most of my life, but I can weather a good storm and kick some serious parental ass when I need to. Luna is young enough to heal fast and bounce completely back. She will wear it with pride and be even stronger because of it. And Eben has had so many broken bones and surgeries; he knows exactly what to expect and he can deal with it all. 

God's timing is very much perfect, whether you like it or not, and sometimes really shitty things just happen. And it's not about if you're a good enough person or even if you're the worst person ever, it's just a part of life. And I'll never say that everything is cupcakes and rainbows, but we are finally in a position where we can work on continuing to grow. We found our place, our tribe. And in some ways, it sucks that something like that had to happen to bring us to such a point where we could connect with people and reconnect with each other, but after some serious reflection, I definitely appreciate the evolvement and the event that spurred it.

So when I tell people about this car accident, it profoundly affected me because it made me more aware. It was a wake up call for my faith, my trust and my strength. I'm no longer so obsessed with the haves and the have-nots. I don't see life as some race. We all have our burdens and we all carry things that some will not understand. But it wasn't some absence of God that day, in fact that presence was made clear. It was more an unfortunate event.

Some of the good that came from the accident still presents new trials and tribulations. Some of the bad things that came from it, still resound loudly. I'm not the same person that was in that car on her way to work last year. And I don't want to be. Not because I'm better than I was by any means, but I'm owning more and more the work in progress that I am. I'm owning the mess and the beauty in the breakdown. I've had some wonderful people remind me how far we've come in a year, and it's leaps and bounds. New jobs, new home ownership, new opportunities for Luna, new challenges for our family that we embrace, and a new appreciation for life. Because all it takes is a moment to change everything; a change in your direction, a wrong turn, a right turn. And I've had to face that fact that we have no real control. And writing that down is one of the biggest blessings I could ever bestow, because I am a queen bee control freak! 

We will forever be changed by that day. And after some serious reflection, a lot of tears and a mountain of support and understanding, I wouldn't ask to remove that morning from our story for anything. And I will continue to share and reflect for years to come!