I Will

I've spent this month compiling all of my notes and preparing a timeline for the historical fiction novel I will be writing my first draft for this November. 

I've been writing character bios and fact checking actual events in history. I've been learning proper slang terms in various time periods and writing detailed notes on proper attire for the 1830's on to modern times. 

I've been working my creative butt off all while packing up the house and preparing to move almost 1,700 miles away. 

Then I found out I was pregnant. 

I've wanted to be a "real" writer for so many years. I'm not stopping now. I will keep writing. Even if I don't hit my goal word count by Nov. 30th, I will keep writing. 

Then will come the editing, the proof reads, the begging people to read it for feedback, the re-editing, the locking it up in a desk for however many months it needs to rest, and then the re-read with fresh eyes. All while juggling three kids, another move, a new house, and a new life. 

Maybe something will come of it. Maybe it won't. But I just want to get this story out of my head. I want to bring life to the characters I already know. Even if no one else will ever meet them. 

I want to be able to say, "hey, I wrote a book once..." 

Novel November

It's official. I'm writing a novel in the month of November. I have 25 days to go through the piles and piles of notes I've been keeping, fact check my timeline, and organize my thoughts all while packing up and moving. Yay.

Alas, the NaNoWriMo 2015 project waits for no one. From November 1st through November 30th, I have to write a 50,000 word first draft. I might be insane to choose my far more complicated plot idea, which will require historically accurate facts and will likely exceed 50,000 words, as opposed to the simpler-to-write story that I have been working on for over 5 years. But I'm taking advantage of the built in childcare I will have this November (thanks family!) to attempt the more complicated tale. 

One of the first steps to this project is to announce my intention, so that I will be subjected to the well deserved mockery of everyone who reads this should I fail. So here it is. I'm writing a novel this fall. If you see me around, ask how many words I have written so far. Chase me back into my cave with a lit torch until I have written an acceptable number of words. 

And so, I begin my journey towards becoming a caffeine-addled penmonkey!

Currently reading: Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackery

All the pretty little horses

The last in my series of depression posts is one that I rarely talk about. But in many ways it was the most scary to me. It was the one where I felt most confused and out of control.

10 to 15 percent of all postpartum women experience postpartum depression. Usually, symptoms occur within 2 weeks of childbirth. However, symptoms have been known to show up anywhere within the first year. Also noteworthy is that about one in one thousand women will develop postpartum psychosis. These women are at an extremely high risk of suicide.

It was remarked to me on several occasions that there was some surprise that I hadn't developed postpartum depression; the last two weeks of my first pregnancy and for some time afterwards I was completely incapacitated due to an injury. Birth and immediate recovery in the hospital, where I was suppose to be bonding with my new baby, were extremely difficult. 

Every time this remark as made to me, I looked around at my home. Dirty dishes piled high in the sink, empty pizza boxes littered the counters, my hair was matted, and my clothes hadn't been changed in a week. No, I thought, this is just motherhood. Right? I'm fine

My son was an incredibly easy baby. Aside from some initial breastfeeding problems (that I blamed myself for with a passion), he was a good sleeper, even tempered, and adorable. I had no reason to be sad. But I was. Baby blues, I said. Right? I'm fine.

Like the story book, that baby grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. I looked around at my home. Dirty dishes piled high in the sink, empty pizza boxes littered the counters, my hair was matted, and my clothes hadn't been changed in a week. But I was just busy. I was busy in my constant research to be the perfect mother. I would do everything right. I didn't matter anymore. Nothing except my boy mattered. Right? I'm fine.

I would occasionally catch sight of myself in the mirror. My eyes were hollow and I didn't recognize the face staring back at me. Just sleep deprivation, I thought. All moms feel this. Even though my son was a pretty good sleeper. I would just lie awake at night because I was listening to him breathe. I was a devoted, vigilant mother. Never mind the strange buzzing sound I would hear on occasion. Probably means I drank too much caffeine today, right? I'm fine.

What twaddle these new moms spout off. They aren't doing it right. They don't do the things I do. The things that my hours of research tell me is the right way to parent. I see their weakness. I have no weakness. It's odd that the buzzing noise comes in the day time. Yes, my love. You can pour all of the flour out onto your little table. That's what good moms do. I will let you explore with all of your senses. I will clean it up eventually. When I feel better. When this noise stops. It will stop, right? I'm fine. 

No one understands my boy but me. I will always be his protector and his advocate. I don't know who wants to hurt him. But someone does. I wont let them. Maybe the shadows know. That one that just moved down the hall. At least I know what makes the noise. I will be able to understand all tonight. I wont sleep. It doesn't want me to sleep. In the mean time, I need to get a new activity going for my boy. The shadows will know when I let my guard down. I wont do that. I can't do that... right? I'm fine.

Toasted jamstick. Shadows are watching. It moves around the room. But if they know what I see, they might take my boy. I'm fine. I'm fine. A new approach. A new daily schedule. You can't catch me when I'm concentrating. When I'm mothering. Why is it so loud? Don't look at me that way. I'm doing things right! I'm doing what they say is best. No, I don't matter. Why should I? I'm a mom now. That's all. I'm not fine. 

I was adamant about not seeing a psychiatrist. I wanted to continue breastfeeding and I knew that medicated would stop that. My therapist was an amazing woman who listened to me, who listened to the ramblings. Who understood and put a name to what I was dealing with. She was able to break through the fog and give me a place to pour out all that was inside my head. She was not totally comfortable with my refusal of medication at first, but I was able to regain myself through our visits. It helped that once my mind was clear, I was able to draw from my experiences with meth psychosis and rationalize the postpartum psychosis. 

Our weekly appointments had to stop when we moved away, but I have been able to draw on her advice ever since to lead a relatively normal life, though normal to me is quite a bit different than the accepted definition. 

I don't advise not seeking help sooner, or refusing medication if someone is experiencing postpartum depression and psychosis. I was just stubborn. Always have been. 

Inferno

Statistically speaking, one in three female high school students will experience abuse of some kind in a dating relationship.
Women ages 18-34 are at the greatest risk for experiencing abuse. Half of these women will attempt suicide.
Alternately, one in four victims of abuse turn to drugs.
I chose the latter.

Without going into the details of my first experience and the dirty details of my time as an active addict, because I'm saving the long story for another time, I'll stick to simple facts.

It was a means of escape. The drug was an instant reward to my long suffering mind.
During this time I was fearless. Something I had never been, especially lately. My voice came through loud and clear. I told him to stop.
I told him I would take no more.
Drugs helped me to escape him.
I was free. Or so I thought.

It became clear very early on that I was increasing my intake at a rapid pace.
I never said no. Cocaine, heroin, crack, ecstasy, pills. All were welcome, but meth was my drug of choice. I gave it no boundaries. Pipes, lines, syringes. All were welcome.
All were welcome.

Then I began to exhibit alarming signs. My own drug using friends started telling me that I needed to cut down. Something wasn't right. The pleas to cut down turned into please to stop altogether.
After surviving a near overdose, I began to see their point. But it's not so easy.

Substance abuse is the second leading cause for suicide according to Psychology Today. In fact, people with substance use disorders are six times more likely to commit suicide than the general population.
I once witnessed the scene of a recent suicide. A week before, I was talking with the victim about his inability to get a handle on his own meth addiction.

Luckily, I had the support I needed to quit. The statistics that addicts face are dark.

To be continued... 

Star No Star

I met him when I was 16. He was 18 and all the girls wanted him. But he chose me. 

In our rocky, on again off again relationship that spanned 3 years, I slowly became his possession rather than his girlfriend. 

It happened innocently enough. He requested that I stop talking to former boyfriends who were now friends. Done. Then he requested that I stop talking to girls who were friends with the former boyfriends. I was hesitant, but agreed. 

Once I slipped up and said Hi to a friend. All hell broke loose. I broke a promise. It was my fault. I would do better. 

I was now the faulty one in the relationship. It was constantly hung over my head. I could not be trusted. 

Once, I slipped up again. I took a 15 minute shower. In that time, I missed 24 calls. He screamed obscenities at me for an hour. I spent that time crumpled on the floor in a towel, trying to figure out how I couldn't hear my phone ringing. I was the worst girlfriend. 

Any time I broke a rule, and these rules were sometimes made up after I broke them, I was blasted with belittling, name calling, screaming, and suicidal threats. 

If I ever considered leaving him, he would describe in detail how he would end his life. Always with a written declaration that it was my fault. 

My hair was thinning. I stopped eating. I never slept. I was a shell of myself. 

But I never had a black eye. Never a cut lip or a broken bone. Surely this is not abuse. I couldn't even fathom comparing myself to women who fear for their very lives. 

I drifted through my high school without notice. I had no real physical sign on my body that anything was amiss. I felt cut off from everyone. I was cut off from everyone. Even my favorite teacher. He was a man, so he was off limits. He knew what was going on though. With my entire being, I felt grateful for the reassuring glances, the squeezes on the shoulder. "I see you. I know you are still there" he seemed to say. 

But I wouldn't open my mouth all day. Not until I was back in his presence. Then I was allowed to speak. Funny, since I'd lost my voice long ago. 

Eventually I began wearing my pain. But my injuries were from my own hand. Razor to flesh. I punished my weakness. My inability to be a good girlfriend. My stupidity for believing him. Maybe I wanted to show him my pain. I wore it like a white flag. He called me a stupid idiot. 

Sometimes you have to go through great lengths to rid yourself of someone. Like I did. 

To be continued...

National Domestic Violence Hotline:

1-800-799-7233

The cloud that took the form

Since September is suicide prevention awareness month, I've seen quite a lot of talk about circumstances that often lead to such ends. 

I wanted to spend the rest of the month highlighting a few issues that I'm personally intimate with that have high suicide statistic rates. I believe that the more open we are about this, the more people we can reach. 

I was diagnosed with clinical depression as a young teen. I assumed that after a few months popping these pills the psychiatrist gave me would clear things up and I would feel better. 

I did feel better for a time. 

But like most teenage girls, I began to withdraw from family. While most girls spend long hours locked in their rooms listening to music and talking on the phone, I spent them blaring heavy metal from my stereo to muffle the choking sobs. Eventually I began punishing myself physically for my emotional weakness. 

Weeks later I would still be wearing long sleeves and jackets in all kinds of weather to hide the red, jagged cuts up and down my arms. 

Later, I would concentrate my punishment to my chest or legs when my arms were discovered. 

There were nights when I would lie awake and wonder if dying would end my struggle. I felt that I was in too deep to recover from. I never intended to do it, but the thought of finally stopping the pain was comforting. 

Many people describe depression as "fighting your demons" and that, for me, was partly very true. My life seemed to be a pendulum that swung from forcing myself to concentrate with the screams from Hell inside my head, to periods of complete numbness. Some days the numbness was more unbearable that the war. But I could always count on the pendulum to swing back. One of my demons was flesh and blood and always stood above me. 

It was many years later that a therapist told me that I was not just suffering from depression, but also that of PTSD. Up until then the thought had never occurred to me. 

Almost 1.5 million high school students nationwide experience abuse from a dating partner in the period of one year. That makes one in three. Nearly half of these victims admit to attempting suicide. 

Unfortunately, emotional and verbal abuse statistics are hard to directly pinpoint because so many are so crushed and broken that they do not dare step forward. 

Today I step forward. 

To be continued...

Best Flour Tortillas

True to my roots, however wandering they may be, I love Tex Mex. Unfortunately, real Tex Mex is hard to find outside of Texas... So I have to make it myself! I'm a much bigger fan of flour tortillas as opposed to corn. Something about the texture.

There is a small chain restaurant in the area that I grew up that makes the best tortillas of all time. It's their specialty. Recently, I wondered just how hard it would be to make real, soft and fluffy tortillas at home. Turns out it's pretty simple, if only a little time consuming.

In our pledge to eat only (or mostly) homemade, unprocessed food, I decided that the time it takes to make wholesome food for my family is worth it. Luckily my boys are pretty good about playing with each other. When they aren't, they like to help me! And when that doesn't work out, it's arts and crafts time.

The actual hands on time for flour tortillas is only about 25 minutes broken up, so it's totally doable. It's worth it to eat these soft, chewy, buttery tortillas of amazingness.

Ingredients

• 3 cups all purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
• 2 tablespoons melted butter
• 1 1/8 cup warmed milk

Directions

In a large bowl, mix together flour, baking powder, and salt. Stir in the butter and warm milk until it becomes a sticky dough ball.

Knead dough on a floured surface for 2 minutes or until firm, soft, and smooth. Place dough back into the bowl and cover with a damp cloth for at least 30 minutes.

After the dough has rested, break off 12 sections and roll into balls. Cover and let them rest for another 10 minutes. This step allows the gluten to develop for proper thickness.

Next, flatten each ball and roll out into circles with a rolling pin. Aim for about an 8 inch diameter. Cover the stack until you're ready to cook.

Heat a dry skillet on medium-high heat. Cook each tortilla individually for about 30 seconds on each side until slightly browned and starts to bubble. Place cooked tortillas under a dish towel until you are ready to serve.

Store in an airtight container for 2-3 days.

Currently reading: The Complete Sherlock Holmes vol. 2 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyl