Just Generally Anxiety Disordered

I've always envisioned the worst possible scenario in most situations. I don't find it particularly morbid, it's always felt quite clever and logical to be prepared for something - anything - that could result in a public tragedy that I may need to escape from. Having a plan seemed sane. Having a plan was reassuring. If I was stuck on a bridge during rush hour I would look around the inside of my car and see what could be used as a survival tool were the bridge to collapse into the river. If I was sitting in a busy theatre I would always check out the nearest exits and create a path to take in my mind that would secure my safety were a fire to break out, or the roof cave in (obviously, the roof would have to cave in above other people or my plan wouldn't work, but I would have alternate routes in place.)


Once, when Matthew was very small, I put a big bag of flour in his Jolly Jumper and dangled it off my 2nd story balcony to see if it would make a viable escape pod for him in case of a fire. It did, for those who are curious. I never had to use it, thankfully, but felt immeasurably better having pulled a Michael Jackson with an innocent bag of flour.


There's nothing to be done in case of a plane crash over the ocean, which is why I loathe planes. They are plan-free, escape-proof cans of sure and certain death and I cannot out-prepare them once in the sky. So, I fight back with lorazepam in those instances of necessary travel.


This constant planning and visualisation does take it's toll on a person, though. Once I started experiencing sleeplessness, irritability, heart palpitations, lack of concentration/focus and night-sweats I went to the doctor thinking my thyroid was being a dink again. She suggested anxiety, I said I was sure that wasn't it - I'm not anxious. I don't clutch at my chest and cry, "Think of the children!" because Ariel the mermaid has tits. I don't call all of the hospitals when my husband is late (although, I have picked out a dress for his hypothetical funeral that makes me look vulnerable, pretty, and most importantly thin) so obviously I don't have anxiety. She humoured me with a thyroid test while I wandered off for a week to be indignant about her anxiety diagnosis.


I decided to humour her and looked up generalised anxiety disorder.  I was shocked - I've been like this my WHOLE life, and it's a thing? Being scared of the dark and basements was just something I've always lived with - Graham does the laundry because it's in the basement and I don't like the basement so that's his job. Every precaution I've taken with my kids, every routine I've made for us, all of it has been based around what I felt was rational worry. I used to be irritated with Graham for not knowing the best way to do things, not realising there isn't always a best way, there's just the way that I worry the least about. The realisation was staggering. I was overwhelmed, I didn't know where to start as living a different way seemed unfathomable. What other way?


At this point my concentration was so bad I couldn't even get through a whole book. The busyness and flightiness I've had my whole life with multiple hobbies and activities to constantly stimulate and distract me was actually a symptom, but also meant this wouldn't be as simple as reading literature and changing my mindset. After bringing myself back to the doctor and admitting it was anxiety we decided on trying an anti-anxiety med just to bridge the gap between therapy and my current state of mind. It's too soon to know it's full-effect, but I did sit on a bridge yesterday and realised when driving away that I just sang along to the radio instead of running through my usual scenarios of escaping death.


I'm still coming to terms with it all, and trying to recognise what is normal and what is anxiety-produced measures of safety and mentalness. I do check fire exits when in a public place, but I'm pretty sure that's something we were taught to do as children so it doesn't count, but I no longer count the people on the bus to work out my rate of survival in case of a fiery crash - the formula for that being my distance from the nearest exit + number of people on the bus - the old/infirm/iPod wearing people that I can run faster than. No offense, non-survivors. Don't take it personally that I base my odds on survival on you not surviving, it's just anxiety.

But, I just want to buy a dress?

It's Graham's Christmas party tonight (they do it in January every year, which I appreciate as December is really busy) and I needed/wanted a new dress so we hit the mall last night and after a couple of haircuts for Graham and Charlie we wandered into stores. There are some big sales on, but it is an in-between seasonal thing so the clothes and the sizes are cheap but also limited.


The first store I walked into had giant posters made to look like tags that said "70% off all stock!" Pretty straight forward, I thought. After the third salesperson walked by and asked me if I knew what their sale was I walked out of the store feeling harassed and badgered. The next store was more of the same, with two sales people (associates?) chirping "Hi!" at me, and one immediately coming right over and asking me if I was looking for anything special today. I said no, just browsing and she asked me if I knew what the sale promotion was. I read from the sign directly above me, "up to 60% off select merchandise, excluding newer stock?" and she replied, "Yes, so it's up to 60% off select stock but not including our newer merchandise near the front." No shit.


The third store was the same. "Have you been helped?" "Have you heard about our sale today?" "Are you looking for anything in particular today?" "Just in case you haven't heard, we're having a sale today which doesn't include the dress you're holding, but does include those shorts that no one wanted in the back, available in lime with red handprints and red with lime handprints. No? Not interested? Would you like to try them on? No? Ok, maybe next time?"


Charlie was in a stroller and quite happy to roll around looking at things, so the fourth store I felt confidant that she could manage sitting patiently while I tried on a dress. Except in this store I couldn't even locate a sales person to open a changing room for me, and when I finally did she huffily walked over, opened their smallest room and said, "There you go," and walked away. A stroller wouldn't fit in that room, I barely fit in that room. There was a room next to it with stroller capacity, but I couldn't find her again to help.


Feeling quite discombobulated by the overbearing attention/lavish ignoring I had just received I finally found another store with a wrap dress I quite liked. There was no aggressive salespeople nannering at me the second I got into the store and the music was quite nice - I like a store with good music. Charlie and I got a changing room to accommodate us both, the dress fit, finally a successful shopping excursion. Now came the part I hated - paying for the item.


It wasn't a pricey dress, at $38.00 it was a bargain. Parting with that money wasn't the hard part, it's the part where I can't pay for clothing without being asked to buy a membership, sign up for a free membership, get asked for my name and birthday and email for birthday promotions, get asked my postal code, get asked for my phone number, or any other ways the store feels I should be forever hassled for stupidly giving them money. Honestly, I just want to buy a fucking dress. I don't want email promotions, I don't buy that many clothes. I don't want a membership card that means absolutely nothing that I can't store up points on and can only use once a year for one article of clothing over $100.00. I just want to know the final price, pay using debit, and walk out.


I walked up to the front and put my dress on the counter. The sales person that helped me asked if I knew who helped me - always a good sign - and asked if it fit. I said no, just to see if she was paying attention, and she chirped, "Great. Would you like to sign up for our members rewards card? After your first year you receive 10% discounts every second time you come to our store." I shit you not, for $13 that was their *amazing* membership. Their store might not even be open in a year. I said I wasn't interested, and would just like to pay. She said, "Great. Can I have your name and email, please?" What? Come on, I just want to pay for the damned dress and leave! I said, "No, I just want to pay normally. No email, no name, no postal code...I just want to buy a dress and go home." She looked confused, like I was asking to wash the floor in exchange for the dress. I said, "I don't want to sign up for anything, I just want to pay." The line of people behind me was growing.


The girl looked at her computer, and looked at the associate next to her and said, "How do I put through a sale with no email address?" The associate said, "Doesn't her email address work?"


Girl: "No, she doesn't want to give her email address."


The associate (to me): "We won't give your email address out to anyone."


Me: "No, I understand that. I don't want to sign up for anything."


The associate: "Oh, you're not signing up. We just send emails about future sales."


Me: "Yes, but that's signing up for emails."


*line grows longer*


The associate: "But, it's free."


Me: "I understand. But, I don't want emails about your sale."


Girl and Associate twitch with confusion.


Me: "Can I just pay please?"


Girl: "How do I override this for payment with no email address?"


Associate: "Just run it through the debit machine, we'll have to fix it after."


And a woman behind me coughed in an irritated way. Finally my dress was put in a bag and I walked out with a line of customers staring at me for holding them up.


When did this become the norm? Why can't I just buy a goddamned article of clothing without looking like a conspiracy theorist trying to live off the grid?

I'm not 19 anymore; OR the night aliens had a picnic on my sleeping bag.

I'm hungover. Like, desperately hungover. Last night I went out with Susie, my incredibly fun friend with a love of dancing and pin-up girl style, and drank like I was 19 again. But, I'm not 19 so today has been one of the roughest days I've had in my 6 years of marriage. I've managed a bit of rice, some coffee, water and Pepsi Max...I'm struggling with moving quickly or even looking up. Some hangovers aren't too bad, you wake up a little stiff and sore and get your day going with an Advil and a coffee. And then there's hangover like I had this morning, where you feel like you're an ant at a park under a bright sun, deafening sounds of traffic and children screaming, sand in your eye, shit in your mouth, and then a toddler wanders over and squashes your head under her sandal.


Today I am a squashed ant.


I forced myself to make some soup for tomorrow, and used up the old bananas for muffins so today wasn't a total write-off but mostly to suck up to my incredibly tolerant husband who allowed me to lay around moaning all day and only called me stupid a few times. It was so bad that at one point I even wondered if people go to the ER for exceptionally bad hangovers, and wondered if doctors or nurses hook themselves up to an IV to rehydrate and fight the nastiness of an over-indulged night out - because if they do that's a fairly awesome idea.


I don't drink overly often, and not usually to this extent. I don't bound out of bed like I used to as a younger adult, shake off a hangover in a shower and eat a massive breakfast. It's like hangovers are getting worse and worse as I age, like gravity is taking its toll not only on my right eyebrow but also my ability to expel alcohol from my system and rehydrate. I'm amazed by people that can do this every weekend, every Friday and again on Saturday. I'm not going to feel 100% until Wednesday, I'm sure.


Today has been a learning experience, and I do think it'll be likely that I won't indulge again as I did last night. I do learn, there's been a few experiences in life  that I have actually been capable of learning from. I don't do hallucinogens despite having gone out with friends on shrooms and such, because I did have a nasty experience once that made me never want to repeat that adventure.


Oddly, I was only 8 years old.


My great-grandmother was very ill and my mother had taken my sister and I with her for a visit and to help our grandmother. To keep us busy and quiet while family things were going on, my mum got us StickerFun Books. If anyone remembers those, they were colouring books with a page of stickers, and you'd place the stickers on the coordinating pages and then colour around them. We still have those books around today, but in the 80s they weren't peel-off stickers, you had to lick them. So we sat and licked our books to death for an hour or so at the table before bedtime, and I started goofing off. Mum lost her patience with me when I went full Stooges and started banging into things around the kitchen, and sent us to bed. We were staying in my great-grandmother's apartment so my sister shared my mum's bed and I was on the floor with a sleeping bag. We giggled and farted around until our mother came in and threatened 80s violence against us, and finally settled in to sleep. But, I couldn't sleep. There were aliens having a picnic on my sleeping bag.


Actually, they were aliens that looked like tiny people. Little families here and there, like a church picnic. Tiny tables and teeny food, but when I tried to participate they would snarl and bite me. I had to stay perfectly still or incur their wrath on my toes and fingers. I couldn't stay still, though, because I was 8 and high as a kite so eventually one turned on me and I had to squash it in my hand - it burst and covered me in slime. I ran from the room screaming at my mother to wipe the slime off of my hands, at which point she decided I must be having some sort of nervous breakdown and brought me down the street to the hospital (one of the perks of staying at a retirement home is the emergency services nearby for when your 8 year old drops her basket.)


We were seen to immediately, and theories ranged from me having an allergic reaction to all the glue I licked off of the stickers to someone deciding to play a prank and putting LSD in one of the books while it was at the shop. Either way it wasn't wearing off for awhile, so they kept me in and one of the nurses had the interesting job of keeping me in bed and stopping me from flapping all night at the birds flying around my head.


I had come down by morning. This was confirmed by me walking in a straight line and having some oatmeal.


There's not much else to the tale, aside from it being proof that I am capable of learning...and have a strong distrust of tiny people.

Why do we hate Hippies so much?

I've decided this year is the year of budgeting, saving cash, eating healthy, exercising and enjoying it, and minimalism - well, as much as my clutterbug dvd/cd/book hoarder husband I live with will allow. Along with that goes more exploratory cooking, and with a gift card I received for Christmas I purchased two vegan cookbooks.



And a kit for learning knitting. I really like yarn, it would be great to learn how to use it.

Anyway, I've used the cookbooks and recipes online to dip into the world of lentils, quinoa, tofu (which I have a bit of a history with) and coconut oil. I've been cooking with coconut oil for some time now, and prefer it to butter for scrambling eggs and browning meat. Lentils are the cheapest things around and make lovely soups, and now that I have a realistic expectation of tofu I am beginning to come to an understanding with it. Tofu will not taste great, no matter what you do to/with it. No one has ever said, "Hey, I'm really craving some tofu. Honey, can we get tofu tonight?" All you can do with tofu is make it taste less like tofu and more like the rest of the food or sauce you're cooking it in, and swallow it down with smugness and the satisfaction that you just ate tofu and are probably better than 80% of people you'll meet that day.



But, why does eating tofu create that social elitism?  Where does it come from? Is this why we hate Hippies so much?



We all have an inner line in the sand, the one we won't cross because we'll become 'those people.' For some it's the family cloth (an alternative to toilet paper, some families opt for keeping a pail for dirty, reuseable cloths in the bathroom - I do not know how this works for houseguests) and for others it is elimination communication (the concept that babies don't need diapers, and if you stare at your newborn's face long enough you'll be able to read his/her toilet cues and simply be able to run them to a toilet and dangle them over, surely making you the most amazing parent on the face of the planet.) I had a homebirth, which was too much for some people to wrap their heads around, but unlike others I didn't eat the placenta or wait for it to drop off (tote it around while it rot off) my newborn naturally several days after the birth.



And thus comes the persistent one-upmanship that we are constantly faced with on a daily basis. Your kid eats organic raisins? Well, mine eats organic raisins that as grapes just fell off the vine and were picked up by workers paid as well as doctors, dusted off with free-range kittens, kissed by Mother Sunshine herself, and packaged in recycled fabric with a sewing pattern on the inside that you can then use the fabric to make a shirt to send to a starving child in Africa to wear while they are starving. Don't you feel like a giant piece of uninformed shit now, you planet sodomiser? Did you just blow your nose in a Kleenex? Why aren't you using a cloth made from hemp fibers and saving the trees, and saving all of the cold and flu germs while you're at it? Wait, your bed isn't made out of upcycled fence posting you bought in an auction to benefit a local no-kill shelter? HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT IN A BED ONLY YOU HAVE USED, YOU CONSUMERIST BASTARD WITH NO CONSCIENCE!

I'm finding it difficult to navigate through the changes I'm making and incorporating them in every day life without stepping on toes and without living completely in the closet. I'm not ready to wear head-to-toe hemp, and I realised in a store yesterday that I wasn't even ready to announce my new way of eating to a checkout line of strangers when I was purchasing a strainer. Graham asked me what it was for, and suddenly aware of how bloody close a woman was behind me (why were you so up my ass, Lady?) I said in a low voice, "I need it to rinse my lentils. Our sieve is too big." Graham snickered and said, "What?" "We need it to rinse our lentils. Lentils have small stones sometimes and dirt and dust, and they need to be rinsed." All of this was true, but I felt like such a wang saying it aloud for others to hear. I felt like a target - both a hated hippie, and worried that a true hippie would notice I forgot my re-useable bags and had to use a plastic store one.

Maybe someday I will take the true plunge and go full Hippie. Maybe, when I can give up my face creams and my car and my steaks. For now I have to be happy with pissing off both groups, eating my non-locally sourced lentils (sorry.)

Operation Christmas Child: Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

Operation Christmas Child is in full-swing at St. Vital mall again. It's an appealing display with an attractive radio DJ, the mission of shoeboxes to be filled stacked around, taking up a popular section of the mall by Chapters book store and a fireplace surrounded by cosy sofas and chairs. Posters of smiling children and the words OPERATION CHRISTMAS CHILD are plastered everywhere. It's easy, catchy, and most importantly it appeals to our Western nature: Christmas equals charity, we like shopping, boxes are fun to fill, we like children, we like to feel good about ourselves.

And if we question charity for children, we're dicks.

Last night I watched family after family sign up for the cause, while volunteer after volunteer filled boxes and stacked them up. Nowhere is it mentioned on their posters or in their leaflets (again, smiling children plastered all over them) that Samaritan's Purse, the group that took over Operation Christmas Child, is headed by chief executive controversial Christian fundamentalist Franklin Graham - son of a more well-known TV evangelist Billy Graham and good friend of former President George W. Bush.

No mention is made of Franklin's comments that Islam is "wicked, violent and not of the same God" as Christianity, and the difference between the two is like the difference between lightness and darkness. He does tend to favour the dark bit, as he also referred to India as being full of "hundreds of millions of people locked in the darkness of Hinduism . . . bound by Satan's power."

In fact, while looking over the display that urges shoppers to make a child's Christmas morning one to remember, there is no mention at all of the fact that Christian literature will also be stuffed into those boxes along with Lego and other gifts that will create inequality and fighting amongst the recipients, or that according to the chief executive of Samaritan's Purse that it doesn't matter what you put in that box as long as you pay those transport fees because, "It is about introducing children and their families to God's greatest gift - His Son, Jesus Christ. As long as evangelism is the focus, God will continue to bless it."

Yes, you are sending a doll to a little girl somewhere in the world. You are also paying to send her bible stories because Franklin Graham thinks she needs to read them. And you are doing it even if she is Muslim, or of any other faith because Franklin Graham, right-wing Christian fundamentalist (who is against gay rights and feels women contemplating abortion should be forced to have internal ultrasounds and hear the babies' heartbeat) thinks her faith isn't good enough. At Christmas.

This isn't the worst thing Samaritan's Purse has ever done in the name of Jesus Christ. They were caught denying temporary housing in 2001 to earthquake victims in El Salvador unless they attended an evangelical prayer session first (afterwards, Graham gloated that they had converted 150 people to Christianity). Even earlier, in 1990, they sent over 30,000 Arabic bibles to troops in Iraq to handout to the defeated Iraqis. In Nicaragua in 1999, Samaritan's Purse used potential relief money during the aftermath of Hurricane Mitch to not help the homeless, injured and starving victims but to put on an evangelical concert for children, asking them to choose to be saved by Jesus in exchange for a box of gifts and a bible. Graham bussed in 50,000 children for his concert.

It is also the gift that keeps on giving, because Graham knows it could take more than a Pez dispenser to lure a child away from the religion of his parents and people. The box is given with the clarity that it is a "Gift from Jesus" (that's right, you and your kid don't get the credit) and the child is then enrolled to attend a further 10 lessons in bible study, regardless of their religion. And it's a pretty attractive deal to a child because there's a toy involved. And across the world while our children may be many colours, languages and religions the one thing that unites them all is there is nothing better than a toy.

While Operation Christmas Child is on at St. Vital mall I will be taking my Christmas shopping elsewhere. I have to, out of respect for the racially diverse staff who must work longer mall hours alongside this radical and hate-spreading religious group run by a rabid evangelist that preys on the poorest and neediest of our world. Out of respect for our children whose empathy and love for other children is being exploited. Out of respect for the children across the globe who don't celebrate Christmas because it isn't part of their religion and don't realise how much we selfishly and needlessly (and wrongly) pity them for it. This Christmas, fill a box of food for our local Harvest program. Bring some socks to the Siloam Mission for a homeless person's feet, or warm coats and mittens for their children. Donate toys to our Children's Hospital. Give what you can.

Put your heart in the right place, and not your money in Franklin Graham's pocket.

Christmas is coming!!

I've started planning my Christmas projects this week. Now that I've figured out how to sew, handmade gifts for relatives and my kids are playing a large role in this year's preparation. I've picked out some recipes, patterns and ideas and have a folder on my laptop that they are stored in.

Before you've wandered off muttering all sorts of nasty language at me under your breath, or yelled, "For fuck's sake, it's AUGUST!" at your screen, let me explain. I haven't had Christmas in two years, this is a lot of stored up creativity and shit pouring out of me.

Last year I was depressed. Like, bad. BAD. I have a wonky thyroid and last year it kind of snuck up on me. Well, that's not really right. Last year it kind of just stopped working and all of the busyness and bounciness I usually have just stopped with it. It was very gradual, I didn't really know until November 30th rolled around and I realised I hadn't started anything for Christmas -

And I didn't even give a shit about it.

I love Christmas. Not in a deck my house out with a bazillion reindeer way, or wear sweaters with snowmen way, or even in an advent calendar way. I spend most of the year picking out gifts, mulling over what to get someone and finding little things here and there to tuck away. I collect unique wrapping paper and tags, I even look up new and unusual ways to wrap gifts. I especially love homemade gifts. But, last year I couldn't even manage to make cookies. Not one single batch. I did buy some new wrapping paper, it was quite a feat and I actually walked around the store with the roll in my hand for thirty minutes, putting it back and picking it up again until Graham finally yanked it away from me and bought it for me.

I had never been depressed before, so was shocked when my usual approach of barrelling through things to get through the other side didn't work. It didn't work and it made it worse. I always thought depression was really painful, but it wasn't. I didn't lay in bed crying, or close the blinds, or want to harm myself. I didn't do anything. It was like I was stuck to wherever I was sitting. The energy to do anything, to even go to the mall just wasn't there. For the first time ever I looked at my beloved Christmas ornaments, the ones I'm excited to take out every year, and thought, "Christ, that's a lot of work."

Social gatherings were awful, I just didn't want to go because I'd have to make conversation and the effort to do so was just too great. I was a big, sad face on the end of the couch for months. Facebook was like a party I just couldn't walk into. I'd stand on the outside of it occasionally, hearing the music and seeing the odd person walk by a window, but to join in was too hard. I had nothing to say, nothing positive, nothing negative...just nothing. It was as if someone had opened my brain while I slept and scraped out all emotions, good and bad, and just left it empty.

Christmas is a really good time to be depressed if you're private about it like I was, because despite the odd gathering here and there people are too busy to notice you haven't showered in three days and have food on your shirt from two different meals. In that way I suppose it worked out, the holidays allowed me to duck out for awhile completely unnoticed. I managed to do the bare minimum by putting up a half-assed tree and getting a few gifts for my children (the rest of my relatives, unfortunately, didn't see their presents until around May when I came out of the fog) and we even went around to see some friends on Christmas Day, but I missed out on the fun of preparation and excitement of planning. Now that I am back to my usual self, I feel like it's been years since I had Christmas.

In a way, it has been.

So, yes. Let the excitement begin, because I've missed feeling this way and it is good to be back.

Only in Winnipeg

I moved to Winnipeg in 1999, and although I've been here for 14 years this September I don't consider myself from Winnipeg. Mostly as a distinction to avoid confusion, as Winnipeg is a close-knit city where many people relate to each other by asking a couple of simple questions - What area of the city are you from? Where did you go to high school? A couple of nods, a couple of names dropped, and Winnipeggers have the ability to know five or so of your cousins, or even possibly be a cousin. I don't dislike Winnipeg. I never really identified with it as my hometown, but recent events have made me so, so proud of it that I've become pleased to be a part of it. The tragic and devastating story of Lisa Gibson, driven to the depths of despair and dark tunnels of post-partum psychosis ending in the ultimate horror of taking her children's lives and afterwards her own, has shaken Winnipeg to the core. It's just not something you'd think would put Winnipeg on the map. However, right from the start, a compassion and understanding in the media and citizens of our city could be seen. A pace was set by our police force, adamant that Lisa's welfare was a top priority. Not a witch hunt, but a hope of finding her unharmed so she could be helped. There were no accusations of murder, no campaigns to find her when she was missing and bring her to justice, only a heart-hurting and sorrowful cry from the masses that feel that somehow, despite not knowing her, we all failed her and her beautiful babies.

We failed one of our own. An anguish was occurring amongst us and we never knew. I wept, not only for Lisa and her children but for those that weep around me.

A few Winnipeg Free Press columnists have questioned the public's mercy on this woman, wondering where the compassion was for Vince Li, the schizophrenic who beheaded a sleeping passenger on a Greyhound bus just outside city limits. Or if our gestures of peace and understanding for Lisa would have been the same had she not been white, middle-class and well-educated. Or, quite darkly, accused the public of only being sympathetic because she took her own life after. Motives have been contemplated, criticised and pondered upon. Cynicism is running quite rampant - not for Lisa herself, but for those that dare to mourn who may not mourn for others.

So, I ask, does it matter? Why cheapen the incredible heart of this city with wondering what could have made people care a little less? Why use a public position to criticise people for possibly not caring the same amount had a hypothetical situation occurred instead of the very real tragedy that was faced last week?

Shame on you, columnists. Stop whining about empathy equality and embrace the love and responsiveness this city had for one of its own, and see how this is the start, how this can help someone in need right now, somewhere. This isn't about Lisa being the right kind of woman, its about our city being the right kind of place for women - and in our world, we could use a lot more of that. The reaction was a very unique one, one you won't find anywhere, so with that I can say Only In Winnipeg - and for once, it is out of pride.