Tag stress

Not looking for a mental health diagnosis, I’m seeking understanding and relief.

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

In many common injuries, and with certain illnesses and diseases, clear trajectories and treatments exist/are followed. I think in reality, nothing is ever that simple due to all the quirks that make us all the people we are.

Last year, I asked every practitioner on my care team how they felt about Valium.

Even on my beta blockers and other blood pressure medication, my heart would have these periods of elevated heart rate, even as my blood pressure was under control. And when physical circumstances coincided with these events, such as muscle pain and discomfort from too many hours at the restaurant, I would find myself taking triple my normal recommended dose of baclofen. And it didn’t relieve any of it.

So, I wondered if a low dose of valium could be a breakthrough med to relax my muscles and my heart rate. But no one on my team was comfortable with an experiment like that. I got on a list to speak to a psychiatrist. A year later I am still on that list.

A recent experiment with a dose of Adderall showed that I may respond to stimulants and/or that I have a touch of ADHD. I set up appointments with my therapist and my doctor to discuss. I got a referral to a new in-office case manager who can work with patients and report to the psychiatrist so family medicine can prescribe medication.

Earlier this week, the case manager who works for my primary care p behavioral health matters called me. She said she would talk to the psychiatrist whom she works with on my behalf, but already in that initial conversation, some of my complexities popped up.

She called me back Wednesday morning and asked if I could come in that same day or Thursday as she had time scheduled with the psychiatrist Friday. The psychiatrist recommended some screenings to give us some more information and a letter from my current therapist — whom I have been with for the last 15 years.

That in itself is hard to believe.

So God Bless him, he wrote me a letter and emailed it to me. With minimal notice.

I walked into my primary care physician’s office and, because this case manager is a new addition to the staff, they have her tucked in this odd, closet-like room in the back corner of the practice. Which had no windows. And she lit with a tiny desk lamp. Which might make some people feel cozy, but I kept thinking, “We are in a closet. In the dark.”

I screened higher than I would on the depression screening. (Which today I would do significantly better on because my good mood and hope is back– so of course that led to a mood disorder screening, which suggested I might exhibit some bipolar symptoms.) I scored “high” on the anxiety screening. And I do show symptoms of ADHD but not enough for formal diagnosis and no clear childhood presentation.

Remember– I didn’t receive medical treatment between ages 5 and 21. Except for physicals and immunizations required by law for public school and those were administered by a semi-retired doctor around the corner who only accepted cash. And this was in the 1980s: things were different.

“Did your teachers or counselors notice anything?”

Ummm… schools for GenX did not have counselors. Remember all those memes that circulate around January 28: They put a teacher on the space shuttle, shot her toward the moon, and every school age child in America watched her blow up LIVE on television. Then, they shuffled us back to our classrooms (because at my school we watched it as a group in the multi-purpose room like an assembly) and pretended it didn’t happen. I was in fifth-grade. I was almost 11-years-old.

I think every GenX (and Boomer child) understood that we were expected to sit still, do our work, get good grades, and if we didn’t the school and/or our parents would punish us– and the school could even hit us if necessary. My parents never hit me, but my mother was/is the queen of silent disappointment and perpetually pointing out individual flaws. My mother dropped out of high school, but she never hesitated to make her first statement about my report card to be about the lowest grade.

“Why did you get a B+?”

A B+.

Couple that with the childhood trauma I lived with at home– slight food insecurity, sporadic but frequent domestic violence events or risky behavior from my parents, alcohol abuse, etc.– school was my safe place. My teachers nurtured me, educated me, (sometimes even fed me and protected me) and listened to me. I would have done anything to make sure my teachers would not be disappointed in me.

So I was the perfect student. But I talked. And I often spoke inappropriately. And despite my good grades, I struggled with studying. Repetition and lots of notes are still the only way I can learn new things.

And the organization issue? Developing systems not to forget or overlook things? I had a very unpredictable household. I had to keep myself together. And my mother loves everything clean and in its place– if I left something out of place in the common areas of the house, my mother would pile it on the stairs for me to take to my room. And if I didn’t take it up, she would nag me. And if I still didn’t take it up, she would. And when she did it, she would often clean and reorganize my room while I was in school.

And if we’re looking at my borderline results for ADHD and comparing them to other brain issues, we have to consider how symptoms of depression and anxiety overlap with ADHD. And how especially adult women get treated for a mental health condition when the issue stems from neurodivergence. So am I manic– or am I hyperactive/hyperfocused? Am I depressed– or am I in a burn-out phase? (And I would add how do these correspond with hormonal cycles. When I was traditionally ‘fertile,’ I had great mood and energy, when I am approaching menstruation, I crash.)

And fatigue is also a symptom of everything. I have a history of anemia, which causes fatigue. I have a chaotic sleep schedule, which interrupts my routines and causes fatigue. I eat primarily vegetarian vegan and my B12 is on the low side of normal, is that causing fatigue? I perpetually overschedule myself. This causes fatigue. I think if depression were causing my fatigue, I would be more prone to not get out of bed. I always drag myself out of bed on time.

So, in the end, it sounds like this case manager wants a mental health history of my biological father to be the determining factor on the ADHD issue. Problem is he’s been dead for like twenty years. His ex-wife whom I knew for all of the time I knew him, also dead. My biological half-brother, I’ve never spoken with them. The few people who friended me on Facebook who share his last name and said we are family– I’m not even sure who they are.

And then there’s the issue of trauma.

I have experienced a lot of different types of trauma from the unstable environment of my childhood, a period sexual abuse by my grandfather that could have escalated had I not made the decision to avoid him, and multiple experiences in hostile work environments. (One boss who randomly fired me after recuiting me for the job to hire a friend, One boss who threw things at me. Another who made me constantly fix her personal failings. And the final one: she was an all-out tyrant.)

I even mentioned to the case manager that I had spoken with my therapist on one point about why I ended up in so many of this situations: Was it me? And the case manager rephrased some stuff I have probably heard before, but didn’t really make sense until now: You will be more prone to ignore or not notice red flags. And that made total sense. That‘s how people end up repeating cycles. You can’t recognize the subtle signs and once you are knee-deep, you rationalize, as in “the devil you know.” Or, in the case of some family cycles, the child of a drug addict might think some overconsumption of alcohol and behavior related to that is okay, because it’s “just beer.”

Note that none of this addressed the fact that I also live with a mobility disability. And my medical issues– which I am considered prediabetic now and had gestational diabetes. I have always had a strong reaction to sugar and less reaction to caffeine and alcohol. And I also react to certain chemical flavors. (I would love to find out if I react to Red 40.)

As a woman with a mobility disability, I will be extremely hesitant about any SSRI that list side effects as weight gain– I have worked really hard to lose 12 pounds and need to lose at least 20 more. This is not due to vanity. This is due to risk of Type II diabetes AND the fact that more weight will put more stress on my body that already struggles to move.

Anyway, the case manager is meeting with the psychiatrist today to discuss my case notes. If I had to guess what they will suggest, I would say they will probably try to treat my anxiety with an SSRI and refer me to a trauma therapist to explore PTSD. And I suspect they may hint at depression, or even bipolar, expecting to treat it with whatever SSRI they pick.

But I think the constant interplay of some behaviors being driven by rumination or compulsion (“I must do the dishes if the bin is full”) and my avoidance of minor, personal tasks (I struggle to put my laundry away, every time, and I’ve never developed a system) and so many other things like:

  • focusing on projects I like to the extent that I won’t stop until I’m done
  • struggling to start projects I don’t like and giving in to every distraction
  • doing several things at a time and sometimes leaving some half-finished (moving into my office)
  • lacking proper mood regulation
  • obsessing over procedure, routine, documentation and details on items I deem important
  • missing details or skipping steps on things I cannot get emotionally invested in
  • writing down tasks in 5-6 different formats while doing them as to not forget and to not worry about forgetting
  • sharing and writing down important or “pretty” numbers
  • food issues: aversion to textures, difficulty motivating myself to eat or eating too much
  • inability to recalibrate when faced with unexpected change
  • must redo entire household financial plan 30 to 60 days out every time a purchase more than $100 is made or if receiving income in that range
  • pausing in the middle of simple tasks to complete a more appealing task (I picked up my phone today while putting on flip flops and left my foot half-inserted into the shoe. A flip flop!)
  • monitoring medical information more than necessary (Blood pressure: sometimes once a week, sometimes three-times a day; Weight: at least twice a day.)
  • unable to ask for help and will instead take on large projects and complete them alone
  • feeling worthless when I do not meet my goals, no matter how big or small
  • high level of rejection sensitivity
  • always making decisions based on my “gut.”

These make life/diagnosis complicated.

I have spent about two hours on this post. It is 12:30 p.m. I have not eaten yet today. I need to pee. Because of the SEVEN medical appointments I had in the last two weeks, I am behind on some projects due Oct. 10.

And tomorrow I have a business road trip.

And Sunday, I am meeting new friends for tea.

So I need to get shit done…

The ADHD rabbit hole

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

My daughter, now in her senior year at Lafayette College as a psychology major, has been armchair diagnosing our friends and family since her early high school days when she would read the DSM-V for fun. It’s fascinating for me as a parent to hear my child talk academically about topics and use language outside my understanding. And I do enjoy it.

If you know me, or you’ve read this blog for any significant time, you may know that I have struggled with my mental health. I exhibit symptoms of anxiety and depression from time to time, love routine yet challenge rules, obsess over numbers and patterns, overschedule myself and never relax. And the funniest part of that– I have gotten better about these things.

Through casual observations, it seems obvious that ADHD runs in my husband’s family.

But my daughter continued to study people– and me– and one by one she made her diagnoses. “Your dad had a type,” she said to me once. “His wives were all narcissists.” Or she’d suggest a medication to a friend looking for relief. And I have never seen her be wrong.

She has recently declared that her father is “autistic as all shit,” (which my mental health therapist had suggested might be the case more than a decade ago) and that she thought that she “inherited her ADHD” from me.

I protested. “My executive function is fine.”

“Is it, Mom?”

Her words make me recall a conversation I had with a friend of mine before I left for Ireland in the spring. I don’t even remember details of what we said, but it was a business call, and I remember listening to this woman I respect and adore the creative work of, a woman who had ADHD, and thinking “that sounds a lot like me.”

At Eva’s urging, and her constant reminder that traditional medical research applies to 40-year-old white men, I looked at the symptoms. And when I google information, I always evaluate the source. I look for articles from medical centers, government agencies, professional organizations and publications like Psychology Today. (It may reduce everything to layman’s terms but it does have a responsibility to be accurate.)

These are symptoms of hyperactive impulsive ADHD in adult women that spoke to me:

  • racing thoughts
  • subtle fidgeting
  • excessive talking
  • overcommitting
  • burnout
  • rejection sensitivity
  • hiding internal struggles to appear calm and organized
  • burn out
  • signs of anxiety
  • signs of depression

Let those last couple sink in. Women with ADHD are commonly misdiagnosed and treated for anxiety and depression.

I wonder if I would be more restless and move more if I didn’t have spastic cerebral palsy that prevents my legs from doing things. The more I pay attention, the more I see how my daughter’s ADHD habits totally mimic my own. And I never noticed.

And I know people with ADHD often self-medicate with caffeine and sugar. I never experienced a cup of coffee calming my thoughts, but I do know I can drink a lot of caffeine with minimal reaction but I get a sugar high really easily.

I am also prone to hyperfixation. And taking on hobbies with gusto and then suddenly never doing them again. It’s like one of my existing hobbies will suddenly explode and become all I do and then, one day, I never wanted to do it again. When Eva was born, I made something like 18 scrapbooks in her first three years of life. Since she turned 4, I did not have a photograph printed. (I blame the iPhone. Not my brain.)

As a well-behaved patient should, I called my mental health therapist/psychologist to see if we can explore this idea. He will see me Thursday. And it might be wishful thinking, but he sounded like the concept might have triggered a “lightbulb” moment for him– because I know he has grappled to find “what I need.” His formal diagnosis has stated that I exhibit occasional symptons of generalized depression and anxiety.

Any good theory deserves an experiment. So, after a few online surveys, I took a trial dose of Adderall. I was terrified to do so. I have issues with high heart rate. I was fairly confident I would be very uncomfortable.

And then, in a conversation with my daughter about 20-30 minutes in, my brain felt soft. And then about 40 minutes in, my hands started tingling. All my fingertips felt weird.

“Mom?” my daughter said. “Is something happening? How do you feel?”

“My brain feels like goo,” I told her. “And something’s wrong with my hands.”

She took my hands and looked at them. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re tingly.”

“Mom,” she said. “They’re warm. That’s all. You have circulation. Your hands are not cold.”

My hands and feet are never warm. My body temperature is usually around 96 degrees. I had first-wave COVID, and my “fever” was a body temp of 99 degrees. And even on the hottest summer day, my hands are usually chilly when other people touch them.

And in that moment, I knew I had slowed down. It was like someone just took the energy that was “me” and turned down the flame a couple notches. I read my tarot cards; they felt it. I went to the grocery store and casually looked at the options and didn’t run from one aisle to the next. I wrote a Substack newsletter. Because I wanted a record to see if my writing had changed. (You can read that here.)

All the stuff I normally worried about and used all my energy to “do,” it didn’t feel urgent. I laughed easier. Moved slower.

I remember the day my daughter first took her ADHD medication. She was standing at the table in her grandparents’ kitchen, animatedly telling a story. As I listened, I realized that she had stopped vibrating.

I had stopped vibrating.

“It’s like your aura has changed,” my daughter said.

“I’m calm,” I replied.

“I never understood what you meant when you said that I ‘stopped vibrating,'” she said. “I get it now.”

I had stopped vibrating.

The thought that I really could stop vibrating made me want to cry– from relief, because of the new understanding, in fear that I would never feel this way again, hope that I could.

I slept like a baby that night. And the next few days I went back to being me. The me I know. My heart rate and blood pressure hadn’t been impacted.

We opted to do the next trial dose yesterday. I was meeting a good friend and wanted to see if she saw a difference. I was scheduled at the restaurant. I wanted to see how it felt in a different environment.

I took the medicine. Went to Panera for my writing date. I drank herbal tea to be safe. At 9 a.m. I caved. I had 12 ounces of coffee. And then about 6 more. It did not disrupt my zen. I did my writing. I was less talkative.

I came home, did more work on my personal project because I wanted to, and I didn’t fret about all the things I “should” do. I knew I would do the things I should, but I didn’t stress over doing them right now. Then, I watched TV for a while. And I didn’t feel guilty about it. My daughter came home from school and her 3:30 dog walk canceled so we didn’t have to rush out the door. I sat on the couch and chatted. I didn’t try to do more.

Now, the medicine should have worn off by the time I went to work at the restaurant. But I don’t think it did. I sat in the lobby watching everyone. It made me happy to sit and watch them. I thought they were moving slowly. That maybe the restaurant wasn’t the busy place I thought it was. I am often stressed by the fact that the kids I work with don’t think anything is urgent. Maybe they are right. My heart was not racing in anticipation of my shift.

I was not thinking about all the stressful things that could happen.

But as the medicine started to wear off, the restaurant got busier. But even as my heartrate and workload increased, I didn’t feel the “panic” I would normally feel. I didn’t feel the need to analyse and make a plan every two seconds. And then I thought of the perfect way to phrase it– because I got moved to a work center that stresses me out– even though the medicine was wearing off and I could feel the stress in my body, my brain and my behavior were not motivated by a sense of impending doom and disaster. I know that sounds dramatic, but every piece of stress I feel it my body feels like if I don’t keep up with the moment/the environment/the task, I will face a disaster.

Remember the television show LOST? There was a button on the island that someone had to push. I believe it was every twenty minutes. No one knew what the button did, but they all believed that if they didn’t push the button, something terrible would happen.

My brain is pushing that button all the time.

But on the show, I believe something bad did happen when they did not push the button.

And I feel like even when I did not have the full effect of the medication in play, my sense of doom dissipated. And that was amazing.

When I took this medication, I felt like I could relax. I have been wishing for decades that I could find a way to relax. I thought I needed a hobby, not amphetamines.

And today my daughter tells me that cerebral palsy is also lumped into the neurodivergant classification… More to think about.

**I cannot find much information on this, but my anecdotal experience on medication suggests that although it should not, my mobility and spasticity improves when I take Adderall. My experience feels like I no longer hold as much stress and tension in mu muscles. Which is why I wanted the small dose of Valium. Maybe I need the opposite?

It feels like a new level of training

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

Andrew, my strength and fitness coach at Apex Training, has reached new levels of sadism.

I said that (partially) in jest because I love to see his face get that pensive squint when he’s digesting my regular updates of how my body feels and what my other professionals report about its function.

I feel like since my finger recovered from my burst tendon, I’ve reached new heights in stamina and my own strength. Last week, I hit a PR (personal record) with a 35-lb dumbbell row.

And things just feel like they are moving better. I’ve stumbled more than usual, but caught my balance 90 % of the time. I have less pain and I think I understand the pain better.

I’m working out three times a week and doing movements, with support Andrew has designed, like split leg squats that are torture (in a good way) and that I never thought I could do. I even work out after my ten-hour shifts at the Stitch Fix Bizzy Hizzy warehouse.

It’s hard, and exhausting, but I really think it helps get blood flow into all my aching parts and aids my sleep and ultimate recovery.

And today Andrew let me beat the big tire with a mace.

Speaking of Stitch Fix, the company has opted to move the Sunday to Wednesday 10-hour cohort. We get to choose which of the remaining shifts we want to transfer to and I’ll be putting in for the remaining 10-hour cohort, Wednesday to Saturday.

Frankly, the idea of working 5 days a week is horrifying. And I’m not thrilled with the prospect of losing my current shift.

But a warm gluten-free brownie sundae with Ben & Jerry’s cannoli ice cream softened the blow.

PS —

I put my underwear on backwards today. All day I kept wondering why my underpants felt so uncomfortable.

Apex 100, the strawberry Frosty and a makeshift splint

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

I wept tonight. I nearly wept myself into a panic attack. My guts are still fluttering. And I flung things down the stairs.

But that’s the end of the story. Let’s start at the beginning.

On Monday night, after the teenager’s car accident, I went to Apex Training for my 100th session at the gym since I started about ten months ago.

Because it was my 100th session, the my trainer picked out 6 exercises for me to do 100 times, at my own pace, breaking them into sets as I saw fit.

I was a little stiff the next day, which was yesterday, but I still managed to do 100% according to the metrics at work. But my the end of the day my right leg was unsteady.

Today I woke up very stiff, with my muscles in my lower body so tight I struggled to bend and I had even less control and stability in my right leg.

I only made about 90% today.

By the end of the day, my right quad had this dull burn to it, but it didn’t really hurt. But it was getting more and more difficult to control as my stiffness dissipated.

But the teenager and I still made it to my 101st session at Apex and celebrated by trying the new strawberry Frosty at Wendy’s. Which, by the way, is much tastier with a Wendy’s sugar cookie.

I took my custom splint off— today marks one week of wearing it and taking it off every 3 hours for occupational therapy exercises and when needed “for hygiene.” And the finger is looking steady!

I removed the splint to wipe down my hand with a wet nap before eating. I set it down carefully in my lap. And then it just disappeared. I checked the take-out bag. I checked my bra, the car compartments, the seat.

The teenager told me to stop wiggling around that it had to be in the car and we’d look at home.

We didn’t find it at home.

So I went to the kitchen and started to cry. my finger had looked so good wrapped around that Frosty cup as I smeared the Frosty on my portion of the cookie the teenager and I shared.

I checked my local CVS’s website: no splint in stock. So I checked my local Walgreen’s: no splint in stock. And so it went.

Still upset, I found a piece of wood my cockatoo had stripped from her toy and taped it to my finger.

My splint. Hopefully I’ll find a better solution in the morning.

Rebuilding

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

No fancy title. No big announcements . Just some subtle realness.

Though I do have a little good news. Misty came home today. He’s wobbly, but he’s his sweet-natured self. Video here.

Touch of Grey is still in the hospital.

If you missed that harrowing tale, you can read it here.

The world often seems twisted in an eternal loop of one step forward, two steps back. It makes me miss my dad.

But I noticed today amid the cat drama and everyday life— I worked with my blind friend Nan this morning— that I still have trouble with my right leg, mostly stiffness and lack of control, but no pain.

So when I headed to Apex Training for my session with Andrew, I felt anxious and emotionally exhausted but physically ready to go.

Every session Andrew challenges me more today— and I did a mixed grip barbell deadlift at 100 lbs. And for the first time, I felt like I nailed the form.

As if that weren’t enough, he had me do something I never heard of: a plank up. He wanted me to do 5, but I only did 4 1/2. Well, Greg was willing to give me credit for 4 3/4. And as the teenager says, Greg doesn’t hand out credit easily. Speaking of improvements, in Saturday’s session, I surpassed 60 seconds in a plank.

My strength, at least the physical kind, is coming back.

Dinner was a flat bread pizza — a vegetarian delight of random cheese I found in the fridge, a radish sliced thinly, and some honey with red pepper flakes.

Things that frazzle the mind in my forties

Angel Ackerman Leave a comment

**this post may contain strong language… no, this post will contain strong language. I plan to drop an “f-bomb” in the first paragraph. But I promise it will be lighthearted and humorous not vulgar and full of rage.

Sometimes I wonder if the process of losing your mother-fucking mind which seems to descend upon a person once your children enter their teens isn’t the cause of dementia. Will the brain fog that accompanies keeping life together as the offspring prepare to leave the nest clear as they depart? Or is it permanent?

I think when you reach the latter half of the forty-somethings, the time you might have spent on hobbies, movies or parties in your youth is replaced by the tedium of home ownership, career, family, parents and medical care (your own, your family, probably even friends). And maybe you just don’t have the patience you used to.

I am currently waiting for the remediation team. If you skip back to Tuesday’s blog, you’ll recall that my 50- or 60-year-old toilet exploded and damaged my dining room ceiling. The plumber came Tuesday and installed a new toilet, and the teenager gave me shit. Not only does she not like the new toilet (as the plumber warned me) but she also had beef with the plumber for taking her old toilet.

I asked the teenager, “what on earth would you do with an old broken toilet?”

And, of course, the teenager told me. She wanted to take the ancient pink ceramic toilet and use it as a planter in our front yard next to our pink rose bush.

“It would look so cool,” she said.

And it probably would. But I did not go to college and embark on all the adventures I have to place a broken toilet in my front yard.

The scheduler for the insurance adjuster called Wednesday morning, about 29 hours after the incident, and scheduled the adjuster for Wednesday June 1. I asked the teenager if she could handle letting him into the house. She agreed. The scheduler called again and moved it to Tuesday. Teenager agreed again. Scheduler called a third time to ask if we had had a remediation company come to check if we had any or were in danger of collecting any mold. I said no. She said to call one.

So Wednesday on my lunch break (my first day back after a month of medical leave), I emailed ServePro because I didn’t have the time or the quiet to talk on the phone. They called, and after about three difficult phone calls with them, (the person on the other end couldn’t hear me well. I was wearing a mask, using one AirPod and working in a noisy warehouse.) they said they would confirm an appointment for Thursday or Friday by the end of the day.

[note: this is a pause in the blog post as the remediation team arrived.]

The remediation scheduler called about 4:30 p.m. Thursday, which was about 60 hours after I turned the water off to the toilet and started mopping up the damage. My appointment was for 1 p.m. Friday, about 80 hours after the original accident.

But at least I made myself a nice dinner of fig & ricotta ravioli from Lidl with Alfredo sauce from Hungryroot and vegetables (baby broccoli, red pepper, and peas) cooked in the Cuisinart air fryer toaster oven.

Last night, when the teenager got home from her dad’s, I think I was emptying the dishwasher and I went on a psychotic rant about silverware. You see, when her father and I got married, we registered for Oneida’s Easton flatware in the satin finish. I have always loved that silverware. It was $100 a place setting, and that was in 1999. That’s $20 per utensil. But it’s beautiful, and my husband and I both agreed on it without compromise, and it’s heavy, and we lived in an apartment in downtown Easton, Pennsylvania.

Oneida flatware pattern: Easton (Satin)

And sometime between when teenager two lived with us and now, many pieces of that silverware have disappeared. And it’s melodramatic, but the loss is like a gaping wound. No other silverware feels right in my hand. So I snapped, for the umpteenth time, and shouted at the teenager about my missing silverware.

In that moment, I realized that for some reason, that silverware really means something to me. Eating with it brings me joy. And that silverware looks as new as the day we bought it. Our marriage lasted 20 years, and the silverware may last generations.

“I don’t have the money to replace it,” I screamed.

And then I realized…

I launched a publishing company. I buy myself iced coffee about once a week. I spend almost as much on animal food as I do on people food. So, why can’t I figure out how to pay for new silverware? Especially since I know Replacements.com has just about every silverware and china pattern ever made (used) at a discount. I think I found my dream pattern. I ordered a few pieces of my silverware, based on cost and what I actually need.

This morning started with a cup of coffee, some cuddly cats, a trip to the chiropractor and a whole lot of cleaning before the remediation team arrived. I made the teenager and I a breakfast of fresh baguette from Lidl, toasted in the Cuisinart oven, buttered, covered a slice of proscuitto and toasted more, and then drizzled with hot honey and sprinkled with herbs de provence. It was as amazing as it sounds.

The teenager had her last high school final exam, the only one she had to take this year, and returned home to find me aflutter with the broom and a mop. I asked her to do something for me. It might have been to move a multipack of paper towels to another room, when she stopped and opened the sunporch window.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

And I thought to myself, she’s not smelling the roses.

And she replied, “I’m smelling the roses.”

“Seriously?” I said. “I ask you to do something and instead you literally stop to smell the roses!”

She then picked a bouquet for the main room downstairs. Eventually, she moved the paper towels.

Once the house was cleaned and the teenager shuffled off to work, I finished Natasha Sizlo’s memoir, All Signs Point to Paris. I received a copy via NetGalley and reviewed it on Goodreads and mentioned it in my Parisian Phoenix blog post that will go live tomorrow. I tried to start P.N. Dedeaux’s Algiers Tomorrow but it offended me beyond rebuke within the first two chapters.

I understand that the book was published in 1993. I also understand that erotica by its nature breaks rules and can feature taboos. But in the first two chapters, we join two bratty rich sixteen year olds nicknamed “Boobs” and “Butt” through a vacation in France. By the end of the chapters, I want them to get murdered. I was hoping for some cheesy references to Algerians with which I could have some Mystery Science Theater 3000-type fun.

chicken vodka pizza

I ordered a chicken pizza with vodka sauce from Nicolosi’s Pizza in Forks Township. It was a custom pizza and I told them to “put whatever on it to make it pizza-y.” They added fresh basil. It smelled amazing. The teenager was picking it up at 2:45 p.m after work.

And don’t you know it, the remediation team was late… They called at 2:55 p.m. and arrived at 3:05 p.m. I had one bite of my scrumptious, piping hot custom pizza. And it was time to find out if my house was wet.

Unfortunately, it is.

ToG monitored the workers

We could lose our bathroom subfloor. Our hardwood floors and walls are damp. We have five industrial air movers in the living area and a massive dehumidifier. And upstairs we have three more air movers in the bathroom and another dehumidifier.

But we’re safe, and sometimes you just have to have faith it will work out.

At the end of the day, Bean Dog got new toys.

Mercury is Still in Retrograde, right? Report card from the doctor and a toilet explosion

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

Today is a big day.

It is the final day of my short-term disability leave.

I set my alarm for 4:45 a.m. thinking it would be good practice for returning to work tomorrow.

By some strange circumstance, I woke naturally at 4:15 a.m., the same time I normally get up for work. I cuddled with Louise briefly and got out of bed before 4:30 a.m. I had the lovely vision of writing more of my upcoming novel.

But I heard water.

And it was more than a drip.

So I checked the bathroom, sloshing through several inches of water. I threw down some towels and organized some buckets and bowls.

But when I went downstairs, I saw several heavy drips pouring through the ceiling. And tiles started falling like hail.

I went back upstairs and turned off the water to the toilet. And I called the insurance company.

All before coffee, all before 5 a.m.

I went to my family doctor and he not only released me from my short-term disability leave but told me I’d made good use of my time— going to the gym three times a week and working with a personal trainer, visiting my therapist, resuming my SSRI in an attempt to lower my blood pressure, ease my emotions and hopefully that will help my balance. I went to the dentist, bought new floss and renewed my prescription for fluoride toothpaste. And I rested. I updated my vitamin regimen, added Flonase to my allergy regime, and bought a weekly pill dispenser to keep them all straight.

And that’s when I told him I had also done my follow up bloodwork. That made him, in his words, a happy medical provider.

From there, I went to Apex Training for my session with Andrew. We did a great mix of strength and core and challenging my posture and my mobility in ways that made me feel amazing. I left covered in sweat.

And the plumber came before I had a chance to shower.

We now have a new toilet— the old one was probably 60 years old. And pink. The teenager is upset I didn’t keep the old one. She thinks it would make a great planter next to the rose bush.

And she hates the new toilet.

Which, interestingly, the plumber does, too.

Cute animal photos and mallet finger impact

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It’s the end of April and it was 35 degrees last night. The price of oil continues to skyrocket and I’m still heating my house halfway through spring.

The cold does not help the poor circulation in my hands which has intensified in my left hand because my mallet finger restricts my movement.

My hands are painfully cold, except when Andrew is making me curse him in my head at Apex Training. Today was leg day, and I was so tired that when I came home and let the dog out I turned around and lost my balance and slammed right into the brick wall between my mud room and my kitchen.

Nala, my six-year-old Goffin’s cockatoo, started shaking and plucking her feathers today. Nothing in her environment has changed except the neighbor’s dog has been barking nonstop all day. The teenager believes his distress causes her anxiety.

Speaking of the teenager, she made this thick chocolate chip cookie/blondie dessert that I topped with ice cream that Sobaka’s mom brought home from Penn State when we dog sat last weekend.

Before the teenager brought home our dog, I would never criticize a dog owner, but now that I see the difference between different dog care styles, I feel back for dogs that aren’t spoiled like Sobaka and Bean.

And I don’t know how Sobaka’s mom does it— that dog is a bed hog.

But now an update on my mallet finger:

  • Stitch Fix has been amazing. Because my specialist at OAA took a week to return my paperwork and then didn’t properly fill it out, the onus was on me to find jobs I could do to not hurt myself. It turned out I can QC just fine— I hit 92% just fine.
  • But here’s the thing… my specialist knows hands, he doesn’t know me. I don’t think he heard me when I said I have cerebral palsy and that I work 10 hours a day in a warehouse. I’m just not sure that environment is safe for me right now,
  • Why do I say this? Because this week drove home to me how much I rely on my left side for stability. By forcing me to work 90% on the right, I am struggling to keep my right hip in place.
  • I am so stiff by the end of the work day. I also end up pinching and slamming my right fingertips and by the end of the day my left fingers I can use are swollen and sore.
  • And I fold 750 clothing items a day, handle 150 boxes and rip open probably 500 plastic bags. That’s a lot of fingers moving.
  • Once I consider the risk of accidentally losing my cast and bending my finger (which would extend my healing time) and adding the increased fall risk of mine because I am aggravating known issues with my balance and mobility, I just don’t feel safe.
  • This is a horribly stressful feeling.
  • I’m going to talk with my family doctor about it. I already mentioned it to my therapist, because I wanted to confirm my thoughts were rational and not whiny or emotional.
Today’s vegan lunch: curry carrots, lentils, quinoa, my own roasted chick peas, toasted sesame seeds, green olives and a touch of Thai peanut sauce topped with pumpkin seeds

And last but not least, cats. Misty caught a mouse! Video here.

Misty and Fog, our brothers
Foster Touch of Grey
Foster Tripod Louise

A day in the life— medical update, meal plans, sunshine, animals and publishing

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

I make a lot of lists.

Sometimes my journals are nothing but to do lists and shopping lists. But I like lists— even if I never refer to them again, the act of making a list allows me to stop thinking about things.

If I want to refer to it later, I know where to look, but I no longer have to worry about forgetting as if I want to remember or revisit items from an earlier day I can but I am not staring at a list focusing on what needs to be addressed versus what I actually did.

Many people make lists to receive the satisfaction of checking off the things that are done. I don’t do that. Sometimes I do, but now it’s more like I am acknowledging the list versus trying to conquer it.

I used to finish my list every day or stress over the things I didn’t get to, and on top of that— the list never made me feel better or more in control.

It just exhausted me.

Trapped and the Cover for the Anthology Arrive

Parisian Phoenix’s first contemporary romance has arrived and it looks great. Read more about that here.

But I also received the cover for Not An Able-Bodied White Man with Money, which I will be blogging about on the Parisian Phoenix site this weekend.

And I have a 4 p.m. meeting today with another author who I have been hoping would join our family.

Now if only I could finalize some of our business documents to really move the projects forward.

Yesterday (Voluntary Time Off) and evaluating my health

Life at Stitch Fix’s Bizzy Hizzy has been odd lately. We’re shipping something like 8,000 fixes a day and having the opportunity for voluntary time off.

Last week, I performed at pretty damn close to 100% without pain or significant mobility issues. This week, issues started mildly during my Sunday shift and deteriorated Monday & Tuesday, leaving me at 80% and crying myself to sleep. I talked about this here.

I’m very much wondering if my menstrual cycle has something to do with it, as the Mirena IUD has done miracles for my pain and issues in that department but has made my cycle irregular. I think my body is trying to menstruate later than usual.

I was taking inventory of my recent balance, mobility and functioning issues as today I had my annual “wellness visit” that the office rescheduled from last week.

I took VTO yesterday to allow myself some rest and some time as life (and grief from my father’s death two months ago) has gotten chaotic and overwhelming.

And I made the teenager and I grilled cheese as I had promised to do, and the child acted like I had prepared filet mignon for her.

I have a feeling I will be repeating that after school today.

We also watched Miranda Sings Live on Netflix. The teenager went through a time when she watched the show, so that was weird. It always amazes me how much talent it takes to perform badly.

The doctor today

I have spent more than a decade assembling a talented and caring medical team, so now I can confidently say any issues with my medical treatment stem from the system and not from my doctors.

The doctor and his resident agreed with my assessment that it’s time for me to get into the physiatrist and that their office will advocate for me on that as well, and that my instincts and approaches are correct.

I learned that women more so than men tend to favor one side when they move or stand. As women age, this tendency can create problems. That means this is a problem normal people have and not just a result of cerebral palsy.

And most interestingly… I learned that women more so than men tend to favor one side when they move or stand. As women age, this tendency to let’s say ‘lean’ can create problems, just like what I am experiencing now with my right hip and right leg/foot. That means this is a problem normal people have and not just a result of cerebral palsy.

I reiterated to them that I do know I need to lose 20 pounds, but that we have some issues to address before that.

The psychology of emotional and physical pain

When I was turning 40, I embarked on a journey to lose five pounds and gain muscle. I inadvertently lost 30 lbs and ended up a skeleton and regained some weight to look like this:

That was about 30 pounds ago. I have no need to be that lean again, but I’d really like to see 135 lbs again— which means I need to lose 20 lbs.

I told my doctor and his resident— I know I can’t eat an entire bag of cheese puffs or Wawa bowl of mac and cheese and brisket after dinner. But I’m struggling with depression from my body pain and my father’s unexpected death.

I’m grateful I haven’t turned to alcohol like many in my family, but I have “given in” to food as a psychological crutch.

I pay almost $300 a month for a personal trainer, but I can’t work as hard as I want to because I hurt and I feel like I need answers as to how to move my body so it doesn’t hurt. Because if I could exercise more and move more, I wouldn’t sabotage myself by eating garbage (or if I did, I would be active enough to balance it).

But right now, when I come home from a ten-hour shift with my body twisted and aching badly, and wishing I could call my dad so he could make me laugh and tell me how much it sucks to get old, I grab junk food because it’s the last pleasure I have.

I can’t move without pain so if I’m going to be forced to get fat and lazy I might as well enjoy the process.

These are ugly thoughts and I know that, but I’m being honest.

The fun stuff: errands with Nan

After leaving my primary care doctor, I called Nan as we were scheduled to do some errands together. We stopped at Wawa for some hot caffeinated beverages (cafe con leche for me and vanilla chai for Nan).

Among other stops we visited Park Avenue Market and Deli, one of our favorite haunts known for its deli, salads and meats.

Although I am once again contemplating more of a vegan diet, which will make the teenaged carnivore wince, I am not ready to commit until I feel better. We must achieve discipline before we enact change.

I never got around to meal planning yesterday so I didn’t have a list. I ended up spending $36.89 and I think the results will work.

I purchased: two packs of beef jerky, one small box of minute rice for the teen, three or four teeny tiny bags of Wise snacks from popcorn to potato chips, meatballs, the biggest damn carrot I’ve ever seen, frozen vegetable medley with potatoes and garlic herb sauce, sweet potato crinkle cut fries, pork roll, Lebanon bologna, liverwurst, turkey, olive salad, a store-baked pig ear for the dog and something called “hot pepper shooters”— round hot peppers stuffed with prosciutto and provolone.

Rough meal plan

My rough meal plan for the next week or so is:

  • Sandwiches
  • Meatballs and green peppers, either as a sandwich or in pasta
  • vegetable lasagna still in the freezer from last week
  • Burgers and fries, using ground beef from the freezer and the sweet potato fries
  • Cold tortellini salad with roasted carrot, olive salad and seasoned broccoli (broccoli is in the freezer)
  • Pork roll and egg sandwiches
  • Chicken and the frozen vegetables and rice or other grain

PS— we also welcomed a new foster into the house. Her name is Babs. Meet her in this video. I need to make her a page.

Another whirlwind and even less answers

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This post will be a mishmash of the last 48 hours and will discuss some of the frustration of dealing with my cerebral palsy, life as Midnight Society comes to a close at the Stitch Fix Bizzy Hizzy, a brief mention of the new Wawa dinners and a thank you to the amazing teenager for her thoughtfulness in hiring a cleaner to help get the house under control.

The supply chain issues still create work shortages at the Bizzy Hizzy warehouse so as Midnight Society prepares for it’s change to day shift in December, some of us are only working about 20-25 hours a week.

I’m using the time to edit manuscripts and make more plans for Parisian Phoenix Publishing and deal with my mobility and pain issues.

The last few nights at work have been good (and last night was my one year anniversary)— I performed at 98% last night in QC folding those Stitch Fix parcels and tonight I think I surpassed 100%. But bending is still troublesome and what I believe are my quads burn the entire time I am standing.

These photos try to capture my one year pin.

So today was an emotional day. My sweet, amazing teenager hired a cleaner to deep clean the house. The cleaner did the upstairs yesterday and the downstairs today.

The house looks incredible.

And it was fun to interact with someone who wanted to help, loved our crazy animals and commented about how awesome my kid is.

I noticed early today that my X-rays had arrived in my St. Luke’s Hospital portal. I read them and they said my hips were fine, and the only findings on them (other than my new IUD and tampon) mentioned items in my spine.

But when the doctor’s office called at 2 p.m., he just wanted to ship me off to physical therapy. And I’m not sure that’s the whole answer. I work out. I have had physical therapy for my lumbar region already.

Two important questions physical therapy can’t answer:

1. How does this impact my ability to keep doing my job?

When I mentioned this to the person on the phone from my doctor’s office, she asked me what I wanted, mentioning that they could sign me out of work. I said no, I am looking for a more permanent answer than that.

2. How does my general crookedness factor in? The doctor’s office made this sound like no big deal, but I hurt. More often than not. So does my imperfect gait add more stress to this problem?

I’m going to talk to my trainer tomorrow, and my chiropractor Friday. I think there are more questions that need to be asked and I’m not sure what they are.

And in final ridiculous news… I tried a Wawa burger.

It was cheaper and heartier than I expected.