Bimbo Bobbins.

WTF?

Joanna is a delightfully ridiculous dichotomy.  (I'm going to approach the whole personal blog thing from third person, from now on, FYI.  It just feels right.  No, no that's not going to happen.  Honestly, I just couldn't write, "I am,"  and use the adjective delightful in my opening sentence if I was clearly talking about myself. Who calls herself delightful?  Not this girl).  From the title, I bet you think I'm going to write about scandalous tarty escapades, but get ready for this craziness:  I'm going to write about sewing.  And that's just ridiculous.  Because, although my mother and older sister are accomplished seamstresses, I am the most terrible sewing machine user and craft of sewing abuser.  I'm terrible, I tell you.  My mother-in-law bought me a sewing machine one Christmas about 10 years ago, with lots of quilting accessories.  I was horrified. My face reveals almost everything I am thinking.  As I looked down at the box, I was torn.  I knew I should look up and thank her, but I thought it was better for me to study the box in deep interest.  And it is interesting stuff.  There are so many little parts, and so many features and types of stitches, and directions and... and so much stuff you have to remember.  That takes patience.  I've got none of that unless I'm dealing with human beings.  As I looked at the box, and the quilting book, my face did light up in a big smile.  I was imagining myself making a big crazy quilt, and in my head, that movie starring me was super hilarious.

Huh?

It's not that I didn't want to learn to sew or want to sew, it was just that I had tried and I hated it.  It made me feel great anxiety.  I decided to never do it again.  I now had my very own sewing machine.  Hmmm...

These past ten years did lead to me sewing about 20 pillows, which Sam had no idea what to do with or dare to ask if I had any plan for where they all would actually go.  Well, there was no plan, I can tell you that.  I just felt inspired to have a Better Homes and Gardens worthy house, and that meant I needed to make pretty stuff, or upholster a chair or something.  I realized that I could sew a fairly straight line, and I could sew it inside out, then turn it right side out and even if my stitches weren't the straightest, they looked like pillows.  I could make pillows!  I made pillows.  Sam told me to stop making pillows.  See, whenever I used the sewing machine I needed Sam right there and ready to fix it every time I broke something one of its parts or I jacked it up.  He told me to watch how he did these things so I could fix it myself the next time.  I didn't watch him.  He re-threaded it for me, replaced the bobbin which was always jammed or empty and needed attention.  I broke several needles.  I was on fire.   

I put the sewing machine away.  

So, I knew I couldn't sew even when I was no so very depressed and not the president of Joanna is a Loser and she Sucks Club.  But I get these bursts of my old determination and fire, and I do things like volunteer to make 10 "pioneer girl" aprons for the 10 little girls in Stella and Michael's first grade class.  Oh, make that 12.  Stella told me 10 girls, but it was 12.  12 aprons.  I got home that day, after working in their classroom and I thought, "I'll just get the old sewing machine out and do this thing.  My head was like, "You know how to hem, and pleat, and attach waistbands and...  Then I figured out that I couldn't make aprons like I could make pillows.  I could not just sew at table vibrating speeds, barely paying attention, and then just turn it inside out and hide the mess inside...   Nope...  Everything was going to show...  I realized... as I got to my third apron.  These don't look so good, I thought.  I taught Stella how to sew a straight line, just as my mother had taught me when I was a little girl:  Take it easy, guide it like this, don't take your eyes off it, not too fast.  She sat there and hemmed one full apron by herself.  I actually had to cook dinner and I was not standing over her shoulder.  She didn't break or jack up anything.  And her stitches were super straight.  I'm an amazing teacher.

That evening I sat back down and kept my eye on what I was doing, and learned that if I folded the hem over twice and stitched it down, it would look a lot nicer.  Sam fixed the bobbin only two more times, I think.  

You think you know where the slot is...

The next day was actually the day I needed to bring the aprons into school.  I figured I had all morning to get them done, but I underestimated how much time it takes to be careful and make it look nice all sides out.  And, darn it, Sam wasn't here to fix the stupid machine for me.   I had to really look at the directions and figure out how to do it myself.  I'm not sure why the pictorial directions didn't make sense 10 years ago, especially that stupid, dumb bobbin.  The picture didn't make sense.  Was that the slot or the finger?  (Nope. Don't).  Where do I put the stupid thread?  I wanted to cry.  I might have cried a little bit after I took apart the bobbin tray for the 12th time, realizing it wasn't right, wasn't right.  Then it all made sense to me.  It appeared to me like those optical illusions where you should see the witch and the young girl, not just the witch.  (FTR: I always saw witch and girl, faces and goblet, because I have that kind of brain when I'm just looking at a picture for fun).  Slot!  Finger!  I understand!  I fixed it myself.  And it worked.  And then I knew I was going to be on Project Runway next year, for sure.  What's strange is when I understood that diagram of the bobbin, I also understood the rest of the manual.  I read all the English pages and knew I was... on fire.  

Anyway, I finished 6 aprons in less than 3 hours.  That's making pretty good time if you saw my process.  I added some fancy colored ties and details to the ones I had sewed on a vibrating table.  Non-spoiled 7 year old kids really appreciate anything that someone is giving them to really have and to keep forever, and bring home, and everything.  The girls did love them.  I just gave them all scissors and had them cut off all the loose threads as we learned about dying yarn with food and stuff, like Laura Ingalls in the "Big Woods."  We made biscuits the next Friday, all the girls in their aprons, and I took the aprons home to wash them that weekend.  Yeah, they kind of fell apart.  I still kind of thought they were an amazing feat.  My mother looked them over pointed out all the stuff I should have done.  And so, my sewing adventure had just begun.  I needed to redo a lot of the work.  I had to rip off shredded ties, and fix hems, and fold down the waistbands to cover the "inside outs."  I re-made some beautiful aprons.  That weekend I actually started saving free, downloadable sewing patterns to my Pinterest site, and looking at Indian Kantha quilts thinking, I'm going to make one of those on Monday.  Because I absolutely can make one of those.  That looks easy.  And I'll make a dress for Stella too.  It will be awesome.

And this weekend I was finishing the lovely ties, (that were long enough to make a great big bow when worn), for the last few repaired aprons.  I got kind of tired of sewing and I kind of stopped paying attention.  I went as fast a the machine would let me sew, and broke a needle.  I fixed it myself, but things were really going downhill.  (Let's face it, I'm writing about sewing.  It was a shitastic landslide). Today I decided to make a basket insert (don't ask) with a fold over contrasting band.  I saw a picture of one.  I knew I could do it.  It was a shit show.  Mostly because I realized I didn't like to measure or follow directions or even look up directions to consider following.  I also didn't cut things straight.  I thought it was because I'm left handed and I've never been able to cut straight, but then I remembered my sister had bought me some nifty left-handed scissors, and I wasn't cutting straight because I didn't give a shit about cutting straight.  I was sick of doing everything straight aND NICE AND...  Sewing was not awesome.  I did not like my sewing machine.  I put that thing away.  And I decided it's not coming out until I actually give a shit.  

I made this.  No, no I didn't.

Now, I just wrote a whole lot of boring antidotes about sewing, but there is a deeper message in all of this, buried under piles of fabric scraps.  I KNEW I could do it, and I did it, (sort of did it...), but I KNEW I could.  And I thought I was going to be awesome.  I haven't felt that way about myself for a while, you know?  I was on fire.  

The dichotomy of "who" my depression is and who I am is becoming more apparent... to me...  I mean, I know, deep down, that depression is not who I am.  I'm not crazy.  So, the voice in my head telling me how much I suck, and this feeling inside of me that knows I'm awesome, is just a little confused right now.  Because I really suck at sewing with a sewing machine.  But I'm totally going to start hand sewing a Kantha blanket tomorrow.  (And I'll proofread this thing tomorrow.  I need to sleep sometimes).

But I didn't eat any glitter...

Michael woke up with his mop of enviably thick and wavy hair more disheveled than usual.  Stella is the one with crazy morning hair; she has legendary morning hair.  He stood in the kitchen rubbing his eyes and Sam said, "Wow, buddy, did you have a party last night in your bed?  Did you 'throw up some glitter, make it rain?'"  (Sam integrates many a song lyric into his conversations with the kids, prejudiced against no song, no singer...).  Michael looked at him raising his eyebrows and said, "I didn't even eat glitter."

(Now, if he had caught the allusion of Ke$ha's propensity for throwing around glitter, and understood it, that would have been disturbing. Even if humans only use 20% capacity of our brains, and maybe someday we will evolve to tap into all of our thinking and memory potential--all 100% of it--there will never be a day when there is room in a developing mind for facts about Ke$ha.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that no one needs to know anything about Ke$ha).

Done with that train of thought.  Totally not what I wanted to talk about.  Ke$ha does that to you.  And I have a lot on my mind.  I haven't been distributing the weight of it all anywhere: not in writing, not in art, not in conversation.  I'm going to be a positive person from here on out.  And, I'll tell you the truth, some of the things I sometimes feel the need to get out of my head and talk about more than anything else, are not overtly positive.  I'm keeping it all on the d.l.  It's going really well.  Sometimes I feel like my head is going to explode, but that's okay.  I don't need anyone.  I'm positive about explosions and keeping negative feelings to myself.  Let me tell you about this simple, and truly genius, idea...

Discussions about depression often become directed toward the topic of positive thinking.  I have been told that if one focuses on positive things in his or her life, life will change for the better.  I'm all for that.  I have always seen the best in people and thought positively about humanity.  Teachers can't be negative about people.  Teachers exist, partly, to instill hope and encourage children to always think better, and feel better, and act better, and be better.  Teachers should think positively about their students and give each kid at least one person who has faith in them.  That's in the teacher training textbook.  It is, it really is.  But, I'm not a teacher, and that might be one of the reasons.  That's kind of a negative thing to say.  I'll stop that.

 I can't be disappointed when others are not so awesome.  I mean other adults, who don't always act like adults and didn't get the "let's be better" memo.  My expectations are kind of high.  Who cares what other people think, right?  I mean, if they aren't super awesome, we don't have to have them in our lives.  The thing is, you might kind of end up with no one if you just ignore everyone.  If you think you're so much better than other people than you aren't super awesome either.  Or maybe you are.  You are super awesome!  Be positive!

I hate to bring this up because it could come across as negative, but I think you can see some great stuff in here:  PMDD, when I am in the middle of it, makes me feel like "being not alive" is a productive and positive thing to do.  I think about everyone else around me needing some positivity and how me being kind of "down in the dumps" is a real drag, and they would totally feel a whole lot more positive without me around.  That makes sense, doesn't it?

Now, if the people who are not super awesome are family then we're kind of stuck.  We can't say, "Meh.  I need to be around people who make me feel happy all the time, and you make me feel kind of sad and stressed out, in all honesty, so I'm going to have to stop talking to you and we probably won't see each other anymore."  Well, maybe you can do that if the person doesn't live in your house; but in my most rational luteal brain, I'm thinking that I'm pretty sure that the whole "we live together" thing makes that not possible.  Subsequently, my thought process is more like this: "Meh.  I'm pretty negative and depressing with all this PMDD stuff, and you seem kind of worried about me, which is just bringing you down.  I don't want you to worry.  I'll just not be alive anymore.  You can totally find a super awesome wife, mother for our children, etc. who is always a fun time."
"No, listen, I know what I'm talking about."
"I know it seems that way, but you don't even know that because you've never tried living without me and finding a happy-snappy wife, who isn't sick all the time."
"You are too nice and you love me too much to just move on and get positive.  If I'm around, it's just 'blah, blah, blah, I'm useless; I suck; whoa my cheeks are melting off my face--look at them; right that's not really happening; what were we talking about?'"

That completely makes sense to me.

I just thought of some positive things I can do when I'm feeling depressed and all that.  I can exercise. Oh, and some more things like just get out of bed, get dressed, and go somewhere.  I can put on real clothes and do something nice with my hair and maybe throw on some makeup, so I feel better about myself.  I can go for a walk.  I can play with my kids.  I can look for a job.  I can do that job and not feel useless.  I can...  Nope.  I think I can, I think I can, but when the depressed and all that hits, I'm kind of thinking that what I can do is not be alive: and not feel so sad; and not feel so tired; and not ache all over; and not think about every sad thing that has happened and will happen eventually; and mute the voice telling me that I'm disappointing everyone who just wants to have Joanna.

Luckily, I only think that way half the time.  I am thinking positively, in a normal way, for the rest of each month.  I know how beautiful life is when one is a mother.  I know I can't be anything but happy, when I have these perfect, little beings who teach me so much about myself and life and family and love.  I know how privileged I am to be a wife.  I can't believe he loves me sometimes when I can be so darn unlovable... I think I dropped some negativity into that positive statement about love.  I'm working on it.  Honestly, who could possibly be sad when she is wrapped in love?  Who could possibly be not happy?

I'm serious.
I'm seriously positive.

I am thankful for all that I have.  I don't want to think about what I don't have, or what I have lost, anymore. I don't want to think about any of that.  At this point, it just makes me sad and stops me in my tracks; it doesn't propel me forward or motivate me.  I want to be who I once was.  I was a ball of fire.  I was never not moving forward.

But all that glitter gets in your eyes, and you can't see.  If you tip your head back, it doesn't melt on your tongue like a deliciously magical snowflake, it just chokes you.  It's so sparkly, yet so damaging at the same time, that glitter.  Maybe that's why Ke$ha is so ridiculous.  She ate too much glitter.  Or maybe she's super awesome.  We've never met.

New year and fresh starts.

I believe 2013 was one of the worst years of my life.  Today it seems like that is an accurate statement, at least.  I lost myself.  Knowing that, yet leaving it alone, did not result in Joanna coming home, wagging her tail behind her.  (That was a vomitrocious Little Bo Peep Allusion...  It's 3:00 am, yawn, give me a break...).  Sigh...  I haven't come home.  I don't know where home is anymore.  I still don't know where to find me.

I regret deleting my blog completely.  I tried to bring it back, the writing.  I couldn't delete it completely.  I saved my writing in documents because I thought I might need to reference something I was thinking or feeling when I was finally cured of this mental illness.  (Ha!)  Although I understand that dwelling on negative aspects of human existence (mine in particular) can lead to a perpetuation of sadness and depression, I also know that writing is sometimes my only outlet to work through all the things in my head.  I haven't been writing... Not really.  I have wanted to.  Every time I wanted to--no needed to--I wrote to a friend whom I know would never actually get the messages and never read them.  That seemed rational at the time, but always, in retrospect, it was irrational and painful... It was heart-wrenching.  It is.

When I wrote blog posts, there was never even an inkling that someone would respond.  I knew someone out there was reading them, though...  I mean, maybe it was just robot trolls.  I hoped it was someone who loved me.  Or, that my experiences and feelings could make someone else, (who possibly came upon this site), feel less alone.  "That woman feels the same way I do."  Maybe someone thought that after reading a post I wrote.

No...  I know that's not true.  I don't know if I ever believed that either.

PMDD makes me do things in a rash and tactless manner.  My blog is negative?  I know! I'll just delete it. Yeah, that's a good idea!

No.  No, it was not a good idea.  I threw away part of my life, and who I was.  Sam certainly didn't stop me.  If you have been here before, you know I was kind of critical of him at times in my writing. He told me to go for it, delete it all and forget it all.  I'm sure it does seem like a healthy thing to do--to throw away negative thoughts--but I needed to see I was something these past months or years...  That I was feeling and thinking...  I am not sure how much I do of either of those things lately.

I deleted other writing too.  I deleted old email messages.  You know what was devastating?  It made my blood coagulate to see how I didn't listen or hear other people when I was in my own head. I was "in the well," as I often wrote.  I was hiding my face in darkness and not hearing anyone trying to get me to look up at the light.  I reread conversations, and I saw everything so clearly and wanted so badly to respond to those old conversations--those people--with sentiments that reflected what I know now, and not the empty, often hurtful, crazy talk.

If I read a message written to me, I think of what I want to say in response.  I would then read what I actually wrote at the time, and it just made me cry and feel nuts.  I hated seeing that I was that fucking crazy, and self-centered, half of every month.  I hated seeing words that weren't me, my responses, but there they were, flowing like a crimson stream, after my "name" in the conversation.  That was my blood.  It was part of who I am.

Sigh... So, I thought it was a good idea to not beat myself up reading those messages, (even if they were kind, and hopeful, and encouraging towards me), over and over, always wishing I could retract all the ways I reacted and just erase them from memory... Everyone's memory.
That's impossible.
The evidence doesn't need to be in print.
It's etched into my head now.
I know I have a big problem on my hands; PMDD is a fucking bitch...
Or is that just me?

Here's what I know for sure.
For sure.
I'm still learning, you see.
What I take as crushing blows during the second set of 14 days every month,  are things I would have never let crush and consume me before my body--my hormones--started messing with my head.

God, I read the messages, or remember the conversations and sometimes it was just someone holding out their hand for me to grasp, but it felt like a slap across my face.  I was confused. I was so confused.  I do get so confused.

My reality is so different when I am mine.

I know that scars are permanent, whether the wounds were inflicted when I have control over my thoughts or my life, or when I was apparently not really thinking at all.  They feel the same to the person I was hurting.  They ache the same.
They burn the same.
They remind the same.

And I should write about something positive, for this new year.  I really want to.  I'm just so damn tired.
 I often can't sleep when I'm in the well.
And this early morning, 3:33 am,  I don't even know where I could really rest in peace.
Sam passed out soon after midnight.
The kids watched the ball drop and wanted to have a sleepover downstairs.  I sat and talked to them, (because gosh darn it, they are such smart and expressive little kids) until I realized I shouldn't, and that they needed to go to sleep.  They couldn't, of course.  Stella missed her bed.  Michael wanted me to sing "American Pie" to him on the couch... but not if Stella wasn't going to be there.  Stella couldn't sleep upstairs alone, she sobbed.  Michael needed a song. My eyes were burning by then.

I tucked him into bed with Sam, in my "spot," and I brought Stella upstairs, laying next to her and rubbing her head until she fell asleep.
"Mommy, you are the best mommy I could ever have and you always make me feel so happy.  You know why, mommy? Because you love me so much."
I do.
I love them infinitely.
I give all of myself, everything I have, to them without ever thinking about it.

I know that's what Chopin warned against, for women, wives, mothers...  "I would give my life, but I would never give myself."  I give myself.  I don't know how else to live anymore.  Not right now.  I don't believe in myself, but I do believe in those two miracles of God.  And when she fell asleep, I wandered to his empty bed, and downstairs to my fully occupied bed, and the couch...  And I sat down and realized it didn't matter.