The last time that I was at my doctor’s office we spent a little bit of time talking about my chronic back pain. She asked me if I had ever tried wearing a back brace. I told her that I had tried the black ones, with the straps that go over your shoulders, but it kept riding up and I could never get it to fit properly, so I would take it off. “Yeah”, she said, “those are really only designed for thin people with no curves.” She then asked me if I had ever worn a truss, and the image that popped into my mind was one of a medieval torture device. She was in a hurry to end our visit, as she had been with me for awhile, so she scribbled out a prescription for one and said it was worth a try to see if my insurance would cover it.

Intrigued, I looked it up on the internet when I got home. I found this definition for truss: An appliance designed to prevent the return of a reduced hernia or the increase in size of a hernia; it consists of a pad attached to a belt and kept in place by a spring or straps.

I also found that they sell them on Amazon, complete with a hole so I can put my penis through if need be.

Thinking that a truss wasn’t what I really needed and learning from my insurance company that they don’t cover such things; I continued looking around online. I decided on this.

It had a claim that it was easy to get on, with extra “give and stretch”, and there was a photo of a smiling flat stomached woman with the words underneath “Lose Ten Lbs. in Ten minutes !” I figured it would be a good choice, given the fact that it was a bra, a tummy flattener and underwear all in one, complete with those snaps at the crotch so you can use the toilet easily, or have a quickie, if you’re lucky.

When the package arrived from Amazon I went into the bathroom to try it on, with high hopes of emerging with no muffin top. Oh, and a fully supported back that wouldn’t ache so much. I was being highly superficial, I admit. I opened up the box and there I saw it. On top of the carefully folded body shaper there was a coupon. I picked it up. It was a coupon for Hormel lunch meat, complete with a photo of a piled high sandwich.

Now I don’t know about most people, but I sat and thought about the coupon. I wonder, does everyone get this coupon, or are they reserved for chubby women trying to look ten pounds slimmer? If you order Slimfast do they place a coupon for Twinkies on top of your purchase? I envisioned a room with drop dead gorgeous women in it, their long shiny hair glistening as their perfect abs contract from the giggles they can’t stifle as they place these coupons on top of “body shapers”.

The last time that I tried to wear an undergarment that offered support in the stomach it was Christmas dinner at my mom’s. As I was wearing a new dress, I put on the Spanx I had purchased with it. I felt great, as if I could wear this beautiful dress without worrying about my tummy bulge. I soon learned that even though the Spanx were the style that you wear up underneath your bra, mine kept rolling down, creating this area between bra and Spanx where all of my excess weight had accumulated into a flattering bulge. I felt like the Michelin Tire Man. Excusing myself to the bathroom a few times to pull the Spanx up didn’t work, as they rolled back down after I had moved around in them for awhile. I ended up taking them off and shoving them into my purse. I vowed to never wear them again.

I had selected my new body shaper by bra size as instructed. I stepped into it like a pair of underwear. I made it to my hips when the stretchy tight material dug in so deeply I was breathless from the pain. Not one to give up easily, I pulled it off and tried putting it on over my head. That was a big mistake. I ended up stuck, with the material trapping me like a huge elastic band, both of my arms frozen above my head. It was at that moment I realized how I was going to lose 10 pounds in 10 minutes, sweating. I looked at myself in the mirror, red faced, marks on my skin wear the elastic had dug into me. I struggled to pull it off and threw the thing across the room.

I redressed in my regular clothes and went online. I researched tummy tucks for awhile, convinced that was going to be the only answer for a flat stomach. I looked at the before and after photos. I checked prices. I thought about the episodes of Doctor 90210 I had sat through, the ones where the surgeons tell the patients that it isn’t their fault that their stomachs are they way they are, it’s the damage caused by pregnancy. They tell them that underneath that loose skin they are thin. They mention the need to recreate their “internal corset”. I want a new internal corset.

I was finally able to log off and shake the idea out of my head. I took Maggie for a walk. I will have to find another way to support my back, but for now I am going to stop wasting time and money trying to squeeze into anything that restricts my breathing.

Before I decide to watch the news, I have to decide whether or not I am emotionally ready. Years ago while watching news coverage of the Tiananmen Square Massacre I began to cry. Alex was seated on the couch next to me, and he asked me why I was crying. “You don’t know any of those people”, he said. I was shocked and at that time wondered if perhaps I feel things more than most people, or if he feels less.

When I started to read about Asa Coon and the Ohio school shootings I sadly wasn’t surprised to see that they listed the fact that he was a “Goth” who wore a trench coat and liked Marilyn Manson’s music before they listed his previous suicide attempt while in a mental health care facility, the fact that students had tried to speak with the principal about threats he had made but she was always too busy, or the mental health facility’s diagnosis of bipolar disorder and their suggestion of further evaluation.

At times like this it’s not hard to think of Columbine. “See”, people can say now, “all of the boys listened to Marilyn Manson and wore trench coats.” If a violent video game connection can be made it too will be used. Some might check if Asa came from a broken home, if he suffered abuse, if he was breastfed. There has to be more to it than that. Andrew Kehoe killed 45 people in Bath Township, Michigan in 1927.This would obviously have taken place before the advent of violence in the media. I can remember after the shooting in Columbine someone asking Marilyn Manson what he would say if he could talk to Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. “I wouldn’t say anything. I would listen”, was his reply. I think the same holds true here.

While it’s easy to make this a case of violence in the media, or mental illness left untreated, that’s too easy. I honestly don’t think that you can blame one solitary factor or combinations thereof to explain why some people snap and kill others and/or themselves and others do not. Yes, there were warnings signs. Yes, obviously something should have been done to help Asa Coon before this event. But I don’t think you’ll find the answer to his troubled mind in his favorite musician. Does anyone even know that Seung-Hui Cho listened to Collective Soul?

Recently, I have found myself gripped by a story The Oregonian has been covering about a woman named Lovelle Svart; a woman who was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer five years ago. I am usually not a big reader of the local newspaper, but for some reason we have been getting one delivered to our house every morning for free. My mornings start out even earlier than they used to now that I have Maggie. When she wakes up she has to pee immediately; that means there’s no time for me to use the toilet or to (oh how I miss it) linger over a nice cup of coffee while the whole house is still asleep.

Having a puppy means that I also have to be careful about the clothes I wear to bed, or the lack thereof, because I may have to run out at an ungodly hour in a see through nightgown because I’ve misplaced my robe and it’s awkward enough that I met my new next door neighbor when I flew out the door with a puppy on a leash as I was pulling on jeans that I’d yet to button or zip. He smiled and nodded in hello, and I nodded, no smile.

Now I have come to expect my free paper every morning. My mom guessed that they might be doing a free trial and soon they will contact me and say, “Hey didn’t you like that. Don’t you want to sign up?”

Here in Oregon we have legal doctor assisted suicide. I have voted many times on many different issues. I take the matter seriously, doing research if necessary, and thinking carefully before I cast my vote. I have even called my sister Monica over ballot measures; asking her advice about one or two that I’ve read over and over again and I still can’t figure out, only to hear her flipping through her voter’s manual and saying , “Yeah, I don’t get that one either.” My mom usually offers the helpful “If it raises taxes, vote against it.” As far as the matter of doctor assisted suicide I didn’t have to think about it long before deciding that I agreed that it was not my place to tell terminally ill people they should have to go on suffering if it is their wish to end their lives. I have seen people who were dying from cancer and it is a horrible thing to witness.

I have thought about my vote off and on over the years. I have wondered about the people who filled the prescription and actually used it. Through Lovelle’s account, I was able to hear the story of a dying woman who decided to fill her prescription for the medication that would end her life. She made a statement, “I am not brave.” I think that judging the suicide, assisted or otherwise, of someone who is dying isn’t a place I would even dare to tread. Nor do I care to. I do believe, however, that by letting us into her life as she neared the end of it, Lovelle was undeniably brave. Whether people agreed with her or not, she brought death and dying right to the front page and opened up communication about a subject that remains largely taboo to many people. She sparked controversy and debate and for that I thank her. I highly recommend checking out the link to the story, no matter which side you’re on in this controversial issue.

I just wanted to say Fuck You. And thanks, by the way, for giving me even more ways to answer the inevitable question I get, “Why did you leave the Catholic church?”

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19692094/?GT1=10150

Tuesday my Mom and I went to pick up my daughter from school. She rushed out of the doors all excited about free cone day at Ben and Jerry’s. Seeing how important it was to her I did what any good Mom would do, I offered to take her for ice cream at Coldstone or Baskin and Robbins or anywhere but Ben and Jerry’s. You see, we have done the free cone thing twice before, and waiting in a line that wraps all the way around the block for over an hour for a free cone just isn’t worth it to me. I would rather pay for a cone and get in and out quickly. She of course started whining, and all of her friends were going and my mom did the whole, “Oh Tammy, you have to let her go.” I caved. We ended up sitting in my mom’s car parked where I could keep an eye on her in line.

My Mom and I started talking and she brought up the shootings at Virginia Tech. I didn’t really want to talk about it. These events don’t seem to shock me; they just sadden and sicken me now. Plus, it seems that the media turns the killer(s) into some sort of celebrity every time something like this happens and I try not to get caught up in the frenzy.

“He was from Korea” my Mom said. “Uh, huh”, I replied. “North or South?” my Mom asked. “I don’t know!” and at this point I shot her a look. “I guess he was a loner and nobody really liked him”, she continued.

“And they certainly don’t like him now!” I exploded. I mean what the fuck?

Yes, he sounds as if he was a mentally ill man who had been suffering for quite some time. Yes, possibly he could have/should have been helped, but where can you really lay the blame for that? He obviously had it together enough to plan out the massacre, film his videos, and mail them and to go forward with the shooting.

I think it was Dennis Miller who said, “When someone gets to the point where they get off by offing others it’s time for them to do the world a favor and just off themselves” and I agree.

My heart goes out to everyone who is suffering as a result of one man’s sick actions.

When Polly was little she went through this stage where we couldn’t get her to stay in her bed at night because she was afraid of monsters. I used to sit by her bedside and try to calm her down by softly whispering, “There are no monsters.”

“Do you promise?” she would whisper back and when I did promise I would think of murderers, rapists, pedophiles, kidnappers and the lot and wonder how on earth I was ever going to be able to feel safe letting my children out into this world alone. I still wonder.

Or was a brilliant conversationalist.

I hate it when people define beauty.
http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/europe/02/14/cleopatra.coin/index.html

There was no way to escape this news, but I personally didn’t want to see photos showing his last moments or videos of his death. Some might say that this is because it brings up emotions about my father’s suicide, and the fact that he used a jump rope to make a noose and end his life, but I think there’s more to it than that. For many years now I have tried to be selective about the images I allow into my brain. I wonder about people who like to watch such things, or to view such photos. I understand that he brought a great amount of pain to an unimaginably large amount of people. For many his death brings joy and relief and maybe even a certain amount of healing. I choose not to look.

When it was time for me to attend high school my Mom thought that of course I would attend the one my three older siblings had gone to. I wanted a fresh start. My sister Monica got pregnant her junior year and stayed in school, despite the controversy surrounding an unmarried teenage girl in a Catholic school. She was treated horribly by many members of the staff and the students at that school. She stayed on and made the honor roll and even performed in many plays for her drama class. I can remember being worried for her. She seemed so tiny at 5 feet tall a little over 100 lbs. but she remained strong and raised her son with pride. Her picture was mysteriously missing from the yearbooks. Her son was born when I was 12; he is now a handsome, smart, funny 21 year old man. I begged my Mom to allow me to go to a different school and she finally relented. I picked an all girl Catholic school as my Mom was still a practicing Catholic at that time and she insisted on private education for us. I thought naively that no one would know a thing about me but it was in my records that my father had committed suicide.

I made one friend at that school, a junior who was the only openly lesbian student, and she ruffled a lot of feathers for not backing down from her belief that some people were born gay, and that it was okay. At that time I told those who asked that my father had died of a heart attack. I didn’t realize that my friend, who had a sister who was my health teacher, knew the truth the whole time. Her sister had read my records and told her. She never confronted me about my lie.

One day a man came to the school and there was a mandatory assembly. He was there to talk with us about teen suicide and throughout his speech he warned us repeatedly that he was going to be showing us graphic slides on a large screen of teens who had ended their lives by various methods of suicide. My heart was racing; my body broke out in a cold sweat. I realize now that I was having a panic attack but at that time I didn’t know the name of the feelings I experienced. I was sitting next to my friend and when the time neared for the photos to be shown I felt myself get up and start walking with trembling legs towards the door. I didn’t realize that my friend was following me. When we got to the exit door we found it blocked by some of the nuns who taught there. I opened my mouth but no words came out. I heard my friend say, “She doesn’t need to see this” and she took my arm and pushed me past the nuns, out the doors and led me down the hall. We left the school. I felt the air hit my face and I began to calm down. We went across the street to sit on a bench and smoke. Even though I knew at that moment they were calling my Mom at work and reporting my behavior I was no longer afraid. My friend sat beside me silently.

The panic left my body and I knew that when I got home I wouldn’t be in trouble. I knew that I only had to explain what the pictures were and my Mom would understand why I fled. I lost contact with that friend after she went to NYU, but I’ve never forgotten the comfort I derived from being with her. I hope she is happy, wherever she is.

Everything went well at my last doctor’s appointment. I did tell her about what the other doctor said to me when I went in before with an infection. She was very apologetic and spent a good half hour talking with me. I like her. She treats me like a person. I switched my prescriptions over to her as I am no longer seeing a psychiatrist. She reminded me how well Effexor worked for me back in 2004 and so I decided to give it another try. I am currently taking 150 mg. per day. I long for the day when depression, panic and anxiety are just memories of my past instead of realities of my present. I hope to one day be able to help others who are struggling to function due to mental illness.

I start college soon and I am nervous and excited about it. I spoke with my Mom last night and she said that she believes 2007 will be the best year ever for me. I want to believe and then breathe it into life. Happy New Year to all.

A lot of people are without power here and further up North after a wind storm but we were lucky. Alex is off work for a few days and so I don’t have to worry about him getting to and from.

I find myself just wanting to stay inside until Christmas, ordering all of my Christmas presents online and having my groceries delivered. I am tired of being cold and wet. I am tired of the crowds. If I win lotto I am going to hire a car and driver. I don’t even care what kind of car it is, I just don’t want to have to drive. All of the cars seem to be going so fast to me. I feel better when my feet are on the ground. I don’t understand all of the celebrities getting DUIs. They can’t call a cab?

It is almost Christmas and it feels all wrong. It doesn’t seem real.

My camera is still broken. I have the money to have it fixed; it’s just such a long bus ride. I already spend hours on public transportation each week. People of the world, bathing and deodorant are good things. Putting on so much cologne or perfume that you almost kill your fellow passengers, as if you are wielding a large atomizer of Human Raid, isn’t kind to fellow humans. People of the world, do not put on “extra” because you think it will fade on your way to work/school/your probation officer. What is fading is the person sitting beside you. I want to open a window but if I do there is always at least one person who bitches about being cold and letting the heat blow out the window. Cool, fresh(er) smelling air is better than warm foul smelling air. Is anyone with me on this?

I wish you all well, and may you enjoy quiet moments with your loved ones during the holidays. I am trying to see how many months I can go without stepping foot in a mall. I’

I’ve made it almost 12 so far. My hell will be a mall where I’ll have one panic attack for all eternity, a constant case of diarrhea, and the only music will be bad country and Jazz muzak. Actually my version of what my own personal hell would be like varies depending on my situation. What would your idea of hell be?

Yesterday while standing outside of my daughter’s school I saw a women walking out of the school with a small boy. She looked down at him and asked,” So how many candles do Jews light?” I had this funny feeling that I was about to witness an anti-Semitic joke, but the boy looked up at her and explained the menorah.

Today they are forecasting high wind warnings and storm warnings, urging people to be prepared for downed trees, power outages, etc.

The news in general freaks me out so I seldom watch it, for good reason. Today if I sat inside staring at the TV I would surely be convinced that our whole house is going to blow away sometime today, maybe starting at 3:00, 8:00 or midnight. My inner panic monster tells me that I shouldn’t have taken the kids to school today and we should all be huddled together surrounded by extra water, toilet paper, flashlights, batteries, canned goods and a rifle.

I am not watching the news anymore today.

“ Hurt” by Johnny Cash. Now I love many types of artists, but my relationship with Johnny goes back to childhood when my Mom ordered some song collection from Reader’s Digest because she’s been trying to win that sweepstakes for decades. She even puts her hair into rollers the night before Ed McMahon is due to deliver her check. Anyway, she got this cassette and I was unimpressed with it except for Johnny Cash singing “ A Boy Named Sue.” I had never heard the song before that moment and I took the family’s cassette recorder into my bed and played it, and played it, over and over, every day. It reconfirmed my desire to be a singer one day and it inspired me to write my own song. Following you will find, for the first time ever in the history of written words, the lyrics to the first (but not the last) song I ever wrote.

“You Didn’t Care For Me”

Well I’ll tell you a story that I happen to know

It’s about you and me and we were walking in the snow,

You fell down and you broke your toe

I carried you back, you never thanked me for that, you didn’t care for me

Dun Da Da Da!

There was a second verse about me and his brother but I think you’ve suffered enough. I practiced singing in my room and finally got up the courage to sing my song to my sister Maria. When I was finished she fell on the floor laughing and looked up at me and said, “I’m laughing so hard I have tears running down my eyeballs.” When I pointed out to her that tears were running down her face, NOT her eyeballs, she laughed even harder. Unfortunately she remembers this story and proudly retells it as the funniest song she ever heard, hands down.

When I was in kindergarten returning from Christmas break we had to draw a picture of what we did over the holiday. I drew a picture of a tall fizzing glass of an amber liquid and a few potato chips floating next to it. The teacher or one of the volunteer Moms would come around, ask us what the picture depicted and then write it across the bottom of the paper for us. I proudly told the Mom helper that for Christmas and New Years we had beer and potato chips in the living room. She laughed and said, “You mean your parents had beer.”

“No, we all had beer.” I assured her.

The teacher was notified and after school when my Mom arrived and the teacher got to her she showed her the “deeply concerning” art I’d drawn. My Mom turned as red as a ruby and told the teacher that our glasses were filled with 7 UP with just a splash of beer on top and that it was a holiday tradition she had brought to this country from Australia.

I thought I was in trouble, but my Mom told the story to all of her friends and family, minus my Dad, and everyone laughed their heads off at my picture. Recently I asked my brother, the oldest of us four and the one with a good memory, if I was just crazy, or did our parents give us beer as small children? He said that they did, but that it was a cultural thing because my Mom had grown up drinking Shandys.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, Johnny Cash. My Mom finally took the tape from me because I wouldn’t stop playing it and/or singing it. Now I can listen to it and remember the pure joy of a song I thought was so clever, and still do.

P.S. To Jane Doe #4 , good for you for getting the fuck out of there and not suffering through another minute of that sick bastard forcing sex on you.