I find that, in general, I do not miss being uber-connected all the time. I’ve stopped incessantly checking my email on my phone and looking for updates or new texts.

I also reduced the shows that I DVR. J-Mo and I recently signed up for Netflix Instant and while I spent a solid 30 minutes getting my list of shows and movies queued up…I haven’t starting watching them yet. Nope, not a one.

I spent a few hours cleaning out my fridge. And my freezer. And my pantry. I have been collecting cardboard boxes to sort, contain, label and stack remaining clutter. I think my closet will need to be next, and that whole thought both terrifies and…well…terrifies me.

I also desperately need to pare down my Google Reader. Right now I am subscribed to 521 blogs. Five-hundred-and-twenty-one. Holycrap. Yes, that needs to be reduced in a serious way.

I read somewhere that limiting electronic use for the hour before you go to bed helps you relax. As I have thought about it I realized that usually the hour before I go to bed is full of DVR, text messaging, video chat, email, reading up on blogs…the list goes on and on. I’m going to try to calm down and unwind instead of finish up the last few things before the day is over. Perhaps I should try reading a book before bed instead of reading blogs and texts and emails and everything else.

What does this all boil down to? I need to simplify my life. I need to spend more time and energy doing things that make me happy and less time doing things that complicate my life unnecessarily. I am reducing clutter, removing the electronic connectivity-clutter and trying to live more with less. That doesn’t mean that I am giving up blogging, because–and this post is a prime example–writing things down help me to process them, and the community of blogging is something that I really, truly love. (Hi community, I love you!) So, what does this all mean? Nothing. I’m not making a goal, I’m not amending my New Year’s Resolutions, I’m not filling up all vertical surfaces of my apartment with post-it notes reminding me to SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY! Nope, I’m just trying to make a lifestyle change to make my life less chaotic. Of course, I will let you know how that goes, but for now, it’s just my new thing.

SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY!

…Am I the only person who imagines Hermoine waving her wand and yelling this at an ugly pile of To-Do List failures? Yes? Okay.

So, I’m married now. In most ways, it is exactly the same. And really, I think that is a good thing. I don’t think that a wedding should drastically change a relationship, nor should that event alter the behavior each party exhibits in that relationship. In fact, any kind of drastic change would really worry me (been there, done that), and at the very least would be a bad omen for the rest of the relationship. Right? So, things are the same. The same kind of wonderful. I love that.

Now, I know you were probably hoping for a pretty, pose-y picture-filled post, and I was hoping to add one more “p” word to that sentence, but, unfortunately, neither of us will get exactly what we want. I won’t get pics back from our photographer for two to three months and I haven’t convinced any of my friends or family to send me their snapshots yet. (Truth be told, I imagine they had something else going on this weekend and, you know, it’s only been 4 days…but seriously, family, please send snapshots!)

So, because we aren’t going to share any bits of the wedding day, allow me to tell you about the day before when I had an absolute break down. You knew that was coming somewhere, right? You didn’t? Oh, don’t feel too bad, it came as quite a shock to me too.

Remember how I told you I had a rash on my torso that was getting worse due to stress? And remember how my dermatologist gave me a mild steroid to make it go away? Well, it hasn’t gone away, but it didn’t spread up my chest and neck, so when those wedding photos do surface they won’t have blotchy red spots splashing out from the neckline of my dress. The bad news was that in the subsequent 60-some-odd hours after I started taking that pill I got less than 5 hours of sleep. Five hours of sleep, three days, and stress up the wazoo does not a happy girl make. At noon on Thursday (day prior to wedding day, if you recall), a few of my coworkers kicked me out of the office and told me to please go home and take a nap.

Instead, I went to the salon to get my toes painted and texted my favorite aunt–who happens to live next door to the salon and be my same shoe size–to see if she had some rainboots that would go with an emerald green dress. The forecast was calling for slush, snow, sleet and all sorts of nasty weather. My Aunt Mouse, my Dad’s youngest sister, was at the salon in a jiffy with a pair of adorable boots. When she walked in she took one look at me and asked me what on earth was going on. I really did not look very well. I started sobbing. Sobbing! Uncontrollably sobbing. Apparently, negative sleep, a super stressful week of work and finishing up pre-wedding details (with a list still go finalize that afternoon)..(plus there may have been a little bit of PMS in there somewhere), will reduce me to a very leaky pile of dark undereye circles and nail polish residue.

Luckily, Mouse is the most incredible woman I know. Within minutes she had taken over. She insisted the girls at the salon give me a full pedicure and manicure, with that fancy new shellac stuff so they were instantly dry. She had her assistant call and iron out the last details with one of my vendors (note: when the Alt Design Summit, the Outdoor Retailer’s convention, and Sundance Film Festival are all in one town the same weekend, things like getting an exact time, or even a normal range of linen delivery is next to impossible under the best of circumstances, and under my circumstances–see: melt down in above paragraph–it was absolutely impossible). Then she insisted her assistant tackle the rest of my To Do list. She went to Costco, she finalized everything, she arranged the last minute details…she saved me. I obviously was in no condition to talk to anyone rationally and logically about anything. And, as if that wasn’t amazing enough, Mouse booked me an appointment with her personal massage therapist for later that afternoon. She fixed everything. By the time she was done I had exactly three things left to do. Finish my mani/pedi, get a massage, and pick up J-Mo from the airport. Three things! Knocked down from somewhere in the 10-12 range!

I cannot imagine what kind of mess I would have been in if Mouse had not staged an intervention. I mean, Mouse saved me. She swooped in with cute rainboots and left me with my fingers and toes well attended; she and her assistant cleared their day and fixed and finished and finalized my To Do list. They forced me to take a break and focus on what was really important, and surprising to me, the important thing was not running to Costco to get an entire shopping cart full of citrus fruit.

Friday morning, Wedding Day, I went to get my hair done, set-up the final bits for dinner after the ceremony (including doing something very Pinterest-worthy with that shopping cart full of citrus fruit), went to fill up two balloons that were so ginormous they would not even fit into my vehicle, took a quick bath, changed into my wedding dress, and went to the church.

And then, my friends, I walked down the aisle and recited some of the most lovely vows to the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. I cried, but this time instead of sobs of sleep-deprived overwhelmed frustration, they were tears of joy and happiness and overwhelming love for him and for us.

*****   *****   *****

In writing this post it has occurred to me that while I can be controlling and sometimes even a bit on the freaky side of controlling, I think my biggest problem is that I assume I am Wonder Woman. I assume I can do anything I set my mind to do, and that I can do it on my own, and without asking anyone for help, and in a timely manner. So, some of those may be true, but all together? Yeah, probably not 100% true all the time. I can do anything I set my mind to do, but I more often than not need to ask for help to accomplish it in a timely manner. Unfortunately, it took me breaking down in front of a pedicurist the day before my wedding and someone–a true Wonder Woman–swooping in to save me in order for me to realize it. Fortunately, I realized it. And fortunately, I have some people around me that can help me remember that realization.

*****   *****   *****

Dear Mouse, I know you don’t read this blog, and I’ve already written a lengthy and tear-filled thank you note with far more heart-felt sentiment, but I wanted to thank you, publicly, for showing me that it’s okay to ask for help; it’s okay not to be perfect; and it’s perfectly normal for someone to love you, despite and perhaps because of your imperfections. Love always, heidi

*****   *****   *****

*No, her name isn’t Mouse, but it’s been her nickname as long as I can remember, and in our family it is a very sincere term of affection and endearment.

I turned 28 this year, I don’t actually remember what I did on my birthday. But, the next day–which happens to be Valentine’s Day–was my second date with J-Mo. I told him he could come see me if it was just another Monday and not Valentine’s Day. He brought me cupcakes that he’d made himself. With sprinkles. Swoon.

While I did not go on any international vacations (yep, move that New Year’s Resolution into the “fail” column), I did visit three new states, four new National Parks (and five more return visits) and a gaggle of other places. I went to Phoenix for the annual booksale, I walked all over San Francisco, hiked Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park, wandered through The Devil’s Garden in Arches National Park. I rode on the back of a Harley through the desert.  I went to Montana for the first (and second, and third) time and fell in-love with the gorgeous mountains and laid-back living. I visited Yellowstone National Park for the very first time and pretended I was a real photographer. I visited (and feel I truly “discovered”) White Pine County, Nevada. I went to see an old roommate in Portland and knocked Oregon off my list of states to see. Before I started my final semester, J-Mo and I went on another motorcycle trip to Glacier National Park in Montana (trip #2!) and rode the amazing Going-to-the-Sun Road. This fall I went to Philadelphia, the birthplace of America, and the famous Mushroom Festival in Kennett Square, PA. On this trip I also made a quick detour through Delaware, making my states visited 36 of 50 (only 14 more to go!). Add two weekend trips to Phoenix to see family (no photos/no blog post), a road trip of beautiful scenery around Southern Utah, another weekend with J-Mo in Zion National Park to see the fall leaves, and then the most wonderful weekend imaginable in Bryce Canyon National Park. A trip back to Montana for Christmas rounded out my travels for 2011.

I read 18 books this year, which is not the 25 I was hoping for and certainly nowhere near the 60 I read last year, but I am happy with my number. I had a lot of other stuff to fill my brain with (ahem, 8 university classes and the required readings and assignments that go with them). The best book I read in 2011 was Half the Sky. It is not an easy read, nor is it fluffy, but it changed me forever. Check out my post detailing all the books I read this year for extra details.

I did not suffer any major illness, but I have the somewhat freakish, undiagnosed business going on in my chest. Hopefully 2012 will bring some resolution and peace on that front. I am still dealing with back/spine issues from the aftermath of my car accident almost four years ago. I have a sneaky suspicion my spine and hips just won’t ever be the same.

I fell in love with a boy, and I fell hard. J-Mo and I started dating in the early months of 2010 and got engaged in November. Our low-key, non-traditional wedding celebration will be this January. He is, hands down, the best match I could have ever imagined for myself. I have even started seeking out country music (I know, I know) because it reminds me of him. It’s a darn good thing J-Mo has decent taste in country music, no twangy bangoy business about missing your truck and your dog.)

I did not lose any weight, I didn’t even try.

My little sister gave birth to my new niece in November (can’t wait to meet her!) and several other friends and extended family members had new babies of their own, some in better circumstances than others.

I did not attend a funeral, although my grandfather is getting more and more frail. I don’t know if I will be so lucky for 2012.

I did not contribute significantly to my savings account, but I did pay off my student loan and my car. In February I tried a financial experiment to try and curb extraneous spending, not sure if I can feasibly do it again this year, but I wouldn’t mind trying.

Year after year, I find my largest expenses are for travel. I don’t operate on a massive consumption budget. I bought more shoes and more books in 2011 than I did in 2010, which isn’t saying much as I was employed for the entirety of 2011 and only half of 2010. Unemployment means no new shoes or new books. Except for a few “fill in the gap” items J-Mo and I will need, and hopefully a new mattress, I see 2012 going about the same way.

I wish I had done more pleasure reading (as in, not a textbook, don’t be gross), more cooking, and more exercising. I wish I’d spent less time on Facebook. Although, Mr. Zuckerburg’s recent changes have mostly eliminated my desire for it altogether. I’m kind of over social media, I’ve removed Twitter and Facebook from my phone, cleaned up my contact lists and locked down my security and privacy settings. Perhaps I’m paranoid, or perhaps I’ve just had enough.

The TV shows I managed to keep up with are Bones and Project Runway (although I’m kind of over Brennan being pregnant, I think it was a lame-sauce plot point. Angela was pregnant all last year and now Brennan is pregnant…I just want them to be smart and solve crimes, not talk about puking and breast feeding and stuff like that. I have enough blogs to cover that, thank you). I have recently fallen head-over-heels for Big Bang Theory. I think part of my brain assumes that listening to all those geeks and nerds talk about physics and…stuff…will somehow increase my IQ. So far it just keeps me up far later than I should be watching the DVR’d episodes back-to-back-to-back.

My biggest achievement this year was finally finishing my University degree, a Bachelor of Science in Economics. It has been a long, hard road, and I am absolutely THRILLED to be done with it. I honestly don’t really think it has sunk in quite yet, give me another few weeks.

My biggest failure…I’ve failed at a lot of things this year, but at this point I am over it. I’m sure I have let people down, hurt others unintentionally (and perhaps even intentionally), I’ve probably told less than the complete truth and purposefully omitted certain facts to spare myself some embarrassment. I’ve eaten too much chocolate and spent more money than I could have, but I don’t think of myself as a failure. I guess I failed at going on 2 international vacations, and I did not hike to the top of Mt. Timpanogos, I didn’t even try. So both of those things will go back on my resolutions list, however, “failure” seems like a pretty harsh label for something like that.

This year I think I finally realized how great my Dad is, growing up we had a strained relationship at best, but for the last ten years or so it has gotten better and better, and this year, in particular, I think it has really blossomed. He has been my biggest support, loudest cheerleader, and a really great friend. He’s like a trump card I keep in my back pocket, he has taken care of me for a long time and while I may not need him as much as I have in the past, I like knowing that he’s always going to be there. This is really new for me, and I’m surprised at how choked up I’m getting while writing this paragraph. You may have had your parent as a BFF when you were tiny, but for me I didn’t learn to really see or appreciate my Dad until well into my twenties. I’m glad it turned out this way, actually.

This year I was also surprised and embarrassed by the appalling behavior of others, and of one person in particular (who, I should note, is in no way related to me). I won’t go into much detail here, but her behavior is strikingly similar to something I’ve seen before. In fact, I had a front-row seat to this kind of ridiculous, immature behavior for quite a while. In the long run, things didn’t turn out so great the first time, and I really don’t see how it could possibly turn out the way she thinks it will this time. MB: you’re doing it wrong. Knock it off already before you screw yourself over for the next 10 (or 40) years. Or don’t, no skin off my nose. (Yes, I am being deliberately vague.)

Dates that stick out to me from 2011 are November 5, the day I got engaged to my sweetheart; November 23, the day I took a spontaneous, adventurous plunge; December 15, the day I discovered I passed all my classes and am officially a college graduate! (Wow, it’s been a good 2 months!)

My New Year’s Resolutions for 2010 were kind of hit and miss; some I kept, some I didn’t.  New ones will be made–per tradition–for Chinese New Year in a few weeks.

Life lessons for 2011:

1. It all works out in the end. If it hasn’t worked out, it isn’t the end.

2. Good things come to those who wait.

3. Always say “yes” to an adventure.

I realize that Amazon has been around for millenia…ok, perhaps not for thousands of years, but since 1995 and in Internet world that’s practically the same thing. Last year I fell hard and fast for eBay and had to quickly back away before my life savings was put on the line for first edition books I loved as a kid. Seriously, it was getting scary. And expensive. But Amazon is different.

This year, particularly the last few months, I have been busier than I ever have. I have been working full time and finishing up my last semesters of school. If that weren’t enough I also have reserved most of my weekends to spend with J-Mo as his work schedule (and frankly, my work/school schedule) doesn’t really allow weeknight hang-outs. At the moment I am also designing and making a big pile of costumes for a high school theater production and trying–unsuccessfully–to find the time to update two websites. This one (badly neglected), and my Shoeologist site (also, badly neglected. I’m like the negligent mother of two teenagers who are quickly receding away from their peers at an alarming, but silent pace.) Top that with a normal dose of “off the internet” drama and my poor little Google calendar is packed to it’s virtual gills with things that must be done. Sadly, shopping is not something that must be done.

I’m not talking about back to school clothes or shoes or anything like that. Granted, I don’t need any more clothes or shoes, but I’ll admit to a little harmless online browsing and buying when I find something I love. Ditto on the lunch-time wander around the shops close to my office. I don’t have problems buying clothes. It’s the other things in my life that must be replaced that I can hardly find time for. I have been pretty good about going grocery shopping once a week for eggs and fruit and veggies, my weekly appointment with the Grocery is on Monday night at about 11:30 pm. Unfortunately, there are many things in life that I cannot purchase on Monday night at 11:30 pm. Things like the special light bulbs for the dining room chandelier; a belt rack to harness my ever-expanding collection; a special 3-prong plug to live behind a dresser that enables the dresser to be flush to the wall and my air conditioner to still be plugged in; the fancy syrup that Britt blogged about which is only available at certain grocery stores and then only sometimes; a winter’s supply of Natural Ice chapstick which is mysteriously unavailable at the grocery or the gas station; a waffle iron with removable plates so I can get all the waffle residue off without using a toothbrush; and–my latest purchase–a new shower curtain that can somehow tie together my banana-yellow wall tile (with red and black floral trim, no less) and cover up the aqua tub. (Yes, it’s really aqua. I really should post pictures.)

Can you imagine the time required in trying to locate all these individual items at one of several dozen stores, deliberate on color or brand or price, purchase, and then transport them home? It is mind boggling. So far, I have managed to carve out 40 minutes a day to shower, shave my legs, wash and dry my hair, and apply mascara…but an hour to locate the appropriate chandelier light bulbs just isn’t going to happen. So I have turned to Amazon, and Amazon has come through with gold stars and sparkles and every possible thing I could need. Yes, I may have to pay some shipping charges, but my time is at a premium so I happily fork over a few extra dollars for their timely, trackable, front door delivery service. I don’t know why it has taken me so long to jump on the Amazon bandwagon, but I have found myself a nice cozy seat and will not be jumping off anytime in the near future. I’m only fifteen years behind the curve, but online shopping (for items that are not clothes or shoes) has found a permanent place in my heart.

**No, Amazon is not sponsoring this post or giving me any kind of perk for blogging about them. Nor do I get any kind of kick back from some kind of affiliate program if you buy that same waffle iron or belt rack. I’m simply sharing the wealth and breadth of the awesomosity that is Amazon.

And then I broke down crying.

This has been such a long road for me, with potholes and detours and roundabouts and a hundred other annoying obstacles that could be added to the “life as a road” metaphor. I started attending classes at the University in January 2002; even if you aren’t a math major it isn’t difficult to surmise that it has taken me ten years to earn a bachelor’s degree. In that time I have also acquired some excellent work experience, an impressive resume and the ever-elusive Life Degree, in a few months I’ll have the paperwork to back it up.

Rewind to 2004: It was a few months after I got married I was really struggling with school. It wasn’t too hard, I just wasn’t interested in any of my classes, topics, teachers, nothing. I had always loved school, loved learning, and was on the fast track to a earning a 3-year bachelor’s degree. And I hit a wall. Looking back, this probably had something (read: a lot) to do with my tumultuous marriage and home life, but at the time I didn’t link the two. My X and I talked about it for several days and mutually decided that we were going to make some changes in our situation. At the time we were both working part-time and going to school full-time, I decided to find a full-time job to cover our expenses and he would quit working entirely, take on an extra class or two, and finish his degree in the next two semesters. At that point, he would be the bread-winner and I would go back to school with–hypothetically–a renewed energy and a better idea of what I wanted to study. (The long term details of this plan also included both of us earning Master’s degrees.)

I started interviewing and within a few weeks I had landed a fantastic sales position at my same company and started earning far more money on my own than we had both been making prior to our new arrangement. I continued working, enjoying the office setting and the commission checks and my new co-workers. My X? Well, he didn’t do so great at keeping up his end of the bargain, none of which I found out until after I had moved into my own apartment and filed for divorce. Turns out, X was on his last semester of academic probation. He was kicked out of the University a few weeks later but failed to mention it FOR ANOTHER TWO SEMESTERS! He continued to tell me about his classes, homework, tests, fellow students, and there were piles of papers all over the coffee table scribbled with calculus and physics equations. I continued to fund his “required” textbooks and encouraged him to go out to lunch with his friends and buy himself whatever he needed as he worked hard to graduate. I had no idea he wasn’t actually a student.

This little charade went on for two full semesters before–for completely unrelated reasons–I moved out and moved on. And THEN I found out the truth of his situation, and I was no longer upset, I was livid. The money I had given him–thousands of dollars–that went straight to Cheetos and porn instead of textbooks and late-night study-session snack runs made me sick to my stomach, but the idea that he had lied to me for so long really just pissed me off. I hated him for encouraging me to drop out of school with the idea that it would be a good move for “us” when he knew full well that he wasn’t going to be graduating anytime soon. I hated myself for letting him talk me into it, and for not noticing, and for not checking with the University, or even asking to see his report card. He was my husband, I was supposed to trust him. Ha! Lesson learned. (Also, I’ve been through a lot of therapy since this incident and no longer know think that all men are lying, abusive, manipulative jerks. Lesson (re)learned.)

At any rate, I was still working full-time, earning plenty of money to support my newly single self, so I started taking night classes to finish up my degree. At the time I had no idea just how long that would take. I haven’t attended every semester, I’ve taken breaks here and there, but I kept at it.

And now here I am, six years later, and I have finally applied for graduation.  I will graduate with the exact number of credits required to earn my degree. Exactly. I haven’t switched majors, although last year I dropped my Political Science double major and Mandarin Chinese minor to eliminate a few extra semesters. (Dropping the minor also meant switching from a Bachelor of Arts to a Bachelor of Science, which I am a-okay with. Frankly, with a degree like Econ a BS seems to make a bit more sense than a BA.)

I am so very excited to finally be on the home stretch, one more semester and I will have that embossed piece of paper that represents years of struggle and heartache and frustration and analyzing and accomplishment. Dah, I can hardly wait!

Ha! No. Not really. Well, not in the way that any advertisement, fashion or beauty magazine published in the last 80 years would lead you to believe.

The thing is, do you want to know what scares me more than sharks? (And bobble-head dolls, but that is another post entirely.)

Tan lines.

Sunburns.

My sensitive dermis baking under sweet, sweet, sunshine.

Melanoma.

Skin cancer.

Like many children, I had white-blonde hair as a kid. Unlike most of those children, when I grew up my natural hair color never really darkened and still hovers in the distinctly “platinum” part of the color wheel. My skin is a fair, creamy white and mostly freckle-free. My foundation color is “parchment” for heaven’s sake. I’m a pale person. And unlike many people who share my coloring, I don’t make any efforts to darken my pasty-white skin. I have never been inside a tanning bed. I have never “laid out” or gone sunbathing. I am terrified of the idea of getting “that healthy glow” or even “a little color.” I don’t know if I can properly convey the fear I associate with my own skin being a “healthy”, “sexy” bronze shade, or, frankly, a shade that can be described by any color not resembling printer-paper.

You probably think I am overreacting. I’m not. I’m not being irrational, or even overly fearsome. Allow me to explain:

About 25 years ago the University of Utah–a premier research institution, particularly in genetics–did a massive study to see if there was any genetic linking to skin cancer. (The short version: there is.) For several years they studied hundreds of families, choosing ones who had multiple cases of melanoma. My mom’s family was chosen. My dad’s family was chosen. As a result, all of us kids were tested; I was 3 but I still remember that day. My oldest brother was 13 at the time and the researchers were shocked–SHOCKED–to discover a chunk of skin cancer on his shoulder. He was the youngest person to ever be diagnosed with skin cancer; it was such a big deal that it made the cover of the Wall Street Journal, and his case was the subject of professional medical conference keynote addresses for years. THE COVER OF THE WALL STREET JOURNAL!! It was is a Big. Freaking. Deal. Yes, this was twenty-five years ago and in the years since there have been more cases of skin cancer discovered in younger children (a trend that is disturbing enough on it’s own), but please understand that this very real, tangible fear of inherited skin cancer has been ingrained in me–and for good reason–for the last two and a half decades. I am a carrier of the melanoma gene. I inherited it from both my mother and father. While I have always had regular check-ups with my dermatologist, have gone back to the University of Utah for follow-up studies, and I have been vigilant in sunscreen application; I am still scared.

Ten years ago I had two moles taken off my head in a routine check-up, one came back positive for melanoma. I was 19. I hadn’t had a sunburn or even a tan line in at least six years. But there it was. Cancer. On my face. Can you imagine your 19-year-old self? Now imagine her going to the doctor by herself to be scrutinized head to toe and everywhere in-between for questionable moles. Imagine the doctor carefully cutting off a few tiny bits of her face because they looked “a little suspicious.” Now imagine 3 days later–Dec. 23 2002 at 4:30 pm, to be exact–when the doctor calls her to tell her that the moles were malignant and cancerous and “I am having my office staff come in from holiday on Dec. 26, first thing in the morning to cut out some more of your face. We need to make sure we get it all.” Imagine that 19 year old girl sobbing into the phone, thinking she is far too young to have to deal with this kind of news. (I still get choked up when I think about that phone call. The fear was palpable then, and even now it makes me breathe faster and my chest become tight.) I am lucky, my dermatologist caught my case really early and was able to cut out the offending pieces of my face, his plastic surgery skillz left only one small scar near my hairline that is hard to see, even if I point it out. I didn’t have to go through chemo or radiation or spend months of my life in a hospital. Yes, I am lucky; or more accurately, I had been vigilant my entire life, luck really had nothing to do with it. Even so, it was still far too close a call for me to be willy-nilly with the sunbathing and beach time. Like, ever.

I wear sunscreen every single day, even if all I’m doing is walking from my house to my car to go to work. SPF 30. Every day. No matter what. (Except that one time I forgot, I am still kicking myself for that. In fact, just thinking about it gave me a knot in my stomach.) Outdoorsy activities will have me bump up the SPF to 45 or 65, with 85 on my face and shoulders. (I don’t want to hear any arguments about how “oh, anything after SPF 30 doesn’t make a bit of difference.” I. Don’t. Care.) (And who made you an expert on hereditary melanoma anyway? I’d like to see your degree and credentials.) (Also, to all former boyfriends–you know who you are–who cruelly and publicly mocked my beach wear, with full knowledge of my genetic misfortune and medical history, I hope you get testicular cancer and have to go through life as a One-Balled Wonder.) (And to the irritatingly, insipid women who make fun of my summer sleeves and long skirts–especially those claiming to have also had skin cancer but not caring about getting sunburned–you are ridiculously stupid, shallow and naive. And douchebags. Sadly for you, getting a tan won’t eliminate any of those qualities. *smirk* I hope you have gross, permanent sun spots on your face and hands by the time you’re 30.) (/rant.) (Man, it feels good to finally get all that off my chest!) (/parentheticals.)

I have been told by my doctors–ones who are experts on my skin, genetic skin cancer, and my family history–that even if I live in a cave for the rest of my life with absolutely no sun exposure whatsoever and develop those creepy, beady-white, cave-dwelling-eyes, I will still contract melanoma again by the time I’m 40. Cancer. Again. Sometime in the next 10-15 years. No matter what. On the upside, my team of dermatological experts tell me that my lack of tanning will make me have fewer wrinkles and clearer, smoother skin as I get older. So I suppose when I’m 40 and going in for Round Two (or three) of having skin cancer removed from my body the medical staff will think I’m only 29. Hey, at least I have something to look forward to! So, while you and your blessed olive skin can prance around the beach or pool in SPF 4 (now with coconut oil!) and a teensy little bikini without a care in the world, I’ll stick with the SPF>45 and a drop cloth. I am not olive, or brown, or tan, or even  beige. I am pale, the color of parchment, and always will be. And my bikini has never seen the light of day. True story. It has taken itself–and me–out for some night swimming on several occasions. But obviously in a pool and not the open water, because–honestly, don’t you ever watch the Discovery channel?–night time is prime feeding time for large, carnivorous fishy creatures who are drawn to white, glowing, reflective surfaces (see: heidikins’ entire body) and WHAT ABOUT THE SHARKS!?!)

Each of us are made up of various components that are light and fluffy, and some that are heavy and dark, and most that are a muddy shade of gray somewhere in-between. Very rarely is anything made up of all good or all evil, all black or all white, all one or all the other. Most of the time people, decisions, and  situations are a mix of both. We usually have to pick the better of two (or more) options. Or the safer, or healthier, or less psychotic, or more productive option. It is very rare where I have had to make a decision–especially one that required a lot of thought or internal angst–that was the choice between something Super Amazing and Wonderful and Attainable versus something that is Horrible and Soul Sucking and Also Perfectly Valid. It’s usually the choice between two shades of gray.

The truth is there are good and bad parts to everything in our lives, there are light and dark characteristics in everyone. It’s what makes us human. Our light and dark sides shape who we are, and you cannot have one without the other, and you certainly cannot appreciate one without having experienced the other. Honestly, I don’t know if I would be able to exist–and certainly not in my current incarnation–without both sides. I need my darker moments, ugly relationships, poor judgement, heartbreak and hurtful experiences to help me realize how good I have it now. My dark parts ground me, they humble me, they remind me of my humanity. That doesn’t mean I glorify my mistakes or want to go back to relive those moments. I don’t. But I use them to learn about myself, about my strengths, my weaknesses, my relationships and the people around me. Usually this process also involves quite a bit of chocolate, you know, to sooth the pain. But I hope to be able to grow and learn and stretch and move on as a bigger, fuller, more complete person. (Please, no comments from the peanut gallery about how the chocolate from Part 1 directly correlates with the “bigger, fuller” person in Part 2, mmmkay?)

Without these pieces of darkness, without the blackest, hardest periods of my life, I fear I would be all fluff, so airy and light that I would actually float away. I fear I’d have no tangible substance and actually cease to exist. Is this a rational way to categorize my organic matter? No. Does it help me understand? Yes. Here’s to being real and authentic, black warts and all.

The Awesome:

• Lots of nieces and nephews saying and doing lots of adorable/hilarious things
• Homemade lime rickies, I take mine with extra sugar, extra lime, and a maraschino cherry
• Laying on the grass with my brothers and sisters, laughing and chatting and giggling until parenthood called and it was time for their kiddos to go to bed
• Dutch oven breakfast, with fireworks (yep, I’m just gonna link to that whole post instead of try and recreate with pics and what-have-you)
• Going to movies when it’s too hot to do anything else (Larry Crowne, which I loved, and Super 8, which I will have nightmares about for weeks.)
• Playing on the swings in my childhood backyard – I had to sit on the trapeze because everything else was so low my knees dragged on the grass.  (Better my knees than my ass, right?)
• Showing my sweetheart around my hometown
• Afternoon naps snuggled up with that very charming boy of mine
• Snow cones and sour patch kids
• Playing Monopoly while waiting for the fireworks to start
• Fireworks, lots of them, right above my head

The Not So Awesome:

• The bookcase I bought from IKEA was too skinny, I picked up the wrong one which required a return trip to exchange it
• A chopped a piece out of the left thumb while making salsa (don’t worry, the salsa was phalanges free, pinky promise)
• I misplaced my keys, forgot where I parked, forgot I was driving, and had several “oh crap!” moments when I spied a police officer seconds after I *almost* (maybe) broke a minor traffic law.
• I dropped things, broke things, ran into things (big things, like people and furniture and walls) and generally had one of those days where nothing seems to go quite right
• I forgot how freaked out I get by scary movies, even moderately scary movies, or not-scary movies with moderately scary scenes.  Super 8, I’m looking at you in your zombie-make-up spider-alien face.
• During one little game of Monopoly I was sent to jail no less than 11 times.  The boy?  He maybe went to jail once.  For the record, I also went bankrupt due to his blasted hotel on Park Place. *shakes fist in the general direction of the dark blue properties

The Freaking Annoying:

• I love fireworks.  Last 4th of July I didn’t get to see any big ones up close, so I was particularly excited about seeing some things year.
• The boy and I went to the park pretty early to grab a good parking spot, help stake out a spot on the grassy hill and enjoy the lovely evening. When I say “we went early” I mean we showed up almost 5 hours early. We scored a killer parking spot, brought some snacks, and some games, listened to some live entertainment, took a little nap, more snacks, a hilarious round of Monopoly (see above)… it was lovely.
• A few hours later some friends showed up and we chit-chatted for a little while, sharing picnic munchies and telling stories. Then some of their friends showed up, and then friends of the friends, and more removed “friends”…and by the time the fireworks started at 10:00 pm I knew perhaps 8 of the 30 people suddenly crowded onto too few blankets. More people stopped by, really LOUD people.
• One stepped on my hand, one almost sat on my head, one complete stranger plonked herself right in front of my fireworks view and I admit, I was not oozing charm and friendliness when I asked her to please move to somewhere that was not 3 inches in front of me on the blanket that I wove myself from cotton I grew myself and sewed together by hand using wool thread from sheep I raised myself…ok, that last part is a bit of a stretch. But seriously? I was getting bugged.
• Piles of loud, obnoxious strangers were holding inane conversations at eye-twitch-inducing decibel levels.  ” LIKE, OH. EM. GEE!!1!11 DID U C STACY W/ THAT MANWHORE!? SRSLY, I DUN KNOW WHUT SHE’S DOING W/HIM. AND, LIKE, JUSTIN!? HE COULD DO SOOOOOO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT TIFFANY GIRL, LIKE, I MEAN, REALLY!!1! TIFFANY ISN’T EVEN HAWT! OHMYGOSH, DID YOU, LIKE, WATCH THE BACHELORRETTE? THIS IS JUST LIKE THAT, ONLY REAL LIFE! JUSTIN IS A TOTAL BENTLEY!! HAHAHA! I’M GONNA FACEBOOK THAT! LIKE IT, OKAY?!?!1!”
• I wish I was kidding. Sadly, I am not. And you guys, they were loud.  Really, obnoxiously loud, and right next to my ears, and putting their feet and asses far too close to my face, and stepping on my hand (an accident, I admit, but still freaking annoying). I know that I was in a public space, and I can’t control the environment, and technically they had every right to be there, but this was a little ridiculous. They were loud, and pushy, and rude, and generally obnoxious.
• I’m usually one to roll with the punches life throws, but I was really disappointed in my fireworks show being taken over by this loud, pushy, rude, generally obnoxious ilk. The worst part is they showed up right before the fireworks started, it was already dark, and it was a little impractical for me to try and find a new, less annoyingly populated place to enjoy the fireworks spectacular.

Weekend Recap:

• Little people that are related to me are hilarious
• I get ridiculously excited about food (see multiple mentions above
• My man is awesome (I swear I’ll properly introduce you as soon as this fireworks etiquette rant is out of my system, mmkay?)
• I love fireworks but can’t stand obnoxious people, good thing I have another 12 months to come up with an alternate plan. And/or alternate “friends of friends of friends.”

Erika and I with my big brother, 1983

Being an identical twin is a blessing and a terrible, terrible curse. Erika and I look remarkably alike, as identical twins are wont to do. But I mean, we look A LOT alike. When we were kids our dentist, Dr. Ed, was astounded to discover that if you layered our dental x-rays on top of each other you couldn’t tell you were looking at two different slides; we had the exact same teeth! In addition to matching dental records, we have the same blood type, the same DNA, and are unofficially each others designated organ donor should it come to that. (I’m not being morbid, these are practical things one must think about in advance.) We also have the same white-blonde hair, the same green eyes, and the same fair skin; our hands and noses are identical and we have the same weird bone spurs on our feet. Erika has always been about 1.5 inches taller than me, she was born that way and I just never caught up. I think it was because she was a food hog in utero and I’ve spent my life trying to make up for it by downing jumbo-sized bags of Sour Patch Kids. I’m still short. Well, shorter. Hence, I wear heels. Problem solved.

1983

Matching DNA aside, there are some things that are not the same:

(1) Our names.  Heidi and Erika are both Germanic, and our childhood nicknames, Heidikins and Eriklein mean “Little Heidi” and “Little Erika” in German.  Do they “go” together? I think so.  But they don’t scream “ZOMGOODNESS!!  TWINNY NAMES!! ADORBS!!11!!” Our mother also has a very German name, Gretel, and our little sister has a German name, Liesl, and diminutive nickname, Lieslchin. In that respect, our names went with our family, not with just each other. No Heidi and Heather, or Erika and Erin. No. And Thank You.

(2) Our dominant physical side. We are both right-handed, but my Mom says that Erika could easily have been a lefty. She can hit a baseball and a swing a golf club with either hand and be equally successful. I am right-leg dominant while she is left-leg dominant. When I do a left-leg-first cartwheel I look like an utter buffoon, while Erika’s are graceful and smooth. This difference does not mean we aren’t identical twins, it means we are a mirror image of each other. If you question it, take a look at our dental records again.

(3) Our freckles. Patterns of melanin mutations on the outer epidermis–the scientific way to explain freckles–are not genetic, they are mutations due to a variety of independent factors (i.e. sun exposure) that are not controlled by your genes, got it? So, just because the dominant freckle (and, coincidentally, the most common way to tell us apart) on Erika’s face is on her left cheek and mine is near the corner of my right eye does not mean we are not identical. When you try and argue away my 28-year status as an identical twin based on something as surface-y as freckles you sound uneducated and ridiculous and I will mock you behind your back. Or, if you are particularly assinine about it, I’ll mock you to your face.

1985, age 3

(4) Our personalities. (It pains me to have to mention this, but it’s the thing most people confuse about identical twins: they are two, separate human beings. Hold onto your boots, it’s about to get a little ranty around here.) Erika and I routinely show up to family functions wearing the same outfit, and while we have very similar voice and speech patterns (ok, almost identical), we are two different people. She is crafty and creative and full of brilliant ideas and recipe concoctions. I sometimes pretend to know how to sew, or craft, or cook…but compared to her I am paltry at best. I read geeky economics books and non-fiction while she looks for new ideas in beautiful, glossy magazines.  She has piles of fabric and other tactile supplies to feed her creative habits. I have a room for my shoes and more books than I know what to do with. We went to opposing schools–really opposing schools–we studied completely different subjects and are interested in vastly different topics.  She married her sweetheart young and they are still very much in-love. I, well, I had a very different story. She is a wonderful mom to a hilarious, angelic, sassy and precocious 2-year old, and I am content being that child’s favorite aunt. I’m snarky and at times acerbic, determined and stubborn and while Erika has bits of all of those characteristics, they are not her dominating personality traits like they are mine. We have different smiles, different humor, different facial expressions; it is only when we are make-up free and sleeping (i.e. all facial muscles are relaxed) that we become freakily identical, even my Mom has to do a double-take.

People ask me all the time what it’s like being a twin; and my standard response is that I don’t know. I’ve always been a twin, it’s status quo to me and I have no frame of reference as a non-twin. I’ve always had a mirror image. I’ve always had someone I was compared against, someone who, for years, I competed against (whether of my own choice or because I was forced to). I’ve always had someone I was somehow expected to act like, be like, and imitate. And the craptastic part of all of that is that she has my face. It’s a nice face, don’t get me wrong. It just makes the problem of individualization much trickier and, more often than not, a palpable fight. It took us a while to realize that we were much happier doing different things, we were both good at most things we tried, and in time we discovered that we enjoyed pursuing different subjects and interests, for the individuality as much as for the subject or interest itself.  My siblings have always been able to tell who is who, my little sister can even tell us apart in baby pictures where both Erika and I have to rely on names written on the back. (What? You act like you’re surprised. I knew who I was and who she was, but I didn’t spend my young life looking in the mirror to memorize the differences and defining characteristics of my face. What 3-year-old does that?!?) But my extended family still cannot tell the difference between the two of us most of the time, like 95% of the time. Most of my childhood and high school friends can’t either, with a fantastic few exceptions. Would you like to know the kicker of all of that? My Mom did everything she possibly could to encourage our differences. She didn’t name us matching names. She didn’t make us dress in matching outfits*. I had my own shoes that I wore, even if my outfit–the outfit I picked out myself–better matched my sister’s shoes. You hear that people? My. Own. Shoes. It was important. She allowed and encouraged us to be our own person, and people still couldn’t keep us straight. Besides being down right frustrating, this situation can be terrifyingly dangerous.

1987? Age 5-ish?

When we were four or five years old my cousins and I thought Erika had fallen into a swollen, swift-moving creek in the canyon where our grandparents lived. She had actually just gone back to the house to go to the bathroom, but no one saw her leave the bridge where we were all standing watching the water; we just noticed she was gone and assumed the worst. We freaked. Search and Rescue was called. Mom and I spent hours down by the creek with dozens of volunteers up to their thighs in frigid, mountain run-off tying to find the body of a small girl, they combed the water as afternoon turned to evening looking under every root and submerged branch, hoping to find her. My mom called everyone who lived in the canyon, hoping Erika had just wandered into someone’s backyard or barn. She wasn’t anywhere. During the entire afternoon I was with my Mom because she wasn’t about to let me out of her grasp, let alone out of her sight. Hours later she took me back to my grandparent’s house, she was an emotional wreck, convinced Erika was gone. As you have probably already guessed, Erika was not, in fact, drowned. She had been roaming through my grandparent’s house with a group of cousins, checking every crack and cranny from the attic to the basement, calling her own name. Erika thought that I was the one that was lost, and she knew that I would answer to her name as well as my own. (That was a learned coping mechanism; we both answered to each other’s names because half the time the person was using the wrong name anyway. As a 28-year old I still turn my head expectantly when someone calls for an “Erika.”) Erika’s pre-Kindergarten self had no idea about the deadly risk of the fast, freezing river, or the search and rescue teams that were still being trucked in to find her, or my Mom’s desperation. And you know what, of the dozens of relatives in that house, adults and children, not a single one of them could tell that she wasn’t me. Not a single one. When I walked into my grandparent’s kitchen with my Mom my Grandpa nearly started crying because he thought I was Erika and someone had found me. Mom, choking on tears of heartbroken grief, confusedly explained that this is Heidi. Two minutes later Erika walked into the kitchen, happy, dry, and perfectly safe. I’ve never forgotten the look of horror on my Grandpa’s face at that moment of recognition, he never mixed us up again. Most of my other relatives that were around that day didn’t ever bother to figure us out.

First day of Kindergarten, 1988.

Teenagers can have a rough time trying to find out who they are, and when 98% of the people you know routinely get you confused with someone else it makes it even worse. I felt like I had to fight to be myself–way more than the typical teenagers fight to be understood–and my fight was not to be only understood, but actually recognized. I’m not talking about some metaphysical, existential, angsty mumbo-jumbo from an Ani DiFranco song. I mean, it was a conscious struggle between physical disgust, anger and despair every single time an aunt or cousin, down the street neighbor, teacher or school friend who had “known” me for years didn’t actually know my name. Do you know what it’s like to have a mirror image and still feel invisible? Allow me to give you the short answer: it is a never-ending, hellish cycle of frustration.

Photo by Alyssa, 2001

This is the part where you non-twins argue that “I just caaaaaan’t doooooo it!!  You’re just soooo similar!  You look the saaaaaaame! How can little old moi be properly equipped to differentiate between your twinny sameness!!1!!”  That irritating whine is followed immediately by my mentally flipping you off, re-categorizing you as an imbecile, and acidicly reminding you that while you have a completely average, non-descript face and personality I still manage to not confuse you with a donkey, a clown, or any other dolt. Alright, that might be a little harsh, but that doesn’t make me wrong. Can you see where I’m coming from here? Calling me “Twin” is not a bandaid for the fact that you never took the time to learn some defining characteristic about me. If you know a set of twins, identical or otherwise, make the effort to learn who they are and what makes them unique. Okay? Learn it. Don’t ever forget it. And don’t you dare lump them into the same person. Ever.

Disclaimer: Some sets of identical twins like their twin-ness. They dress in matching ensembles well after their mother no longer chooses their outfits–which, in my opinion should end as soon as the kid can choose their own clothes, like by age 2–some dress and/or act alike through their teen years or even their twenties. They go to the same college, they may even choose to be college roommates, major in the same thing, or even date a set of best friends. I think that is partially (mostly) a function of never being given the chance or encouragement to learn to be their own self. Seeing two toddlers dressed exactly the same, answering to Annie and Allie, or Mike and Mitch is one of the most horrible things I can imagine; and I see it all. the. time. It is not cute, or precious, or adorable and charming. It is a demonstration of a selfish mother looking for “oooh’s” and “ahhhh’s” in the grocery store over her identical darlings. It is pathetic and sad and makes my insides clench up for the decades of inevitable frustration and hurt she is setting up for her children. That mother should be held responsible (and heart-whipped and branded) for treating her children, two independent humans, like a pair of trendy, twin-sized accessories with matchy-match names and matchy-match outfits. You would give any single-born child the chance to be their own person, so don’t deny that right to another child who happens to be born the same day as a look-a-like sibling. Give your kids a chance to be their own person, alright? Let them just be siblings who are in the same grade instead of half of one all-encompassing entity, expected and encouraged to mold and form to the other. They already have the same face, do you have to enforce identical personalities as well?

Photo by Alyssa, 2001

You’ve heard of twins who feel each other’s pain or can read each other’s thoughts? Yeah, Erika and I aren’t like that. As kids she would usually cry if I got hurt (I got hurt a lot), but that was more out of empathy than her feeling the need for stitches in her own face as well. (Also, I feel like I should point out that as kids she was always more empathetic than I was.)  And yes, we finish each others sentences, but you probably can finish the sentences of most people you live with and go to school with for twenty years. Am I right? Truth be told, Erika and I kind of hated each other from about age 10 through puberty and even into our twenties. We didn’t take the same classes once we could choose our school schedules, we didn’t have the same friends, we didn’t even hang in the same crowd. In our mid-twenties, when we had finally moved away from each other, attended opposing universities, had brand new worlds of friends that did not overlap at all, had stopped being called the wrong name every single day, and had started to love the lives we had independently chosen…that’s when we started to be friends. And now, I presume, we behave like any two siblings who are close to each other. We send each other funny links, go to lunch, giggle until FAR too late over old photos and get along swimmingly. But that was something we had to consciously choose to do, it wasn’t a natural thing for either of us to start.

Christmas 2008, Erika is 8 months pregnant and still looks awesome. It is important to note here that Erika’s 2-year old daughter, Creamie, has never once mixed us up. Even in pictures.

I suppose Twin-ness On Purpose could be because the two parties involved actually enjoy matching someone else every second of every day, although I can hardly fathom a situation where this is true. If you are their mother or father (or aunt or uncle or teacher or friend), you better make damn sure that matchy-match behavior is their choice, not yours. Okay? Your job is to treat them as their own person, not half of a twinset. Do me the favor of treating twins, and frankly, anyone else, as individuals. Learn what makes them themselves, commit it to your long-term memory and treasure that part of their self, their uniqueness, their individuality. And never tell them that they aren’t really a twin because their freckles don’t match, or because she is an inch taller, you sound like an idiot.

April 2011, Photo by Lurch (that’s my Dad)

(*Family picture days were the exception when all three girls wore the same outfit. We went through a roll of film about every six months, so the vast majority of my childhood pics are in similar outfits. But, be assured that “Picture Day” was the exception on coordinating clothing, not the rule.)

I know that sometimes therapy is seen in an ill light, like it’s some sort of blot on an otherwise clean and shiny figure.  But I see therapy more like going to the dentist, or getting a tune-up on your car.  I get my teeth cleaned every six months, whether I have a cavity or not, whether my incisors have turned black and fallen out or not.  I go to the dentist and attempt to chit-chat while his fingers are all up in my mouth.  See, it’s called “preventative care”, regular check-ups to prevent your teeth falling out, or, more likely, the need for a root canal or something like that. (And yes, this is a shout-out to my dentist, Dr. McLachlan, good friend and fab dentist.  Go see him, he’ll shine your teeth and send you on your way.)

You take your car in for service on a regular basis, whether the “check engine” light comes on or not, whether it is leaking strange fluids or smoking or not.  You maintain your vehicle to prevent explosions and cracked engine blocks.  Most of the time, with an honest mechanic, there is nothing more to do than change the oil and top off your fluids.  But you still take it in for a once-over, right?

Therapy is the same way.  It’s preventative mental care to make sure you have figuratively shiny teeth and clean oil.  If your therapist is worth his/her weight in salt, they will also be able to diagnose potentially harmful situations, the root canals or seizing engine’s of your emotional well being.  There shouldn’t be any kind of stigma about seeing a professional to help you navigate the hardest, trickiest situations in your life.  There is, but there shouldn’t be.

So, I see a therapist.  And I have seen her on a regular basis for five years. Actually, I began seeing her at the gentle prompting of my former boyfriend, who, by the way, is also my current dentist.  (Yep, that’s right.  No, it’s never been awkward or weird.  He is awesome and his wife is equally awesome.)  This not-so-small feat of encouraging me to seek professional help was probably the best thing he ever did for me.  I had been single again for only a few months and I thought I was fine.  I had made it out of that situation in one piece, and I assumed that’s all it took to be okay.  Boy, was I wrong.  I was a mess.  Dr. Mac (who I nicknamed Berkley) suggested I may want to see someone about some of my stuff, and was so kind and sweet about it, he promised he’d go with me if I wanted him to, he’d sit in the waiting room, or hold my hand in the shrink’s office, whatever I needed.  I  went alone, but his support was what got me there.

My first appointment I told this complete stranger that I had recently gotten divorced, that it was a messy relationship, and that I wanted to be the best version of myself, and I wasn’t sure how to get there.  She asked me to tell her what had happened.  At that point in my life I had told this story with all it’s hairy details several times, and I was to the point where I could recite the facts without breaking down into a sobbing mess if I was uninterrupted, and if I didn’t look anyone in the face.  I told her it would take me about 45 minutes, and if she could please just listen and ask questions at the end.  She agreed, and I launched into the story of the hardest, ugliest, scariest parts of my life; events so recent some of the scars were still red and hurty-looking.  I didn’t cry, I didn’t display much emotion at all, actually.  I just recited the story, like it had happened to someone else.  When I finished I looked up and Dr. N had tears streaming down her face.  It was at that point that I realized I probably wasn’t okay, and that I needed to be there.

We went to work, it started out with visits twice a week, I was determined to fix myself and I wanted it to happen as quickly as possible.  I read everything she told me to read, did all the little (and big) exercises she had me do, made the lists, dissected the relationships, had the difficult, brutally honest conversations and dug out all the rotten bits.  I won’t gloss over this, it was hard.  At times it seemed impossible.  However, a year later I was seeing her only once a month and doing remarkably well.  I was happy, healthy, and had the ability to think rationally and critically about myself, my decisions, and my relationships.  Five years later, I’m on the “every three months” appointment track, I have had some ups and downs, but I am happier, healthier, and more rational.  I am myself, I am a really good version of myself.  I am strong, I am heidikins, I am me.

Dr. N is moving to Russia.  I’m still kind of unsettled about the whole thing.  She recommended another therapist, but for reasons I can’t necessarily get into right now, it’s complicated and I don’t know if I’ll be taking the recommendation.  I figure I have three months to find someone new, right?  And until then I will be on my best behavior to prevent my frantically emailing her about some relationship or some boy or something.  Project: Find New Shrink Who Will Not Abandon Me For Russia is commencing.