self-care – Not Without Fault

animal beautiful biology bloom — Photo by Cindy Gustafson on Pexels.com

Hello, back from a brief down period. I had surgery two weeks ago Tuesday and I must say, anesthesia is hell on the brain. Surgery is no fun for the body. The incision, an inch and a half long puckered intrusion into my spine, into my very vertebra, was definitely a violation my body raged against. However, healing has come and I am getting stronger each day. The good news is, the symptoms for which the surgery was addressing are absent. I call this a blessing.

This week I suffered an acute bout of depression coupled with desperation. I wanted to go back to work. I wanted to contribute to my Team and be part of something. My brain and body was not ready. I complained, via private message, to my very best friend. To which she responded something along the lines of, “Maybe G*d is trying to show you something.” I rolled my eyes and mentally agreed to listen and watch. If a Higher Power wants me to know something, by golly, I’m ready.

Enter the Kavanaugh hearing the next day. I watched the 7+ hours. I listened to Dr. Blasey Ford share her story, I listened to Kavanaugh share his. I cried through her testimony. I cringed through his. I fielded phone calls and messages from friends that were on edge, hurting, fearful, confused, saddened, enraged through all of this. That night, I went to bed with some hope that perhaps, just maybe, my country still might have some good in it.

I watched the vote the next day. I realized I was wrong. There is no good left here, apart from the love of my own people, the support of a very appreciated support system, and the light that lives in my own soul.

Since then, the bouts of tears and sadness are prone to show up almost without provocation. I feel raw. I feel naked. I feel like a cornered beast, fearfully lashing out even when some seek to console.

I’ve been working diligently on self-care since those days. I took care of some shopping I had postponed. I started walking the best I can in my current condition. I washed my hair. I painted my toes the violent crimson red that corresponds with my own traumas. I reached out to friends that have been suffering. I looked inside to the little girl who lives within. The little girl that learned, much too young, that the world is not safe. The world is scary. The world is dark. Trust no one. Tell no one. The secret is mine and mine alone. The frightened child, for whom I sunk to my knees, opened my arms, embraced and cried, she is still in there. She is still frightened. She is still vulnerable. I held her, rocked her, soothed her. I told her, swore to her, that I would not let her be hurt again. That is a steep promise. I plea to myself, don’t let me fail her.

Flash forward a day or so. I am walking again, this time with my youngest son. I am pointing out plants and other interesting things as we stroll together. He reaches his hand to mine, twines our fingers together. In that same moment, a monarch flies by. The monarch, buffered by the wind, flew on bravely and valiantly. “Oh, look at the Monarch,” I say, and then follow with, “I’ve read they are going extinct. What do you think of that, kiddo?” The boy looks at me and says, “Some people hurt butterflies on purpose. Those people are bad people.”

My son, my beautiful son, he gets it.

God help us all.

Fall has historically been a bad season for me. Trauma season. I find that if I am not very, very careful during the busy, trauma-laden fall season, my mental health goes to shit…fast. I must engage in self-care if I am to survive and thrive. (As a side note, self-care looks very different from person to person).

This post will be about the things I did to take care of myself and recharge my burned out ass on this long Labor Day weekend. We will talk about food. We will talk about my pets. We will mention music. Hell, I’d talk about masturbation too, but I don’t want my Dear Readers to look at me like they just caught me engaged in the ultimate self-care. Don’t act like you don’t do this, because then you’d be a big effing liar. This act, for the record, is best performed with Tool or the Cure or the Deftones in the background.

First off, know your personality. There are those who are invigorated by the company of others and there are those who are drained by others and must recharge alone. I am the latter, not the former. Extroverts–this “self-care how-to” is NOT for you. Introverts, join me in the glory that is being home alone.

Friday night–I stayed in. It was quiet. It was everything I hoped it could be.

Saturday–I skipped around social media sites, cleaned my dishes, did the laundry, sprayed smell-good shit on my upholstery, changed my bedding, and ate cereal for supper. Once again, it was everything I hoped it could be. My mom did come by and we had lots of conversation. I think she is the one person that gets me. She even knows the stuff I don’t say. The woman is a fucking saint in my eyes. I hope my boys feel the kind of love from me that I feel from my mom. Best woman ever.

Since Friday was pay day (pay-YAY!), Sunday I treated myself by stocking my pantry. I went to the store with a mission: buy stuff to build cheesecakes, and buy bacon. Of course, I did stock up on my favorites: half-and-half for my coffee, Reese’s peanut butter cups, big jugs of bottled water, fruit, veggies, pasta, and sauce mixes (because, don’t NOBODY got time to make homemade pasta sauce, and if you do, you most likely don’t have children). NOTE: shopping in the after-church rush hour sucks. I like to go, leisurely browse while planning a menu, and these best-dressed in Sunday finery folks were fucking up my groove. They were in a big fucking hurry to get home and into sweat pants I think. Catching side-eye from a blue-haired church lady because I’m in the way is not my favorite past-time.

I got home, preheated the oven to 450 degrees, unloaded my goods, and built a peanut butter cup cheesecake and a cherry cheesecake. I stuffed those into the fridge, thoroughly licked the spoons and bowls, and set about making Self-Care Fries. These fries are nice to you. They don’t want nothing but to be devoured. They want you to be happy. They are like a hug from Christ himself. If you have a big case of “the feels” then self-care fries are for you. Here are the ingredients: 1/4 bag frozen french fries, 3 strips of bacon, jalapeno or green chili, cheese, onion, ranch dressing (get creative and put all the shit YOU like on it). I’ll tell you how I do it. I use a baking sheet covered in foil (because no one likes scrubbing a crusty ass baking sheet) put the bacon on one end, the green chile on the other and the fries in the middle. The oven will fry the bacon, cook the fries, and roast that green chile in true lazy-fuck form. It’s honestly one of the most genius thing I do. After cooking ten minutes, pull the sheet out, take out the roasted chile and the bacon and flip the fries. Put them back in for another 5 minutes. While you allow the bacon to cool, de-seed, de-skin, and chop the chile. Crumble the bacon. Pull the fries back out. Sprinkle on shredded cheese, green chile, and bacon. Put it back in the oven to melt the cheese. Top with a little ranch, some onion if you like that, whatever. Eat that shit. Marvel at how much you love yourself. Pair this with a nice pale lager or a tall glass of iced sweet tea.

After I ate my self-care fries, I played some ToonBlast, Facebooked a bit, skipped around multiple other social media sites, binge-watched The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross, and visited with my mom again. I helped her order some stuff online (because I know how to do THE GOOGLE) and resumed my date with Bob Ross. Bedtime came and I surrendered, knowing Monday was coming, but that this Monday was going to be kind to me.

I awoke this Monday morning, stretched, and realized for the first time in days I felt okay. Heart was okay, not heavy-laden at all, lower back was okay, I was okay. I listened to the Stones and Buffalo Springfield and then decided to get my ass out of bed and eat. To celebrate the void left from all the pain I’ve had inside lately, I made myself breakfast. I think it’s important to mention that my family shows love with food. It’s our culture. Cooking for myself is literally loving myself. I decided I would make Eggs In a Hole like Mom used to make me when I was a wee innocent lass, who only swore under her breath or in the general direction of her younger brother. I also make this for my boys. My oldest eats these with gusto, and when I watch him, I see that he also feels loved when I make them. That is a gift more filling than any meal I’ve ever eaten.

So, here is what Eggs in a Hole look like, for those unfortunate bastards that have never had the joy of egg melded to toast, made in your momma’s best cast iron skillet:

As you can see, this is two slices of bread, buttered on both sides with REAL butter, with a hole cut in the middle (use your best drinking glass), placed in a hot skillet, an egg delivered to each hole, flipped, cooked over easy, and placed on your plate. Put some fruit on your plate to show yourself just how fucking healthy you can be. Eat it. Know that you are loved. (Note: none of my food is made from fake-ass cheese or butter. I may cheat with pasta sauces, but never with butter or cheese. If you refer to american cheese or margarine as cheese or butter, well then , SHAME ON YOU. If you were never taught any better, now you know better, so DO better. Eat the real shit. You won’t regret this bit of wisdom passed on to you from dear Aunt Sarah). This pairs nicely with a robust french roast with a healthy infusion of half and half.

My morning was spent drinking coffee, indulging again in social media, a shower, and then planning for lunch. Whenever you cook on your off days, make enough to put leftovers into individual serving containers for your lunch during the work week. Unless, of course, your privileged ass is doing so well you don’t have to be frugal. In that case, throw away your leftovers, jerk-face.

For lunch, I knew I wanted pasta. I also knew I didn’t want to work too hard. Lastly, I knew I didn’t want to let the spinach and mushrooms I bought rot in the bottom of the fridge, and that I needed to find a use for the hunk of bleu cheese Mom gave me. The following is what I made:

Let’s call this dish “Churched-up Noodles.” That will work. It’s just a bag of shell noodles cooked and then tossed with spinach leaves, a garlic and herb sauce packet made according to the instructions and a bit of the bleu cheese crumbled into it, and crumbled bacon with mushrooms and onion sauteed in the grease, and then mixed together and garnished with a bit more bleu cheese. Fucking fancy, yo. The taste was nice and complex: smokey from the bacon and rich from the sauce and had a nice depth to it from the mushrooms and bleu cheese. The spinach adds the illusion of being “healthy.” I imagine this would pair nicely with a good dry red. I recommend 19 crimes. See if you can find their 2014, that was a very good year for 19 crimes. For music, class the fuck up and listen to some Beethoven or Bach or the like. Make sure you stick your pinky out when you take a bite.

That’s it. Sarah’s self-care weekend. I will do a little paperwork for my job to make my week a bit less hectic, listen to music, mentally prepare for a shit-storm, and spend time with these assholes, Peanut the oldest foster dog ever (Chi) and Jackson the bed-shitting prince of dickery (terrier mix):

I’ll sign off with this: If you aren’t loving yourself, who will? Self-care, self-love is NOT selfish. Just like one would maintain their vehicle by checking and changing the oil, testing the air pressure in the tires, washing, and fueling up, one must do the same for their soul-filled meat sack. It is our duty to love ourselves so that we can love others. May your week be as bright as a diamond shining in a goat’s ass. Go in peace, my friends.

Tag: self-care

The monarch

Self-care, Bitches