Shark week

I hope you enjoy this sneak peek!

I have to preface this chapter by letting you know that Jessica CAN hear but speaks ONLY in sign language. (The details are in the book.)

Jessica

14 years old

I was sitting with my head hanging over the bottom of the couch and my legs flopped over the top. I reached above my head to the mini-recorder laying on the ground and pressed a button.

“I HAAAATE MY PERIOD!”  a childish voice whined from the speaker. 

 “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?” Jaimie shouted from my right, looking at my phone in horror.

 “Jessica. What did you do?” Romeo sighed and rubbed the back of his head. He was sitting on my left. He also looked at the tiny machine in fear.

Smiling, I pushed another button. “I neeeeeed CHOCOLATE!” The speaker exclaimed. Jaimie shoved a spoonful of Death by chocolate ice-cream in my mouth hole, pointed to the recorder and demanded “Stop this!”

“Jesus Christ and all his apostles!” Gramma rose walked into the living room and stood in front of our TV set staring down at the three of us. “What in heavens name are you three doing? And why are you upside down?” She closed her eyes tight already dreading our answer.

 “And what was that screeching noise?!” Grampa Willie finished looking very confused.

Jaimie and Romeo were sitting on either side of me, with their backs pressed up against the couch bottom. “Jessica is having her period week. Romeo says it’s like Shark Week except for vaginas, so we are feeding her chocolate, Cheetos and watching The Notebook.” Jaimie said, spooning another lump of cold chocolate into my upside-down mouth.

 

“I’m upside down because Jaimie says that this will redirect the blood back to my head, which will make me not so bitchy.” I signed. My Grampa turned away but I saw his shoulders shake. 

 Gramma Rose had eyes as big as her wedding china and she pointed her mighty finger at Romeo and Jaimie “FOOLS! You can’t redirect menstrual blood. It needs to come out of her body…It’s not a ….a…WOUND!” she sputtered.

 “Ohhhhh” Jaimie murmured, nodding his head.

“Ohhhhh” I signed along with him.

“Good to know.” Romeo scratched at his chin. He was 16 now and had decided to grow out his face hairs.

 “Well how are we three supposed to know anything about periods?! There not a single mom amongst us.” Jaimie hunched his shoulders and held out his hands. “Besides, my dad said that anything that bleeds for 5 days and doesn’t die, shouldn’t be trusted.”  Jaimie skinnied his eyes up at me and timidly held out a Cheeto for my mouth. I flipped right side up on the couch and criss crossed my legs before leaning forward and snapping my teeth around his offering. 

“That explains why your dad’s divorces fund the local legal union.” Gramma Rose muttered.

 Romeo picked up my new recorder and held it far away from his body. “And the noise?”

 “I paid the new girl who just moved in five bucks to record some custom whines for me.” I smiled, reached my hand out to Romeo for my new gadget.

 “Whines?!” He asked incredulously, his beautiful green eyes wide and frightened.

 I took a moment and frowned at everyone in the room. “Yes whines! None of you ever have to deal with me whining….ever.”

 “Yes, which is why we like you,” Jaimie pointed out, sucking his orange Cheeto fingers into his mouth one by one.

 I smiled and pushed a third button “But that’s not faaaaaaair!” Shot out of the speaker. Everybody cringed but I smiled wider.

Romeo stood up “Jessica Dae, I will stop coming over if you continue to whine at me with someone else’s voice.” He looked down at me sternly, arms crossed over his chest.

 “FINE!” I signed, slapping the side of my leg with each letter I spelled out. (This is how I “yelled”)

 Jamie’s eyes got big and he hooked a thumb at me before asking Gramma Rose “And you’re sure there is NOTHING that can be done to make her less bitchy?”

I gasped and quickly pushed button number four which exclaimed “FUCK YOU!” I pointed to Jaimie then crossed my arms and smiled.

 In that brief and idiodic moment, I had forgotten that my Gramma and Grampa were both standing in the same room. (I blame Jaimie and my shark week period.)

“JAIMIE CHAVES AND JESSICA DAE! YOU BOTH GO WASH YOUR OWN MOUTHS OUT RIGHT THIS SECOND!!” My gramma pointed her finger at us and EVERYTHING.

We both stood up and stomped to the bathroom while she muttered prayers for our souls behind us. I grabbed a pink bar (They were less after tast-ey) and Jaimie chose his usual. An orange bar made with goats’ milk.

 “This is all your fault” I stomped my foot and signed at him before popping the silky bar of soap between my lips.

 Jaimie’s eyes squinted at me with an evil glint. “Phuckyew” he slurred around his soap, holding his middle finger up for reference.

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The broke bitch diaries - Rich people onions

 

So now that I have laid out the reasons why I am not working in my previous post, I can get into the meat of my daily discoveries of being a broke bitch.

I am good at stretching a dollar. (Mostly because I have always had to)

I have always taken great pride in the fact that I have provided for my kids without aid, even when I could have. My thinking has always been "I COULD get on foodstamps or I COULD get another job." I chose another job. So I picked up a camera or slung me some dildo's...you know..whatever.

So now that I am unable to do any of my three jobs, I have had to make some...sacrifices. And the other day, while shopping with my sister, white onions were the sacrifice.

Can I just say...I love white onions.
White onions are my JAM.
I like my onions like I like my men:  pretty to look at, super clean and they don't make you cry.

So there we were, sister and I, perusing the grocery store and thinking of the super cheap meals we use to make back in the Rancho Cordova days.

"Oh you can do a big pot of stew, some pasta OH! Remember we made that shepherds pie. That was good!" My sister was walking next to me, pushing the cart.

"Oh yes. But that has hamburger and I HATE it." I protested (whined)

My sister looked away and pretended to "see" something else because that is what she does when I annoy her.

And I knew she would, so I said nonchalantly "I'll grab onions." and I walked slowly up to the table filled with shining balls of tear-jerkers. And there they were, so beautiful, so pure, so perfectly round with thin skins that cook down perfectly when heated.

I silently opened my fucked up produce bag (whats up with those?) and reached my hand out for a gleaming white onion.

But my sister is a ninja now (apparently) and her voice sounded in my ear, ever judging of my onion needs. "Oh look! Onions are on sale. Only .38 a pound."

"Oh great!" I said relieved and grabbed a perfectly symmetrical bulb.

"Ah Ah!" she admonished "THOSE onions are .38 a pound." and she pointed to a cardboard box full of ugly, lumpy, yellow like pee onions.

I wrinkled my nose "But I don't WANT those onions. Those onions are ugly. I HATE those ones." I scowled down at them in their cardboard box. "They are like homeless onions, look at them. I wouldn't even give them a dollar."

"Well the white onions are $1.63 a pound.....so...." she left off.

I looked at my favorite white onions, sitting proudly in their wicker basket homes and back to the homeless crackhead onions.

I still clutched my perfect onion in my fist and I pointed to the yellow ones "But...those are broke people onions." I protested one last time.

My sister patted my back "Sister...you ARE broke people" and as she strolled away she called over her shoulder "and do you know what else broke people eat? Hamburger."

I scrunched up my face "You know what else broke people eat..." I said in a smarmy sister mocking voice as I put my white onion back with it's people.

And then I picked up some crack head onions and started stuffing them in my produce bag. I'm going to pretend that I did it with dignity and honor and not fake sobbing as loud as I could about the injustices of having to choose pee onions.

Yeah.
Let's go with that.

The day my brain broke.

My brain broke while I was driving to work last July.

There I was toodeling along, listening to music and singing at the top of my lungs, and in an instant...and I mean from one second to the next.. my life changed.

My vision skewed, I couldn't breathe and my mouth was dry.
I remember that it was dry, because I believe that 50 percent of illness can be cured by drinking more water....so when I was convinced I must just be dehydrated and tried to swallow some of my water, I couldnt.

At first I tried to ignore it and I turned the music up higher, but soon enough my hands were shaking and I started to sweat.

I had to turn around.
I hate turning around.
I hate not going into work.
But I was not okay.

I had made it to Atwater and pulled into the parking lot at Envy. I remember I went to get out of my car, but my legs were shaking too much, so I sat down and decided to get home as fast as I could.

I made it to Ceres before pulling over and dialing 911.

I don't remember talking to the operator, but I do remember the nice ambulance lady. I also remember that my blood sugar was great and so was my blood pressure.
Still...into the hospital I went.

My blood was taken as well as my pee.
An EKG showed clear and I tried to sell the EKG guy some massage oil from my passion party business.
Finally the doctor came in and after asking me a few questions, she declared that I was stressed out.
"I am not." I argued
"YES you are." She insisted

The accusation, really irritated me.
Possibly because I pride myself on my ability to maintain control of myself. My temper, my tears...I am the head of this household and must always, be in control.

"Fine. Tell me about your job." She asked
"My job is the best job in the world. I absolutely love it and I am not stressed out in any way..." I smiled. Because it was true.
"Okay, great. Mike told me you have another job too." Her eyebrow lifted.

Mike. That snitching EKG man.

"Look, I am a single mom too okay. I'm not trying to be insulting. But this...what we do. Its ALOT. And sometimes we need to rest."

My response? "Yeah, but it's Monday...I just rested for two days."

She sighed. "Alright Laureen, Your tests all came back great. I'm releasing you with the diagnoses of stress."
And she turned and walked away.

When my sister picked me up from the hospital, I felt shakey. But better.

Three days later found me in the back of another ambulance with my children following behind me in the car.
I had the same symptoms but worse.
I just knew that I was dying.

The tests all came back good.
The EKG was clear, but this time they took a chest X-Ray and it showed that I had 'interstitial lung disease.' 
I was sent home with some antibiotics and steriods to control the flair up and an inhalor.
It was horrible.
I couldnt sit up or walk around my house.
I couldn't even talk.
All I did for days was count my breaths and pray for sleep.
Because with sleep came time spent.
And with time spent comes healing.

But I would start to get better and then I would have the same symptoms that I had the first day.
Tight chest
dizziness
sweating
tingeling on my back
shaking limbs
dry mouth
tears.
tears.
SO many tears.
Tears in front of my children, which I never ever do.

Shane insisted that I was having panic attacks but I ignored him because I didn't believe in that.
He would tell every doctor that came in the many rooms that we went in and out of "My mom is having anxiety and panic attacks." but no one, including myself, bothered to listen.

One doctor looked at me and said "You have a lot of weight on you. That's why you cant breathe."
Only it was said in a thick asian accent.
"I'm sorry." I blinked at him "Did you just say that I can't BREATHE because I'm fat?"
He nodded and tried to explain that the weight on my diaphram would keep me from breathing.
"Mmhmm...mmhmm...and can YOU breathe doctor?" I asked him.
He blinked his eyes at me "Well...yeah."
"Well YOU'RE a fatty so why does your fat allow you to breathe, while mine is 'supposedly' strangling me?"
I clomped away from that appointment with a frown and a need for ice cream.

I went back to the emergency room a 3rd time and waited in the room with monitors pressed into my skin and air forced in my nose.
Shane sat and told me a story that he made up. He told me that story for over 3 hours, because only his voice calmed me down.

That day I had a CT scan and when I let go of Shane's hand I couldn't breathe again.
I shut my eyes when they pushed me in the machine and said the Lords prayer under my breath.

 It was over quickly and they delivered my hand back to Shane.

The CT was clear and once again Shane tried to talk to the doctor about his suspicions of panic attacks. He took out my binder that timed all of my physical behaviors and symptoms. But once again. Was ignored.

The antibiotics given were stronger and again I went home. But things were not okay and I was noticing that talking to anyone other than my children, would cause me to "freak out."

I couldn't talk to my sister on the phone because I would end up on my knees gasping for air.

One day, Dawn brought me Starbucks and cookies but as soon as she sat down, I couldn't breathe and I had to ask her to leave in a rush.
As soon as she left my house, I was stretched on the couch trying to catch my breath.

The next day I wanted to call the ambulance again, because I was dying.

I need to pause here and make you to understand that NORMAL ME, would NEVER call an ambulance and I hardly ever go the doctor before drowning my symptoms in water, heat or ice.

But no. I was dying.
I called Shane and he tried to calm me down and I finally gasped out "Call an advice nurse."

 I KNEW if I went back to the hospital, they couldn't help me because there was nothing WRONG with my body.
 Shane was right.
Something was wrong with my brain.

Shane spoke to the nurse and told her his concerns about anxiety and panic attacks and wouldn't you know it....she listened. She asked him to hand me the phone and then that nurse, as far as I'm concerned, saved my life.

When he handed the phone to me I was unable to talk and I was gasping for air. My sight was blurry and my legs were weak.

"Laureen, sit down somewhere comfortable and let me tell you that I am looking at your chart. You are an incredibly healthy woman." and she went through over chart and every organ in my body telling me how healthy it was.
I began to calm down a little.
She told me that she herself has anxiety and experiences panic attacks and she believes that I was having them too.

"Laureen, I'm going to give you a few tricks that can help you bring your panic attacks down okay?"
"okay" I whispered.

She had me go into my room and do 25 jumping jacks and she spoke to shane until I was done. Then she had me scream as loud as I could into a pillow until I felt myself be able to take a breath.

It worked.

I cried into that pillow as I screamed because I was hoping she was right.
I was hoping that someone SOMEWHERE could so SOMETHING to make me feel better.

When I was done hopping and screaming I thanked her and she made me a phone appointment that afternoon to get some medication to help and she also scheduled me with mental health.

She also told me to read or watch TV when I was feeling stress, because during those activities my worry brain would shut off.

I started taking medication that day.
Within 3 days Shane and I were having meetings with a psychologist who set me up in anxiety courses through Kaiser.

The holidays flew by and I barely noticed. We put a tree up, but that was all.
The New Year found much of the same and while I tried to go to work, driving became too dangerous with my bouts of virtago, which unfortunately are a side effect of my medication.

So I've been trying to work from home, which will be great if I can actually make money. (Fingers crossed!)

WITH medication, I can still feel when I have anxiety.
It's just a level 2 or 3 instead of  "CALL 911 I'm ganna die" 10
WITH medication, I still feel like myself. I'm happy,like normal. I just don't care so much about other things.
 Some days I am great and others, I have to scream into a pillow or hold on to Shane for a few moments (or more)

I can't go somewhere crowded unless it is a "good day" and I drive very little because I am always afraid that the road will spin again.

I've had two panic attacks while writing this blog,
because I  don't like to talk about what happened to me. But I promised several people that once I COULD, then I would.
And I can. It's just not easy.
(And please excuse any misspellings of run on sentences, because this is one blog, that I will not be re-reading. Ever.)

Some days people call and I literally don't have the energy to care about what they have to say...and then when they text me trying to make me feel bad. I don't.
That is the medication. I'm not that much of a dick.

I let only a few people know what happened to me, mostly because talking about it caused me to 'freak out'
 And while anxiety is a nightmare, panic attacks are absolutely terrifying.

But through those people, I have been assured that in this, I am not alone.
It was like the #METOO moment but with anxiety.

Strong, AMAZING men and ladies told me that they too have it or have had it.

I have received letters, presents and snap chats from people who love me and understand that now, sometimes I slip away from Facebook and phone calls because it is annoying. And when people complain about going to work it pisses me off, because I wish that I could go to mine.

This is just my life now and I'm taking it one panic attack at a time.