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Old Man Bear Pig

August 17, 2021 Christine Fadel
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Someone got a new collar.

And someone very much hates it.

Meet: Kevin Fadel. He’s dreamy, he’s rather fat and wrinkly, but he is a studly and delightful addition to our family. And, contrary to looking perpetually sad at all times— though he was not actually very thrilled with me in these photos— he’s actually quite the spunky, spirited pup. Especially around mealtimes or when you scratch behind both ears at the same time. Grunts and sounds exit his snout that make me feel borderline inappropriate.

I talk to him in a voice I don’t recognize. I didn’t even do that with my children when they were little and, in fact, I judge people who do the baby talk. I’m not sure what comes over me— I just want to eat his scrunchy, old man face. I swear, the second I get near him, all good sense leaves my body and— BAM— there I am laying on the ground speaking in a grumbled, weird octave to a dog whose face would imply that he is not all that impressed. Personally, I find his reaction and lack of enthusiasm for my lapse in sanity to be a little rude but he’s still young so his manners will develop with time. He will love me. And his collar. And my weird Dog Mom voice, too.

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a good day

January 20, 2021 Christine Fadel
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“…And together we shall write an American story of hope, not fear, of unity, not division.

Of light, not darkness. A story of decency and dignity, love and healing,

greatness and goodness,” -President Joe Biden

Today feels like a very good day— one filled with empathy, hope, and light following 1,461 days of impenetrable and hopelessly bleak darkness, one filled with greatness and goodness.

What is it that they say? That it’s always darkest before the dawn?

Yes, that.That is what this feels like.

Like the sun is about to shine.

Today is a very good, good day.

In in my opinion Tags 2021, Kamala, joey b
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goodnight and I love you

January 11, 2021 Christine Fadel
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For the last two or so weeks, Mo has been putting herself to bed. She’ll turn on her bedside lamp, shimmy herself down and manage to get situated under all twelve various layers of linens and lovey’s still holding strong from babyhood. We’ll hug and kiss, she’ll crack open one of her chapter books, and I leave the room while both saying our GOODNIGHT AND I LOVE YOU’S in hushed unison. I’ll quietly shut the door and then realize that I have no idea what to do with the thirty extra minutes I am now in possession of.

It’s weird.

I distinctly remember a time when the mere thought of our bedtime production gave instantaneous anxiety and filled me with existential dread. I positively loathed it and I wanted to punch every parent before me who ever said “Oh, bedtime is my favorite time of day! Well, other than bath time, of course!!!” Well, you fucking lied, Susan! Maybe, Susan, maybe you just have less stubborn children who won’t literally hold their eyelids open in bed in the dark if it means staying awake for even just three more additional seconds. Now, many years and many stages later, with Marlo no longer needing her mom laying beside her in order to fall asleep, I’ve come closer to truly understanding the duality of parenthood: to spend so many years being needed and touched out and wanted so incessantly to the point of debilitating annoyance, all the while, knowing that the mere objective of the game is to one day not be needed at all.

Like I said.

Weird.

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I have friends who completely lose their minds and have full-body, ugly cry, heaving sobs when getting rid of yellow shit-stained Gerber newborn onesies and I get it. Even an unsentimental soul like myself can understand and appreciate the bittersweetness of childhood chapters coming to a close just as I’ve felt the rather unpleasant sting upon realizing that I am no longer my child’ North Star. But when I think of my almost nine-year-old laying safe, warm, and content, legs long and lanky, body awkwardly taking up the entire bed as she spends the next thirty or so minutes off in whatever world her book transports her to, I am filled with so much joy. And maybe even a degree of pride. I’m not entirely sure why but maybe this newfound independence feels like an accomplishment— not one of grave consequence, I suppose— but an accomplishment nonetheless. For me and for her.

It feels like a win.

A weird one. But it’s a win.

In motherhood Tags marlo being marlo
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doers and sleepers

October 16, 2020 Christine Fadel
Knox, too, is a Sleeper because he knows how to really live.

Knox, too, is a Sleeper because he knows how to really live.

Some people use their fury as their fuel to do all of the hard things whereas I use it as inarguable proof that I should take a nap. Do-ers and Sleepers is what I call them. I’m pretty sure a poet or someone of historical significance said that it takes all kinds for the world to go ‘round.

I’m sure this will come as a shock but I am a SLEEPER. I DO a lot, too. Though mostly only out of obligation. Owning a business, marriage, and motherhood are a real buzzkill sometimes. But I am a Sleeper by nature— and, more importantly, by choice.

I have never been one of those time to lean, time to clean fools. I married one of those fools. Joe is a DOER. He is always off in some room of the house wiping some substance off of some surface somewhere or folding some article of kid clothing that he washed earlier in the day— an article of clothing that, I’m nearly positive, wasn’t dirty at all and only thrown in one of the seven hampers we have scattered around this house in an effective effort effort to avoid refolding and placing the single t-shirt or pair of leggings into the drawer it came from because it’s too hard. Obviously, this tactic is quietly appreciated by this Sleeper.

His dedication to productivity sometimes gives me anxiety. I’ll find myself saying “Will you just sit down already? It’s Saturday. You need to relax. I can’t relax until you relax because you’re always standing and buzzing around. It makes me nervous.” To which he responds, “The laundry doesn’t do itself, Queen B. But do feel free to step in and assist…” To which I, the egalitarian that I am, say, “I’m good but thank you so much for asking. Plus, you look like you have it completely under control and you’re so good at it, too. So much better than me. I mean, just look at those crisp folds, Joe! I’ve never been so un-wrinkly and kempt. You should quit your day job and become a professional folder! What a life you would live! Anyway, my t-shirts and underpants thank you in advance for your service.“

Then, just when he’s about to respond with an equally infuriating comeback, I politely excuse myself to go take a nap because it is 11am on a Saturday, after all, and what else does one do at 11am on a Saturday? Joe can list a great number of things to be done on a Saturday but this isn’t about him so we shall ignore him and leave him to his chores. The laundry doesn’t do itself, you know!

Joe will sigh loudly in exasperation because I am an asshole and yet so disarmingly charming and cute. Hearing that audible sigh feels like a victory and comforting because I know that, he is smiling and shaking his head as he does it. He thinks I am impossible and he knows that I know that he thinks I’m impossible but we both appreciate the mutual consistency of each others’ ridiculousness.

Doers and Sleepers. It takes all kinds for the world to go round.

In personal Tags marriage, motherhood
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the polar express

October 14, 2020 Christine Fadel
A recent afternoon, when I felt good, nearly normal. A moment when I didn’t feel consumed by the amount of work that goes into the daily management of my illness. A day when I felt like myself.

A recent afternoon, when I felt good, nearly normal. A moment when I didn’t feel consumed by the amount of work that goes into the daily management of my illness. A day when I felt like myself.

I haven’t slept well in a few days. I’ve tossed and turned and woken up from a very light sleep nearly every hour, on the hour. I am very, very tired. I have a quick fuse with everything and everyone. I am so frustrated I could cry (and do).

This happens fairly often, nearly like clock work, though I’ve yet to determine just what exactly triggers it or what specific catalyst the cycle operates itself around. Every 4-6 weeks, give or take, I’ll experience a week or so of terribly unsettled sleep— for what feels like no reason at all— and then, like magic, fall right back in line and sleep normally. This never happened to me before I began medicinal treatment after being diagnosed with bipolar II.

Thought tempting, I won’t feel sorry for myself because I know the mere fact that I am able to receive treatment, have the means to pay for prescriptions and doctor’s visits and therapy is a privilege not everyone is afforded which is, in and of itself, a bullshit and inhumane story for another day. However, one thing I know for certain is that pain and suffering is subjective to a myriad of factors and, no matter the degree, to struggle with one’ own suffering is a legitimate human experience. And, the fact is, I am suffering.

When I began treatment for my mental illness nearly seven months ago, I made the mistake of assuming that it would be as easy as taking a pill. I thought I would approach this particular bump in the road just as I had approached my experience with postpartum depression. I would simply fix it. I would literally take the pill and feel like myself again, albeit a more emotionally and mentally stable version. What will come as a shock to approximately no one, it wasn’t that simple and here I am, all these months later, still attempting and failing and attempting again to fix what feels like a very broken self.

I’ve often relegated myself to dismissal of any struggles I’ve experienced post-diagnosis by many a well-meaning reminders that it could always be worse; I could be depressed. I could feel so empty and low again that I’d convinced myself that I was a burden on my family and friends and anyone who was emotionally invested in my wellbeing. I could be waking up every single morning feeling a never-ending existential dread, only making it out of the bed thanks to sheer willpower and the prospective shame I’d feel if I indulged my desire to stay in bed and sleep all day.

It could be worse was often uttered like a mission statement, a way for me to accept the unfortunate side-effects of taking the pill I had previously convinced myself would fix me. I’ve never considered myself a particularly vain person but the fifteen pounds I gained in a month made self-love harder than normal. I’ve always accepted that I am beautifully human and possess inherent flaws but when none of my clothes fit, I rejected the idea that losing control of my body would be added to the list of things wrong with me. So, I bought new clothes. (Privilege, I know.)

Once I finally began feeling more comfortable in my newfound fluffy body, the insomnia began and, as many of you know all to well, not sleeping is its’ own form of hell. And, in an effort to continue fixing myself, I started taking another pill to combat the insomnia. Its’ success rate hovers around 45%. But, just as I’ve done three times prior during the newborn chapters of motherhood, I adapted and managed. I accepted that I’d always be tired for one reason or another. I told myself that I’d dealt with worse— that it could always be worse.

And I was right. It absolutely could.

About two months ago, I started experiencing short term memory loss. Initially, I brushed it off as a result of being exhausted from not sleeping. It hadn’t occurred to me that the magic pill I was taking to fix my life was likely the culprit of making it difficult to remember my life. Then I had surgery— my fourth in seven years— which did not go well ( yet another story for another day). I told myself that not being able to remember what I read in a book or the tv show I watched before I fell asleep the night prior was being exacerbated by the general anesthesia. Maybe, just maybe, my body was still adjusting to this new normal? Then, yesterday morning, I couldn’t remember when Marlo came into my room Monday night when she couldn’t fall asleep and cuddled me for an hour. I couldn’t remember the conversation she and I had or her going back up to her room. Joe, who is nearly always calm and collected, looked at me, concerned and slightly skeptical since I can always recall the most minute details of things that occurred twelve years ago— like what I was wearing when we had a fight at such and such bar and what the fight was about and exactly what he said and when he said it. (The irony is not lost on me.)

Which is precisely when the dam broke.

I excused myself, quickly escaping into safety of my bathroom, and proceeded to ugly cry and physically shake for fifteen minutes.

I can handle having a larger ass and chubbier cheeks. I can manage being tired. What I can not handle is losing the memories of the fleeting and insignificant moments with my family— the fleeting and insignificant daily experiences which will no doubt one day in the future be remembered as anything but insignificant.

I can buy a new pair of jeans or a new dress. I can drink more coffee and squeeze in a nap or two. What I can not get back is time and time with my kids and husband isn’t something I feel I’m willing to sacrifice.

Which brings me to where I am now. With a bigger ass, chronically tired, heartbroken, and wondering when is it okay to declare that the pros no longer outweighs the cons? Could it be worse? Sure. But do I really want to know what’s next? Do I want to continue taking the pills that have seemingly have created more problems than the ones the pill was intended to fix in the first place? Is having to work substantially harder to feel stable— not to be confused with happy or positive— a better option than what I’m dealing with now?

What’s worse— losing your mind or losing time?

I’m not sure.

What I am sure of is that the Polar Express I appear to be riding doesn't shift course as easily as I thought it would. It’s not as simple as popping a pill and praying to the Big Pharma Gods that they fix whatever is broken in me. My destination remains unknown and the journey has proven to be just as nuanced and complicated and messy as the diagnosis itself.

What’s that thing that they say? It’s about the journey, not the destination? Some days, I’d like to call bullshit on that because some days, the journey simply fucking sucks. But, thanks to my tenacious grit and inherent optimism, I will continue to believe that the destination will prove worth all of the work I’ve put in in order to get there— wherever there is.

In personal Tags bipolar disorder, mental health
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